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As he walked down through the Great Hall of Svaairxzx, Xzalnyr fought to hide his sense of awe. To be walking through the Great Hall was an honour reserved for the legendary warriors of Mars, something he never considered himself to be. At the end of the Hall were the doors leading to the Throne Room. The frame of the doors was decorated in hieroglyphs. He recognised their origin as both Osiran and Goa’uld, the Gods who had influenced the ancient Martian culture. Two guards stood either side of the doors, their forms bulkier than most Martian warriors. Each wore the ceremonial armour of the Emperor’s Imperial Guards, both wearing helmets over their reptilian heads. As one they looked up. Xzalnyr approached them. In stature he was not much different from the guards, but his armour was less polished and more rugged. Unlike the two guards he no longer wore his helmet or the usual clamp-like gloves over his claws. He stopped in front of the guards. ‘I wish to see the Emperor Izlyr,’ he informed them. ‘The Emperor is not to be disturbed,’ hissed one guard. ‘He is in a meeting of vital importance to the Empire.’ ‘That is what I wish to see him about.’ Xzalnyr folded his arms. For six months he had been on New Mars - at the behest of the Emperor Himself - making sure that the mass exodus back to Mars would go smoothly. During the preparations certain things had come to his attention, things that the Emperor needed to know. The guard shook his head. ‘The Emperor must not be disturbed. I shall inform him that you came, Commander Xzalnyr.’ Xzalnyr hissed with anger but turned away. One way or another he was determined to see the Emperor, but for now he would retreat to think of an alternative strategy. As he retreated from the Imperial Guards Xzalnyr found himself wondering with whom the Emperor was discussing such important things. The Emperor’s Throne Room had not been used in five hundred years. When the Martians had been forced to leave their world, it had been sealed, although that did not stop the decay and dust building. Many traps had been put in place to keep the Throne Room safe, with trionic locks sealing the main door. Only the Emperor of the time knew how to get into the Throne Room safely, but that information had passed on to the next Emperor, Saaarlxz. Emperor Saaarlxz had then passed it on to Izlyr when he became emperor, 460 years after the Martians had left Mars. In his heart Izlyr was a warrior, not a politician. He had never wanted to become the next emperor, but Saaarlxz had left him with little choice. Izlyr had resented it, but nonetheless took on the mantle of emperor with every fibre of his being. Ultimately he knew that it was the highest honour that could be bestowed on a member of the Elite Martian Caste. Forty-Eight years on and Emperor Izlyr was amazed. From the moment he had become emperor he had decided that the triumphant return to Mars would take place during his reign. Every day he had worked on planning the mass exodus home, and thus the great campaign to reclaim his planet. But he never really believed it would happen. Until almost two years ago when Commander Xzalnyr had returned to New Mars with half of the Sword of Tuburr. Izlyr smiled at the memory. He alone had known that the second half of the Sword still resided on Mars, kept safe by the few priests who had remained there. Having the hilt of the Sword returned to his people was the rallying cry he needed, the thrust that would push the Martians back to their ancestral home. Emperor Izlyr looked from the Marshall before him and over to the Sword of Tuburr that hung above the main doors of the throne room. The Sword was in one piece, for the first time in centuries. He drew strength just from looking at it, the original sword of the greatest warrior in Martian history. The term “warrior” floated around his mind, and once again he was reminded of how he had managed to merge his warrior heart with his political obligations. He had used the strength of both positions to lead the Martians to victory. Which brought him back to the Marshall in front of him. ‘We have much to learn from admitting to our past mistakes.’ The Marshall shook his helmeted head. ‘They were not mistakes, My Lord.’ Izlyr waved away the objections. ‘Perhaps, Marshall. But we must apologise to the Pels for what we did. The Federation helped us reclaim our world, and we owe them.’ ‘No, My Lord. Me must reclaim our position as the greatest force in the galaxy. There will never be a better time.’ Emperor Izlyr looked at the Marshall with uncertainty. He knew that the Marshall before him had the loyalty of some of the greatest warriors in the Martian Empire; warriors who would follow him blindly. Not for the first time, Emperor Izlyr felt the weight of leadership crushing down on his shoulders.
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