Hedronn was kneeling, rasping angry prayers to Valen, prayers that went unheeded. Beside him was the staff of the Grey Council, the one Sinoval carried in his position as Holy One, the one he allowed Hedronn to carry in his absence. The staff was covered in blood.

“Hedronn,” Delenn whispered, horrified. She had know him for many cycles. She had trusted in his wisdom and his clarity of thought. He had been stubborn, yes, but always wise. To see… this…

“Hedronn.” He heard her and turned, and Delenn started. In his eyes… madness… a pure, intense, psychopathic madness. He scooped up the staff and charged forward, holding it over his head, issuing a roar of anger and hatred that Delenn would not have thought possible.

Delenn remained transfixed and would doubtless have been killed had not Lennann acted, pulling her out of the way. Hedronn’s charge continued and he stumbled over Dulann’s body, crashing to the floor. He was weeping, harsh, angry, tragic tears.

“Valen… forgive me… Valen… forgive…”

“Alcohol,” said a quietly observant, half mocking voice. “Alcohol. Such a wonderful substance. Humans turn to it for comfort and as a rite of passage. Narns pride themselves on their alcoholic drinks, making them with a precision and love that not even decades of occupation could erase. The Centauri drink it almost as much as they breathe their air. The Minbari alone in the entire galaxy react to alcohol in this way. Homicidal paranoia. Murderous anger. It is refreshing to know that deep down, you are no better than the humans. Worse even.”

“Who?” Lennann asked. “You… you did this. You…”

The figure stepped forward and bowed deeply. “Warmaster Jha’dur of the Dilgar. Some call me Deathwalker.”

“Why?” Lennann asked. “Why have you…?”

“The name. They call me Deathwalker. Besides, I am merely fulfilling the prophecies. Valen said that the Council would be broken, did he not? And lo, it is broken. Four dead… sorry, five, if you include poor, dear Rathenn. Hedronn will doubtless kill himself when the alcohol I gave him wears off and he realises just what he has done. Sinoval… can wait, and Kalain will probably be more useful to me alive. Especially when word reaches him that the Grey Council was killed by a worker.”

“Minbari do not kill Minbari,” Lennann whispered, horrified.

“That is the saying, is it not? Unfortunately it appears that someone let a certain Centauri Ambassador know of events here, and word of this will reach Minbar soon. There is no Valen to help save you this time.”

Lennann let out a long, wordless scream and charged forward. Deathwalker smiled, and drew her fighting pike. Sinoval was better at the pike than Deathwalker was, but Sinoval was better than everyone. Lennann had no weapon. He did not stand a chance.

His body slumped to the floor, sightless eyes staring up into the light.

Delenn backed away slowly and paused beside Matokh’s body. He would have a pike. He always carried his weapon, despite rulings to the contrary. Sure enough, it was hidden under his robes.

Delenn had been trained well with the pike. Draal had been known to wield it from time to time, but it was Neroon, the only Minbari alive who could pose a match to Sinoval, who had taught her the art of wielding such a weapon. He had even given her his weapon, which had been given to him by Durhan – one of the fabled nine blades. That weapon was lost now. Sinoval probably had it. It was tainted anyway, having been wielded in murder by Susan Ivanova. Matokh’s might serve to avenge him.

Deathwalker smiled.

If only…

General William Hague had also had a high image of himself. A lofty, noble image. He served Earth and humanity. He had risen high. His record was impressive. His actions were noble.

He was never certain of where it began. Jealousy of Captain Sheridan, for doing what he could not? Perhaps. Hatred of the Minbari for destroying Earth, for killing his wife and family? Almost certainly. Fear of what the Minbari would do when they came to Proxima 3? Yes. God, yes.

He tried rationalising it to himself. What Ivanova had said had been correct. Lyta Alexander would die anyway without Shadow assistance. She would probably be executed for treason even if the Minbari didn’t destroy Proxima. What harm was there in letting Ivanova take her? What harm?

Hague could justify it to himself as many times as he liked, but the fact remained that he knew in his heart that what he had done was wrong. Very, very wrong. He had betrayed everything he stood for, everything he set himself up to be. He had come here, down to Ivanova’s quarters, not to stop what was happening, but simply to be here. Simply to… to what? Perform penance? To listen as Ivanova killed Lyta?

Instead he was staring at the one he had sent to her death. Slowly, he bowed his head, unable to think. He could see Lyta staring at him. She was still alive, then. Maybe… maybe what he had done hadn’t mattered then. Maybe…

“Where… where is Ambassador… Ivanova?” he asked, slowly.

“Inside,” Lyta replied. She was bruised, and limping, but she was still alive. That was good. That was… good.

“Go!” Hague snapped. “I… Go… Leave here. We’re damned. We’re all damned.”

He brushed past them and entered Ivanova’s quarters. He had a feeling that they would be leaving. He hoped… he just hoped that… that they would be… safe. That… they would…

He looked around slowly. Ivanova was curled up into a foetal position, whimpering and crying out and covered with blood. A man’s body lay just opposite her. It was Marcus Cole, Sheridan’s – and later Ivanova’s – bodyguard. And elsewhere there were… two… things…

Hague dropped to his knees. He wanted to cry, but there was no room for tears, no place for remorse, no time for anguish. There was only one thing to do. Only one thing he could do.

He took out his PPG and placed it inside his mouth.

What was one more body in the foundations of Golgotha?

And elsewhere there was death too. Death stalked the corridors of the Grey Council’s ship. Of the fabled Grey Council, only two lived. Each knew a little piece of what had happened. Sinoval knew of what Deathwalker was planning to do, but not how she was planning to do it. And Kalain had seen the results of what she had done, but not who had done it.

He had seen Hedronn, lying alone in the darkness, surrounded by bodies. He could see his people outside, dying at the hands of the enemy, needing an order to retreat that would never come. He could see the Grey Council reduced to nothing, and his sole thought was one word.

Starkiller.

Kalain had seen the Starkiller’s furious assault over Mars and he had been afraid. His fear had let two members of the Grey Council die before the guns and bombs of the Babylon. He had seen the Starkiller on Epsilon 3, where they had fought hand to hand. Kalain had nearly won – would have won if it had not been for the interference of that damned Narn. He had learned the truth about Sheridan Starkiller – that he was just a man. A man who bled and hurt and died. Kalain’s anger turned inwards, focussed on himself rather than the Starkiller. He made a silent promise to Sinoval, to Valen and to himself that he would kill the Starkiller.

But now he was too late. The Grey Council was broken and only one man could be responsible. The Starkiller. In his haste, in his anger, Kalain had missed every clue, and Deathwalker had let him, not knowing that if he succeeded, then her plans would be under threat as well. But she let him be. Anger was always a useful servant.

And, lo and behold, the Starkiller was not in his cell. Neither was the Zha’valen whore who had let him escape last time. Kalain forgot everything else that he was and became a simple force of nature, a being who existed only to kill the Starkiller.