"That has got to be," he sneered, "the sorriest demonstration of incompetence I've ever seen." He smirked to himself and slashed the kendo sword he held from one side to the other. The young men winced at the sound, bowing even lower.

"Forgive us, Lord!" they quailed in unison and Dilandau's smile widened.

"You," he snapped, "are the elite of my troops?" Excitement started to rise within him as he stalked around the line, stopping in back of Dallet, who was cowering at the end. He looked down at the young, longhaired slayer in contempt.

"Pathetic!" he shouted and, with all his might, brought the kendo down upon the quivering back. Dallet gave a muffled yelp of pain and Dilandau drank it in, sweat gliding down his face. The red rage was building now as he stomped down the line, punctuating his shouts with the harsh cracks of the kendo upon their backs.

"Weak! Stupid! Useless!" God, how he loved it! They each gasped in pain, gritting their teeth against crying out loud. Chesta with his soft voice, Miguel with thinly-disguised rage, Guimel almost collapsing under the blow. Dilandau could feel his blood pounding, his eyes glazing over in pleasure. He stopped back in front of them, slapping the kendo against his leg.

"I guess you don't care much about being Dragonslayers," he snapped and Gatti, his second-in-command, actually dared to looked up, his eyes wide in denial, his mouth opening. Wonderful. Perfect. Dilandau screamed and brought the sword down against the slayer's head, the wood cutting through the cinnamon-brown hair and knocking his face back to the floor. The warlord shuddered in ecstasy at the sight of blood streaming through Gatti's hair. He bared his teeth in a feral snarl, his red-irised eyes blazing. The rest of the slayers cringed lower, the new welts on their backs glaring red against the white skin. He whipped around and paced in front of them, swishing the kendo back and forth, sneering at their involuntary flinches as the bloodied slats got a little too close. By now he was so hot he almost couldn't stand it

He stopped at the middle of the line, and drew in a great breath. "WHY DO I PUT UP WITH YOU!!!" he screamed at them. "MY REPUTATION IS GOING TO BE RUINED BY YOUR INCOMPETENCE! YOUR WEAKNESS! I'M GOING TO GET A PACK OF WOMEN TO FIGHT WITH ME, BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY NONE OF YOU ARE WORTH THE TROUBLE!!" He broke the kendo over his knee and threw the pieces onto the floor as hard as he could. Viole, who was kneeling in front of him, cried out and he kicked him in the knee. The slayer gasped and shuddered, and Dilandau felt his desire becoming unbearable. He knew that very soon he would have to get out of there.

"Forgive us, Lord," Chesta whispered and he looked over at the bowed, pale blonde head at the other end of the line. The slayer's blue eyes were filled with tears as he stared at the floor, one teardrop sliding slowly down the downy cheek. That did it.

"Up!" He shouted quickly. "All of you!" They sprang to their feet, snapping to attention, staring straight ahead. He glared at them. "Ten kilometers, double-time!!" The slayers charged forward, heading towards the track that ran about the training room, and Dilandau stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He was alone in the hall, and he ran to his room, flying through the door and kicking it shut behind him. He wrapped one arm about a bedpost, the other hand plunging into his pants and grasping his throbbing erection. He came with a force that nearly blew his head off; a strangled cry was wrenched from him as he collapsed against the pole.

"God, God," he whispered, eyes squeezed shut. He could faintly hear his slayers down the hall, their pounding footfalls a regular tattoo that soothed him. His slayers. The best troop of fighters the Zaibach Empire would ever know. Dilandau opened his eyes and grinned, peeling off his pants and yanking the diadem from his tangled silver hair. He tossed the metal half-circle onto his writing desk and paused in front of a full- length mirror on his way to the shower, inspecting the image of a tall, well-built young man. The lean muscles on his body rippled gracefully as he slowly twisted around; he smiled at the effect. He looked at his face with approval, admiring the clean features and clear pale skin, framed with the shining white hair. Then he scowled as the long scar that ran from his right eyebrow down to his jaw came into view. The large red eyes burned in hatred as his hand reached up to cover the ugly pink line.

