Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Catechize
If iron sharpens iron, and I am all that remains, what sharpens me?
—Lord Saladin, late night contemplation
The newly instated Valus Forge sat on a bench in an empty observation deck aboard Empress Caiatl’s royal flagship—the Eligos Lex V. Spanning just ten feet ahead of him was a large viewport, which stretched from ceiling to floor. In the expanse beyond the endless blur of star and void was his home and the many mysteries yet to be revealed. Saladin’s mind roamed from topic to topic, eventually resettling on the very thing that seemed to encourage his imagination from the beginning.
In his battle-hardened hands were an unlatched, leather-bound journal and a severely abused pencil. Diligently sketching to his heart’s content, the man was unconcerned with the world at large. All that mattered were the careful shapes, lines, and curves he traced from his near-photographic memory. Each detail was more picturesque than the last as it expounded in detail of the things he would leave unspoken—thoughts and desires. A secret not yet self-discerned nor explored, but a tender hope and longing of things that would never come to pass.
While Saladin had been set-focused upon his hatching, shading, and highlighting techniques, he stopped suddenly and completely. The pencil in his hand bobbed precariously as his grip relaxed. The man went cold with apprehension, his stomach growing in a twist-turn knot. His brown eyes went hollow with a thousand-yard stare as his mind felt unnaturally tickled. It buzzed with a sort of staticky, white noise, occasionally popping with nodes of extreme emotion which came in ranges of impressionable color. It was hard to describe, though the episodic mental spasms were a sort of feedback—or interference—like when something or someone accesses a private broadcasting frequency.
If Saladin had been an open book, then an active reader had begun delving into the depths of his soul’s pages. They were scrying the contents with a peculiar hunger for knowledge they did not currently possess. As the seconds ticked by, the gradient of emotions subsided, fine-tuned with analytical finesse. His overall truth was being tightened and loosened like a musician adjusting a stringed instrument. Suddenly, understanding struck Saladin and he almost snapped the graphite in half. He could hear its protestations, lamenting with groans and creaks in its limited ability to give.
Working to relinquish the notion of annoyance, the Iron Lord sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Asimox, I can sense your presence rooting around where it shouldn’t. Restrain your telekinetic craft.” His voice, even though it was an even-toned command, was also laced with perilous threat. The moment the words spoke themselves into existence, that fuzzy, mental haze which sprung forth a bit of nausea, subsided. “That’s better.”
Asimox—a Psion Optus loyal to the Crown—shuffled forth, taking her place in front of the blurry viewport. She swayed in that agile stoop—a posture between that of a hunch or squat—the very one Psions were notorious for bearing. During Saladin’s tenure among the Cabal, he was beginning to learn more about this characteristic for it was much more than a display of agility or aggression. Their stance was both a state of ease and fierce carriage of readiness. For the culture was built on and propelled by war, even these bantam clairvoyants had wisely crafted their subtle appearance through osmosis. They were to always exude a gritty backbone and pluck, lest they should suffer for a frail countenance.
“I am still rather unaccustomed and disoriented to your…form…of communication,” he half-heartedly apologized. “However, in my culture, intruding into another’s thoughts without permission is meddlesome. Trespass without my express permission again and there will be consequences.”
Asimox blinked once in confirmation, her cycloptic blue iris aglow with understanding. Rather than slipping into perturbance, she took a clawed digit and tapped the air with a hooked pointer. Saladin looked down at the journal he had been drawing in, his work not yet complete, and understood forthwith her inquiry. She wanted to know what he was doing. The Psion’s curiosity knew no bounds nor the meaning of human privacy. How could she? Psions were in constant telepathic communion and brushing against the psyche of others was like humanity’s need for proximity—closeness.
Loneliness, even they felt it too.
Saladin held up the journal, tilting it for Asimox to review. The Psion seemed positively intrigued, her eye racing here, there, and everywhere across the page. Without a word she practically punched her chest and held out her hand between them, palm up. From what little he understood, Valus Forge took it as a form of sign language—a Cabal dialect—something he knew nothing about. However, in this instance, he posited that the action was a question.
Who are you drawing?
The man stood to his feet; his eyes fastened upon the portraiture. A bittersweet longing tugged at his heartstrings as he clamped the journal shut from the spine. “You needn’t concern yourself.”
Asimox nodded, her curiosity momentarily abated as she waited upon him.
Saladin scratched his jaw, the silent conversation putting him on a precarious edge. “I assume the Empress sent you to fetch me?”
