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[LoPanShui]

June 12^th, 3039
15^th Arcturan Guard Defensive Line
Planet: Phact, on the border of FWL and FedCom Space


LRMs detonated across the torso of the Zeus in a cacophony of fire, knocking it down off of the rise and into the trench below. Warning claxons screamed through the cockpit and Gregor screamed back, slamming his fist on half a dozen different overrides in the overheated cockpit. The noise inside the cockpit vanished, but the red glow of the warning lights was still bathing everything in a bloody haze.

“Status report,” Gregor said through clenched teeth, not trying to right his ‘Mech just yet. Through the cockpit canopy Gregor could see more missiles streak across the hazy purple green night sky overhead. Someone had told him that something about the local plant life and the planet’s magnetic field gave the sky a halo of shimmering light in the deepest parts of the night, but Gregor had never bothered to notice until now. The iridescent beams of lasers made the starry sky of Phact a beautiful and chaotic light show. He realized then that it might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Critical damage,” the cold female voice of his Battlemech’s computer system told him. “Right arm destroyed, LRM launcher destroyed, left torso critical damage, large laser destroyed. Gyro unstable. Stabilizing. Stabilizing. Gyro failed to stabilize. Movement not advised.”

“Thanks for the head’s up, Lana,” he murmured, then twisted the 80 ton machine to the left to plant the barrel of the left arm’s AC/5 into the ground. He pushed up, but then a wave of nausea hit him through his neurohelmet as the ‘Mech, with its unstable gyro, lurched far to the right, unable to compensate for the movement, and the Zeus hit the ground on its back once more. “Son of a *****, come on!”

Gregor’s radio came to life, and he could hear General Vuthal’s periphery accented voice shouting orders. “Back into line! Hold formation!” Gregor tried again, and this time he managed to push the Zeus up onto its knees, then very carefully brought the behemoth once more to its feet, fighting down bile as every motion from the Battlemech tried to bring up his dinner.

“Lana, get that gyro stabilized, I know I haven’t taken any hits there.” The computer didn’t respond vocally, but Gregor saw several indicator lights on the panels overhead flash red, then yellow, then back to red again. “Great. ******* ghosts.” The Zeus almost fell again, but the wide hand of a Cyclops caught it by the shoulder and braced it. Gregor smiled.

The Cyclops brought up its other hand, giving Gregor a thumb's up, and he rose his Zeus’s autocannon up in a salute. Not for the first time he wished he had a ‘Mech with hand actuators. He might have found a tree to use as a crutch if that had been the case. The Cyclops turned and took to the ridge again, the heavy duty AC/20 in its right torso swinging to provide covering fire as Gregor forced his Zeus back up the hill.

His company had stood at the top of the small rise, twelve Battlemechs, none below seventy tons, laying down suppression fire on the approaching Free World’s League forces advancing across the plain. It was a standard Lyran plan, setting up a defensive position and letting the enemy break on the rock of the Lyrans’ heavier ‘Mechs, but that counted on outweighing and outshooting the enemy. Below, on the battleground, were three full companies of FWLM Battlemechs, an entire battalion. Even as Gregor took aim with his AC/5 and began peppering an enemy Wolverine with shots the friendly Cyclops went down under a wave of concentrated fire from five of the Marik ‘Mechs.

Gregor winced, seeing the iconic single eyed head of the Cyclops ablaze, the MechWarrior inside undoubtedly burning. “General,” he said over the radio. “Left flank his failing. We need immediate reinforcement. We’re taking heavy fire!”

General Vuthal’s voice was calm. He was leading from a command center fifty kilometers away, watching the battle from a surveillance satellite. “Stay in formation,” he said. “Hold the line.”

The Marauder on Gregor’s right exploded violently, chunks of shredded, superheated armor slamming into the Zeus’s open right side, and more indicator lights flashed from green to red. “**** this.”