"Van," he gritted out, the smooth brow now knotted. "Someday..." He snarled soundlessly and turned away from the mirror. There was a knock at the door.

"What do you want!" he shouted.

"My lord," came the muffled tones of Gatti, "Commander Folken has issued orders for the Dragonslayers to rendezvous with the Tatamo for the next mission." Dilandau studied the door thoughtfully. Excellent time for some action, after the beating he had given them. They deserved a little excitement of their own. He felt a surge of pride for these young men. He had trained them hard and instilled in them a love of destruction and mayhem that echoed his own. They were excellent soldiers and undyingly, completely devoted to him. As they should be.

"All right," he shouted. "Get the troops ready and send Miguel, Dallet and Chesta to help me dress."

"Yes, my lord," came the quick reply and he heard Gatti retreat at a run. His men always ran when he gave orders. He expected nothing less. Dilandau smirked and headed for the shower.

* * *

He had pulled on clean pants and a loose sleeveless undershirt and was toweling off his hair when there was another knock on the door.

"Come!" he shouted and the three blue-uniformed slayers entered carrying his clothes, Dallet carrying the long jacket, Miguel his kitana and Chesta his gloves and boots. The red-painted armor that encased the jacket shoulders, ran down the sleeves, backed the gloves, and covered the boots gleamed in the candlelight. Dilandau felt a sudden stab of pleasure at the site of it. He knew that when he donned his uniform he usually got to battle soon afterwards. He sat down and combed his hair as Chesta knelt and buckled on the knee-length boots. Then he stood and held out his arms. Dallet slid on the jacket and Dilandau smiled at the added weight upon his shoulders. The slayer fastened the front up to his throat, the jacket fit tight but not binding, while Miguel came forward and buckled the swordbelt around his lean waist. Dilandau waited impatiently for them to finish, his mind enmeshed in the prospect of upcoming destruction. It had been too long since the last battle, and he so longed to burn something. Anything. The two slayers backed away and snapped to attention. Chesta came forward as the warlord held his hands out to him. Dilandau stared down at the young man without seeing him, his red eyes blazing with wonderful inner images of blood and fire. Chesta slipped on the left glove, then the right, then, while still grasping his hand, turned his head and softly kissed his palm. Dilandau snapped back to reality in a flash of rage. His first impulse was to slap the blonde slayer silly for his impudence, but, as he glared down at the bowed head, his hand still cupping the soft cheek, he stayed his anger. Chesta was always first out to battle, always charging ahead to protect his lord in every encounter with the enemy. In short, he was one of Dilandau's most trustworthy slayers. He stopped scowling and brought his left hand over to cup the other cheek, gently tilting up the young man's face. Chesta's eyes widened, then slowly shut as the warlord brought their faces together, and he heard Dallet and Miguel sigh as their lips met. The young slayer's mouth parted willingly enough, and he gently ran his tongue along his, then broke the kiss.

"My lord," Chesta breathed, trembling. The soft face was flushed and the big blue eyes burned with adoration.

"Chesta," he said, "what would you give me to prove your loyalty?"

"My life. My soul," he whispered. Dilandau smiled.

"Good," he replied and, with a hard shove on the chest, sent the blonde slayer sprawling backwards onto the floor. He grabbed his diadem from the writing desk, slapped it onto his forehead and strode out the door, his slayers trotting to catch up. His mind was already on the Tatamo, relishing the upcoming devastation he knew he would be invoking.

* * *

"He did what?" Gatti exclaimed in disbelief. Miguel snorted and tossed his dark brown hair out of his eyes.

"Kissed him. Right after we got done dressing him. Chesta went a little far with his affections this time and that's how he responded." They were in an assembly hall on the Tatamo, waiting for Lord Dilandau to return from his meeting with General Yamato. Gatti's hand went automatically to the cut on his head, which still burned from the kendo blow. Jealousy coiled within his heart, and he scowled.

"Chesta must be in heaven," he muttered and Dallet looked at him sharply. Gatti stared back and the slayer dropped his eyes, suddenly very interested in the blue armor that ran along his jacket sleeve. The two slayers had sought him out once their lord had gone into the meeting and, drawing him away from the others, told him what had happened.

