Chapter Six: Thoughts in Chaos
The Sword of Plundarr sat on dais, half sunken into a plush pillow. It had become dormant at the time of Ratar-O’s death, and had retracted its lethal blades. So far, no one of the Rat clan, even young Roderan, could activate it. The Rat clan was getting nervous. Without the Sword, they would not be able to easily convince the other clans that they were indeed the ruling clan… and while their armies could stave off those of the other clans for a time, they couldn’t hold out against the combined forces of all of them. Otarin paced nervously at the dilemma, quietly resenting the fact that Spraguin wasn’t there to deal with it as well. The older rat was in his quarters resting, worn out from the stress. Otarin wished he could use age as an excuse to avoid the heavy responsibility facing the rats, but he had too much pride for that.
“Surely one of us should be able to hold the Sword?” Otarin stated. “Every rat of noble birth should be called in here to test it.”
“That could take months,” rasped Klith.
Roderan, who didn’t really like the ugly Sword anyway, played happily on the floor. Tiberon had left him alone in favor of examining the Sword. “If none of your clan can hold the Sword of Plundarr,” Tiberon began, “then your clan’s rule will come under question.”
Otarin glared at the Nautilus. “No one asked you, Squidman.”
Tiberon merely stared back, the insult flowing over him like the water he swam in.
“Besides, the Ratmen have the most formidable army on Plundarr! No one would dare usurp us,” Otarin said arrogantly. “Do you know what kind of military power Spraguin and I can summon with one call?”
Tiberon chose not to reply, and merely turned the entwined snake hilt in his fin-like hands. He listened to the desperate Ratmen, and suppressed a sigh. Such pettiness was beyond him. He regretted that the Nautilus Empire hadn’t taken a more aggressive approach to influencing the people of Plundarr. Soon, he hoped, such pettiness would be left behind when they were finally alerted to Jhahood. He himself had been notified days ago, when a sighting was confirmed by a Lunatac astronomer. The Planet Killer was being driven by some unholy force, a force that the Nautilus were aware of but unable to do anything about, as they had been forbidden long ago to directly interfere with matters beyond Plundarr. Such was their duty as the First race.
A bracelet on his arm, which very few may have ever noticed, grew hot against his flesh, and he nearly dropped the Sword. Anyone who would’ve noticed Tiberon’s very special bracelet would have been perplexed. It seemed to change shape every time they looked away. He stretched out his mental self, becoming aware of everyone in the vicinity. Then a very familiar mind came into his reach, and he felt a wave of relief wash over him.
She had arrived.
The rats’ bickering stopped abruptly, as the door to the Sword room opened. In the threshold stood two figures, one obviously reptilian.
“Slicer!” someone observed, but quickly quieted down before anyone could take note of who said it. Admitting to having hired such a ruthless mercenary was hardly something a noble would want associated with himself. Ignoring the stares he was receiving, the assassin warrior strode threateningly through the room, clearing himself a path. Otarin sniffed at the reptile in disdain, while Roderan scurried to the side. Slicer’s long scales clicked together as he moved. The being behind him was unidentifiable, and moved with silent grace. Soft murmurs, guesses as to the individual’s identity, could be heard among those gathered.
Tiberon approached the pair, Sword of Plundarr in hand. The heavily robed figure stepped in front of Slicer, who had his hands on his weapons and was eyeing the congregation of rats with a murderous look. “In the Darkest hour, a Pale savior will rise from the wastelands, unite the Blades, and push back the darkness,” Tiberon intoned, holding the hilt above the mysterious figure.
From underneath the robes came two delicate, white, scaly hands. The noble Ratmen muttered to themselves nervously. Hadn’t they, and their ancestors, made sure the royal reptilian bloodline was extinguished? They had to agree that these were indeed their darkest hours, however. With Ratar-O eliminated, the rat clan was in uproar, and even though they’d chosen a boy king, they knew it was likely that someone would make a play for the throne. Plundarr was a ruthless place, and those who grew weak stood to lose that which they had—and Otarin knew in the bottom of his heart that the rats had grown weaker over the years.
The reptilian grasped the hilt, and turned to face everyone in the room. Holding the inert hilt above their head, they squeezed it suddenly, and the jagged, curved Blades of the Sword screamed into existence, as if enjoying the release. There was a universal gasp, save Slicer and Tiberon.
“He can hold the Sword!”
“It must be a trick!”
“It is no trick,” Tiberon interjected, his voice fierce.
