Angar plummeted through the roiling clouds of Tribute.

How high he had launched from the cargo shuttle didn't matter, as the sulfur-choked skies shrouded his fall, though he wished he could be seen.

He could see through the gloom just fine, especially when lightning's crackle split the haze, illuminating the filthy throng of four or five hundred souls gathered before the gaping mouths of the city of Tormina's caves.

It still jarred him to see women and children outside of holds, but there was hardly any burning fog around the holds.

Mothers cradling babes stood among warriors clad in patchwork hides with unstrung bows and spears, while children claimed higher ground, standing upon rocky ledges and lips so they'd be able to see the meeting.

No warband stood formed, ready to challenge him. The insult burned hot, implying he was no threat.

He breached the cloud layer at about eighty meters, his armored form like a furious comet.

His visor scanned the terrain, locking onto a low outcrop jutting from the sodden earth, a d'klar on opposite flanks of it, crouching low, waiting to pounce on passersby.

The outcrop was clear of the crowd but visible to all, a good stage for his arrival, as he didn't want to ruin his majestic entry by accidentally killing anyone.

With a thought, he activated Ground Current.

A bolt of lightning tore down, striking the d'klar he appeared beside. Its hide split, smoke coiling up from the charred ruin of its spine as it collapsed, lifeless.

As if trying to make the entrance extra impressive, the second beast lunged in a blur of claws and teeth.

Angar's gauntleted hand seized its maw mid-pounce, wrenching it around, whipping the creature through the air.

Its spine shattered against his armored knee with a meaty crunch, the sound echoing across the now silent valley.

He locked his maul to his back, hoisted the lightning-struck d'klar's corpse by its jaw with his free hand, and leapt to the ground, his tripod-feet gouging furrows into the moist earth as he advanced.

A hundred meters from the crowd, he halted. His voice thundered out, "I am Angar, son of Baraga, the last king of Mecia, and Laka, the Weirding Witch, descendant of Elaxada the Mighty, Mahtma the Conqueror, and the great Kondunean Emperor Xon Gheir the First. I am a Knight of our glorious Empire of the Holy Trinity, and ruler of this world."

He threw the d'klar corpses down. "A gift for the people of Tormina. Why does no warband face me? Where is Anka?"

A warrior's voice cut through the murmur of the crowd. "If you rule, why do you cling to the name Ankar, scorning the proper Anka? Do you forsake tradition?"

Angar's helm tilted toward the voice. "In our Holy Empire, names are eternal. To change them requires bureaucracy only a madman would endure."

More people yelled questions, many asking what a bureaucracy was, but Angar noticed the crowd parting, soon revealing a meager warband of eight grizzled warriors, all wearing mixed rakar and d'klar hide-and-scale armor of veterans, none in the distinguished set of a king.

The insult deepened to a grave one. Tormina, a city that could easily field three thousand, or plenty more with notice, sent this paltry host?

The ninth among them was young. He alone stepped forward with a spear and hammer, his stride bold.

Angar stood firm, refusing the custom of meeting halfway for parlay. Their failure to muster a proper warband voided such courtesies.

The young warrior stopped a mere meter away. "Hail, cousin," the man said, his tone humble, speaking softly for a parley. "I am Hadirkar, son of Anka, once called Sikid, who slew Kondune's puppet king and liberated Tormina. My blood sings with the legacy of Elaxada the Terrible, Mahdma the Conqueror, and Vedka, the last true king of Tormina."

Angar's mind parsed clues from the statement of lineage. Three ancestors named, as was tradition, but reserved for the most glorious only, so Vedka's inclusion was strange. At least no false epithets adorned the name, as the 'the Defeated' would be the only fitting one.

"Hail, cousin," Angar replied, beginning to see what was happening, and why the warband was so small. "Your father and his warriors seek to die well today, but the Lord Almighty demands decades more of service and suffering before their souls ascend to Heaven."

Hadirkar's jaw tightened. "He'll force you to. My father and those standing with him aren't adapting well. They want a glorious death they can understand, assuring assent to Heaven, without being condemned by Theosis' words of Divinity. You're their only chance."

The man looked back over his shoulder, at his people. "Those of Tormina yearn to join you, to serve this new God-Lord, who is the same as the Great Lord, and Divine Theosis, who speaks to us and grants power, breaking the curse that plagued our women.

"My father freed these lands from Kondune, and they honor him, but they tire of not moving forward. They crave to join this Holy War, to fight as men again, cleansed of defeat's taint."