[LoPanShui]

Gregor had left the battle line ten minutes ago, and the rest of his company had followed him, but now he was alone. One by one the remaining 'mechs of his company had fallen, picked apart by the smaller, faster 'Mechs of the Marik forces. The rear guard and the damaged assault 'mechs, limping through the mud of the churned up plain and fetid forest, had been the first to fall, then the heavies. Two Banshees had set up a defensive position to hold off the Mariks while the three remaining 'mechs, a Grasshopper that had somehow survived an ammunition explosion that had blown apart its entire torso, a Stalker whose weapons had all been destroyed and Gregor's own crippled Zeus had moved into the tree line. The Banshees hadn't lasted twenty seconds.

Gregor tried to assist the Stalker when a trio of Marik Locusts surrounded it, and he managed to swat one away with the Zeus's remaining arm, but then a pair of Stingers had joined the fight, and Gregor had to leave, abandoning the Stalker to a death of a thousand cuts as the smaller 'mechs swarmed over it. The Grasshopper, barely more than an engine, legs and wobbly, exposed bits of skeletal bracing, went down from a PPC shot in the back. It tipped forward and landed directly on the cockpit, burying the 'mech's head in the deep mud of the forest floor. Gregor moved to assist, but without hand actuators the Zeus could do nothing but fumble uselessly at the corpse of its fallen ally, unable to free the pilot from her grave. He had to leave her there, buried alive.

Now he dragged his 'mech along in the dark, all of his sensor cut off in an attempt to hide from his pursuers, every step wrenching his consciousness sideways as the neurohelmet felt him false information from the gyro. Around him he imagined he could hear the Marik 'mechs, fast and nimble, darting around him in the woods like a pack of wolves hunting injured prey. More than once he caught movement in the shadows and let off a burst from his autocannon, raking the trees with explosive shells that lit up the night with flashes of red and orange, but there was never a 'mech there, just a figment of his heat exhausted imagination. Then he had to move faster, away from the telltale noise he'd made, away from where his pursuers would be looking for him.

The left flank had collapsed completely, and by now the Marik forces would be cleaning up the rest of the Arcturan Guard, marching on the command bunker where General Vuthal sat safe from the dangers of war, giving his pompous orders and drinking warm tea. A lance of green energy shot out from the trees and struck the Zeus in the leg, dropping the 80 ton machine to its knees. Gregor tried to right himself, but the faulty gyro again sent his brain a wave of nausea for his trouble, and the entire battlemech wobbled. A Locust came out from behind the trees, cautious and the Zeus fought for balance in the two meter deep mud of what Gregor was slowly realizing was not a forest, but a swamp.

It peered at the Zeus, edging closer, thick black water and sludge licking up its thin, spindly legs as it approached. Gregor raised his autocannon, and the Locust ducked down into the mire and slipped to the side, circling faster than Gregor could keep his aim. Eventually the Locust moved behind the Zeus, out of the arc of fire of the autocannon, and snuck up closer. There was nothing Gregor could do. He could barely keep his 'Mech upright, much less turn it to defend himself.

A rattle filled his cockpit, things bouncing off of the armor of the Zeus's head in rapid succession. Slowly it became louder, deafening, and Gregor began to scream. The Locust stood behind it, firing machineguns into the larger battlemech's tickly armored head, slowly peeling it away to get at the pilot trapped inside.

[LoPanShui]

“Out.” The voice was barely audible through the ringing in Gregor’s ears, but it was loud enough to let him know that the fighting was over for him. “Get out of your ‘Mech with your hands in the air, Elsie *******. If you try to eject I swear on my soul I will blast you out of the air before you clear the canopy.”

Gregor hesitated, staring at his instrument panel. If the gyro would just start sending back proper readings then he could take this little Locust no problem. He was four times its size and still had more firepower than the light ‘Mech. He could do this. “Lana, what’s the status on my-“The bullets hit again, rattling the Zeus’s head, drowning out his thoughts in a thunderous pounding in the cramped cockpit.

