Maigrey froze, literally shivering with suppressed fury. "So, my lord!" she said in a soft and deadly undertone. "This is the regard you have for my oath! I'm to be a prisoner—"
"Damn it, woman!" Nerves taut, Sagan exploded. "We're each allowed to take two bodyguards!" Shoving his captain out of his way, the Warlord turned to his line of men. "Marcus! Caius! Fall out!"
The two did as commanded, eyes straight ahead, standing at attention.
"You two are, from this moment, no longer in my service."
"Yes, my lord." Both men stiffened, faces paled.
"The Lady Maigrey is looking for two good men to engage in her service. Do you know of two I can recommend to her?"
"Yes, my lord," Marcus said, relaxing slightly, allowing his eyes to shift for a moment to meet hers. "I would be honored, my lord."
"Caius?"
"Yes, my lord. Certainly, my lord."
"My lady." Sagan turned to her with a cold and formal bow. "These two men are willing to enter into your service. Do you accept them?"
"I do, my lord, with my most grateful thanks." She drew near him, murmured, "They will obey my every command?"
"Every command, my lady."
"What if I ordered them to kill you, my lord?"
The dark eyes behind the helm lightened for a moment, glinted with amusement. "I trained them myself, my lady. They are well disciplined. I would trust that, should you order my death, they would obey without question."
"Thank you, my lord," she said. "Just checking."
A signal came over the commlink.
"The staff car has arrived, my lord," the captain informed them.
Turn back, Maigrey. Make some excuse. Pack away the silver armor.
Was it Sagan's voice? Or her own speaking to her? It wasn't urging, tempting, or threatening. It was, once again, offering her a choice.
A choice . . . Achilles' choice—glory or long life.
Maigrey looked into the shadowed eyes behind the golden helm.
You accept your fate, then, my lady ?
Maigrey grinned suddenly, her spirits ebullient, her blood burning with excitement. I chose glory long ago, my lord. Didn't you?
The Warlord bowed, offered Maigrey his arm. Bowing, she accepted. Silver-gloved fingers shone brightly against golden armor.
Drawing her near him, Sagan whispered softly, "Long ago, my lady. Long ago."
"Dion, my dear boy, you look quite splendid!" Abdiel remarked, gazing at the young man with a critical eye. "Mikael is skilled with his fingers. Turn around and let me see you from the back. Perfect, perfect. No one will suspect a thing."
Dion submitted to the examination with as good grace as possible, considering that inside he was hot as a malfunctioning lasgun, overcharged, building to an explosion. His clothing had been designed to disguise the cumulators and the boy, accustomed to plain jeans and Platus's handmade shirts, thought he literally looked like a fool.
The "jewels" that were the gun's energy source had to be placed on the body directly over the nerve bundles that would activate them. Mikael had designed and sewn a vest whose every centimeter was encrusted with fake costume jewelry, decorated with sequins and garish embroidery. Dion had, at least, been able to decide what pattern he wanted on the vest.
"What was my family's crest like?" he had asked Abdiel, and the young man had frowned severely on being told it was a sun shining down on a lion recumbent.
"But the old has been washed away, hasn't it?"
"Washed away in blood, my king," Abdiel had responded. "Leaving you free to choose your own crest."
Dion had disappeared into his room. Emerging several hours later, he'd handed Mikael a drawing. Mikael had taken it to Abdiel.
A sun with the face of a lion, the sun's flames forming the lion's mane.
Abdiel had sniffed, shrugged. "Ostentatious. Typical of the Starfires. The ancient Greeks would have termed it hubris— false pride in oneself which offends the gods. Put it on the vest."
They were preparing to depart for the Event. Abdiel and Dion stood outside the prefab house, the 'copter that was to take them to Snaga Ohme's warming up its engines.
The vest's bright and shining lion-faced sun, done in crystal beads on the back, caught the last rays of Laskar's sinking sun, and both seemed to flame with renewed brilliance. On the front of the vest, two eight-pointed stars, one embroidered on either side of his chest, concealed the cumulators. A medallion, formed in the likeness of a smiling sun with fat cheeks, hung from around his neck. Placed directly over the sternum, it held the largest of the cumulators. A jeweled belt, decorated with eight-pointed stars, fit snugly around his waist and held two more. The gun, devised in the shape of an eight-pointed star, masqueraded as the belt's buckle.