"Well," Miguel drawled, "he's a little messed up right now. Dilandau-sama knocked him onto his back afterwards." The slayer shook his head and barked a short laugh. "He's acting true to form."

"Shut up!" Gatti snarled and brought back his hand. Miguel stood defiant for a moment, then bowed his head.

"Forgive me, Gatti-san," he said quietly, "I was out of line."

"That's better. Now, what are we to do about this?" Gatti paced before the two slayers, hands behind his back. "Chesta is reckless enough on the field, but this will surely get him killed." He paused and looked over to the troops. The blonde slayer was sitting alone, resting his chin on one hand and gazing off into space. Gatti felt another stab of jealousy. Dammit, he was Dilandau's second-in-command! Didn't that mean anything to that red-eyed bastard?

Don't think about it, he told himself and resumed pacing. Chesta's the problem now, not your hurt feelings. He reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, wincing a little as he brushed the cut. Miguel and Dallet were watching him, waiting for God knew what kind of orders he would give. They were useless to him right now. He stopped and turned towards them.

"Rejoin the others and for God's sake don't say a word about this to anyone!" he snarled.

"Hai!" they replied and bowed their heads as one, then turned and went back to the troop. Gatti watched them go, then turned back to the wall. Damn. He had been worried about Chesta for some time now. The slayer simply threw common sense to the wind when it came to battling beside their lord. If he wasn't such a marvel at both swordplay and working with guymelefs, he would have been dead months ago. Should have been dead, he thought sourly, then gave a sigh. Now this. Perhaps a word to Chesta would be wise. Gatti turned about and had started towards him when the hall entrance slammed open. Two dozen hands instantly clutched two dozen sword hilts, but relaxed as Dilandau stomped in, his face twisted in rage. Gatti barked out the order to fall in and the slayers ran to their positions. The young men snapped to attention, backs ramrod straight, eyes forward. Even Chesta knew better than to break discipline and look directly at his lord. Gatti could feel fear ripple through the slayers as the warlord stopped and glared at them.

"Gatti!" he bellowed and he ran up to him, dropping to one knee and resting his right fist on the floor, the other hand gripping his sword hilt.

"My lord!" he shouted back, his head bowed. He saw the red-armored boots walk up and stop in front of him, and he prayed that Dilandau w ouldn't kick him in the face. He had a tendency to do that when he was upset, and Gatti still had a few fading bruises from the last time.

"It would appear," Dilandau hissed, "that we are to head to Kyishi to guard the main palace." The warlord drew a great breath and Gatti braced himself.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE FOLKEN IS WASTING MY TALENTS THIS WAY!!!" No one moved. Gatti doubted that anyone breathed. Then Dilandau screamed and grabbed him by his jacket front, yanking him to his feet as easily as if he were a child. He gasped, terrified by the blazing madness in the red eyes. The scar glared a deep pink in the stark white skin as if sharing the warlord's rage. Dilandau shook him, hard, then threw him to one side. Gatti hit the floor rolling and immediately got back on one knee, thanking God that his parents had forced him to learn acrobatics when he was younger. The skill had spared him broken bones on more than one occasion.

"All right!" Dilandau shouted. "We depart at 0600 sharp! Now get out of here!" Gatti heard the slayers charge out of the room as he remained on his knee, fist on floor, head bowed. The red boots walked slowly up to him and stopped.

"Come with me, Gatti," his lord commanded through clenched teeth and he sprang to his feet. The handsome face was still contorted with rage and he was suddenly overwhelmed with a mixture of terror and desire, stronger than anything he had ever known.

"My lord?" he asked and was immediately backhanded across the jaw, the blow spinning his head to one side and filling his mouth with blood. Dilandau stomped to the door and he ran to catch up, swallowing the blood and cursing himself for being so stupid as to speak when his lord was enraged. The fresh pain in his jaw abated both the terror and the desire as they left the room and started up the hallway. They went down a few stairways and down another long hallway at a brisk pace, then reached a door with the familiar exercise symbol on the front. They walked in and Dilandau slammed the door shut.