“Last warning!” The voice said again, and Gregor slammed his fist down on the bright red panel that blew the emergency bolts on the canopy. Then he unstrapped and stepped forward, climbing over his control panel with its flashing warning signs and blinking red lights. He raised his hands, and the Locust moved into view again, its twin machine guns trained on him. “Good. Now jump down into the swamp. No funny business.”

Gregor looked down at the black water below him, just an inky stain in the darkness. The beautiful light of the Phact sky was blotted out by the trees overhead, and everything here in the forest was just shadow of varying blackness. He took another step forward and fell from his mount on the Zeus. A ragged chunk of torn armor sliced a gash across his thigh, and he started to cry out, clutching at the wound, but the water swallowed him whole, filling his open mouth and drowning out his scream as he sank.

He was down in the black for what seemed like hours. The thick water swirled around him, holding him, trying to keep him down. All around him he could sense movement. Things in the dark brushed his bare skin, attracted by the blood from his wound. Something bit him, sinking small sharp teeth into his leg, and when he screamed his breath rushed out of him in bubbles that climbed towards the surface, leaving him behind.

The charnel soup was stirred as bullets pierced the water. Their passing scattered whatever things lived in the swamp, and the ripples in their wake tickled him. He’d been down too long, and the FWL Mechwarrior was tired of waiting. Gregor tried to swim towards the surface, but it felt like his arms wouldn’t move. His legs refused to kick. His body had given him up for dead, lost in this fetid swamp. Even if he had been able to move he had no idea which direction to go. Everything was darkness down here, and direction was meaningless.

Fire glowed somewhere to his left, bright and daring. For a moment Gregor thought that he was being sucked into hell, a welcome warmth from this chilling water all around him, but then he saw the Locust wreathed in flame, its burning body a beacon back to the surface. Gregor forced his legs to move, and kicked towards the flaming apparition. With every movement his injured leg screamed at him, and his lungs burned, empty. He kicked again, reaching towards the image before him, then something large and black obscured his view, and he was lost. Whatever hope had come was gone, and Gregor gave in. He opened his mouth and breathed, letting the rotten wet black of the swamp into his lungs.

He felt a warmth wrap around his arm, still outstretched towards where he’d seen the burning Locust, then he was pulled up, out of the swamp and over the side of something slick and buoyant. He heard voices. “Is he hit? He’s not breathing! He must have swallowed a lot of water.”

He could see the Locust again, with its halo of flame. It seemed to be dancing, its movement s wild and erratic. Figures moved around him, lit up by the light of the fire, and a heavy weight pressed down on his chest. The dank sludge of the swamp was forced from his lungs, and Gregor turned to vomit more brackish water away from him. There was an angel above him, with shimmering golden hair, smiling the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen. Her face was porcelain, her eyes sapphires, her lips ruby. When she spoke it was the chorus of the gods.

“Hey, we almost lost you there.” She wore the uniform of the 15^th Arcturan Guard infantry, an inferno missile launcher slung over her shoulder. “You’re going to be okay.”

Her head exploded like a dream. Her beautiful face distorted, then was gone, replaced by red and wetness. Chunks of her hair flew in every direction, and teeth hit Gregor in the face, cutting his cheek. Something in his head popped, and he went deaf in his right ear. Others on the boat screamed, but their screams were cut short as bullets tore them apart, leaving slick red puddles all around Gregor’s prone body.

The Locust, still alight, kept firing, ripping apart trees and underbrush, roiling the swamp with its guns, crying out its dying rage into the night. Then it seemed to explode, and a beacon of flame launched high into the treetops. The ejection seat fell back down, landing in the swamp, and Gregor watched a figure unhook itself from the chair and flail in the water, sputtering.

Gregor stood, fighting back tears as his injured leg screamed defiance. He moved the body of the girl, miraculously untouched except for the ragged hole of a neck where her perfect head ad been, and he went to the controls of the inflatable boat. He drove the boat towards the splashing figure in the water.