Dion flexed his arms, shifting uncomfortably. The vest was heavy and hot, the medallion thumped on his chest every time he took a step, and the large belt was tightly cinched and seemed determined to cut him in two. He was sweating profusely and reached inside the vest to scratch.
"Your Majesty, really! You mustn't!" Abdiel scolded, holding out a restraining hand.
"It's the heat!" Dion said, almost frantic with nervous energy. "I can't stand this waiting around! Isn't that thing ready to go yet?" he added, referring to the 'copter.
"Patience, Dion. Patience. By the way, Your Majesty, I hope you will forgive me the familiarity of calling you by your name when we arrive at the Adonian's. There will be those in attendance who would not understand."
"I don't mind," Dion said nonchalantly, blue eyes blazing more brilliantly than any sun. Abdiel was wrong. If all went as planned, everyone would understand. But it wouldn't do to say anything about that now.
Dion, to keep his mind occupied and off the itching rash or whatever it was, undipped the gun from the belt and studied it intently.
"Toying with the weapon—a bad habit," Mikael said, coming up from behind the young man suddenly. "You will make people suspicious."
Dion glanced up, startled. "I just wanted to—"
"Mikael is right, Dion," Abdiel admonished severely. "Put the gun away now, dear boy, and remember—don't draw it again until you are ready to use it."
Dion didn't respond, afraid he'd say something he'd regret. Pretending not to have heard, he stalked over to the 'copter, ducking his head beneath the whirling blades, and climbed inside. What does the old man take me for? he thought. A child? I'm a man, doing a man's job. A knight, riding to do battle to defend the weak and innocent. A king, setting forth to claim my kingdom.
Abdiel attempted to enter the copter. But the mind-seizer's magenta robes, decorated with a slash of black lightning, whipped about him in the wind, and he was having difficulty.
Dion extended his hand, took the old man's hand, and pulled him into the 'copter, assisted him in settling himself in the seat. Mikael took the controls, and the 'copter lifted off.
The young man watched the house and the ground fall away from him and was reminded suddenly, forcibly, of the first time he'd ever flown in the spaceplane. He'd been with Tusk . . . the night Platus had died at the hands of the Warlord. Then it had seemed to Dion that his life was dropping away from him.
His gaze left the ground; he looked up at the sky, at the heavens, glittering with stars. Now things were different. Now he was rising to meet it.
The 'copter gained altitude. They could see, in the distance, the bright lights shining from the Adonian's estate.
Abdiel, noticing the boy's rapt face, seeing Dion occupied with inner thoughts, leaned forward and touched Mikael gently on the shoulder.
"That other matter of which we spoke. Is all arranged?"
"All arranged, master," Mikael replied.
Chapter Seven
I'll never get off this world alive.
Hank Williams, from the song of the same title.
"That's a 'copter!" Tusk said, jumping up.
"Yeah, so what?" Nola demanded listlessly, lounging back on the mattress that was the room's
only furnishing. "Those zombie types're always coming and going in the damn things."
"Not in the last few days they haven't been," Tusk commented. Restless, he padded over to the door, pressed his ear against it. The whop-whop of the 'copter blades faded fast and he could hear what sounded like hammering, large objects dropping to the ground. Every once in a while, he felt a shudder go through the floorboards beneath his feet.
"Damn!" Frustrated, Tusk gave the doorknob a futile twist, the door an angry lack. "I wish I knew what was going on!"
"Would you stop it?" Nola said, brushing back her sweat-damp hair. "It doesn't do any good, and it'll only bring one of the zombies to warn us to behave. You know what they did to you the last time."
Tusk, grimacing, rubbed his solar plexus. He was still sore, and it hurt to breathe. He guessed he had at least two cracked ribs and probably a bruised kidney. It was, he had to admit, one of the most effective beatings he'd ever taken.