"Come on," he said, pulling off his gloves, shrugging out of his armored jacket and yanking off his boots. "Grab a kendo. I need to work off some of this rage." Gatti followed suit, unfastening his own blue armored jacket and letting it fall to the wooden floor, removing his gloves and boots, then picking up a wooden sword from a stack set along one wall. They faced off and paused, kendos held before them at the ready. Gatti bowed and Dilandau nodded, then they resumed their poses. Gatti stared at his lord, sweat already running down his face. He had never gotten close to besting him in swordplay. Gatti was an excellent swordsman, but Dilandau fought like a fiend and was not the kind to go easy on friend or foe. Suddenly he thought of Chesta and white hot rage filled him. He could never get what he really wanted from Dilandau and the unfairness of it ate into him like acid. If he should ever suspect! It was fine for Chesta to have his little infatuation, but for the second-of-command to admit such a thing could mean expulsion. Besides, Dilandau would only make his life a worse hell then it currently was. He would relish in torturing his heart as well as his body. Gatti's breath started coming in harsh gasps as his rage grew. He loved him and hated him and being his second-in- command meant more to him than life but he was slowly going crazy trying to handle it all. For the first time since meeting Dilandau, he wasn't cowed by him. He cried out and ran forward, intent on killing this horrible, beautiful monster who had such power over him.

And Dilandau waited for him, that smug smirk curving his lips, the red eyes blazing in eager anticipation. Gatti reached him in an instant and the two swords clashed, neither finding an opening. The warlord sprang back, freeing himself, then attacked with a wild shout of laughter. Gatti parried the blow and counter-attacked, whacking again and again at his lord, trying desperately to find an opening and hit him, just once! See how you like it, you bastard!

"Good, Gatti! Marvelous!" Dilandau shouted over the blows as he was driven back step by step. When he reached the wall he stopped, and Gatti drove in for the kill, only to have the sword smacked out of his hands by a lightning strike from his lord. Dilandau pounced on him then, knocking him to the floor and landing on top of him, the wooden slats of the kendo biting into his throat. Gatti's breath was driven from his body and his chest heaved, fighting for air. Dilandau grinned and knelt on him, tossing away the sword and watching him gasp, then lightly stood and offered his hand. Gatti grasped it and was pulled to his feet. Dilandau flipped back his silver hair and laughed.

"I'm impressed, Gatti-san," he said. "You've improved much since our last match." Gasping in air, Gatti could only nod his thanks, incredulous at the praise. Dilandau never gave approval, only showed disapproval in creative and painful ways. The young slayer felt a surge of pleasure, instantly quashed by the thought of Chesta. Suddenly he felt utterly worn out, and he barely caught the towel that his lord tossed him. He wiped his streaming face and collapsed onto a bench by the door. Dilandau sat down beside him and he was suddenly very very aware of his nearness. He cursed himself for being such a fool, but couldn't resist a quick look at him. The warlord was absently wiping the sweat from his face and neck, and Gatti shivered at the beauty of his features, the slender neck and broad shoulders.

Stop it, stop it, stop it! he lashed at himself. Think of Chesta. He can't do anything more to Chesta or we'll lose one of our best slayers. The love-sotted fool with kill himself trying to impress him. Speak up, you coward!

"My lord..." he said timidly. Dilandau looked at him absently, the great eyes half lidded.

"Mmm?"

"About Chesta..." A smug grin split the pale lips, baring the white teeth, then his lord threw back his head and laughed out loud.

"He's so like a puppy! All he needs is a little tail to wag!" he said and laughed again.

Gatti started to speak, then stopped, not knowing what to say. It was like playing with a lion. A starving lion. To raise Dilandau's ire was to invite massive pain, and he'd had enough of that for one day. He decided to leave it alone. Let Chesta kill himself. He had his own problems. Dilandau was pulling off his sweat-soaked shirt now, and Gatti felt desire rise within him as he watched, helpless to turn away. He was so close, so very close...

The warlord turned towards him, then raised his eyebrows in surprise. Gatti immediately blanked his face, but cursed himself again as Dilandau smiled his familiar smirk.

"Well, well, well," he said tauntingly. "Who would have thought of it; a big strong man like you, Gatti?"

