"Don't you think what my father is doing is right?" Kress turned from the window to look at her husband, busy at his workbench. The sun's amber light behind her silhouetted her face from his view.

"Of course I think it's right. I just don't know if it's wise." He placed his tools on the bench and wiped his damp hands on a tattered rag.

"But Marc, if the children of Belgar can be brought here to learn, to have a decent chance at growing up with knowledge and ideas that can make a difference in their lives, isn't it a wise and worthy thing to do?" she stepped away from the window, bringing her face into view.

Marc smiled warmly, admiring the concerned frown that created the tiny wrinkles in her brow, which he adored.

"Yes it's a worthy thing, it's just that any reports we've had from Belgar all say the same. It's still ruled by warlords who are constantly fighting. In the last twenty years they haven't developed any kind of economic or agricultural advance," he tossed the rag on the bench, rising and moving to take his wife in his arms, "and as far as we know, they still hate the people of Azwan." They stood silently, swaying slightly in their embrace; the only sounds were the street vendors, calling to one another as they closed their shops for the day's end.

Marc and Kress shared a small, three-room cottage near the river on the outskirts of town. After marrying into the Gothag household, permission was given allowing them to live on the town side of the river in the commercial area, where Marc continued with his woodcarving at his old stall. No one complained about the popular young couple's grant, particularly after the almost calamitous incident three years ago at the festival. Marc's heroics earned him a deep respect from the Gothags as well as the townspeople and he was asked to become more and more involved with the politics of the city.

Tugby, now in his late sixties and comfortably ensconced in a similar cottage which he shared with Mare Dwellen, Marc's grandmother, still acted as household counsel but left the more serious decisions to the younger man. Kress continued to volunteer her services to her mother in the running of the cultural centre and the educational program. Her mother Marra was the driving force in these centres and her accomplishments were lauded by the entire population.

After the failed coupe by Din-Ryka and his subsequent punishment, Kress began giving a lot of thought to the people of Belgar. She couldn't help but wonder what was happening to the children of that planet and whether something might be done to improve their futures. As it was, they were just growing up to be as cruel and unlawful as their elders, perpetuating the animosity between the two planets.

She had broached the subject often with Marc and her father, pressing for some kind of plan that would help to solve what could only be a wasted existence for those unfortunate people. Eventually, Gothag warmed to the idea and formulated a plan that would involve sending an emissary to Belgar with the offer of bringing a group of selected children to Azwan, to be educated and exposed to the advantages of an enlightened society.

Prevailed upon by Kress at every opportunity, Marc finally agreed to lend his support, although reluctantly, and preparations were made to implement the plan. An unmanned message sled was sent with a clear and open description of their offer, asking that they give it serious consideration and to respect the gesture, with a positive reply. Two weeks had passed without response.

*****

"I don't care what they're offering," screamed Terron DeGang, "they murdered my father and for that I will never treat with them in any way!" The tall young woman strode angrily back and forth in front of her soldiers and advisors, the death's head buckle of her belt gleaming wickedly in the candle light with each turn.

When Terron was three, her mother died and she was raised without much attention from her father, in the rowdy, immoral Ryka household. When her father and Din-Ryka left for Azwan, she was a nineteen-year-old tomboy, as skilled and ruthless in the ways of fighting as any of her peers.

Upon learning of the failed coup and her father's death, she turned into an uncontrollable figure of fury and violence. Those who opposed her will soon learned to heed the increasing demands she made or wound up dead. Eventually there was no opposition and she simply took control of the main town of Belgar and set up residence in the Ryka palace.

"But Mistress, surely you can see the benefit if some of our children can learn the things we need to make Belgar flourish?" An old man extended his hands in exasperation.

Terron halted her pacing and glared at the speaker, "Your children you mean, old man. I will have none, remember?" She crossed the floor and seated herself on the chair reserved for the leader, "We were all Azwanians once were we not? This offer they make is nothing more than our legitimate birthright, why should we concede to any demands?"

Trembling but determined, the speaker stood and addressed the glowering woman, "Mistress, they make no demands," his voice quavered, "it is a peace offering to help our people improve their lot."

"A peace offering!" Terron grasped the handle of her long sword, "To whom? To the Pengat tribe in the mountains? To those miserable Hollonites that occupied this forsaken place before our exile? To any one of those other traitorous warlords scattered about the land? A peace offering to whom?" Her voice had risen with each sentence, driving the speaker back down on to his bench, cowering.

A huge stocky soldier stepped forward and spoke in a deep rumbling voice. The dull gleam from his breastplate and leg armour giving him the appearance of a robot, "Commander," he began, addressing Terron, "it would seem to a simple warrior like myself that since our army retrieved the message sled from the landing sight, we can assume the offer was made to us can we not?"

Terron eyed the soldier malevolently without replying, turning over the logic of his words in her mind.

"Further, if I may," the rumbling voice continued, "the old man's point regarding the future of Belgar is well taken. We have done little else but fight among ourselves for the meager resources of this place, accomplishing nothing more than a less than desirable status quo. For my part, and my family's, service to your leadership and the memory of your father has been an honour, but is it not time to consider that maybe this offer could lead all of us to a better way?"

Terron stood slowly placing her hands on her hips and staring down at the gathering before her. They all nervously returned her piercing gaze as the figure of Haxxor appeared just behind her, his huge muscles bulging below his black chest armour. Massive fists burst from the spiked arm guards he wore, bunched tightly, knuckles stretched white.

Haxxor was Terron's bodyguard and was feared by all. He carried no weapon save the blood stained spikes that jutted from his armour and his huge head. A dull white skull dangled from the belt at his waist, a savage reminder to all, and the folly of tangling with him. The crowd stirred uneasily under the ugly smile he showed them.

"So all we enjoy is a less than desirable status quo eh? You don't like the way I rule this desolate rock?"

The soldier grimaced and gestured apologetically, "All I'm trying to say is that this might provide us with a real chance to be better off."

"I'll decide what is the better way," Terron hissed softly, "and I'll decide who gets any chances. Now unless there is another challenge from the floor, you can all get out!"

Happily, the group dispersed, jostling out the door like so many beans through a funnel. The last to go, with a disturbed glance back, was Bodluk, the soldier who had dangerously dared to speak out.

"Fools-" Terron began.

"Hungff," Haxxor grunted, pointing a thick arm toward the shadows.

Terron turned a questioning glance to where he was pointing, "Who's there? Did you not hear my order?"

A hunched figure, wrapped in a rough cloth cloak, shuffled out of the shadows on rope sandals, dry washing nervous hands, "I did hear Mistress but I beg but a moment of your time."

Haxxor growled and seemed to inflate to an even larger size.

"Hold." Terron stayed him with the flat of her hand, "Use your moment wisely fool or it will be your last."

Inching closer, cautiously, the figure slipped the hood from his head and extended his arms in supplication, "Thank you Mistress, I hope I will. Consider for a moment the great opportunity this offering gives you," he blanched as her eyes slitted, shooting him a fiery look, "wait, please. This could be a golden chance for you to pretend acceptance of their plan while developing your own, to achieve what you desire most. The smashing of Azwan." he paused, looking hopefully into her blank face.