Asimox pointed a clawed digit toward him, the ghost of her touch barely a whisper upon his forehead. He knew what she wanted, to host a connection—a meeting of the minds. Saladin wasn’t quite ready to let her in for he did not yet trust her motives. His headspace was his own sanctum, a refuge and haven, and he would resist any unnatural interface or acquisition therein. She would have to earn it the old-fashioned way.
The Psion nodded once more and held up an arm, pressing several buttons to access a recording on her holographic comlink. The backsplash of the interface’s glow washed over the Imperial, her silver and blue armor—worn in dedication to the Empress—glinting with pride. While Asimox accessed the desired footage, a glimpse of something peculiar about the Psion caught Saladin’s attention. In the place where a neck guard should have been, exposed skin hosted a tremendously gory disfigurement. Lucent punctures and slashes, a ruthlessly savage reminder, of terrible trauma. The mounding and uneven flesh puckered and drooped but there was no shame in her, only victory.
What did she survive?
Caiatl’s voice suddenly roared with zealous intrigue, a pure delight that only comes from someone who admires a new collector’s piece. “My Flayers have yielded an intriguing result from their most recent encounter with the Hive.” Taking a sip from her goblet, she sat it upon her desk with a hefty thump. A twinkle came to her eyes, a rare sight for the Empress. “They’ve apprehended an anomalous human—a non-Guardian—with abilities much like that of Psions. To be married with meta-qualities without an apparent anchor to the Light, how can this be?” Caiatl’s tusks began to raise as she grinned at the possibilities in her mind’s eye. The emotion was fleeting, however, as iron composure veiled her in stoicism once more. “Their convoy is en route and should arrive within the next half hour.”
Renewing her even keel temperament, the Empress continued, “Perhaps, this human will give us the edge that we need. A means to sharpen our blade and pierce the heart of our enemies. Truly, this could bring us closer to winning the war against Xivu Arath and the Darkness-incarnate.” Looking up with a weighted expression, a notion between longing and regret, Caiatl sighed pensively. “I look forward to the day when we can reclaim Torobatl and walk her streets with honor and victory in our strides. On that day, the debts of my Father’s sins—which I have borne upon my shoulders—will be paid in full. Cabal blood has been shed at a costly price; I pray that its precious weight is worthy of our atonement.”
The Empress-Imperial picked up one of the many datapads consuming her desk and reviewed its contents. As she scrolled through its wall of text, she charged, “Asimox, bring Valus Forge to my Command Center. From there, I will give you both my next set of instructions. I intend to recruit this Psionic-Human into my Empire. It may be in their best interest to see another of their species before dealing with me. They have already denied my offer once and to be twice slighted is to be twice shamed.”
As the holographic images faded away, Valus Forge looked to Asimox. He had questions, she had the answers, and yet his own hesitation kept him silent. The Optus seemed to sense his skepticism and rather than addressing them, she walked toward the observation deck’s egress and waited. Saladin nodded and followed suit. As he neared the aperture, the Psion walked on ahead, keeping a short distance between them. They kept on in this manner as they traversed the flagship’s belly, taking turns and turbolifts which the Iron Lord made great efforts to remember. By the time they made it to the outer corridors of the Command Center—which Saladin did recognize—all was deserted. The place was unusually vacant for the norm required twelve stationed Imperials at all times.
Half in the corridor.
Half in the helm.
While Asimox employed a mind sweep of the area, Saladin reached out in want of a weapon. Forthwith, a molten axe coalesced in a sapphire haze, its roiling flames licking the air in hunger. Silently, the Valus gripped his war-instrument thanking his specter-companion for always being two steps ahead of him. Just as he was about to plunge into the Command Center, Saladin’s helm materialized, and his Heads Up Display (HUD) showed no other signs of life within this restricted area.
Something was terribly off.
Before Saladin could reevaluate the situation, Asimox’s comlink chirped with fervency as its dial flashed blue. The Psion quickly accessed what appeared to be live footage from one of the nearby hangars. Fiery chatter broke through before an unfamiliar sound reverberated in a series of whumph-whumphs. A single person stood surrounded by a ring of Cabal-Imperials holding an unusual sword—no, staff—its double-blades igniting like the sun. Saladin pondered these things as they began redirecting the volleyed rounds with an effortless twirl of their staff. Having seen enough, he rushed down the corridor with the Optus at his heels. The Iron Lord commanded, “Isirah, set coordinates for the hangar.”
“Setting coordinates,” the she-ghost sighed. “You know, you do have a Psion with—”
Growling, he snipped, “Not now!”
Isirah jabbed back, “If you don’t begin to adapt to newer situations—like Psionic communications—you’re going to die a lonely death. When will you learn to trust those around you, hmm?”