Two zombies had hauled him into another one of the boxlike rooms, bound his hands, and gagged him to keep him from screaming. The mind-dead then proceeded to batter him senseless, delivering each punch with calm, unemotional, ruthless efficiency. And there'd been no emotion in the dead eyes when they'd informed him that if he made any more attempts to escape, they'd give Nola that same treatment— only worse.
It was probably the one threat that could have stopped Tusk. Having spent time in the brig for insubordination (after which he'd deserted the Galactic Air Corps), the mercenary hated confinement and would have gladly risked another beating if he'd been on his own. He was worried about Dion, too, though the first thing he planned to do once he got out of this mess was grab the kid and shake him until his teeth rattled.
"Stupid-ass kid," Tusk muttered, easing himself down on the mattress beside Nola. "Those plans of his he was talking about—he's decided he's gonna try to kill the Warlord."
"You don't know that," Nola said wearily. She was hearing this for about the thousandth time.
"I do, too! I know him. He thinks he's some sort of goddam boy-hero—"
"What did you think when you were that age?" Nola teased, nestling close to him, hoping to change the subject.
"Hell, that was different," Tusk said modestly. "I was a boy-hero. I—"
"Shhh!" Nola put his fingers over his lips. "Someone's coming!"
Tusk twisted to his feet, motioning for Nola to do the same. Watchful and wary, they listened to the approaching footsteps. There was more than one person, by the sound of it. The footfalls came to a halt outside the door. Bolts slid aside; a hand pushed the door open.
Four of the mind-dead entered. Two remained standing in the doorway, two walked into the room. The two framed in the door were holding needle-guns, one aimed at Tusk, the other at Nola. The hammering sound was louder and, over it, voices shouting instructions.
"What now?" Tusk growled, eyeing the guns and the mind-dead holding them, weighing the odds, itching to jump the guy and shove that gun down his unemotional throat.
"Come." The mind-dead gestured with the gun.
Tusk decided, reluctantly, he couldn't risk it. While he was lunging, the bastard'd shoot Nola.
"Come? Come where?"
"Outside," the mind-dead repeated, emphasizing his words with the gun. "We're going for a walk."
It's all over, said a voice in the back of Tusk's mind. Dion's gone. They've done with him whatever it is they're going to do and now they can get rid of us. We're gonna take a walk, all right—the last walk. Guess they can't kill us in here, probably don't want to get blood on the walls.
Fight! The temptation flashed through Tusk's mind. His muscles tensed in response. What have I got to lose? He looked at Nola, saw that she knew what he was thinking, saw that she was with him.
By God, I'm proud of her. No tears, no screams. Calm, cool. And, oh God, how I love her!
We'll die fighting, but we'll die. Trapped in this box, we don't have a chance. No room to maneuver, no hope of finding anything to use as a weapon. Maybe once we're outside . . .
Tusk raised his hands in the air, flicking a quick wink at Nola to tell her Not now!
The mind-dead escorted them out of the room and through the maze of halls and stairways, one marching behind Tusk, the gun pressed against his back, the other behind Nola.
"That's why you're evicting us, huh?" Tusk said conversationally, looking around. "You guys are packing up and heading out."
The house was being dismantled, the mind-dead swarming over it like ants over a carcass. Walls were being unhinged and taken apart, stacked in neat, numbered piles. Furniture stood on the desert floor, waiting to be hauled into the waiting shuttlecraft. Its lights were on; several mind-dead were working on it, apparently readying it for flight.
Tusk paused, ostensibly to watch the activity. He was, in reality, swiftly scanning the ground, hoping desperately to find a chance for escape.
It was night, but the mind-dead had lit the area with nuke lamps to allow them to continue with their work. The landscape was flooded with glaring white light, almost as bright as, and certainly more appealing than, Laskar's green sun. But, by that light, Tusk could see the prospect for escape was bleak.
More mind-dead than he could count surrounded them, and all of them were armed. The area was wide open; the only cover was a large outcropping of boulders scattered on top of the lip of a gully off to his left. As for weapons . . . well, he could always throw rocks. . . .
The gun poked painfully into his bruised flesh. "Move."
"All right, all right!" Tusk grunted.
He kept his head down, his eyes fixed on the ground. He couldn't face Nola. She'll know, the minute she sees my expression, that it's hopeless, he thought. Hell, probably she knows now.