The Free Worlds League Mechwarrior was burned across half of her body, and she writhed in pain in the water, only kept afloat by the inflatable survival modifications to her cooling vest. She was young, maybe nineteen, and he could tell she’d been pretty, with close cropped black hair and bright green eyes. Those eyes stared at him then, desperate, in pain. “Please, help me…”

Gregor pulled a gun from the remains of one of the boat’s crew, wincing as an arm came with it, and he pointed it at the girl in the water. He didn’t stop firing until the clip was empty. Then he reloaded and fired again and again until the thing in the water was nothing but a ragged stain in the black, an unrecognizable heap floating in darkness.

Nine hours later he stumbled back into camp, the inflatable inexpertly running aground near the dock. He was dragged by a watch officer into the command bunker in front of General Vuthal. The man was drinking tea out of a tiny china cup, and his moustache was perfectly waxed. “Heimler,” the general said, looking away from the tactical screens all around him. “I don’t need cowards who abandon the line in my unit, you chicken ****. You’re done.”

[LoPanShui]

Gregor was done, but not in the way that General Vuthal had threatened. The 15^th had destroyed the Mariks, in no small part due to an entire battalion of their ‘Mechs having gotten lost in the swamp chasing down the remains of Gregor’s company. When the top brass got the reports, Vuthal had to explain this event.

Somehow, the recordings from the orbital satellites had been “corrupted”; Vuthal claimed by electromagnetic interference from the borealis. There was no video of Gregor abandoning the line, or of his company routing in the face of a superior enemy, and there was only one surviving witness of the incident, Gregor himself. Stuck between the truth, that Vuthal’s forces had broken down and scattered, abandoning their posts to follow a coward, and a convenient lie, Vuthal had made the choice that any man in his position would have made.

Gregor stood on the stage in Tharkad, the bandages on his leg fresh and damp, hidden under his crisp, freshly pressed uniform. Vuthal, to his left, stood behind the podium, reciting the tale that would garner him the most prestige. “Facing superior numbers, with his Captain dead, MechWarrior Heimler took command of his Company and ordered a strategic withdrawal into the swamp behind the line. There, for over twelve hours, Tango Company fended off an entire battalion of The Free Worlds League’s finest. One by one, these heroes of the Commonwealth fell to their opponents until only MechWarrior Heimler was left standing. His Zeus, ravaged by fire, armor stripped to the bones, ammunition depleted, held the line in the swamp against an entire lance of Marik heavies. His last stand delayed the Marik ‘Mechs long enough for the rest of the 15^th Arcturan Guard to begin pressing into the swamp to relieve the beleaguered Tango Company.

When we had finished we found only the ruins of Tango Company, surrounded by the broken shells of the BattleMechs of the Free Worlds League. We found no survivors on either side, and mourned for the lost heroes who had saved us from this surprise flanking attack. We had given up the MechWarriors of Tango Company for dead, and returned to the forward headquarters. I myself had just arrived back in the command center when MechWarrior Heimler stumbled through my door, covered in the muck of the swamp and his own blood. For a moment I thought I was seeing a ghost, but no, he was alive. He strode towards me, steps fast and strong despite his numerous wounds, and humbly requested a new BattleMech so that he could return to the fight.”

The audience cheered. Pretty noblewomen in fancy dresses smiled at Gregor, and stout men with gaudy uniforms nodded sternly in his direction. Good show, they seemed to say. Well done, boy. Gregor’s stomach churned and he would have vomited if he’d been able to eat anything since arriving. Vuthal continued, “So it is my honor to introduce not only the hero of Phact, but our illustrious Archon, Melissa Steiner-Davion as well.” The old man made a bow, and the woman stepped on stage. She was older than Gregor, though not by much, and wore a gown of dark Lyran blue. She had very slight lines at the edge of her eyes, and when she spoke her lips thinned into tiny pale ribbons around her teeth.