“When they learn to be worthy of trust,” he returned brusquely.
The she-ghost huffed, “If Kepre’s Village is the hill of your life, then it is the one that you choose to impale yourself upon over and over again.”
“Don’t patronize me!” Saladin snapped.
“I’m not!” Isirah yelled back. Sighing deeply, she spoke softer yet, the point more poignant than a dagger. “The reason I’m hard on you is because I know you’re more than a conqueror. Endure and press on, the choice to keep fighting makes us who we are.”
“Is this your idea of a pep-talk? Your bedside manner is lacking,” he spat. As soon as he sprinted into the lift, the feed inside Saladin’s helmet turned to static. “Isirah, I’m not finished!” If he wasn’t at this level of frustration, he would have apologized for being an arrogant git, but rather than retreating, he dug deep into self-righteous rationale. As the crackle of white noise filled his ears, a tick formed in Saladin’s jaw. “Fine! We will resolve this matter…later.”
Asimox slammed a button on the control panel forthwith and the lift’s car lurched into motion. While they descended several decks, Saladin gripped his axe tight to redirect his focus. Unsure of what he’d find, the man bolstered himself with an iron will as he meditated on the greatest qualities of his fallen comrades—the Lords and Ladies.
Their strength would become his strength.
Their tactics would become his tactics.
There was no room for retreat.
As the turbolift came to a brief hold, the bulkhead doors split vertically, but Valus Forge did not wait for their complete parting. Sprinting turned into vaulting as he hopped over the barrier and into the hangar. Everything inside was chaos as the skirmish unleashed like the fury of a hurricane. The roar of chattering guns and unmistakable whump-whumps were nearly overwhelming and would have bled Saladin’s ears had it not been for his helmet. He was thankful for its noiseless fortification as he charged in amongst the wall of Imperials, jostling between their ranks.
Pushing between the Cabal and Psion Imperials proved arduous. It was as if they had become an unmovable palisade—and the rumbling! There were terrible tremors which shook the ground beneath his feet and something in the air. If it was possible, it was like everything had become flash frozen. An invisible nitrous cloud, odorless and tasteless, affixing them all in place—all? Saladin had lost track of time and motion in the twinkling of an eye. All he could truly feel was the Light as it churned in his stomach, pulsing and pumping beneath his fingertips like aggravated veins in the neck.
“If only I could—move,” he struggled to think. Forthwith, Saladin’s fingers twitched, the reasoning behind it almost inexplicable. However, if he were a betting man, he would wager it was the Light swelling within him. It seemed to be ballooning in place, pressurizing as water does when it gets caught in a bottleneck. He was fit to burst. “I just need to tap…into it.”
In mere seconds, the foothold of an unseeable force—oppressing Valus Forge into frozen submission—broke away. The Light gushed and poured out with such intensity, he gasped greedily for new breath. He was stunned for a moment, but duty propelled him onward. While squeezing between two Centurions caught in the standstill, Saladin took notice of their machine guns and how their revolving barrels were stuck in mid-rotation. Sparks hung above them, affixed in the air like blurry, motionless stars.
“How—how are you still moving?! I froze everyone in place.”
Saladin’s eyes peeled away from the Cabal-Imperials and looked directly upon a man—no, a boy. He was tall and lanky for a lad, pale with copper-red hair and blue-green eyes. Across his face were old, lucent scars which blemished his nose, brow, lip, and jaw. Why did this—boy—look like a battle hardened war hero? “That can’t be.” He squinted thoughtfully. “Perhaps, that is an ill-misconception on my part.”
Countering, he asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m Cal—Cal Kestis,” the boy greeted warily. “And you are…?”
“Where are you from, Cal Kestis?” Saladin continued, dodging the question.
“I have no home,” Cal answered truthfully. “However, I’d say The Mantis is as close to one as I’ll ever get.”
Saladin frowned and motioned about the hangar. “And how is it that you are doing all this?”
The young man chuckled, “What do you mean? Everyone in the galaxy knows about Force-users. You should know the how. I shouldn’t have to explain it.”
“Force-users?” Saladin queried.
It was Cal’s turn to frown, his blue-green eyes surveying the area with renewed attention. Perhaps, he was witnessing something he should have realized sooner. “You don’t know what I’m talking about…do you?” He seemed mildly concerned which turned strangely curious as he returned his focus on Saladin.
“Look,” Cal began, his eyes darting all around, “there’s not much time left before the freeze wears off.” Saladin watched the boy move two steps back, stretching out a palm while the other hovered over the metal cylinder clipped to his belt. “I just—I just want to go back. Back to The Mantis. Back to my friends and—oh—never mind that. Please, whatever-your-name-is, help me get back.”
