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  The Soturi tried to pommel strike him, but Nolan grabbed the goon’s gauntlet as the warrior struck down. With a spell sword through his belly, it didn't take long for the life force to leave the soldier’s body. Nolan withdrew the sword and watched the warrior collapse into the snow.

  Nolan turned his attention to Elijah, who was struggling. He'd already been slashed on the arm and thigh. Blood was dripping down his limbs and had dotted the snow.

  Nolan charged the Soturi, attempting to intervene. But it was too late. He could only watch as the enemy’s sword sliced through the air, severing Elijah's head. The blade cut through his cervical spine like it were pudding. Elijah’s skull tumbled through the air, then crashed into the snow. His headless body dropped to its knees, then fell forward, still twitching. Blood poured from Elijah’s severed neck, staining the white powdered ground.

  Nolan screamed. A primal roar erupted from his chest. He charged the Soturi, skewering him. Nolan thrust with such force, the tip of his blade pierced the knight’s armor, traveled through his thoracic cavity, and penetrated the outer plate. The warrior crumpled to the ground, steam rising from his wounds.

  Nolan’s eyes filled, and tears streamed down his cheek. He dropped to his knees beside the body of his fallen friend. The two had known each other for their entire lives. They had become fast friends at an early age, and were inseparable.

  A toxic mix of anger and sadness filled Nolan. It was hard to breathe, and he was visibly shaking. He clenched his jaw and pushed off the ground.

  The village was in chaos. Bodies lay strewn about, covered in blood. Most of the militia had been defeated. The Imperial forces were rounding up survivors. They were dragging women from the houses. Their shrill screeches filled the air as they tried to fight off the invaders, but it was no use. The Soturi were killing livestock and setting houses on fire. Amber flames flickered high into the air and glowing embers floated about. Smoke and haze covered the ground like a blanket.

  Nolan steeled his resolve. He pushed aside all feelings of sadness and despair. It left room for only vengeance and rage. He charged into the fray, slashing at the invaders. His spell sword possessed unusual strength. He hacked off the arm of a Soturi with one clean blow.

  Blood spurted from the stump.

  Nolan spun around and skewered another Soturi that had charged him. He kicked the goon in the chest plate, removing him from the sword. The body fell to the snow.

  Nolan was quickly surrounded by a squad. Their fierce blades ready to slice him to pieces. Full of fear and adrenaline, Nolan tried to keep them at bay. He spun around, fighting on all sides. He was doing a good job, but it wasn't enough. He was going to die here, in this moment.

  Nolan continued to hack and slash, deflecting blows.

  A Soturi lunged from behind, ready to puncture his back with a broadsword. The only thing that saved him was the ominous command of Valdovar. His powerful voice rumbled across the village. "Enough!"

  The Soturi withdrew instantly.

  Encircled by the Imperial forces, Nolan held his ground. His wide eyes darted around until they fell upon Valdovar. The Dark Lord approached with a menacing gleam in his eyes. Nolan had heard rumors of Valdovar’s appearance, but he never imagined they were true. He had always thought them exaggerations.

  Valdovar might well have been a demon summoned from hell. His eyes were pure evil, and the small dragon perched on his shoulder only added to his menacing appearance.

  Nolan’s heart pounded. He gripped the hilt of his sword tight, preparing to defend against the tyrant.

  Valdovar didn't seem concerned in the least. He didn’t raise his sword, or take any kind of defensive posture. He just kept strolling toward Nolan.

  “The spell sword you wield. Where did you get it?” Valdovar asked.

  Nolan said nothing. The rage in his eyes said it all.

  "I can make you tell me."

  Nolan clenched his jaw and remained silent.

  Valdovar sighed. He had been in this scenario thousands of times before. The result was always the same. He always got what he desired. It was only a matter of time. He asked again, his tone thick with boredom. “Where did you get the sword?”

  Nolan wasn't going to tell him a damn thing. But before he could stop himself, the words slipped from his lips. "I traded for it.”

  “And the mage who created it?"

  “I don’t know.”

