Then there was another, one who had earned her notoriety, not through deeds of courage or wisdom or skill, but through deeds of murder and of evil. Warmaster Jha’dur of the Dilgar, whose bloody swathe across the Non-Aligned Worlds had left billions dead, countless mutilated, wounded or dying, and her with the name Deathwalker. She was assumed to be dead, killed by the once powerful Earth Alliance when it had liberated the Non-Aligned Worlds, or killed when the Dilgar’s sun went supernova, or died of old age in some forgotten hideaway.

Assumptions are dangerous.

A long-ago deal with various elements within the Minbari Wind Swords clan had resulted in her being given sanctuary with them, in exchange for the results of her brilliance and research into biogenetics, weaponry and so forth. Some such weapons had been employed to terrifying effect in the early stages of the war against the Earthers.

But time passed, and many of those who made the deal with Deathwalker died, to war, to age, to Starkiller. All of those who knew about her died, while she lived on, perfecting her immortality serum, until it came that only one knew of her existence.

Sinoval had inherited her legacy when he had inherited the leadership of the Wind Swords clan after his predecessor had died on the Dralaphi. He had not been happy. He saw Deathwalker as a foul thing, a malignant blight in the very heart of Minbar, but he was trapped by his obligations, and he was forced to allow her to maintain her research, and commit her atrocities. He was never sure of the details, but he would not have been surprised to learn that she had been involved in the mysterious and sudden outbreak of the disease Drafa which had wiped out the Markab.

Sinoval had thought that he was rid of Deathwalker forever. After his assumption of the title of Holy One, when he finally had the power to resist her, he had cast her out from Minbar. His sense of obligation forbade him from killing her, much as he would have liked to, but he had been confident that his position kept him safe from her.

He had been wrong.

Deathwalker was still very much alive, and she had her allies, individuals who disagreed profoundly with what Sinoval was attempting to do with Minbar, individuals who were willing to damn themselves for the sake of power.

Deathwalker had been expecting this to happen for a long while, and she was not unprepared.

Far from it.

Lyta Alexander would never forget the sight of Marcus’ slumped body as long as she lived.

Neither would Susan Ivanova.

Both of their lives had become intrinsically aligned with that of the tall, dark-haired last survivor of his colony. Lyta as companion, friend, would-be lover. Susan as enemy, lover and ultimately, murderer.

Susan was still, staring down at the body on the floor at her feet. She had been affected somehow by the deaths of her Shadow guardians. She was motionless. Her hand opened and her steel pike – still stained with Marcus’ blood – dropped to the floor. It was as if she were paralysed.

Lyta was not.

Opening her mind, listening to the voice of the Vorlon inside her, the same voice that had given her the strength to override the sleepers and lash out mentally at Ivanova, Lyta did so again. She was not thinking. She was not caring. She was just doing.

Susan screamed as Lyta tore into her mind, shredding thoughts and memories and feeling, ripping apart everything that made Susan Ivanova what she was. After a while, Susan stopped screaming. Lyta didn’t stop her assault, until she realised that she was on her knees, the effort driving her almost to collapse. Ivanova had stopped screaming, she was simply staring up at the ceiling, shaking uncontrollably, uttering tiny whimpers.

Lyta drew in one deep, gasping breath, and crawled forward. She could smell Marcus’ blood, she could smell the ichor of the dead Shadows. She could smell death.

Perhaps he’s still alive, she dared herself to think, now that she had started to think again. Perhaps I can touch him… touch his mind one last time… Perhaps…

But no, there was no hope. Marcus was dead. His chest had been torn open and his heart and lungs reduced to pulp by the force of Ivanova’s blow. Lyta touched his forehead gently. His eyes were open. Even in death, they looked haunted and scarred. Not even at the end had he found the happiness he had so yearned for.

She gently closed his eyes, not wanting to look at them any longer. She said his name softly, and then again. She could not… it was… it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair! Why did he have to die? Why…?

The Vorlon didn’t scream a warning at her this time.

Ivanova grabbed Lyta’s leg and wrenched her backwards. Lyta fell back and rolled over, but Ivanova was on top of her, hands closed around her throat. “What… did you do… to… me?” Ivanova cried out. “What… did you…?”

Lyta couldn’t believe this. She had… she had destroyed Ivanova’s mind. She had to have! This was… this was impossible. What had the Shadows done to her so that she could survive that?

Or maybe she hadn’t totally survived. Lyta was staring directly up into Ivanova’s eyes, and she could see a raging fury there, a dark, intense, savage madness. Ivanova tightened her grip and Lyta gasped.

Help me! she cried out inside her mind. She was not strong enough to override the sleepers. Not without his help. Help me!

But her only help was one word. Wrong.

Ivanova picked Lyta up by her throat and then smashed her head against the floor. Lyta’s whole body shook. Help me!

Wrong. Pride. Anger. Abuse of your power. Wrong.

Help… me…

Lyta gasped again. This was impossible… Ivanova’s savagery… her sheer strength… What had the Shadows done to her?

Lyta’s head was thrust against the floor again. She felt a warmth running through her hair. She was bleeding.

Help…

…me…

Tryfan looked up and saw the wall of Darkness moving towards his White Star – the Valen. The rest of the Minbari fleet was pulling back, slowly giving ground to the Enemy. He had been expecting a difficult fight – unlike his fellow Minbari he underestimated no one – and things were in accord with his gloomiest predictions. The Enemy had taken some losses. The Minbari had just taken more.

The White Star had no flyers, but the capital ships did, and they were out there now, forming a screen between the fleet and the advancing Shadows. Tryfan could see them dying before his eyes.

“In Valen’s Name,” he whispered. He was tired of seeing his fellows fall and die. He was tired of seeing brave Minbari sacrifice themselves. He did not try to analyse Sinoval’s reasoning in ordering the gradual retreat, but he did know he had to do something.

Victory is never impossible.

At his order, the Valen soared forwards, into the heart of Darkness.

President Clark knew a great deal about darkness. He had seen it on Earth, before the war, he had seen it in the way he saw humanity’s future. A long time ago, when he was just a Senator, he had presented a speech before the Senate about his vision of humanity’s future. Ground up, enslaved, subjected before the will of alien masters, lost beneath a tide of aliens and nonhumans and foreign customs.

The War had proved him right, and its aftermath had also. Humanity was reduced to little better than slaves, meekly accepting a life of servitude on Narn-held worlds simply because it was preferable to being blasted into atoms by the Minbari.

For ten years he had been slowly rising in power, watching and listening to the completion of his terrible vision. It would not happen. Morgan Clark had dedicated his life to preventing it happening.