"My lord," Gatti said and snapped his head forward, staring ahead. Dilandau laughed and jumped to his feet. He spun gracefully around, arms thrown wide, then stopped, facing him, his sweat-streaked chest glistening in the lights. The great red eyes were blazing once again, and Gatti knew that he was lost.

"I bet you wish it had been you," the warlord goaded. Gatti shook his head, not daring to speak. In an instant Dilandau was upon him, snarling, knocking him against the wall and grabbing two fistfuls of his hair. Pulling his head back to the choking point, he screamed at him.

"DON'T EVER LIE TO ME, YOU LITTLE MAGGOT!" Gatti was filled with the greatest terror he had ever known, driving out the great pain he was feeling on his head. Staring into those frenzied eyes, he knew he was dead.

"ADMIT IT, ADMIT IT!!" Dilandau shouted at him and his mouth dropped open like a puppet's.

"Yes, yes!!" he screamed, "I wish it had been me!" He was released and he slumped forward, holding his head in his hands, tears of pain starting in his eyes. Dilandau crossed his arms and stared at him, disdain etched in the fine features; a faint flush on his cheeks.

"Pathetic," he snorted. "Now go get some rest. You'll need it for this great mission we're starting tomorrow. Guarding a building! God." He slapped his shirt over one shoulder and left, whistling the Zaibach anthem, leaving his armor for Gatti to bring back with him. The slayer drew his knees up to his forhead, wrapped his arms about his legs, and began to sob.

* * *

Two hours later Gatti was in a village tavern on the surface of Gaia, drinking a bottle of wine with Guimel. The two shared an unlikely friendship, which started after Gatti had smoothed over a serious indiscretion of Guimel's involving a couple of young noblewomen in the Zaibach capital city. Guimel maintained that he had only been doing what they asked, but Gatti realized how persuasive the young slayer could be, especially around the girls. In any case, he had taken care of the mess and didn't mention it to Dilandau, for which Guimel had been very grateful. He had bought Gatti a bottle of very old, very good wine in thanks and they had drunk it together, beginning a friendship that had lasted despite both the rigors and competition of their profession. Gatti found him to be a good listener with that rare quality of keeping his mouth shut. And while Guimel didn't try to understand what he called "all this men-with-men nonsense," he didn't have a problem with it in others. Most importantly, he understood the powerful hold their lord had on all of them. So Gatti had this heaven-sent release valve that he utilized to save his sanity, and he returned the favor by taking care of the occasional fiasco that the curly-haired slayer got into. Besides, they genuinely liked each other.

"I think you're worrying too much," Guimel commented and drained his wineglass. "I mean," he continued as he poured them both another round, "he would have kicked you out right away if he was angry about it, right?" The slayer grimaced. "Not to mention beating the crap out of you first."

"I don't know," Gatti replied and took a swallow, relishing the slight burn as the wine slid down his throat. His throat suddenly closed at the thought of losing his position. It was unthinkable, unbearable.

"I..I..don't..don't know what..." he choked out, then coughed and cleared his throat. Guimel was looking at him with some concern, then smiled.

"Come on now," he said reasonably, "Who could he replace you with?" He put down his glass and ticked off his fingers one by one. "Miguel is too arrogant, Dallet too hesitant, Viole can't make a decision to save his life, and Chesta?" They both laughed, and Gatti looked at his friend warmly.

"What about you?" he asked, half-joking. Guimel's smile faded.

"I am not the diplomat you are, nor do I possess the patience and strength to shepherd the slayers," he said seriously. He sat back and contemplated him, his green eyes somber.

"You are in an unenviable position, my friend. You bear most of Dilandau- sama's wrath, and you must keep us soldiers sane under his command as well." Guimel drained his glass again and looked over at a group of Dragonslayers who were sitting at the other end of the room, out of hearing. "Our lord has whipped us all into ruthless wolves, howling for blood, but you keep our humanity intact." He poured another glass and held it up, Gatti following suit.

"To the Slayers!" he shouted and the group across the room echoed the toast back with feral yells of approval. There was an uneasy silence from the regular patrons of the bar, then the sounds of conversation slowly resumed. Guimel and Gatti gulped down their wine and the second-in-command called for a new bottle. Guimel grinned.