“MechWarrior Heimler,” she said, and her voice was loud, strong, and defiant. “Is a hero of true Lyran fashion. When the enemy came to him he held the line. When his dear friends, brothers and sisters in arms died all around him, he held the line. And when he fell, when the line could no longer be held, he demanded a new line to hold.” Gregor noticed something in the Archon’s eyes, a shimmering wetness that couldn’t be tears no matter how much they looked like them. “Therefore I present to MechWarrior Heimler the highest honor of his homeland, the Alliance Medal of Honor.” Cheers abruptly exploded from the crowd. The pretty ladies stood, cleavage heaving and hands coming together in cold, palmy slaps. The old men with their stern faces rose solemnly and pressed their old weathered hands together in a slow beat, like a dying heart.

The Archon turned from the podium and approached Gregor. She leaned in close to him, and as he watched her pull the little green and silver medal from its velvet box his knees lost their strength and he fell forward, but Melissa caught him, one small hand on his chest, holding him up. She had the bluest eyes that he’d ever seen, and reflected in them was a quiet grief. The wetness in Gregor’s eyes matched hers, but unlike the Archon tears began to roll down his cheeks. The angel, the woman who had pulled him from the abyss, the woman whose tooth they had dislodged from his ear canal during the hours of surgery they spent restoring his hearing, had not once been mentioned. He’d never even heard her name. Melissa’s hand radiated warmth through Gregor’s chest, and she leaned forward, going up on her toes to press her serene cheek against his, slick with tears. She spoke to him then, and unlike her public voice, pitched so all could hear, she spoke to him in hushed, soft, quiet words meant only for him. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

After that Gregor was inducted into the Lyran Guard by appointment from the Archon herself. He was out of the Arcturan Guard, and was done with General Vuthal, just as he’d been promised weeks and eons ago; the old man with his tea promising the coward and his filth a new future. For the next week Gregor’s life was filled with the false smiles of nobility. Everything was an unending blur of parties, smiles, dancing and dresses on the bedroom floor. He felt nothing, remembered nothing, and when the blushing girls of the court danced too closely to him the medal dug into his flesh.

[LoPanShui]

February 9th, 3045
First Chapter House of The Knights of Donegal
Tharkad, Capitol of the Lyran Commonwealth

Steel rang on steel and Gregor lashed out with his foot, knocking the old man’s knee out from under him. A sword clattered to the hardwood floor and Gregor shifted his weight, bringing the edge of his blade under the old man’s neck. “I yield,” the old man said, and for a trembling moment Gregor’s arms tensed; the edge of his blade trembled millimeters from cutting through skin and artery. Then Gregor lowered his blade, and the old man stood. “You’ve gotten better,” he said to Gregor, extending a hand to him. “I don’t think I have anything left to teach you.”

“Yeah,” Gregor replied, not bothering to wipe the sweat from his brow. The blinding sting of it in his eyes helped distract him from what he’d almost done. “Thanks.”

The old man smiled, bringing his white, waxed moustache up at a jaunty angle. “Come on then, let’s have a drink, shall we young pup? Knights are more than just swords and BattleMechs, after all.” The man’s name was Wilhelm Kamph, one of the elder members of the Knights of Donegal. He’d earned his place during the 3^rd Succession War when he’d been a much young man. His Atlas still held scars from a Cappellan autocannon that had crippled it. Left alone in a crippled ‘Mech, Sir Kamph had managed to maneuver the Atlas into a mountain pass on a single good leg, put his back against a wall and held the position for three days until reinforcements could arrive.

Winning the Alliance Medal of Honor had, like it had for Kamph, granted Gregor immediate membership into the Knights of Donegal, the heroes of the Commonwealth. This gave him access to all of their chapter houses as well as dozens of other privileges that were awarded to great heroes. Most of it made Gregor feel nauseated. He never wore the medal anymore. It was collecting moss at the bottom of a lake that was currently frozen over for the harsh Tharkad winter. The only reason he still came to the chapter houses was because it was better than spending time with his unit. The 1^st Lyran Guard, 2^nd Battalion, 3^rd Company treated Gregor Heimler like something out of myth and legends.

