The world was coming to an end.

Again.

Farhan Tanek struggled to keep his hands from closing on the neck of the oily little man quavering before him. Tanek knew that as spiritual leader of the Varden faith, he had certain traditions to uphold, and cold-blooded murder performed without a ceremonial blade and before the first hour of dawn would be a break with ceremony, and thus looked upon unfavorably by his people. If only he could say honestly that the killing would be an act of passion, a manifestation of ultimate rage, such matters would have no bearing. But such forward thinking nullified that possibility. No, this killing would be a testament to annoyance, and for that, there were protocols.

Tanek's gaze drifted from his advisor to the open window of his private chamber, wondering where he had put his knife and when the sea of stars in the night sky would be replaced by the blood-red hues of dawn.

Not soon enough, he decided, sighing inwardly and again fixing his attention on his advisor, Ezno Clyvans. The two men were alone in Tanek's chamber, a handful of guards posted outside the heavy door. Tanek was tall and brawny, two meters in height, with a thick mane of wild auburn hair, a beard so long it had been braided into two strands tossed behind his back and tied midway down his spine, brutish features, and a plethora of rippling muscles reflecting the amber glow of hastily lit candles in each corner of the room. He wore only a strip of dark cloth hastily tied about his waist that reached to just above his knees. Even so, Tanek held himself with power and pride, his spine ramrod straight, his chin raised imperiously. In a more superstitious age, he might, quite reasonably, have been considered a god.

Clyvans, on the other hand, might have been mistaken for a goat. Though he wore the many-colored robes of their order over his flabby form and carried the Scepter of Truth, he slouched and was constantly arranging his ill-kept, inky-black hair with pudgy, trembling fingers, trying and failing to the point of distraction to keep it from covering his forehead and obscuring his third eye.

The third eye was simply a genetic anomaly serving no practical purpose, yet those rare beings (often only one in a generation) bearing the mutation were invariably elevated to the role of advisor as per the prophecies of the Ancients.

Tanek had wanted, for quite some time, to see the sacred scrolls revised to eliminate that particular bit of business. Right at the moment, he was tempted to take care of the matter himself.

And why not? If what Tanek suspected was true, the war between the followers of the One True Faith and the heathen Nasnan was about to come to pass, and with it would come global annihilation.

If am I going to die, if we are all going to die, should it not be with every fantasy fulfilled, every heartfelt desire sated?

He could practically taste his advisor's blood....

"Stop your blathering," Tanek said firmly, bringing an immediate halt to his advisor's incessant chatter. "Let me see if I understand you correctly. After all, I am not highborn, I am simply a barbarian who seized his position by force of arms. I have none of your breeding, education, or culture. My mind is minuscule and unable to grasp greater concepts and greater truths, and I have all the sense of a rutting animal. Yet here I am, standing tall, while you are on your knees before me. Fate mocks us, yes?"

Tanek took cruel satisfaction in placing Clyvans in the impossible position of coming up with a response that would not entitle his superior to beat him to within an inch of his life. In point of fact, everything Tanek had said was true, or was, at least, the popularly, if silently held position of the highborn. Yet Tanek was brilliant, and knew more about his people, their needs, and the intricate inner workings of every facet of their society better than any other member of the Varden.

Clyvans stammered yes, no, and maybe in quick succession, then fell silent and closed his eyes, waiting for the blows to fall.

Smiling, Tanek instead retired to a chair beside his bed. "As I was saying, if I understand you correctly, the plans for the device that might have rid us of the Nasnan once and for all have been stolen. The only person who could replicate these plans lies dead in a chamber three stories below us in this keep, his throat cut ear to ear. All evidence points to a single suspect who has fled the keep. It seems to me our course is clear."

Clyvans nervously tapped his scepter, giving Tanek no choice, by the will of his people, but to listen. "Not all evidence points to a lone suspect. There are no witnesses. What this man might stand to gain is unclear. And he, ah... he seemed nice."

Tanek waited, crossing his huge arms over his barrel chest.

"Oh!" Clyvans cried, then tapped his scepter again.

"In any case," Tanek said, "we have one killer, who is also a thief, and, by all reports, a collaborator. Our course seems simple enough. Find the bastard before he can meet with Tirza Sirajaldin. Either take the plans from him or torture him into revealing where they've been hidden, then give him to me that I may amuse myself with his long, lingering death... an event I will choreograph with amazing creativity."

"Our best trackers have already been dispatched. The Elite will find him."

"Then why are you here, precisely?"

"I, ah... interpreted your likely response to this crisis."

Tanek rubbed his temple. His head was beginning to throb. God's teeth, for just a ray of sunshine through that damnable window.

"Anticipated," Tanek said. "You mean to say that you 'anticipated' my likely response."

"Exactly so. This man is an offworlder. Our people are interested in offworlders. To treat him as you might a member of the enlightened Varden who has fallen from grace or even a heathen Nasnan would not be advisable."

"Offworlders know the risks in coming here. Our planet may be beautiful and interesting to them as our culture is not like theirs, but once they step foot on the ground that is mine to hold sway over, once their vessels penetrate the atmosphere of our planet... there is no turning back for them."

"But we are talking about a Federation citizen, my liege. And, as I may remind you, the Federation recently extended an invitation--"

"A Federation...citizen..." Tanek whispered, his expression unchanging. "And that means what, exactly?"

"Well," Clyvans began, unaware at first that he was not being asked for his opinion and expertise. Tanek leaned forward and froze the smaller man with his powerful and vengeful gaze before the advisor could say another word.

"I just wonder," Tanek said with terrifying softness, "does his status as a Federation citizen make him a superior physical specimen of some kind?"

Still unsure of how to respond, or even whether or not he should, Clyvans panted, "Um, ah, that alone, no, I wouldn't think it--"

"Able, for example, to withstand multiple knife wounds without flinching? Amputations with an only slightly sharp surgical saw? A beheading, even, without it being a particular bother or inconvenience?"

"I would think not," Clyvans said, quivering at the images Tanek had ruthlessly placed in his own head. "No. But the political and social ramifications must be considered."

"Done and done," Tanek said coldly. "Now find this soon-to-be-screaming bag of flesh and bring him to me!"