“Prove it!” Otarin challenged.
All eyes were on the strange white reptilian. He started to pull his hands in opposite directions, and the snakes began to de tangle themselves. Soon the reptilian was holding two blades, the snake of each respective blade forming a cross piece and handle... something not even the mighty Ratilla had been able to do.
“Reveal yourself,” Tiberon said softly. Slicer silently drew one of his more deadly weapons, and backed into the crowd. The reptilian pieced the weapon back together, set it on the dais, and pulled back...her hood.
“A female!” Otarin roared. “This is blasphemy.”
The female regarded the rat with icy blue eyes, but did not respond. She merely picked the Sword of Plundarr up again. It’s eyes flashed in response to her touch.
“This must be some kind of reptilian trick!”
“I am no trick,” she said evenly. Although she had not spoken loudly, her voice carried throughout the room. Power and confidence emanated from her. “I am Wraith, descendant of mighty Cutter, first holder of the Sword of Plundarr, and it’s rightful holder. I am Warrior Queen, and you will obey me.”
Many were tempted to laugh, but could not muster any. Otarin was livid with rage, while young Roderan gulped in fear. The strange female’s words held so much weight that no one, not even the outspoken Otarin, dared speak. He was proud, and indignant at the female’s claim on the sword, but he knew better than to challenge the Sword of Plundarr.
Even more so than before, Plundarr was in an uproar. A female had taken the throne.
* * *
“You said you had something to tell me, Tygra?”
The striped cat nodded and rifled through a large pile of readouts. Lion-O yawned and leaned on the doorjamb. He hoped he had been called for something important. He had been having a wonderful dream involving Cheetara and a leafy glade. Finally, Tygra found what he was looking for, and handed it to Lion-O, a dire look in his eyes. Lion-O looked at the computer printout picture in astonishment.
“Great Jaga! This comet is huge!” he remarked, looking to Tygra.
The Thundercat nodded and took a deep breath. “It’s headed directly for Plundarr.”
“Plundarr?” Lion-O mused, his expression darkening as he noted the projected size of the comet. “This thing is almost as big as Plundarr.”
“It’s large enough,” Tygra agreed. “By my best calculations, it will cleave the planet into several pieces, shattering it on impact. Needless to say, that will take out everything around it, New Thundera included. I’m guessing it’s going to hit the Moons first. The smaller ones might be pulled into the tail, and only one or two might be hit directly… but either way, it will kill all life on them and Plundarr, and likely, all of New Thundera.”
Lion-O paled as the weight of the situation hit him. “Are you certain it’s going towards Plundarr?”
Tygra nodded. “Certain enough. I’ve done the calculations enough times that I don’t think there’s any error. It is our duty to notify them.”
“By Jaga, yes,” Lion-O agreed. He glanced at the control room console apprehensively. “Cheetara is on the Moons now. How long do we have?”
“Not long enough,” Tygra replied gravely.
* * *
Bazungy slid silently towards Ratrelle’s chamber, her scales not making the slightest sound. She had underestimated Slythe. She would not do the same with the concubine. Finally, she reached her destination. The lights were still on, and the rat was pacing the room. Bazungy observed her for a few minutes, taking care not to take too much time. She had not been paid to kill Slythe, so she hadn’t, and she knew it was going to cause trouble. Klith was right in not trusting him. The rat was armed, and very high strung, so it would be difficult to sneak up on her. Bazungy supposed she’d have to use some scare tactics to keep her quiet, or else the guards would be on her in a second. Timing the rats pacing, Bazungy forced the grate open and darted under the bed.
Ratrelle whirled around, knife ready, when she had heard the grate creak open. It now swung harmlessly back and forth for a few moments. Nobody stood under it… but her keen rat sense of smell told her that a reptile was indeed nearby. She took a deep breath, intending to summon the guards with a high-pitched shriek, when a scaled hand snaked over her mouth and a dagger pressed to her throat.
“Don’t make a sound,” Bazungy said quietly. The rat squirmed in the reptilian’s grip. “Drop your knife!”
Ratrelle had transferred the knife to her tail, but the assassin seemed to be too quick for such tactics. She dropped it, and Bazungy kicked it away.
“Now,” Bazungy hissed in her ear. “Too silence you for good.”
“Not quite,” Ratrelle hissed. While she had dropped her knife, she still had her rodent teeth, and she bit down hard on Bazungy’s hand. The assassin, not expecting the bite, hissed in pain and Ratrelle was able to slip out of her grasp. She ran into the hallway, where she could beat the assassin on open ground. Bazungy was after her in a flash.
