Righteous Anger (Okal Rel Saga #2)

Prologue: The End of the Nesak War

164 Americ Calendar

Ships cluttered space surrounding the barren moon-base of Cold Rock in Red Reach. Enough ships to tear reality.

Battlewheels hummed in place, drives engaging just enough for skim-telemetry to reveal the firefly tracts of rel-ships on their nervecloth displays. All around them, in ever-changing arcs, buzzed hoards of small, spherical rel-fighters manned by highborn pilots — the living weapons of the medium. Emotions soaked the medium in which they traveled: grief and anger, and a pale hope held out against the horror of a final, soul-numbing battle, if their leaders down on Cold Rock could not find a way to end the war that was destroying them all.

Vrellish clans had met on Cold Rock for a thousand years, coming from all across Red Reach to settle their differences by the sword, because swords were safer than space wars and habitat was far more precious than any cause that might inspire battle. This was the great truth of Okal Rel. But Sword Law required shared courts of honor. And the Vrellish shared no liege with their enemies.

Di Mon, of the Green Vrellish, did not know what the defeated Nesaks planned. Maybe a duel to save face, or a bargain to negotiate a safe withdrawal. Perhaps even some treachery with hidden weapons, meant to kill the Vrellish leaders.

He had talked his side into this meeting on the Cold Rock challenge floor in the hope that the Nesak survivors were as sick of grief and mad destruction as he was.

The Nesaks had sent three representatives to negotiate. Behind them were witnesses drawn from their battlewheels, all of them wearing their swords with pride, as if they had never participated in space-side massacres.

The inhabitants of Cold Rock filled the rest of the seats around the challenge floor, seated on thick rugs with children on their shoulders or in their laps. Both sexes managed the children and both dressed the same, right down to the swords worn at their sides.

Di Mon had been chosen to speak for the Vrellish cause. Beside him, young Vackal Vrel fingered his sword. Hangst Nersal of the Black Vrellish stood large and menacing, backed up in space by the best standing fleet in all Sevildom.

The warrior, priest and princess facing them were members of the Nesak ruling family — or so Di Mon had been told. He understood very little of Nesak political structure.

The princess had wide, green eyes, set in an oval face framed by long, dark hair. She wore a floor-length gown beneath a bulky cloak of plain velvet. Neither she nor the priest wore a sword. That meant only one of the Nesaks was equipped to parley, under Sword Law.

"I am Prince Kene," said the Nesak warrior, as he drew his sword. "I speak for my people. Who speaks for the Vrellish?"

"I do." Di Mon cleared his own sword with equally formal intentions. "I am Di Mon, liege of Monitum."

Kene frowned at Monitum's sextant crest embroidered on the breast of Di Mon's silk shirt. "I would rather not negotiate with the Monatese," he declared. "Hangst Nersal is our kinsman, descended from Prince Nersal Nesak. Let him speak for the Vrellish."

Hangst's jaw muscles clenched. Di Mon considered graciously conceding, but he was not feeling diplomatic at all. His heart hurt for the pilots he had lost. His blood boiled as hotly as Vackal's, with a lust for vengeance that he had to fight to control. Hot sweat trickled between his shoulder blades, heated by his skin despite the cool air in the cavernous chamber. They were all over-flown. Vackal was agitated, Hangst was grim, and Di Mon was feverish with anger at the waste and stupidity of it all.

The silence grew so brittle that it had to break, soon, or draw blood.

Then Hangst Nersal stepped forward. "Well met, in honor, Prince Kene," he told the Nesak prince. "Ack rel."