Before Valus Forge could give an answer, the Imperials began to twitch and spasm as they stirred from their involuntary stasis. Not much could be done to save this child from the unbridled fury of the Cabal. Mercy was a weakness in their eyes; something to be quashed. However, they adhered to tradition, and they would honor it explicitly. Time was running out and so were his options.
Suddenly, the light came on and Saladin had a plan. If Cal truly was the fighter he had witnessed him to be, then surely the boy could put up a fight. Unfortunately, there was no room for error. He’d have to make this convincing. With a sigh of regret, the Valus decided to do what he came here to accomplish—recruit.
Saladin took a readying stance, bringing his axe hand forward, the gesture like the point of a finger. “I am Valus Forge, proven-vassal to Empress Caiatl, and I hereby extend a second offer of recruitment—“
“No!”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with, boy!” Saladin spat, feigning a fury he did not truly feel. If the tongue were a sword, then the very words he spoke were the slashes which could divide bone from marrow. Opportunistic like a wolf, he pressed the child, hoping to churn up a haughty spirit from within. “Do not deny the Empress-Imperial and expect to—”
“I’ve made my intentions clear,” Cal denied, his voice even and secure. “I have no intentions of joining you. I am a free man and I intend to stay that way.”
“Very well—Force-user—Cal Kestis. Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.” Saladin credited the boy for his unwavering bravery as a pang of guilt stung his own conscience, going against his self-governed code of ethics. This was not going to be easy. “I challenge you to a duel. If you defeat me, then you have won the rite of proving and are thereby free to leave this place unharmed. Lose, and you will become my apprentice.”
Cal frowned, his right hand now gripping his weapon, “I’m a Jedi Knight, I serve and trust no other but The Force.”
Without a word, Saladin threw his molten axe with every ounce of Light aiding his sudden kinetic blitz. This was a mere test throw and if Cal could dodge or reflect it, then perhaps he could throw more at him. His internal musings quickly ceased as the boy merely side-stepped the toss. Somewhere in the defensive spin, Cal unsheathed his staff, cleaving the axe-head clear off its hilt. With a loud thump of the cleaver and a resounding clatter of the haft—which went skittering out of sight—Saladin felt a sort of glee take hold. It was the kind that pushed him on, encouraging him to increase and overtake the height of his potential. He grinned thoughtfully, “This will be good.”
Though his eyes appeared fixed on the unmistakable glow of molten metal, he focused and harnessed a solar storm into his hands. Its raw fury burned and raged until it pounded and shaped into the object of his desires—a throwing hammer. Just as he cast it toward Cal, the whole bay exploded in resumed chatter. Saladin watched as the boy struggled to redirect the long-distance melee, swiping the flaming projectile away and down. In the next bit of motion, Cal reflected Cabal firepower with a continual flourish of his ignited staff.
Waiting a second more, Saladin volleyed his next hammer toward the wall hoping to ricochet the axe at his opponent. However, he wasn’t as sneaky as he thought. Cal disengaged one end of his empowered staff, expertly diverting shots from the Imperials while he held out his free hand. The object suddenly froze in mid-air, its velocity rendered null, as if it gained a mind of its own. Valus Forge thusly understood that this kid was in a league of his own.
Abruptly, a wide arching circle, ablaze with amethyst void, ignited all around them. Saladin dared to risk a glance, seeing several Psions at the behest of Asimox guard the ring of fire. The intention was finally clear—he and Cal were dueling, and this was a perfect distraction. Just as the raining armaments ceased, he glanced toward his opponent finding him taken aback. Saladin swiftly forged another solar hammer in his palm and flung it. Then another. And another. He hurled them in rapid-fire succession, making them as he was able. In time, the boy slowed, but only just. Whatever power Cal was naturally attuned to seemed to be sustaining and enduring. They would be stalemated as long as Saladin extended his current offensive barrage.
He had to try something different.
While Cal dodged a final cleaver, Valus Forge ran and launched himself high in the air. Voltaic surges zealously raced through his veins, igniting those microscopic pathways with intense febricity. The sounds of a thousand, angry canaries filled the atmosphere as he hurtled toward the zenith of his jump. Pulling back his arms, Saladin came hurtling back down toward the hangar floor in a gorilla-like smash. A circle of arc burst from the center of impact and while Cal was able to absorb the energetic discharge with his single-bladed staff, the kinetic force ultimately knocked the boy off his feet.
Saladin would have to finish this quick.
Barreling forward, sprinting like greased lighting, he struck Cal square in the jaw.
It was lights out.