* * *
Slythe was stirred out of his treacherous thoughts when he heard a loud bang on his door. “Slythe!” barked an urgent sounding Jackalman.
Snorting with displeasure at the disturbance, the reptilian growled. He was in no mood to deal with Jackalman, but he supposed the jackal had brains enough to not bother him unless it was for something important. After the evening’s events, he was in no mood for any of the spineless canine’s blathering. “Come in, yess?” When he came in, Slythe noticed that Jackalman looked quite distressed.
“You’ll never believe it!” the jackal gasped, out of breath. He leaned on the bedpost of Slythe’s bed and caught his breath. Slythe’s frown deepened and he wondered if it was about the discovery of Ratrelle’s dead body. He had already decided to stay silent for now, until the rat turned up dead. She was of no use now.
“Someone has taken the throne!”
Slythe hissed. “I already know that Spraguin’s grand-whelp Roderan was appointed to the throne,” he growled impatiently. “You came here to tell me that?”
“No,” Jackalman argued, regarding Slythe with an indignant sneer. “I mean the throne has been taken from the rats entirely.”
“What?” the reptilian roared. “By who?”
“A reptilian female! She apparently picked up the Sword of Plundarr and it responded to her!” Even as Jackalman said the words, it sounded ludicrous to him. No female had ever ruled Plundarr as a Queen except as the bride of a Warrior King, and even then her rule ended with his, as he was traditionally succeeded by a son or a brother, or another clansman.
“A female?” Slythe rasped furiously. He’d had had enough of upstart reptilian females for one night. “That’s the most absssurd thing I’ve ever heard, yesss!”
“Nyah, tell me about it,” Jackalman whined. “She just strode into the throne room with some low-rent mercenary for a bodyguard, picked up the Sword of Plundarr, and declared herself Warrior Queen! And Tiberon defended her!”
“That damn Nautilus... he’s up to something! I’d bet my scales this ‘Queen’ is his doing! Ratrelle implicated him in Ratar-O’s assassination, after all!”
Jackalman shrugged. “All I know is that I’ve got to get to the Palace and see this for myself! A woman in charge… can you imagine?” the jackal said, beside himself with excitement. Nothing like this had ever happened in the history of Plundarr.
* * *
Far away, in the confines of the Black Pyramid, Torlei gritted her teeth. Steering the comet had proved to be more than a challenge for her and her undead partner. Guiding it was a difficult task—not only did they have to link mentally with the comet, but they were doing all the work while Jhahood merely plowed forward. As ever-livings they had an incredible reserve of energy, but even that, without due rest, had its limits.
“Ready for another bout?” Mumm-Ra asked, his voice quiet, weakened by exhaustion. Torlei nodded, and they joined hands. Originally they had attempted to steer it individually, but it had proved far too taxing. Pooling their powers made controlling the Planet Killer a little easier, but not much. Torlei placed her hand in Mumm-Ra’s, bracing herself for the moment to come.
“Here we go,” he said, more to himself than her. The dark mage chanted the incantation, and instantly Jhahood’s thoughts invaded theirs. Torlei flinched. Even though she knew how the comet’s consciousness worked, and she’d raised mental barriers to prevent herself from being rended by it again, dealing with it so directly still made her uneasy. Mumm-Ra squeezed her hand encouragingly, an oddly sentimental gesture, especially from him. She didn’t bother to put much thought into it, however, and focused on the task at hand. The things we do for revenge, she mused, as her mind meshed with Jhahood’s.
As they merged consciousness with the comet, they noticed instantly that it had, once again, veered off course.
“Damn it,” Torlei hissed aloud. Mumm-Ra snarled in angry agreement. It was clear to them both that something kept throwing the comet off course. Goroth Nug Jhahood had no thoughts as to what might be... not that he was any big help anyhow. All he had done since they had agreed to help it was talk of destruction like it was the ultimate pleasure in the universe. And the pair of ever-livings would certainly have agreed, but it was significantly less fun when it involved so much draining effort and frustration.
Concentrating their almost exhausted powers on the comet, they slowly began guiding the comet back on course. At this rate, if they could keep up their energy, Jhahood would obliterate Plundarr within the week. A small something niggled at the back of Torlei’s mind, telling her that things were going to smoothly. Surely the residents of the system had noticed the mammoth comet headed straight for them? She wondered what they were doing. Were they panicking? Rioting? Killing one another? With all their energy focused on Jhahood, the undead pair had been unable to monitor the situation.