"Good," he said, "I was wondering if you were intending to keep up." Gatti, flushed with wine, gazed at him with approval.

"So why aren't I in love with you?" he asked with a smile. Guimel threw back his head and laughed.

"You like pain too much," he replied, then bared his teeth. "Also, I'd kill you if you touched me." Gatti laughed aloud, his eyes glittering.

"You could try," he mock-snarled, "but if our last exercise is any proof of your skill, I'd win." Guimel just laughed at him, opened the new bottle and filled their glasses again.

After they had finished a few more bottles, Gatti felt a great weariness flood over him. God, he was tired. So tired of problems he couldn't solve, desires he couldn't fulfill. He dropped his head onto his chest and closed his eyes. It was very late, and there were only the two of them left at the tavern.

"Hey, hey," Guimel said, poking him with his finger. He lazily raised his head and looked at him. The slayer's fair face was flushed, very pretty in the lamplight. The curly hair shone pale gold and the green eyes gleamed.

"What?" Gatti murmured.

"What you need is to get laid," Guimel answered with a grin. Gatti sat up abruptly, then swayed a little.

"What?" he asked incredulously. Guimel nodded several times.

"Yep," he said, "You definately need to release some tension. I mean, c'mon, what's with the big denial thing? Look," he added, pulling out a slip of paper from inside his jacket and squinting at it. "Chesta's given me a place that he knows about around here."

"Chesta!"

"Oh, yeah, that boy can't get enough," Guimel winked at Gatti's shocked expression. "Where do you think he disappears to every R and R? And I'm sure Miguel, Dallet and some of the other guys are already over at..." He took another piece of paper out and inspected it. "Lady Yamata's right now." He looked quite pleased at his friend's astounded look.

"I'll be heading there myself soon," he announced and stood, then abruptly sat back down. "Well, hopefully." Gatti's head was whirling at this news. Was he really so wrapped up in his problems that he was unaware of his men's off-duty activities? And Chesta... panic clutched at him.

"Guimel!" The slayer looked up at him with raised eyebrows. Gatti grabbed his jacket front and jerked him forward.

"Hey!"

"What did you tell Chesta?!? How did you get that address?" Guimel smiled and brushed at the hands clutching his jacket.

"Relax. I mentioned quite privately that I was thinking of giving it a whirl. You're lucky I'm too drunk to be offended at your mistrust in me." Gatti let him go and the slayer fell back into his chair with a thump. "Of course," Guimel continued as if nothing had happened, "You probably want to make sure he's not there when you get there." Gatti drew himself up stiffly and frowned.

"I'm not going there." Guimel gave him a wry look.

"Oh, come on," he said, half-smiling. "Whatever you prefer, you're still a man, and this will help. Really. Look at me." He got up and stretched, arching his back, then fell flat on his face, out cold. Gatti started laughing foolishly, then bent down to pick his friend up and drag him back to the Vione transport.

* * *

Dilandau glanced out the windows of the Tatamo as he strode to the guymelef dock, Miguel, Dallet and Chesta in tow. The eastern horizon was a pale blue, the morning sun just appearing and painting the landscape below a bloody red. Almost looks like it's on fire, he thought with savage longing. If only that were so... The last good burn he did was Fanalia, ages ago, and what fun that had been. Dilandau's eyes glazed over a little. The whole capital city in flames. Ahhhhh. But now this. He scowled, the white forehead knotting in irritation. Damn' Folken; who does he think he is, sending out Zaibach's elite forces to stand around and do nothing? What was it that the Tatamo's general said, something about the Duchy of Hamat's forces building up near Kyishi's border and what a threat they were. Dilandau rolled his eyes. Please. His men could destroy anything. We should just attack Hamat and raze that pissant duchy to the ground, he thought, savoring the images of screaming citizens and burning buildings.