  Nolan was telling the truth. He didn't know who had created the sword. But it had cost him a pretty penny. Spell swords were much sought after weapons, and were in short supply. The strength of the weapon depended upon the sorcerer who created it, his ability, and how much magic he put into it. Some spell swords remained sharp and never dulled. Others contained more power and radiated with energy. They could slice through objects with the strength of a plasma sword, or deflect blasts from spell guns. Some could warn you when danger was near. There was one sword that was rumored to convey invulnerability to its owner. It was the most powerful sword in the galaxy. But it wasn't created by any normal sorcerer.

  “Give me the sword,” Valdovar commanded.

  I'll give you the sword, Nolan thought. Up close and personal.

  Valdovar was within striking distance. Nolan attacked, slashing at the tyrant. He moved with lightning speed.

  Without a helmet on, Valdovar was vulnerable. Nolan had every intention of severing the demon's head clean off. But it wasn't to be.

  Takaar launched from Valdovar’s shoulder, taking flight. It was just a precautionary measure because Nolan's blade stopped before it even got close to Valdovar. It was like some invisible force had stopped the sword and gripped Nolan's arm. He struggled against the force, the veins in his neck bulging, his cheeks flushing red, his whole body shaking as he tried to fight against the resistance. But it was no use.

  With the flick of Valdovar’s wrist, Nolan was flung onto his back, slamming against the snow. The sword fell from his grasp. Like a magnet, it was drawn to Valdovar’s hand.

  Nolan's eyes widened as he watched the sword hurtle through the air, landing perfectly in Valdovar’s palm.

  The evil tyrant surveyed the sword, assessing its power. His red eyes scrutinized the blade and the elaborate markings. He moved the sword around, feeling its weight. It was expertly crafted, and well-balanced. The sword had always served Nolan well. But Valdovar seemed thoroughly unimpressed and tossed the weapon aside.

  “Shall I terminate this peasant, my Lord?" Commander Xule asked.

  Valdovar glowered at Nolan, deciding his fate.

  8

  “Take him prisoner," Valdovar said. "Kill the weak, wounded, and old. If they can't be put to service, then they are of no use to me."

  Commander Xule nodded. He relayed the command, and two Soturi grabbed Nolan by his arms and hoisted him to his feet. They slapped restraints on his wrists. The metal cuffs slammed against the bone, sending a jolt of pain up his forearm. A Soturi shoved him in the back and marched him toward one of the dropships.

  The village was in ruins. Several of the structures were engulfed in flames. Black smoke billowed into the sky, mixing with the gray clouds. A dark haze covered the area like an eclipse. The survivors were rounded up and loaded aboard the transports. There were tears and wails of agony—a sea of tortured and distraught faces. Slaughtered bodies lined the snow, staining the ground red. The sight was gut-wrenching.

  Nolan’s eyes found the horrible sight of his father’s mutilated Legione among the remains of the slaughtered militia. His stomach twisted in knots. His heart sank, and his throat grew tight. Rivers of tears streamed down his face. He tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound.

  Nolan kept scanning the carnage, looking for his mother and Lila, but he found no sign of them. But he did see plenty of familiar faces.

  A Soturi forced him to climb the ramp, packing into the cargo bay of a dropship with the other survivors. Once the transport was full, the hatch was sealed, and the massive engines spun up. Th
e craft rumbled and shook as it lifted from the ground. Nolan had never left the planet before. He had never flown in a spacecraft. He had seen them come and go, traveling to the stars, but his life experience was limited to Sargol.

  The craft pitched and rolled as it ascended into the clouds. Nolan was rocked back-and-forth. It was an unsettling feeling. It felt wholly unnatural, having spent his entire life on solid ground. The tragedy had made him feel sick to his stomach, and the turbulence as the craft rocketed through the atmosphere wasn't helping anything.

  The cargo hold was dark and filled with grim faces. Several Soturi stood guard over the prisoners. Nolan found himself next to Liam. He was a tall stocky fellow with blonde hair. He stood about 6’2”, and had a blank expression on his face. It was too much for him to process. He had shut down emotionally.