Through the close mental link, Mumm-Ra read her thoughts and smirked. “If they are, my only regret is that we won’t be there to watch their blood flow,” he hissed cruelly, his scarlet eyes blazing with fantasies of revenge.
Meanwhile Jhahood’s thoughts wore heavily on Torlei, even through the shielding bond she and Mumm-Ra had established. The more she used her abilities, the more she could feel his thoughts throbbing inside her brain, and she loathed it. Steeling herself for a strong burst of power, Torlei closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. It was going to be a long week.
* * *
“We cannot deter the comet for more than a week, Conchlian,” said an exhausted Nautilus. A select group of the most powerful Psionics had been chosen to stall Jhahood’s approach, but with the help of Mumm-Ra and Torlei, it was rapidly becoming a losing battle. Although the Nautilus were long lived and imbued with great abilities, they could not match the power of an ever-living being, let alone two of them.
Conchlian, one of the oldest and most powerful of the Nautilus people, nodded sadly and cradled the Psionicist’s head in his hands. “A week is more than I expected. I am proud of you.”
The Nautilus, Levia, bowed to him, and turned back to the entranced group she had momentarily broken from. Levia wondered if the Ancient evils were even a least bit worn out by Jhahood. She prayed to the old gods that they were, or a week might be too optimistic.
“I have faith that things will turn out,” Conchlian said softly. “We will do what we can, and the rest is up to those in whom we’ve placed our trust. Don’t underestimate them.” With that, Conchlian returned to his private quarters, swimming with ease through the chilly waters deep under the sea. He opened a high security vid link with Tiberon and waited for him to reply.
“It is done,” Tiberon said as soon as he had appeared on the screen.
Conchlian kept a smile to himself. It seemed to him that the younger Nautilus had always enjoyed flaunting his abilities of anticipation. “How is she?”
“Nervous. The others have not accepted her as of yet,” he said.
“They will,” Conchlian assured him firmly. “Distressing as it is for them to accept a female, no Plundarrian will argue the truth in the mighty blades of the Sword of Plundarr.” He paused and studied Tiberon’s features. “And how are you?”
Tiberon was silent for a moment, absently rubbing the wrist his bracelet was on.
“I am doing well, although I am a bit worried.”
“Why? I spoke with Levia, and she said you had at least a week to get the holders to the Rocks.”
Tiberon sighed, and milky membranes covered his liquid eyes for a moment, a Nautilus version of closing ones eyes. “It’s not as easy as it sounds, Conchlian. The Lunatacs and the Thundercats have just been alerted, and our fellow Plundarrians have no clue whatsoever. They are to busy railing about how ridiculous the notion of a Warrior Queen is. If you have any ideas regarding how I am supposed to get all the holders in one spot, let alone to agree, I am open to suggestions.”
Conchlian felt for Tiberon. Years on land had begun to take their toll on the younger Nautilus’ unfathomable patience. He was glad that he had good news for him.
“Well, a Thundercat and a Lunatac have both had visions about the impending disaster. Surely that could be used to your advantage?”
Tiberon mulled over the information. Leaving Plundarr when it was in such turmoil was not something he was eager to do, but the Sword of Omens and the Moon Saber were vital in the binding ceremony. “And Plundarr?”
“Trust in Wraith. I can reach her telepathically and guide her. Plundarr will accept her in time. The reptilians, while they may balk at putting a woman in charge, will accept her soon enough. It has been centuries since they have had a true chance at ruling, and they will take it and support her, if for no other reason than to oust the corruption in the rat clans. The rats will protest the most violently, but their boy king is not a threat. Otarin and Spraguin will have their clans put up resistance, but it will fall. The jackals, the avians, even the simians, will support the reptilians, for a chance at higher power under a new regime. Wraith’s rule heralds the dawning of a light age on Plundarr. She will not let us down. Go forth to the Moons and to New Thundera, and speak with the holders of the other swords.”
“I will see what I can do. Thank you Elder,” Tiberon said, bowing to the image of Conchlian.
“May the Blade keep you safe.”
The transmission ended. Conchlian sighed and floated freely in the waters around him.
* * *
Selene, Luna, and Amok met up with Frostor, Alluro and Chilla on their way to the med lab. Selene gave them all a questioning look. “Where are you three off to in such a hurry?” she asked.
