It didn't take Sillow long to gather his things. Other than his credits, his dwindling supply of cigars, and a few clothes, he didn't really have much else. He gathered it all into a sack small enough to be flung over a shoulder, and prepared to leave. As he fastened his utility belt, he took one last look around the little room that had been his home for the last week. It was nothing he'd really miss: a plain, gray stone room with a small bed, a single chair, and a blocky wood desk in one corner.

"I'm checking out," Sillow announced to the metal panel beside the door. "How much do I owe?"

A tray slid out beneath the panel. "Deposit 5 credits," a flat, mechanical voice answered.

The Sylvan dropped a couple of black plastic credits into the tray, and it slid back into the wall as the doors opened.

Two very large Tuolons were waiting for him. One of them made a motion for him to step back into the room, but Sillow, realizing they could only be En'n partners, knew it was all over if he did.

He was no hero, and he knew he couldn't fight for shit, but he had to get out of this somehow. Unfortunately, the only thing even close to a weapon that he had with him was the compact staff hanging from his belt. But he'd never learned how to use it, and besides, it would have only been a hindrance in the confinement of the room. No, he had to get out into the corridor, where his speed and agility would count.

One of Tuolons stepped forward to push the little Sylvan back, and Sillow made his move. Using the Tuolon's outstretched leg as a springboard, he placed his right foot on the reptile's thigh and somersaulted over his would-be assailant. Before either of the Tuolons had time to react, Sillow was sprinting away down the corridor.

He knew the slower Tuolons had no chance of catching up with him. As he heard their heavy footfalls fade into the distance, he chanced a look back. He turned the corner, knowing he was out of danger, and ran into a wall.

Then everything went dark.

The last thing Brok expected as he was walking down the corridor was for a Sylvan to come flying round a corner and knock himself out on his chest.

He looked down at the small, unconscious figure, wondering what a Sylvan could possibly be doing in a place like Tae, and what had him in such a rush. A moment later, two Tuolons sprinting round the corner made the answer to one of those questions clear.

They stopped as they saw the huge, heavily muscled form of the Herkulun. Brok was large even for one of his race, and in the dark, armour-like attire of a highborn Herkulun, he made an imposing figure. Watching him carefully, they began to whisper in their harsh, guttural language.

Beneath his heavy brow, Brok's deep-set blue eyes flashed with anger. He had not heard the Tuolon language for a long time, and the memories the sound of it brought back to him were almost too much to bear.

The Tuolons flashed their razor teeth at him in warning and began to approach, one drawing a small, slightly curved sword from under his cloak. The other pushed studs on his gloves, releasing two metallic claws from the silver ridges on his thick, animal hide wristbands. They moved slowly, giving the Herkulun every chance to back down, to retreat.

Brok, however, had no intention of leaving the Sylvan to the mercy of these vile reptiles. The problem was, he was unarmed. He hadn't expected a confrontation in the middle of a hallway. He looked at the little form of the Sylvan. He had a blaster at his side, but as an energy weapon; it was useless here within Tae's dampening field. But there was something else attached to the Sylvan's heavy belt, a black cylinder. If the Sylvan had had another weapon on him, this must be. Brok reached down and grabbed it.

There was a slight circular impression on one side. He grunted; if this turned out to be a just money holder, he was going to pick up a few scratches. He pressed the indentation with his thumb.

The cylinder instantly expanded, shooting out at both ends until it formed a thick, black, metallic staff, about six feet long. It was somewhat thicker at the ends, and looked capable of delivering a weighty blow.

Brok turned to his opponents, his dark features implacable behind his thick beard, holding the staff out in a defensive position.

The first attack came from the Tuolon with the claws. He leapt at Brok with a speed the Herkulun was unprepared for, and the claws pierced the thin armour on his chest before he could react. He grabbed the Tuolon by the wrist before the claws cut their way through to the muscle. The Tuolon, caught in the painful grip, tried to pull away but Brok held him fast. Before the reptile could launch another attack, he pulled his captive towards him and sent an uppercut to the long jaw. He let go and the reptile staggered back, falling unconscious to the floor.

Brok turned to face his companion. The Tuolon seemed more cautious now, swaying from side to side as he approached, the dagger held before him.

Suddenly, the reptile leapt for him. The attack was slower and clumsier than the first, and Brok was able to hit him in the stomach with the tip of the staff as he lunged. The reptile clutched his midsection with clawed hands and staggered back, winded.

