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CHAPTER SEVEN ‘I don’t think so, somehow, pal!’ Wellarzlee spun around. His look of shock matched the look of pure relief on the faces of Vlaash and Alf. Standing in the doorway, shadowed by the massive form of Commander Xzalnyr, was Nick. Nick walked over to the surprised Wellarzlee and threw a punch. ‘You bastard!’ he said, as the punch connected with Wellarzlee. Nick’s fist hurt more than Wellarzlee’s jaw, but Nick did not care. It had been worth it. ‘This time you will die, and Xylat's research be damned!’ Wellarzlee said, and raised his own fist. But he did not get a chance to use it. Instead Xzalnyr’s body collided with that of Wellarzlee and the two Martian warriors crashed to the floor. As the two warriors fought Nick and Alf moved at the same time, both rushing over to the other. The relief Nick felt at feeling Alf pressed against him was overpowering, and for those few moments everything else in the Throne Room disappeared. Once again his eyes became glazed. ‘Alf! I thought you was dead!’ Alf held him tightly, ruffling his hair with her hand. ’You thought I was dead? I though you were dead!’ she exclaimed. Their embrace was brought to an abrupt end as Xzalnyr and Wellarzlee knocked into them. Nick fell to the floor, but Alf was able to keep her balance. She looked down at Nick and smiled, then her face became grave as she turned to the two warring warriors. ‘Stoorxz, help him!’ The hood came down and the second priest was revealed to be Sub-Commander Stoorxz. From beneath his robes, Stoorxz lifted his weaponed arm and aimed it at the back of Marshall Wellarzlee. He did not get the chance to use the weapon. The Chosen One who had accompanied Wellarzlee fired his own weapon, causing Stoorxz to wobble then collapse onto the floor. Nick looked up, feeling disgust at the relish on the face of the Chosen One. ‘Vlaash, stop that bastard!’ Nick yelled. For a moment Vlaash looked around the room wondering what he could do. He was not a warrior, and he loathed the use of weapons. Izlyr understood the Abbot’s indecision, and rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Be at peace, my friend. This is my fight,’ Izlyr said, and raised the Sword of Tuburr. Alf helped Nick to his feet, and they both had to step out of the way as the Martian Emperor came running past, the ancient sword held aloft. They watched him as he took a swing. The sword connected with the Chosen One. Alf had seen Martians in combat before, but never on their homeworld. She was taken back by their speed and finesse. ‘Wicked,’ she said, finding that word very appropriate somehow. ‘Xzalnyr, end this!’ Izlyr hissed and threw the Sword to the great Martian warrior. Xzalnyr caught the Sword, just as Wellarzlee twisted him, wrapping his arm around Xzalnyr’s neck. ‘Fifty years under Federation guard has dulled your skills, Xzalnyr,’ Wellarzlee said, as he struggled with his other hand to wrestle the Sword of Tuburr from his foe. ‘Like them, you have become weak!’ Xzalnyr grabbed hold of the arm around his neck. ‘The ones you call weak helped us to reclaim our world!’ He pulled at the arm and titled his body sideways. The sudden move threw off Wellarzlee’s balance. Xzalnyr twisted around and lunged with the Sword. Marshall Wellarzlee fell to his knees, the Sword sticking out of his armour. He glanced down at it, and grabbed the hilt. ‘You may have won this, Commander Xzalnyr,’ he hissed, and looked up. ‘But you have made me a martyr.’ He smiled. ‘Well done.’ As if on purpose Wellarzlee threw himself forward, causing the Sword to imbed itself deeper into his body. The large Martian toppled sideways, very much dead. Emperor Izlyr walked over to Xzalnyr and looked down at the deceased Marshall. ‘He is right.’ ‘I know.’ There was little else Xzalnyr could say. The real enemy of the Martian Empire lay before him, but somehow Xzalnyr couldn’t help but feel that it was a hollow victory. Alf and Nick stood watching, their arms around each other shoulders, unsure about what to do. Things had got very personal on Mars all of a sudden, and they did not feel like they belonged there any more. If only there was a quick way off the planet. The tense atmosphere was cut by an unusual noise. Unusual to Martian ears, but not to Nick and Alf. They looked around as the wheezing and groaning got louder. A shape was beginning to form in the centre of the room, and they both smiled. But the object that materialised was not the blue box that they had been expecting; instead a Martian altar had appeared. The side opened and out stepped the tall form of the Galactic Federation President, Koschei. He looked around the Throne Room at the dead Martian bodies, then noticed Izlyr. Koschei walked over to the Emperor and shook a clawed hand. ‘Emperor Izlyr, at last we meet face to face. I am the Federation President.’ He glanced at Nick and Alf and winked. ‘I hope my special envoys have been of assistance?’ If Izlyr was surprised by Koschei’s sudden appearance, he did not let on. ‘They have been most helpful.’ Izlyr also looked at Nick. ‘Although I was informed that you had given your life for the Martian Empire.’ Before Nick could answer Koschei continued. ‘Well, we must be off. Things are getting terribly tense on Peladon. The Federation fleet has dealt with the Martian ships and is now moving in on the planet. Seems like the Doctor is about to make his move and,’ he turned directly to Nick and Alf, ‘I doubt you two would want to miss that.’ Nick wasn’t so sure. The idea of coming up against the clone again did not sit too well with him. Alf on the other hand just smiled, and ushered Nick towards Koschei’s TARDIS. Before they entered the altar, she looked back at Xzalnyr. ‘Good luck. Looks like you have a civil war on your hands.’ Xzalnyr saluted Alf. ‘But it is one that we will win,’ he assured her. Nick stared at Vlaash, who stood beside the throne, resplendent in his saffron robes. Nick smiled. The Abbot of Oras nodded his head slightly, as Alf pushed Nick into the altar. Koschei was beaming. ‘Nice kids, them.’ He nodded at Izlyr. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, before he too entered the altar. Emperor Izlyr, Commander Xzalnyr and Abbot Vlaash watched as the altar dematerialised. Once they were alone again Xzalnyr spoke. ‘Shsurr Alf was correct. Now that Wellarzlee has become a martyr, we have a civil war on our hands.’ ‘Yes. The Chosen Ones must be eradicated,’ Izlyr said grimly.
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