  Whispers slipped back-and-forth among the prisoners, despite the guards repeated admonitions to remain quiet.

  "I'm going to kill all of these mother fuckers," Liam muttered. His voice was dry and matter-of-fact.

  "I'll help you,” Nolan replied. “Do you know if your sister survived?”

  Liam shook his head.

  "What about your parents?" Nolan asked.

  He shook his head again.

  "Have you seen my mom? Or Lila?"

  Liam was silent for a long moment. “They didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”

  Nolan’s throat tightened. He felt like he had been stabbed in the heart. It was all he could do not to break down.

  "What do you think they're going to do with us?" Liam asked.

  Nolan couldn’t even find the strength to respond.

  "The next person that opens their mouth is going to get their head blown off," a rifleman barked.

  The murmurs ceased, momentarily.

  The engines roared, vibrating through the ship. The turbulence in the upper atmosphere bounced the craft around, rattling the bulkheads. But soon the ride became smooth as glass as the transport entered space.

  Nolan had heard about the weightlessness of space, but some type of artificial gravity kept him, and the rest of the prisoners, affixed to the deck.

  It only took a few minutes to reach the dreadnought, and soon the transport was landing on the flight deck. The hatch opened and the ramp lowered, and the Soturi marched the prisoners onto the flight deck. They were greeted by a hard-ass master chief that resembled a bulldog in battle armor. He was short and stout with a gruff voice that came from a lifetime of screaming. "All right, listen up, maggots!” He barked. "You are all now property of Lord Valdovar and the Imperial Realm. If you cooperate and do as you're told, you may find a place as a subject of the Emperor. Cause trouble, and you will be dealt with appropriately. Get on my bad side, and you will wish you were dead. Keep your mouths shut, follow instructions, and don't draw attention to yourselves. That is the best way to survive." The master chief drew a deep breath. "Now, I can see in your eyes that a few of you have already decided to start trouble. I realize that you all are mourning the loss of loved ones, but I don't give a shit. There's nothing you can do to change the situation, and the sooner you come to accept that, the better off you'll be. Keep in mind, that I will treat you as you deserve to be treated. Compliance will be met with reward. Disobedience will be met with pain. Is this understood?"

  The dazed crowd of prisoners didn't respond.

  The master chief yelled, “Is that understood?"

  A few people muttered back.

  "When I give you a command, or ask you a question, you will respond accordingly and address me as Master Chief. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, Master Chief," some of the prisoners said.

  The master chief wasn't pleased with their lackluster tone. "I'm going to ask you one more time. If anyone doesn't respond, rations will be withheld for the entire group and I might personally administer a beating. Have I made myself clear?"

  "Yes, Master Chief," they all said.

  But the response wasn't loud enough.

  "Have I made myself clear?"

  "Yes, Master Chief!” the prisoners said with more enthusiasm.

  "That's pathetic. But I guess it's as good as I'm going to get right now." The master chief grumbled. "Petty Officer Griggs, escort these prisoners to the holding cell."

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Griggs said. He marched the prisoners off the flight deck, weaving them through a maze of passageways. The petty officer was accompanied by a squad of Soturi.

  Nolan couldn't help but be a little awestruck by the sight of the massive ship. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. It seemed like an endless maze of hallways and compartments. The crew was in perpetual motion. It was a floating city that never slept.

  The prisoners finally reached the holding cell. They were unshackled and shoved inside the cavernous space. It was like a dungeon—dark and dank and filled with prisoners that had been collected from all over the galaxy. The place reeked of body odor. Hundreds of prisoners were forced to live in close quarters with little amenities or hygiene.

  Nolan grimaced at his future. Was this how he was going to have to spend the rest of his life? Living in reprehensible conditions? It was only a matter of time before disease wiped out the majority of the prison population. In such close proximity, bacterial infections and stomach viruses would pass from person to person like wildfire.

  Nolan rubbed his wrists where the shackles had worn grooves in his skin. He scanned the compartment, looking for an empty place to call his own. But there wasn't much room. He found a small section next to a support pillar and took a seat. He leaned against the pillar and tried to process everything that had happened. Nolan was hardly there a minute before he noticed a large man towering over him. The guy didn't look happy. At 6’5” and 270 pounds, he wasn't a man to be trifled with.

