Loren L. Coleman - Tales of the Jihad - Shadows of Faith 2

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BATTLECORPS

SHADOWS

OF FAITH

VOLUME 2

by Loren L. Coleman

TALES OF THE JIHAD

BATTLECORPS

Shadows of Faith - Volume 2 • Page 2

-2-

Old Connaught, Arc-Royal

Lyran Alliance

31 October 3067

Victor Davion waited in the company of three other costumed

men—a motley quartet gathered in the private office of the Grand

Duke of Arc-Royal. He adjusted the elaborate mask covering most

of his face. Tightened the silk stays. Raising his heavy, lead-crystal

goblet, he sampled the Upano frostwine which had been poured

for him—for them all—tasting with slow, patient sips. The sweet

nectar hardly wet his lips. A hint of sugary flavor; the barest scent

of grape.

He stared down at his feet, at the upturned toes of his red, silk

slippers.

Anastasius Focht moved up on one side. Patted him on the

shoulder. “You make a poor jester, Victor.”

“Truly?” Victor raised his head and his glass. Toasted Focht, who

wore the golden tunic and tall, feathered hat of El Capitan. Focht’s

mask had been shaped in an exaggerated wink, hiding the retired

warrior’s eyepatch. “And here I was just thinking that naming me

your successor had to be the biggest joke of all.”

That pulled a hearty laugh out of Phelan, the Wolf-in-Exile Khan

standing inside the deep bay of the office’s large, circular window.

And a dry, somber smile from Morgan Kell who looked up from his

simple, square-topped desk. An array of physical documents re-

quiring Morgan’s review and counter-signature covered the desk’s

polished surface. His own mask, studded with colored glass cut to

resemble brilliant gemstones, rested on one corner, tying ribbons

dangling down over the edge.

BATTLECORPS

Shadows of Faith - Volume 2 • Page 3

Morgan scrawled his signature without looking. Preferring not to

wear his artificial arm, he held the document in place with a heavy

paperweight—a large globe of polished amber inside which an

ancient blossom of flowering heather had been forever trapped.

“I feel sorry for anyone who ever tries to make you into a punch-

line, Victor.” Morgan shuffled the document side, onto a growing

stack. Reached up to stroke his thick, snow-white goatee. “In fact,

when you publicly renounced all ties to the Lyran or Federation

thrones, I think you more than validated Anastasius’s trust.”

“Or you could say I simply made up for abandoning ComStar to

begin with in order to bring down Katherine.”

That five year civil war, only recently ended, had strained both

the Federated Suns and Lyran Alliance to their breaking points.

And it had demanded a terrible personal cost from Victor as well.

So many friends, and comrades-in-arms, dead. And Omi Kurita,

killed by an assassin’s hand, lost to him forever. The woman he

had thought of as his soulmate, no matter the family politics which

kept them from publicly declaring their relationship. His confidant

and friend and lover.

And mother to his first child.

A child he had never met—never known about until two months

ago—hidden away inside the Draconis Combine. Victor did not

even known if it was a son or daughter. Did not know a name.

Just how was he supposed to feel about that?

“Don’t,” Phelan said, shaking his head.

Even the Wolf Khan had gotten into the spirit of the evening,

wearing white trousers and jacket, tailored to his well-muscled

frame, with green stripes spreading across his chest and down

the outside seams of his pants and sleeves. A curious cap with a

rolled brim. And a long, wicked knife held scabbardless in a leath-

er belt. His mask covered his face from brow to upper lip, and had

a feral grin molded into it. The laughing snarl of Brighella, another

of the Commedia dell’arte characters.

Brighella and El Capitan. Morgan in the rich robes of one of the

Vecci. And Victor in his motley finery of red and blue patchwork.

Arrleccino. The Harlequin.

“Don’t?” Victor asked his cousin.

BATTLECORPS

Shadows of Faith - Volume 2 • Page 4

“You have this tendency to obsess about things you cannot fix,

Victor. Theodore found a way to inform you of the birth, however

long it took him. Trust that he’ll reveal more when he can, without

risking Omi’s reputation or your child’s safety.”

He shrugged. Shoulders rising and falling once, hard.

“A Clan Khan counseling patience.” He looked the question to

Focht, ComStar’s former Precentor Martial and now a semi-retired

statesman. “And a Wolf Khan at that. Isn’t that a little like—”

“A Davion prince setting aside his throne?”

The new voice, husky and warm, interrupted from the office’s

open set of double doors. Isis Marik swept into the large, Spartan

room, flared skirts brushing the frame to either side. Her “folly”

dress and bodice were patched together from red and blue piec-

es similar to Victor’s motley finery but of slightly paler shades. A

frilled neckline and a simple apron. Chestnut hair piled up in a

tangle of curls against the back of her head with a mob cap set

loosely atop.

Hers was also the most simple of masks. Fixed directly to her

face, with its pale red slashing in a thin stripe across her eyes.

Sequins fixed at the right corner glistened like permanent tears.

“Uh oh.” Phelan kicked himself away from the window’s well.

“Our shrill Columbina has arrived.”

Ignoring Phelan’s exaggerated stage whisper, for the moment,

Isis glided up to Victor. “I asked you to check on Phelan’s progress,

not get trapped up here with him.”

Victor brought himself to stiff attention, as if ready to be inspect-

ed by an academy drill sergeant. Held his goblet carefully at his

side. Kept a thin smile off his face only by force of willpower.

“And you,” Isis said, turning on Phelan just as the Wolf Khan

relaxed once more against the window’s deep framework. Her

scolding glare was almost comical in and of itself. “You promised

to deliver your father. You also have Ranna waiting for her first

dance. She and Tiaret are conspiring against you down in the ball-

room.”

“A tragic misuse of their more than capable skills,” Phelan said,

delivering each word as if part of a brief soliloquy. “I shall charm

them, appease them, render unto Ranna all that is hers to claim.”

He smirked. “Besides, it’s all the fault of El Capitan.”

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BATTLECORPSSHADOWSOFFAITHVOLUME2byLorenL.ColemanTALESOFTHEJIHADBATTLECORPSShadowsofFaith-Volume2•Page2-2-OldConnaught,Arc-RoyalLyranAlliance31October3067VictorDavionwaitedinthecompanyofthreeothercostumedmen—amotleyquartetgatheredintheprivateofficeoftheGrandDukeofArc-Royal.Headjustedtheelaboratemaskc...

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