Angar nodded. "Does the System recognize this as your father's fief, or does the puppet king have heirs?"

"Marus, the puppet's son, is imprisoned," Hadirkar said. "We count him as fully Torminian. He's well-liked. When I go back, my father will order me to retrieve him."

Angar nodded again. That allowed Hadirkar to save face by not fighting beside his father. "Marus is to rule? Not you?"

Hadirkar's brow creased in confusion. "No. Neither. You are to rule us, are you not?"

"Every fief I control directly requires me to appoint a steward," Angar said. "I'd prefer one of your own to rule, swearing me allegiance. Preferably, your father, as I'd rather not kill him."

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Hadirkar's grimace deepened. "As I said, cousin – he'll force you. When will our warriors join the Holy War off-world? We hunger for battle and to gain power."

"I will bring the Holy War here, to Tribute," Angar declared.

"Tribute?" Hadirkar blinked. "I thought off-worlders named it Sulfuron 9?"

"I changed it," answered Angar. "Once I secure this fief, I'll reveal my plans in detail, as its people are key to them."

Hadirkar nodded. "Oh, before I go," he said, "I should tell you Chamas Firestarter has lost her mind, going around preaching there is no God-Lord, no Divine, and…"

"I know," Angar interrupted. "She was seized in Zandor. I need Heretics too. They're also key to my goals. We should get going, cousin. I seek to end this swiftly, then I'll answer all questions."

Hadirkar clasped Angar's gauntlet, then returned to the warband. He spoke briefly with Anka, Angar easily able to hear their words.

Anka put his hand around the back of his son's neck and brought their foreheads together.

"Die well, Father," Hadirkar said. "I'll see you in Heaven."

"Live well, Son," Anka replied. "There's no rush to join me."

Louder, for everyone to hear, Anka ordered his son, "Retrieve Marus, the puppet's son, and bring him here."

As Hadirkar vanished into the crowd, Anka straightened, his voice booming. "I am Anka, son of Erlik, blood of Elaxada the Terrible, Mahdma the Conqueror, and Vedka, my own uncle, the last true king of Tormina! Begone, Mecian! You're not welcome."

Angar triggered his armor's release seals, stepping from its embrace. He removed his helm, placing it within the suit's cavity, and faced the warband unencumbered, his cybernetic limbs glinting as the skysparks flashed and lightning illuminated the sky.

"I think I'll stay," yelled Angar.

Anka's laughter was a bitter snarl. "As expected from the nephew of a Kondunean-loving traitor, and the son of an oath…"

"Disrespecting my father's a bad idea," Angar interrupted, heat growing in his chest. "I'd rather not kill any of you, as I need all true warriors of Tormina. There're insults I won't tolerate. You'll die, but I promise, you won't die well."

Anka's eyes burned with defiance. "Afraid of the truth? Was Mecia not allied with Tormina? Did your father march when Kondune's legions invaded? He broke…"

Angar unleashed a small taste of Electrocute, powerful psionic currents surging through Anka's body, causing him to spasm as his muscles contracted. It wasn't enough to kill, just enough to prove Angar could make his death poor and inglorious.

The old warrior staggered, gasping, fright filling his eyes. Being largely ignorant of Trinitarian dogma, Anka would still believe such a death would bar him from Heaven.

"Tormina fell by its own incompetence," Angar roared. "They let two Kondunean legions sneak up and infiltrate their caves at night, conquering your city while your warriors slept peacefully. The signal fires were never lit."

An angry murmur rippled through the crowd upon hearing truths they disliked. The words should've caused every warrior in the city to attack, but six or so years of subjugation had stolen their spine.

Angar added, "My father knew Mecia would fall, but would do so facing the enemy on the field, as men do. He devised a strategy to destroy the three legions they sent to conquer us, a way to grant us victory even in defeat. He was twice the man and ten times the warrior of any Torminian."

Desperation glinted in Anka's eyes as he thought of ways to force Angar to kill him well, in glorious battle, not by crossing a line that granted only a poor death. "Your mother," he spat, "a witch who shirked her duty to wander and counsel all holds. She broke her oath."

Angar was glad Anka was wise enough not to add 'too' to that. "You're right, she didn't wander, and she should've. She decided to keep to the only oath she swore not forced upon her – her marriage vow to my father. She also died in sin, a Heretic, and I bear that shame. My blood is tainted, but I've never broken an oath, nor will I ever."