Despite being just a corporal in the ranks, even the commanders came to ask The Hero of Phact for his advice. Here, with the other Knights, he was simply treated as an equal, a man on their own level. Gregor wasn’t sure what was worse, being treated like an equal by a hero or like a hero by an equal, but the food here was better, and the beds were warmer.

The two men stepped into a large room with an actual fireplace roaring and radiating a heat that made Gregor uncomfortable in his protective fencing gear. He should have changed, but Kamph hadn’t. Drinks were more important than clothing, after all. Large leather seats surrounded the fireplace, and in two of them sat other knights, Sir O’Chaunessy of The Skye Rangers and Sir Kasim of The 1^st Royal Guard. Gregor hated Kasim. The man made to many references to his regular shifts in one of the Griffins guarding the throne.

“Kamph, Heimler!” O’Chaunessy called out. “Have you beaten the boy yet, Kamph?”

“I haven’t beaten him in six months, O’Chaunessy,” Kamph replied, moving to the bar to pour both of them a glass of brandy. “Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t have trained him so well.”

“I don’t know why he insisted on learning the sword anyway,” Karim said, turning in his chair to look at the two men in their fencing gear. He was a dark man, with a bald head and old, weathered fingers. He was vaguely related to the Steiners somehow, a third cousin of the Archon, Gregor thought. He hadn’t had to do much to be inducted into the Knights, or to gain his position in the Royal Guard. The War of 3039 had been kind to him. His was one of the few units that was never counterattacked and got to keep the planet they took from the Combine by the end. He’d been rewarded for the fruits of his lack of effort. “It’s the 3^rd Lyran guard who are the Ever Sworded, is it not? Aren’t you in the 1^st, Heimler?”

“It never hurts to be prepared,” Gregor said, no real feeling in his words as he took Kamph’s offered brandy and found his own seat by the fire.

“Gregor’s an odd one anyway, Karim,” O’Chaunessy said with a laugh in his voice. “The boy made his name piloting aZeus. Killed half a dozen Marik MechWarriors single handedly, wasn’t it?”

“Something like that.”

“Then he gets to his new unit, and he’s offered his pick of any BattleMech he likes. He’s even offered an Atlas, and what does he do? He takes a Commando. Crazy *******, he is, running around in something that small. It’s a fine Lyran ‘Mech, to be sure, but not fitting for a man of his position. No armor on it. No firepower. It’s not a bloodyStinger, but it’s close!”

Gregor shrugged, “On Phact I came to appreciate speed, that’s all.”

“Quicker to come to blows with the enemy!” O’Chaunessy laughed again. “Respectable enough, I’d say, but you’ll never catch me in something like that. I’ll stick with my Awesome, thank you. I can’t count the number of times heavy armor and PPCs have spelled the difference between life and death on the front line.”

“Leave the boy alone,” Kamph said, standing near the fire. “There’s hardly a need for heavy armor and weaponry where he’s stationed. Is your company still guarding the Summer Palace, Heimler?”

Before he could answer Karim interrupted. “A job for the Royal Guard. Why are the 1^st Lyran even on Tharkad? Did your commander think that we couldn’t do our job, so he left a company of his own back here to wipe our asses for us? You should be with the rest of your regiment at the periphery border chasing pirates.”

The room went quiet as the other two men waited for Gregor to defend himself. They waited quite a while. Gregor’s fingers trembled around his glass, and the deep brown liquid inside rippled with the movements. Images of General Vuthal flashed back into Gregor’s mind. “Maybe the Archon put us here because she didn’t want a bunch of half educated inbred nobles trying to organize a parade march while she was under attack.”

“I say!” Kamph looked outright offended.

“Ha!” O’Chaunessy laughed, slapping his hands against his prodigious gut. “You’ve got a mouth on you, boy, I’ll give you that.”