Howling, the Tuolon eyed the staff with frustration. He made a quick grab for the weapon, managing to catch hold of it and trapping it under his arm, as he aimed the dagger for Brok's eyes.

A coward's technique, Brok thought. Only a warrior without honor would fight in such a way. He would make the Tuolon would pay for it. Stopping the blade only inches from his face, Brok tightened his fingers around the reptile's wrist and squeezed until he felt the bone snap. The creature cried out in agony and Brok let go, the Toulon immediately pulling his damaged limb away.

But it had not been an act of mercy on the Herkulun's part. He'd done it only to set himself up for his next move, a kick he sent slamming into his enemy's mid section, cracking the reptile's ribs.

The Tuolon collapsed to the floor, writhing with pain, and yet something still drove him on. His black eyes flitted over to the Sylvan for a moment. Then he reached into a boot, pulled out a small dagger, and began to drag himself to his feet.

As much as Brok wanted to crush the Tuolon, he had no desire to fight a defeated enemy. He wished the reptile would just give up and lay down…

Spheres of blue energy spheres suddenly shot from the end of the staff and hit the Tuolon. There seemed to be no physical force behind the blasts, the mysterious blue energy simply dissipating into the reptilian body. But immediately, the Tuolon began to convulse, a flicker of blue light in his otherwise blank eyes. A moment later his legs gave way and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Brok looked at the weapon with admiration. The staff had functioned despite the dampening field that negated energy weapons throughout Tae, and in response to just a thought. Sylvans were said to be the most technologically advanced of the six races, as well as the most reclusive, and Brok didn't doubt it, not if they could turn out weapons like this.

He pushed his thumb into the indentation again, intending to retract it, but instead large, crescent-shaped blue blades appeared at each end. He was really starting to like this weapon. Tentatively, he pushed the indentation once more. This time, the staff retracted back into its original, compact size.

He looked at strange scene before him: the small, mysterious figure of the Sylvan, lying close by the Tuolon warriors who had been hunting him.

Perhaps, he thought, I have at last found my Tir Geld.

Sillow's eyes snapped open. As he did, memory flooded back and giving a little cry, he sat up.

Where the hell was he?

He looked around. The room he was in was similar to his own, only larger. Someone had placed him on the hard stone bed.

"You are unhurt?" a deep voice from somewhere behind him said in Amalgam.

Sillow swung his head around and saw a giant figure sitting and watching him. He looked vaguely human, but the heavy brow and broad nose, coupled with his size and musculature, identified him as a Herkulun. Sillow gave a ridiculous smile, then looked over at the door.

"I guess," he answered in the same language. "If you'd wanted to pop me off, you'd have done it by now, right?"

His host frowned, pulling long, black hair away from his face regard the Sylvan. "I am a Herkulun warrior," he rumbled, protesting. "Only a coward would consider such an act."

Sillow moderated his smile and shrugged. "Easy, big guy. I'm sure you're the bravest person on this station." He considered the Herkulun's huge form. "You must be the wall I ran into."

Brok nodded but made no other reply, watching his guest with narrowed eyes.

"And the, er…" Sillow took a quick look around. "You took care of the lizards?"

Again the Herkulun only nodded.

Sillow began to drum his fingers on a knee. "So, anyway," he went on, feeling compelled to fill the silence, "my name's Silla Low. But every one calls me Sillow. Thanks for saving my green skin."

The Sylvan stretched out his hand. It wavered in the air, but the Herkulun did not take it.

"I am Altus Brok," the huge figure answered. "If you wish to address me in an informal manner, you may refer to me as Brok."

Sillow looked at his outstretched palm and frowned. "Well, er, okay, Brok. Thanks for what you did back there." He lowered his hand.

"You see, the thing is, I can't fight. At all," he added with a laugh. He patted his light blue cotton tunic, sighing with relief as he found what he was looked for. "Listen, do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, pulling out a cigar.

Before Brok could object, Sillow had lit the cigar and was puffing heavily on it. As the clouds floated up and around him, Brok regarded the sight with bemused horror.

"You don't have anything to drink here do you?" the Sylvan asked him.

Brok gestured to a large pitcher of water standing on a table in the corner. "Do you need water?"

Sillow shook his head. "I was kind of thinking of something a little stronger." He looked hopefully at the severe Herkulun. "Like a whisky, maybe?"

"No," Brok answered. "I have only water."

Sillow swung his little legs off the bed, taking the cigar from between his teeth. "Guess you don't entertain too much, huh?"

He looked back at Brok, certain that he had failed to charm his huge host. "So," he went on, tapping his fingers on his knee, "why did you bring me back here, anyway? You could have just contacted a sentinel."