Warm fingers closed over his hand. He held on to her tightly.
Yeah, she knows.
They were moving toward the boulders. Tusk could see the gully gaping wide, a large crack in the desert floor. The perfect grave. No one would ever find the bodies. Not that anybody'd be looking. He knew, now, as sure as fate, that Abdiel planned to murder Dion after the kid had done the mind-seizer's dirty work and killed Sagan for him. Perhaps the kid was already dead. . . .
I wasn't much of a Guardian, Tusk said to himself. He could see the sad, careworn face of the boy's mentor, the calm, proud, scarred face of his sister. I'm sorry, Platus. Sorry, Starlady. ... He squeezed tightly the hand clinging to his. I'm sorry, Nola.
At least I'll go out fighting. No one'll find me—if anyone finds me—with a hole blasted in my back.
They were circling around the shuttlecraft, heading for the boulders, the gully. I'll wait until we're out of sight of the other mind-dead, wait until we reach the jumble of rocks. If by some miracle we escape, the boulders and gully will offer cover.
Tusk trudged over the hard-packed ground. They had reached the outcropping of boulders—huge red rocks that lay scattered across the desert floor like marbles belonging to some giant's child. The light from the house was partially blocked by the shuttlecraft, which cast long, dark shadows. The gully was wide and deep and, now that they were near, Tusk could hear the faint sound of rushing water—one of those dry creek beds that come to life only when it rains.
Nola tried to wriggle her hand free. Tusk knew why—she was planning to help him fight—and he held on fast. He had a plan himself. We reach the lip of the gully. I give Nola a hard tug, fling her over the edge. Then I'll turn and fight. I hope she's got sense enough to get away. I hope she can swim, he thought, hearing the water gurgling beneath them.
They reached the edge of the ditch.
"Stop," the mind-dead ordered.
So I was right. This is gonna be our grave.
He tensed, drew a breath that would probably be his last, and flashed Nola a quick look that said everything in his heart. . . .
A stabbing beam of light damn near blinded him. Stinging pain tore through his arm. For a moment he thought the mind-dead had fired and mis
sed, then the zombie standing behind him crumpled to the ground.
Tusk blinked, dazed, paralyzed, trying desperately to see what was going on. He wondered if he'd seen the light at all. It had been like a lightning flash on a perfectly clear day. He doubted his senses. But before he could move or react, another deadly beam arced past Nola, and then another . . . and the mind-dead—now really, most sincerely dead—lay on the ground behind them.
"Jump for it, fools!" hissed a voice from the rocks on the other side of the gully.
Tusk was only too happy to obey. He and Nola scrambled and slid down the side of the ravine. It was pitch dark here, out of the nuke lights, and he was still half-blinded. The sound of running water was louder. Tusk came to a halt.
"C'mon!" Nola tugged at him. "What are you waiting for? Someone's bound to wonder why those zombies aren't coming back!"
"You go ahead," Tusk told her. The water thundered in his ears. His ribs hurt like hell; every breath was like sucking in fire.
"Don't be stupid! What's the—"
"Damn it, Nola! I can't swim!"
He was getting his night vision, and he could see her eyes widen. She started to giggle, choked it off. "Tusk," she began, trying to speak calmly, "I don't think the water's that deep. ..."
"Doesn't matter," Tusk said, breathing heavily. "I've always been afraid of water. Hell, I can't even sit in a bathtub. If it wasn't for showers I'd—"
"What you two waiting for?" A shadowy figure appeared at the opposite edge of the ravine. "Maybe I make mistake. Maybe you want to die."
"Go ahead, Nola. I'll catch up with you. Just give me a minute—"
"No, I'm staying right here with you."
Tusk glared at her. "You can be a real bitch sometimes!"
"I know," she said sweetly. "Well, do we stay here or go across the creek? C'mon. I'll even hold your hand. "
"No, thanks!"
And before he could give himself time to think about it,
Tusk stepped into the rushing water, prepared to sink, flounder helplessly. . . .
The water washed over his feet, came to his ankles, and stopped. Nola splashed in beside him. "Want a life raft?"
King's Test Page 38