Karim rose from his chair in a flash and Gregor was right with him. It looked like Karim might have been reaching for something, but Gregor was faster. He threw the brandy glass into Karim’s face, causing the larger man to stumble. Then Gregor was on him, fists hammering down on his dark face. Blood covered the floor. Something in Gregor’s hand cracked and pain shot up his arm, so he stood in order to begin kicking Karim while he was down. O’Chaunnesy caught him in an arm lock from behind and dragged him away while Kamph knelt next to Karim, who was clutching his bloody face. A pistol lay on the floor where the noble had dropped it. Kamph picked it up and quietly pocketed it, making no mention of it as he rose. “Sir Heimler, your comments were out of line.”

“Yeah,” Gregor said, no longer struggling against the hold the Skye Ranger had him in. “Fine.”

“I would thank you to leave, sir. Of your own accord.” The old man stood tensed, dangerous, as O’Chaunessy let Gregor go.

“Fine,” he said. “Let me change and I’ll be gone.”

“Your things, Sir Heimler, will be sent to you promptly.” Kamph seemed like he would brook no excuses, and Gregor’s jaw clenched. Karim still lay on the floor, not moving, blood gushing from his nose and mouth. “We do not allow violence and slander among the Knights of Donegal, and you would do well to remember that.”

“Yeah? And what about him? What he said wasn’t slander? He pulled a gun on me, Kamph. I was defending myself.”

“I saw no gun,” Kamph said, his back stiffening. He’d spent four years training with Kamph, and this is what it came to. “A cousin of the Archon would never do such a thing. Did you see any weapons, Sir O’Chaunessy?”

The Skye man put his hands on his hips, his voice dropping to a low rumble in his throat. “I don’t know exactly what I saw, Sir Kamph, but I think you’re right. Sir Heimler should go and let his blood cool before he messes up the décor any further.”

Gregor spun and glared at O’Chaunessy, who refused to meet his gaze. Then he moved swiftly towards the door, clutching his hurt hand. He might have broken it on Karim’s jaw. O’Chaunessy followed him, speaking quietly. “Boy, you just knocked out a captain in the Royal Guard, and the Archon’s cousin to boot. Are you trying to get yourself shipped off to boil to death on some molten moon somewhere?”

“Maybe,” Gregor said, seriously. “Maybe anything would be better than here, surrounded by people who only pull their heads out of their asses long enough to kiss mine. I’m tired of this place and these people. I can’t stand it.”

“Stand what?” O’Chaunessy said. “Being loved or being hated? You’re a damn war hero. Everywhere you go you’re going to find people who love you for what you did or hate you because they didn’t do it. That’s your lot in life, lad. You don’t have any control over that, so you’d better learn to live with it. It’s been six years. I’d think you’d be used to being a hero by now.”

“I’m not a hero,” Gregor hissed venomously. He almost said more. He almost let the lie die. He wanted that. He wanted that more than anything in the world. He wanted everyone to stop looking to him for the answers, or like he was some kind of walking god. He wanted the guilt gone. He wanted the angel who pulled him out of the swamp to stop haunting his dreams. He wanted the tears of the Archon to dry and stop drowning his soul. He wanted freedom. He almost told O’Chaunessy the true story, but something held him back. Something warned him that if the truth came out he’d be done. The parties would be over. The smiles would stop. Fear made him hold his tongue.

O’Chaunessy shook his head, “That’s why you are a hero, boy. You’re not some trumped up blowhard like Karim who got his medals by sitting back and letting others do the work. You’re a real man, Gregor. You’re the real deal, and Karim can sense it. He smells it on you. He can never measure up to you, boy, and he knows it.”

Gregor almost vomited. He turned from the big man and rushed out of the chapter house and into the freezing Tharkad winter. The wind chilled him to the bone, clutching at his heart, freezing his blood. “Good,” Gregor whispered to the wind. “Kill me already.” Then he disappeared into the snow.