Brok frowned, his bushy brows meeting. "I wished to know the manner of this danger you find yourself in," he rumbled, "and, if it is great, whether you require…assistance." His cold blue eyes bored into the Sylvan's.

Sillow was more than a little confused. "Don't get me wrong," he began. "Help would be nice—very nice—but why would you put yourself out for me? In my experience, people don't just offer to help you out for nothing. There's always a catch."

The Herkulun's great shoulders tensed. "You are suggesting my intentions to help you are not honorable?" he asked with a dangerous flash in his eyes.

Sillow held up a hand. "No! Not at all, absolutely not. No!" He took a breath and leaned forward a little. "But, would you tell me why you wish to help me?"

Brok nodded. "I am searching for my Tir Geld."

Sillow put the cigar back to his lips. "Oh, I see," he said between puffs. "A Tir Geld, huh?" He ran a small hand through his dark green hair. "And, a Tir Geld is…?"

"A Tir Geld," Brok told him in a deep, low voice, "is the opportunity given to every highborn Herkulun warrior, upon reaching the age of twenty two, to choose his own path against the wishes of his clan. It is not easy. The warrior must select a task, or a quest of considerable danger. If he succeeds in his task, then he is free to follow his own will. If not, and he survives…" He took a deep breath. "He must then obey the council of the clan patriarch."

Sillow watched his feet swing back and forth, only the tips grazing the floor. "And why do you want to do this?" he asked. "I mean, I'm just a simple peasant boy, but if I belonged to a noble house, I don't think I'd mind too much carrying on the family business, if you know what I mean. Serving girls feeding you fruits, bathing in milk—"

Sillow was unsure how to answer. Did he need the Herkulun's help? Of course. He was way out of his depth, had been ever since he'd received his unbelievable mission orders nearly a week ago. What had they been thinking, anyway? He was a simple reconnaissance operative. True, he was the only Sylvan who actually liked being off world, but that didn't make him a hero. And now he had murderous Tuolons blowing his ship up, trying to kill him. He gave a few nervous puffs on his cigar.

"Here's the thing," he began at last. "The nutshell version, okay?" He blew a huge cloud of tobacco into the air, relieved at finally unburdening himself. "But it's top secret. Okay?"

Brok nodded, watching him with interest.

Sillow took a deep breath. "A few years ago, an old human named Robert Suliman crash-landed on Sylvan. He claimed he'd been through some strange portal—a Space Gate, he called it—that had taken him to the other side of the galaxy, and he told this crazy story about how he and his followers had built a city on some world there. Then some disaster befell them; he raved on about monsters, or something. I don't really know the story that well."

Sillow shook his head. "Crazy stuff," he muttered. "Anyway, the Elesin, that's our King, and his Queen took pity on him. They let him stay at the palace for the while, then allowed him to go and live alone on some island somewhere, like a hermit."

He looked at Brok and ran a hand through his hair. "It was what he wanted. But," he shook a finger, "as it turns out, this Space Gate really does exist." He took a heavy draw on the cigar. "And for some insane reason, I got orders last week that they want me to go through it, andfind this world that Suliman said he colonized."

Brok folded his huge arms. "It is an incredible story."

Sillow shrugged. "You're telling me! Try crazy as well. I mean, monsters?" He gave a nervous, almost hysterical laugh.

Brok stood. "I will help you," he boomed. "I will help you find this world, and battle these monsters, if necessary."

Sillow took a long draw on his cigar, a relieved smile flickering on his lips. "I'm going to get in a lot of hot water for this big guy," he said.

"But, welcome aboard, I guess."

As Sillow and Brok blasted out of Assara's atmosphere, the ship's former ship owner brooded deeply in his prison cell.

He had been humiliated and disgraced.

As he sat on the thin blanket covering the stone bed in his cell, he gazed at the shimmering red energy field that barred the doorway, holding him here while the Sylvan escaped. Although he gave little indication of the turbulent emotions that tore though his body, the occasional a low growl escaped him as he thought of his enemy.

But he was angry with himself, as well. This had been his one opportunity to prove himself. His orders had been simple: kill one insignificant Sylvan. Had he succeeded, he could have earned himself a permanent place under Hana Gax, the new Iaesele of Silus Ord.

That was impossible, now. The best he could hope for was that he wouldn't be told to take his own life, to atone for his failure. A terrible hatred for the Sylvan began to grow in his heart.

No matter what else happened, he would have vengeance.