“And don’t make up any excuses,” interjected Luna, “I told her about RedEye!”
Frostor let out a small sigh. He already knew Luna would run straight to Selene, which was why he’d filled her in the worst of it first. Ignoring Luna, he turned to Selene. “We’re on our way to see RedEye now. You’re welcome to join us.”
“So he lived, hmm?” growled Luna.
“Yes, although he sustained a concussion in the process,” Frostor said flatly, more to Selene than the Lunar woman.
Selene nodded. “That’s quite a relief, then. RedEye should be commended for such bravery.”
Luna snorted, but remained otherwise silent. She’d had enough of everyone, and was merely concerned with whether or not her ex-henchman was in one piece.
As they headed for the military facility’s med lab, Frostor’s communicator buzzed. He frowned. How many times would it go off today, he wondered. “Yes?”
“Sir? Some darkling named Aurora is demanding that we let her in,” said one of the Palace guards.
Chilla raised an eyebrow, while Alluro nodded to Frostor as if to say he should go ahead and admit her. He wasn’t sure if RedEye had mentioned Aurora to the ice general or not, and he knew how Frostor could be about security. Frostor noted the hypnotist’s silent gesture. “Let her in and escort her to med lab,” he replied over the communicator.
“Yes, sir,” intoned the guard, ending the transmission.
Chilla glanced at Frostor. She was eager to meet the female who managed to attract the stoic RedEye’s affections.
Upon entering the med lab, one of the lab assistants directed them to RedEye’s room. Her position in the med lab was somewhat odd, as few Psi Lunatacs chose the medical profession, especially ones who were not like their staff healer, Altheus, who specialized in caring for the sick and injured. He was from an elite Fourth Moon order of psychic healers, telekinetic empaths who could feel the pain of patients, and use telekinesis to heal it on a cellular level. However, most psychics who were any part empathic, and not trained as he had been, steered clear of medicine. Being able to catch what a patient thought or felt, especially one in horrible pain, was not exactly favorable. The assistant picked up a clipboard attached to RedEye’s bed, and looked it over. “He’s suffered a concussion. No brain damage, but he’ll probably be unconscious for a while,” she looked up at Frostor knowingly. “He was lucky.”
Frostor nodded, dismissing her, and she walked out. As the group of them watched the sleeping dark-dweller, they saw that RedEye looked, for the most part, unhurt. He had several nasty bruises, and bandage wrapped around his head. The icewalker breathed a sigh of relief. Chilla approached RedEye’s bedside tentatively. Seeing the powerful Lunatac laid out was strange. Certainly they had all been tight spots before, as it came with being a raider... but none of them had ever come so close to death.
“Who are all of you?” a soft voice demanded. Everyone turned, almost in unison. In the doorway stood a lovely darkling, and a blue-haired Psi wearing a healer’s belt behind her. The dark-dweller took a step forward. Like most of her kind, she was very plain, save for a shock of raven hair she kept tied back in a ponytail.
Frostor was the first to speak. He recognized the man behind her as the staff healer, Altheus, so he nodded to him and smiled in polite greeting at the woman. “You must be Aurora,” he said. She nodded, taking a quick look around the others in the room, “I am Governor General Frostor,” she seemed unimpressed, but Frostor continued with his introductions, “This is Alluro, Chilla, Luna, Amok, and Queen Selene.”
At the last statement, her mouth fell open and her crimson eyes recognized the Queen. She instinctively started to bow, as was expected of those in royal presence. “The Queen? Well, I—”
Selene smiled warmly at the darkling. She was usually not pretentious enough to worry about such things, unless someone was being deliberately disrespectful to her. “It’s all right. Just call me Selene.”
The crowd of Lunatacs parted, revealing the unconscious RedEye. Altheus silently wove his way past them to examine RedEye up close. He hadn’t checked on him since he first tended to him, and he’d been left in the care of the assistants once it was determined he was stable. “He’s suffered a concussion,” he noted to the woman. “But he should recover just fine, in time.”
The Lunatacs looked at each other with knowing glances.
“It’s a long story,” Chilla began.
* * *
Goroth Nug Jhahood was approaching his destiny. His pact with the lesser beings had been a great help, especially since now some planet dwellers were trying to divert him. Jhahood rumbled in amusement, deciding not to tell the lessers why their job was so difficult. Nothing mattered now...soon he would fulfill his desire.
Destruction.
Glorious destruction.
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