Graham McNeill - I, Mengsk

"Crowded together, those at the front will impede those behind." A parry and riposte.

Valerian shifted left and launched his own attack. "The push from the rear will prevent those at the front from retreating or finding a better path."

"Very good," said Master Miyamoto, easily deflecting Valerian's attacks. "And what of balance?"

"It is the key to success," said Valerian, smiling as yet again the words came easily to him.

"Why?" repeated Master Miyamoto, parrying a clumsy attack and rolling his blade around Valerian's sword.

"A leader who puts his faith in his guns will be outmaneuvered," said Valerian, deflecting the blow and circling around to his right.

"Then he must train all his warriors in close-quarters combat," offered Miyamoto.

"No, for then he will lose his force to enemy fire," countered Valerian.

"Very good. So what does it mean to have balance?"

"It means that every element of an army must work in harmony, so that its effectiveness is greater than the sum of its parts."

Master Miyamoto nodded and lowered his blade. He spun the weapon quickly and sheathed it in the scabbard at his belt.

"We are done for the day," he said.

Valerian was relieved, for his body was aching, but he was also disappointed, for he had finally begun to appreciate the lessons of The Book of Virtues and how to access them while he trained. It was just a beginning, but it was an important beginning, he felt.

He returned Master Miyamoto's bow and sheathed his sword, running his hands through his blond hair. He wore it long, pulled tightly into a ponytail during sword practice, and its golden hue was no less bright than it had been when he was a youngster.

Master Miyamoto turned on his heel and made his way along a stone-flagged path toward the fountain at the garden's center. He took a seat on the ledge around the fountain and dipped his hand into the cold water.

Valerian followed the swordmaster and sat next to him, taking a handful of water and splashing his face.

"You are improving," said Master Miyamoto. "It is good to see."

"Thank you," said Valerian. "It's hard work, but I think I'm beginning to get it."

"It will take time," agreed Miyamoto. "Nothing good ever comes without effort. I remember telling your father the same thing."

Valerian's interest was suddenly piqued, for Master Miyamoto had never spoken of his dad before now, save when he had first arrived. Miyamoto had arrived a few weeks after Valerian and his mother had fled Umoja, informing Juliana that Arcturus Mengsk had retained him to become the boy's tutor in all matters martial and academic.

His mother had been furious at his dad's presumption, but the matter was not up for discussion. Master Miyamoto had only been persuaded to leave his position at Styrling Academy to teach the boy for an exorbitant fee, and only Valerian's desire to win his father's approval had persuaded Juliana to let Miyamoto stay.

"You taught my dad to use a sword?" asked Valerian.

"I did," Miyamoto nodded. "He casts a long shadow, Valerian, but it is my hope that you will be able to escape it and fulfill your potential."

"I bet he was good with a sword," said Valerian. "He looks like he could fight."

"He was a fair swordsman," conceded Miyamoto. "He was strong and won most of his bouts before even a single blow was struck."

"How?"

"There is more to fighting than simply wielding a sword," said Miyamoto. "More often than not, a man is defeated by his own doubts."

"I don't understand."

"In any contest of arms where life and death rest on the outcome, most men's fear will see their opponent as stronger, faster, and more capable," explained Miyamoto. "Such doubts only serve to make it so. To win, you must have utter belief in your abilities. No doubt must enter your mind."

"Is that what my dad did?"

Miyamoto stood, as though deciding that he had said too much. "Yes, your father had complete faith in his abilities. But victory is not the only measure of a man."

"It isn't?"

"No, there is honor. A man may lose everything he has, yet still retain his honor. Nothing is more important. Always remember that, Valerian, no matter what anyone else tries to teach you. Even your father."

"Honor is more important than dying?"

"Absolutely," said Miyamoto. "Some things are worth dying for."

"Like what?"

"Defending noble ideals or fighting for the oppressed. The honorable man must always stand firm before tyrants who would dominate the weak. The abuse of power must always be fought, and men of honor do not stand idly by while such evils are allowed to exist."

"Just like my dad," said Valerian proudly.

Master Miyamoto bowed to him. "No," he said sadly. "Not like your father."

Valerian stripped off his training garments and dumped them on the floor of his bedroom. He grabbed a towel and made his way into the bathroom, turning on the tap and stepping back from the tub as chilly water gurgled and spurted from the showerhead. Eventually the wale: warmed and Valerian stepped under ihe hot sprav.

Over the last year he and his mother had spent on Icarus IV. Valerian had gotten used to a liquid shower as opposed to the sonic ones he'd grown up with on Umoja. The hot water soothed his muscles and refreshed him in a way the vibrational removal of dirt molecules and dead skin from his body just couldn't. Even though it was wasteful to use water this frivolously, Valerian decided it was entirely worth it.

He stepped from the shower and began toweling himself dry, stopping for a moment to look at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. Though he was young, his body was developing quickly and his upper body strength was growing every day. Accompanied by a squad of soldiers, he ran every other morning. Jogging around the patrolled perimeter of the Umojan agrarian complex—a distance of some six kilometers— and was pleased with his increased endurance.

He flexed and posed in the mirror, enjoying the fantasy that he was some dashing interplanetary hero like his dad. Despite Master Miyamoto's words, Valerian was proud of what his dad was doing.

Valerian returned to his bedroom, a cluttered space filled with books, digi-tomes, an unmade bed, and sliver-skinned trunks full of clothes. His collections of fossils, rocks, and alien artifacts were proudly on show in a number of display cabinets and a number of antique weapons were hung on the wall.

They had belonged to the previous owner of the mansion in which they now dwelled— surely the most salubrious accommodation they'd stayed in since leaving Umoja—and Valerian had liked them so much, he had left them there. He'd asked Master Miyamoto if he could train with some of the more exotic-looking weapons—a falchion, a glaive, or a falx—but his tutor had forbidden him to touch any more weapons until he was competent with a sword at least.

Still, it did no harm to have them around, as many were plainly hundreds of years old and gave him a connection to times long gone. In a small way, they made it easier to hold on to the concept of alien civilizations existing in forgotten ages of the past. The concept of millions of years ago was almost impossible to grasp, but a few hundred years was easy, and by such small steps he could imagine larger spans of time.

Valerian cleared a space on his bed and dressed himself in loose-fitting trousers and a blue shirt of expensive silk. He settled back on the bed and lifted the copy of The Book of Virtues Master Miyamoto had given him and began to read. Unlike the majority of Valerian's other books, this was an old-fashioned one of paper pages bound together within a leather cover, which bore an inscription on the inside in letters he couldn't read.

Master Miyamoto had said his own father had written the words on the morning of his death. Only after much cajoling had Master Miyamoto told Valerian what the words meant.