  “You're in my space,” the giant said. His nostrils flared, and his eyes blazed into Nolan.

  Nolan looked up at him curiously.

  “Move, or I'll move you,” the ogre demanded.

  9

  "No problem," Nolan said as he began to stand up. "It's been a rough day. I'm not looking for any more trouble."

  The big ogre glared at him and said nothing. He looked like a bull ready to charge, snorting through his big nostrils.

  Nolan surveyed the cramped quarters looking for another space that he could call his own. He weaved through the mass of people and found a small section next to the bulkhead. This time he asked the man sitting nearby if the space was taken.

  The man shook his head.

  Nolan took a seat and leaned against the bulkhead. Soon, he felt a shadow cover him. Nolan looked up to see the big ogre towering above him again. "Is there something I can help you with?"

  "You're in my space."

  Nolan let out an exasperated sigh. He was tired and heartbroken and this kind of crap was the last thing he needed. "I thought that was your space over there," Nolan said, pointing.

  "I changed my mind. I like this space better."

  Nolan stood up, small in the shadow of this hulking behemoth. He pointed back to the previous space that he had been kicked out of. "So, are you saying that space is available now?"

  The ogre shook his head.

  "Okay. Maybe you should show me where I can call home. That way we don't have any more misunderstandings.”

  The ogre looked confused for a moment. "I don't think there's room in here for you."

  Nolan paused. "Okay. I can see that we got off on the wrong foot. If I did something to offend you, I apologize. I'm Nolan,” he said, extending his hand.

  The ogre’s glaring eyes glanced down to Nolan's hand for a moment. He seemed disgusted. His eyes flicked back to meet Nolan's. His name was Darvak, but he wasn’t about to say it.

  Without warning, Darvak cocked his fist back and swung for Nolan's head with all his might. His fist was like a cinder block careening through the air with the force of a freight train.

  Nolan's eyes widened at the sight. He ducked out of the way, a
nd the ogre’s fist whooshed overhead. It slammed into the bulkhead with such force that it cracked the ogre’s knuckles. The clank reverberated throughout the cavernous space. A hush fell over the crowd, and all eyes were on the two combatants.

  Darvak cringed with pain.

  Nolan took the opportunity to kick the big guy in the groin. The behemoth doubled over. Nolan jumped up, then dropped his elbow down on the back of the ogre's neck, sending the big beast crashing to the deck.

  Nolan spun around, took a few steps back, and assumed a defensive posture. He knew the big guy was going to get up, and when he did he was going to be very pissed off.

  Darvak stood up, shook out his hand from the pain, and rubbed his aching crotch. His eyes blazed at Nolan through his crinkled brow. He looked more ferocious than a vygar, and he was about to pounce.

  Nolan ran through multiple defensive scenarios in his mind, trying to figure out his next move. Darvak was big and slow. Nolan had speed on his side. He was going to have to keep moving and evading the big beast. Standing toe to toe with a guy like that could drastically reduce one's lifespan.

  Darvak had a thick pad of blubber on his abdomen. Body shots would bounce right off. He looked like he had a pretty good chin—his head was meaty, and his neck was thick. The height discrepancy was going to make it hard for Nolan to land a good shot. His best bet was to dance around, wear the big guy out, and try to take out his knees. It doesn't matter how big a guy is, a nice kick to the medial collateral ligament will put him down and make him walk with a limp for the rest of his life.

  The ogre lunged toward Nolan. His movement was explosive for a big guy. He was like an NFL lineman pursuing the quarterback.

  Nolan sidestepped. He almost evaded the behemoth, but the big guy managed to grab Nolan by the arm. He slammed him to the deck like a rag-doll. The impact knocked the breath from Nolan's lungs.

  The crowd had circled around to watch the action.

  Before Nolan knew it, the big guy was on top of him. All Nolan could focus on was the meaty fist that was cocked back, ready to pummel his face.