He increased his pace, smirking as his slayers stumbled to keep up. No tricks from Chesta this morning, and more's the pity. He was soooo much fun to play with. But not much of a challenge. Now, Gatti... Dilandau's smile grew cruel. Actually, his second-in-command had been quite a find. He had come from some town in Asturia, who could remember the name, and had proven himself a more than able sub-commander. A tough nut to crack as well. Dilandau took a lot of pleasure in pulling Gatti off balance, but the slayer had an irritating way of shrugging off most of his barbs. Now, however, it looked like he really had him. At last.

They rounded a corner and came into view of the dock. Gatti barked out an order and the Dragonslayers ran to form ranks before their lord, Miguel, Dallet and Chesta jumping over to join them. In a few seconds all twenty- four slayers were aligned precisely, the lesser ranks in two rows of nine men, his elite six centered in front of them. All were frozen in attention, ramrod straight, eyes forward. Dilandau dropped the smile and inspected them disdainfully. Pulling off his left glove and slowly slapping it against his palm, he stalked past the rows, his face a mask of disapproval. He stopped when he reached Gatti and slowly looked him up and down. A deep blush rose in his second's cheeks and he felt a stirring of excitement. Oh yes, Gatti was going to be a wonderful distraction in the coming days.

"All right," he sneered, "Looks like this is all that you're good enough for. Babysitting the nobility against the big bad Hamatians." He pulled his glove back on and slowly made a fist, admiring the sunlit glow of the red armor. "It's a three hour trip through the Empire, so we'll use formation alpha-beta-beta," he announced in a bored tone then, turning his back on them, headed for his red-colored guymelef. He smiled to himself as he heard the men scramble to their machines on Gatti's order, thinking about his second-in-command.

The trip was tediously uneventful, and he was tempted to land in the outskirts of Kyishi and try out his guymelef's liquid metal spears on a few farmhouses. But he had his orders, damn' Folken!, and so supressed the urge. The city wasn't important enough to merit a Floating Fortress, so their quarters would be on the palace grounds. The ground! Dilandau felt his irritation evolve into a slow rage. Once the guymelefs had been landed and put away, he ran his men through a series of full-armor drills that left them gasping and dripping with sweat. He scowled as he paced before the ranks, feeling his rage grow as he watched his men gulp for air. Some discipline! The noon sun beat down overhead, and he could feel sweat running through his hair and around his diadem, trickling down his cheeks and running along the scar. That damn' scar that marred his beautiful face. His red eyes blazed in sudden fury and the slayers trembled in their armor. He flung his hand out and across and his elite row almost flinched back. Almost.

"You six, down," he snarled and they immediately dropped to one knee and put their right fists on the ground. Dilandau smirked, then scowled as he looked at the standing troops. "The rest of you leave. NOW!" he screamed and they charged away, clearing the training square in an instant. He glared at his men, noting the sweat-plastered hair and the dark streaks down their blue jacket backs with displeasure. Then he felt the familiar excitment start to grow and he smiled, drawing his left hand back a little.

"Get UP!" he shouted and they sprang to attention. He slapped Dallet first, as he was first in line, and the longhaired slayer was knocked to the ground. Next was Chesta, who cried out as he was backhanded off his feet. Dilandau drank it in but didn't pause. He decked Miguel, throwing him onto his back, then grabbed Guimel's jacket front and, with a cry of rage, threw him to one side. Viole got the back of his left hand and dropped without a sound, then Dilandau, feeling his excitement build to an unbearable level, hit Gatti's jaw with the full force of his right fist.

The blow whipped the second's head to one side with a crack, but he remained standing. Tough little bastard, Dilandau thought with a stab of pleasure, and kicked his legs out from under him. Gatti fell with a muffled grunt of pain and he glared at them all, his fists resting on his hips. Oh, God, it felt so good! They were stifling their groans of pain and exhaustion, getting onto their knees, both of them this time, and bowing low before him. It was the beautiful. Wonderful. He was so hot he could barely see. His hand crept towards the fastenings on his pants, then stopped. Discipline, discipline. He smirked.

"It's a sorry day when my elite," he sneered the word, "can't run five full armor drills without getting out of breath. My name is ruined. Dismissed." He turned on his heel and strode away, eager to get to his room and unleash that incredible ecstasy.

