The door was already open and he stepped inside, his eyes looking around at the shadowed room before him. It was not how he had imagined it, but the mark of reality hung over the chamber and he knew this was what he had sought.
He stepped forward and saw the altar at the far side of the room. A curiously un–Minbari design, but the markings on the black stone were clearly those of mourning. There was no body there of course, but there never had been. Parlonn's body had never been recovered from Z'ha'dum, where he had fallen in mortal combat with his friend and blade–brother Marrain.
Still, it was here, in this room, that an effigy of Parlonn had been placed, and Valen had spoken words about his former friend and bitter enemy. A quiet funeral ceremony had been held here, the last time Marrain had stood beside Valen as a friend and ally.
Kozorr limped to the altar itself and touched the black stone. He knew what it represented, and when he closed his eyes he could see Valen standing behind him, Marrain at his side. Valen's speech at Parlonn's funeral had been erased from all the histories, as had nearly happened to the records of the event itself. There were many in the religious caste who found Valen's eulogy to one who had betrayed him a betrayal in itself. They of course had missed the point entirely.
"All of us can find redemption, yes?" Kozorr whispered as he looked at the black altar. "You forgave one who had wronged you, and so you eased the pain of his betrayal."
He picked out his pike and extended it slowly. Parlonn's pike had been recovered and had lain here with the effigy. What had happened to it after that.... no one was entirely sure.
He blinked slowly, and for one moment he could see himself there, Valen standing before him, a crowd of mourners assembled, each one remembering not Parlonn, but others who had fallen in this war. He could see them, Derannimer, Nemain, Nukenn, Rashok....
And Marrain himself, furious eyes staring at each and every one there and judging them, and to each one his eyes said 'you are not worthy of his legacy'.
Valen started to speak, but as the first word left his mouth he turned his head, and he seemed to be looking directly at Kozorr.
Kozorr blinked again, and took a slow step backwards. The image of the past faded and all was dead and shadows again. He trembled at the.... the reality of what he had seen, and as he took another step back his weak leg betrayed him and he fell, body striking the ground hard and his pike rolling from his grasp.
There was a soft clatter as it hit the ground and rolled away. Three seconds later, it stopped. Someone bent down and picked it up.
Tears of frustration and pain in his eyes, Kozorr managed to make it to his knees. He looked up, and his eyes widened.
Kats held his pike out towards him.
Marrago had acquired many skills throughout his long years as a soldier, and one of these was how to read a battle. It was a skill all good generals sought to cultivate, but it was one that was impossible to learn, in his estimation. It was a matter of instinct.
As he watched the formations of the Narn defences around Tolonius 7, and his own attacking positions, he knew how it would go. Battles were by their very nature chaotic affairs, but there were patterns that could be seen if you only cared to look hard enough.
Marrago was thinking about his soldiers. He was thinking about their wives and families and children. He was thinking about all the dead that would follow this battle if matters continued as they were now.
And he turned his gaze to the drawer wherein lay the Shadow orb. He remembered the Drakh's words. "When you need them.... touch this and think the words. They will come."
He had seen the military might of the Shadows. He had seen their strength and power first–hand. They were a match for the Narns, for whatever defences they hoped to erect.
But the cost of their bargain. Another 'favour' owed to the Drakh's dark masters. The first had not yet been paid. He did not like to think what payment might be required this time.
He saw one of his warships destroyed, blazing in flames under an onslaught of Narn ships.
These were his people. This was his army. Tolonius 7 was a world he had been charged to protect. There were almost a billion Centauri lives on that world, a world ruled by their most hated enemy.
Was the cost of a favour from the Shadows really so high?
He shook the thought from his head and sat forward, barking orders to his captains. A gap had opened in their lines, a gap the Narns were seeking to exploit. It had to be closed. Carn heard the orders and brought his Valerius around to block it. Marrago smiled. Carn was a fine soldier. Londo should be proud of him.
The Valerius came under heavy fire. Marrago could see the Narn were focussing their efforts on that weak spot in the lines. It was an old technique, first used by one of his ancestors at the invasion of the Beta system. In other circumstances, Marrago might have been flattered at its adoption by the Narns.
The Valerius was fighting back, supported by two other capital ships. For a moment they seemed to be holding the line.
Then another Narn cruiser appeared, striking out at the Valerius' forward weapon systems. It staggered back, and blows rained down upon it from all sides. The other ships had seen the danger and were moving forward to help protect the flagship, but the Narns were capitalising on its weakness.
Carn was a good soldier. He was the nephew of Marrago's oldest friend. He read Minbari poetry, liked to paint landscapes and was madly infatuated with a young noblewoman of the Court.
Marrago leapt to his feet and ran to the drawer. Pulling it open he picked up the Shadow orb. It seemed to become warmer in his hands, as if it had been expecting him.
"I need you," he whispered. "Come!"
The very instant he said those words, space shimmered and the Shadows were there.
After that, the battle was a foregone conclusion.
They were here, coming near. Zarwin and....
No, not Zarwin. Zarwin was dead, wasn't he? He must be.
"Death," Marrain whispered, standing in the shrine to the Z'ondar. He remembered the last time he had been here, just after Zarwin had been banished.
"Death," he said again.
That was all. That was the meaning of life, the point, the focus. Ever and only death.
And only he understood. No, that was not true. Sinoval understood. He trusted him. Trust.... that was a rare feeling. Foolishness, of course, but welcoming as well.
There was the sound of footsteps outside. Marrain was alone, waiting for the visitors. Sinoval had wanted to leave some of his guards here, but Marrain had refused. A handful of guards would not help if all the Tak'cha chose to attack, and more than that could not be spared from protecting Sinoval's pretty worker.
Besides, guards might get in the way of the glorious death that was coming.
Or was it? Where was glory in death without a glorious life behind it? Sinoval had said something along those lines, but for a moment Marrain was a thousand years in the past, in the middle of a debate between Parlonn and Valen.
"There is no glory save to die in the name of your lord!" Parlonn had cried.
"Ah, but dying is easy, Parlonn. Living in the name of your lord is so much harder. And so much more worthwhile."
Valen had been a fool, or had he? A thousand years on and he was still remembered, still revered, still worshipped. While what of Parlonn, what of Marrain? Traitors both. Betrayers and oath–breakers.
"Here," said a voice. "Here is our shrine."
Marrain straightened and was ready as the first Tak'cha guards entered the shrine. Behind them came a figure who was obviously their leader. He carried a long staff, crafted in homage - or was it mockery? - of Valen's fabled Grey Staff.