"Prove it, then!" Anka roared, his voice filled with a desperate challenge. "Defeat us in battle. Show us your might, and only then will Tormina yield to you, Mecian!"

Angar sighed, resigned. He'd get this done and over, securing Tormina by granting their wish. He retrieved his maul from his armor. Kneeling, he traced the sign of the trey and prayed. A tithe of battle and blood for you, Lord.

To his surprise, the tiny warband mirrored him. He rose, waiting as the warriors rushed forward, beginning the attack, as he didn't need more accusations of slaughtering innocents. He then met their charge with equal fervor.

Obsidian daggers flew, their razor edges glinting in the storm's intermittent flashes, only to shatter harmlessly against Angar's leonine forearm.

The warband's charge was a mess of war-cries and the clatter of hide-bound armor, their axes and hammers raised in defiance of a world they no longer understood.

Angar feigned struggle, his movements deliberately sluggish, allowing their crude weapons to graze him.

Sparks danced when stone met steel in parries, each near-miss a calculated gift to their honor, ensuring their deaths would be sung as glorious.

He wove through their ranks, his tripod-toes churning the sodden earth into a mire of mud and blood.

An older vetran, his beard braided with rakar fangs, activated an Ability, and swung a double-headed axe with surprising vigor, its edge whistling perilously close.

Angar twisted aside, the axe's momentum carrying the warrior forward, exposing his flank. A kick would kill, so Angar shouldered into him, sending the man tumbling.

Another fighter, his face scarred from battles long past, lunged with a hammer. Angar parried with his forearm, and countered with a gentle backhand that sent the man sprawling into the mud.

The next warrior, a wiry and quick fellow, darted in, wielding a spear tipped with blackened obsidian. He thrust low with a clever strike. Angar caught the spear mid-thrust, splintering the haft. The vetran's eyes widened as Angar yanked him forward, hurling the man into his brethren, toppling two others in a tangle of limbs.

The crowd's murmurs grew, awed at witnessing this battle. Only a handful of the warband possessed Abilities of note. One warrior summoned a gust of wind, aiming to unbalance his foe.

Angar planted his feet, digging his toes into the earth, but probably didn't have to. The wind broke against him like a wave against a cliff, scattering pebbles and dust.

Another vetran's eyes glowed strangely, his hands crackling with some power. Angar sidestepped the clumsy discharge, feeling the static prickle his skin, and gently drove his fist into the man's chest, sending him gasping to his knees.

He danced through their ranks, each dodge and parry a performance for the crowd, and they gasped, children on the ledges pointing, their voices rising in excitement.

An axe grazed his shoulder, cleaving a cut across the faux armor, but not the skin beneath. A hammer slammed into his thigh, its force absorbed by his enhanced frame, hardly felt. More weapons darted in, and Angar allowed them to hit or come close, letting their glory grow.

The warband massed, trying to crowd their opponent, their shouts blending with the sky's thunder.

Anka, his hammer raised high, saw an opening. His eyes burned with a fire, battling in the old way. His last battle, desperate for a death that would secure his place in Heaven.

Angar sidestepped Anka's swing, but just barely, the hammer passing close, cratering the earth where he'd stood, and delivered a precise knee to Anka's leg. The old warrior stumbled, but he rose again, defiance unbroken, swinging again, though futilely, his enemy already meters away.

When the farce risked becoming an obvious mockery, he invoked Lightning Strike, then infused an Energy Point into his hammer.

With a sweeping blow, he obliterated the closest warrior, sending viscera spraying all over as a bolt tore down, incinerating the man's corpse.

Angar dove away, then spun into Tempest, his maul a whirlwind of death. He waited a moment, until lightning crackled out of the head of his hammer.

He then spun into his enemies, reaping the warband with steel and arcing lightning, their charred remains collapsing in a tableau of slaughter, giving the crowd an impressive show.

When it was over, he stood amidst the carnage. A young woman, no older than fifteen, emerged from the crowd, a newborn cradled against her chest.

If Angar had never left the world now named Tribute, never seen imperial women, this girl would be the most beautiful he'd ever laid eyes upon, by far.

Her eyes met his own for a split second before she looked down, but they were cold, piercing voids, like pits to Hell itself, carving through his soul.

She knelt beside Anka's smoldering corpse. "Firkar," she whispered to her child. "Your father died well, facing a mighty warrior. He sits beside the Lord Almighty now, as you will one day."

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