* * *

The next week dragged by and he was nearly crazy with boredom. The Hamatians didn't attack, didn't retreat; they just sat there, taunting him with their apathy. So all Dilandau could do was sneeringly turn down the timid dinner invites from the local nobility, run his men through drill after drill, and goad Gatti. Despite the customary excitement he got from pushing his slayers to the breaking point, the sameness became ultimately as boring as doing nothing. However, he still managed to get some pleasure from his advantage over his second-in-command. It was quite simple, really. Dilandau knew from long experience that small gestures went deepest and lasted longest, so he had gotten into the habit of staring at Gatti as if he were undressing him with his eyes. Slowly. This never failed to get the slayer's blood rushing to his cheeks and his teeth to clench, much to the warlord's satisfaction. And since Gatti was required to give him daily progress reports, Dilandau's was assured at least some amusement each day.

He was sitting on his throne in the command center resting his cheek on his fist, drumming his fingers on the wooden armrest, when Gatti entered with a scroll rolled under his arm. He noted with relish that the slayer was getting thinner; the dark circles under his eyes were deepening as well. He sat up and smirked as he came before him and bowed.

"The daily report, My Lord," Gatti said, staring ahead. And waited instead of unrolling the scroll. Dilandau felt a stab of irritation at this break in routine.

"Well, read it!" he snapped. The second-in-command opened the scroll, then closed it again and looked directly at him. He blinked in shock, then a joyous rage flooded over him. At last, something to break his boredom! Gatti being insolent! Marvelous!

"Lord Dilandau," he said stiffly, "permission to speak freely?" Dilandau laughed at his audacity, reluctant admiration filling him. The man had guts. He put on a sneer.

"But of course, Gatti," he purred. "Something personal on your mind?" His smile broadened as rage darkened the slayer's blue eyes, but the second only nodded, still staring at him. Dilandau frowned. Really, this impertinence was getting annoying. "Well," he growled, "spit it out."

"You're pushing the men too hard," Gatti replied evenly, and Dilandau leapt to his feet in rage, red eyes blazing.

"You are criticizing me?" he shouted, his hand clutching his kitana hilt. He whirled on the two slayers standing in attendence behind his throne, and they flinched back, eyes enormous with fear.

"Leave us!" he barked and they ran from the room, armor clanking. He twisted back to his second-in-command, teeth bared. Gatti, the blood drained from his face, stood his ground and looked up at him.

"You have run them ragged this whole week," he stated flatly. "Now they can barely stand, much less fight. Yesterday you broke Guimel's arm."

"He got in my way!" he shouted.

"He was trying to protect you from that falling guymelef!" Gatti shouted back and for a moment Dilandau went literally blind with rage. Then his vision cleared and he ripped out his kitana, charging at Gatti with a scream. The second-in-command instantly drew his own sword and met him head on, the blades crashing together in a long metallic screech. They traded a few wild blows, but after all their practices together, he knew Gatti's weak spots, and in moments he had slapped the other's kitana from his hands. He knocked him to the ground with a snarl of triumph and, kneeling beside him, brought his blade to the other's throat, licking his lips in anticipation. Then he stopped, his brow knotted in confusion. Gatti had tilted his head back, baring his throat. The second-in-command was staring at the ceiling, waiting for the blow.

"Do it, my Lord," he whispered and closed his eyes. Dilandau, his breath coming in harsh gasps, wrenched up the sword and threw it across the wooden floor.

"God, Gatti," he said shakily, "I almost killed you." The second-in- command propped himself up on his elbows, looking at him in surprise, and he slapped him for all he was worth, knocking him back down.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" he screamed at him. "YOU WOULD HAVE LEFT ME ALONE, YOU BASTARD!!" He starting shaking uncontrollably, his mind driven back to the terrible time he had been left alone, hour after dark hour, his terrified pleas unanswered.

"Alone...alone," he whispered helplessly and dropped his face into his hands, tears springing from his eyes and flowing down his cheeks. He felt two gentle arms go about him.

"Oh, my Lord," Gatti said softly. "I'm so sorry. I will never leave you alone." He lifted his face and looked uncertainly into the dark blue eyes.

"You won't?" he asked. Gatti smiled.

"Yes," he replied, "forever." And kissed him.

THE END