"Sagan, how thoughtful!" the mind-seizer murmured, and commandeered a 'copter pilot's brain and body on the spot.
They arrived at the base without incident. The mind-seizer dismissed the 'copter pilot, who, when he came to, had no idea where he was or how he got there. Escorting his prisoner, Abdiel slid through the centurions surrounding the space-plane. Their minds enthralled, the Honor Guard noticed the mind-seizer and his captive no more than they noticed the wind or the darkness of the long night.
Abdiel was shivering, both with the chill—though the Laskarian night was exceptionally warm—and excitement. He sent Maigrey up the ladder to the spaceplane's hatch, followed her more slowly, encumbered in his robes, his frail body unused to the inordinate amount of physical exertion he'd expended this evening. He commanded her to wait, to assist him.
She waited, helped him down into the plane's interior with the gentleness and respect a daughter might have shown a beloved father.
"Thank you, my dear," Abdiel said, and thrust the needles into her outstretched palm, just to make certain she was his and that all went as he had planned.
"Who's there?" a voice called sharply. "Answer me this instant or I'll vaporize—"
"It's me, Lady Maigrey, XJ," the woman responded in lifeless tones.
"Oh, your ladyship!" It sounded as if the computer's circuits were practically melting with relief. "You're back! Does this mean that we can get rid of this infernal bomb?"
Abdiel glanced at Maigrey sharply, saw her waver. The mind-seizer squeezed the needles more deeply into her flesh. She gasped, cried out softly, then said, shuddering, "Yes, XJ, we're getting rid of it."
The mind-seizer led the woman to the cockpit of the plane. The bomb, its gold and crystal sparkling in the light, sat in plain view on the console.
Abdiel removed the needles to allow the woman freedom to use her hands. "And now, my dear, you will release the bomb from the computer's command. First, visual identification of yourself."
"You know me, XJ," Maigrey said.
"I think so." The computer didn't sound convinced.
"You know me, XJ!" Her tone sharpened.
"Yes, ma'am," the computer answered, subdued.
"And now the starjewel," Abdiel breathed, scratching at a patch of decaying skin on his arm in his eagerness. "The starjewel, Lady Maigrey! Show it to the computer!"
Her hand moved to her breast. This time there was no hesitation, no trembling. Reaching beneath the silver armor, she drew forth the jewel, dark and horrible to look at, crusted with the Adonian's dried blood.
"XJ," she said softly, extending the hand with the jewel in it toward the bomb, "you will follow my instructions. ..."
The Warlord looked at Marcus sharply, noticed his skin had an ashen tinge and was covered with sweat. Marcus's fingers clenched over the wounds on his palm. He gently, respectfully removed his hand from his lord's.
"Where's Lady Maigrey?" Sagan demanded.
The centurion straightened, stood on his own, without aid. "A man called Abdiel attacked us—"
"Abdiel!" Dion sprang forward, came up hard against the Warlords outthrust arm.
The centurion's pallid face was grim, stern. "I'm sorry, my lord. I failed in my trust—"
Sagan’s glance went again to the centurion's right hand.
Marcus's face flushed, life returning for a moment to the wan complexion. "It was the only weapon available to me, my lord."
Dion stared. "I don't understand—"
"He used the bloodsword," Sagan said, his voice grating.
"But that means ..." Dion bit his lip, cast a desperate, questioning glance at the Warlord. "Isn't there anything—"
Sagan shook his head. A spasm of pain convulsed the centurion's body, twisted his face, but, with an effort, he remained standing attentive, alert.
"It was a trap, my lord. The Adonian arranged to meet my lady, ostensibly to negotiate for the necklace—"
"Damn it!" Dion exploded. "We don't need to waste time listening to this! We have to go rescue her! If you won't, I—"
"Your Sagan whirled to confront the young man. "Just remember, my liege, that if it hadn't been for you, I might have been able to prevent this."
The blow struck home. Dion went white to the lips, was shattered into silence.
The Warlord turned back to Marcus. "Continue your report, centurion."
"Yes, my lord. According to what Abdiel told my lady, Snaga Ohme intended to kill her, using robots with live fire inside the target range. Instead, it was the Adonian who died. He was strangled with the chain of the starjewel. My lady cut him down, took the jewel from the corpse—" Marcus coughed, began to choke, gasped for breath.
The Warlord recognized the symptoms: the lungs beginning to fill with fluid, the burning fever, the onset of pneumonia.
"Fetch water!" Sagan ordered Dion.
"No . . . I'm all right ..." The centurion spoke normally; his breath was coming easier.
"How are you feeling?" the Warlord asked.
"Not too bad yet, my lord," Marcus answered quietly when he could speak.
"It will get worse, I'm afraid. Especially near the end."
"Yes, my lord. I know."
Dion made a strangled sound, turned, and bolted down the hallway. The Warlord watched him, prepared to call his guard to chase the boy down, but Dion came up against a wall at the far end of the hall. He slumped against it, his head bent, shoulders heaving.
Marcus followed the young man with concerned eyes, glanced back at his lord. He said nothing, however, stared down at his feet, at the blood dripping from his hand onto the floor.
"You think I'm hard on the boy?" Sagan asked abruptly.
"This can't be easy for him, my lord."
"He has to learn to accept the consequences of his actions," the Warlord returned, "whether he's going to be king or trash sorter on a garbage scow. And while he may be losing a friend, I am losing a trusted, valued soldier."
Marcus raised his head. A semblance of life returned to his fevered face. "Thank you for your praise, my lord. I don't deserve it. I couldn't save her—"
"You did all you could. More than most men," Sagan said, brooding gaze fixed on the centurion's bleeding hand. "Continue your report. It's just as well the boy isn't around to hear it."
"Yes, my lord. The robots opened fire. Caius was guarding the door. He died instantly. The door shut and sealed. Then I was hit and knocked to the floor. I played dead, and I heard a voice talking to the Starlady. The voice told her you had been killed, my lord. You and the boy both."
"She would know that wasn't true!" Sagan protested.
"Maybe she did, my lord. Maybe not. She seemed to die herself when that old man came up to her. Except when he . . . thrust those needles into her hand. Then she fought. I couldn't understand what was wrong with her, my lord, until the old man looked at me." Marcus paled, neck muscles tensed. "He seemed to come inside me, my lord, and he showed me—he showed me my own death. . . ."The centurion swallowed; there came a harsh, clicking sound from his throat. Sweat ran down his face.
"Where did he take my lady, Marcus?"
Marcus struggled to speak. His words came in a choking cough. "To her spaceplane, my lord."
"Damn!" The Warlord swore softly beneath his breath.
"But that’s on the military base, my lord. The Honor Guard surely they'll stop him—"
"Abdiel could get past the Portress of Hell's Gate if he chose. How much time has passed since they left?"
"I'm not certain, my lord. I . . . blacked out for a few moments When I came to myself, I had difficulty finding you—"
"It's been long enough, then. I—"
Sagan stopped speaking, his words interrupted by a voice, a voice only he could hear.
My lord, I can no longer fight Abdiel. But I have found a way to defeat him ultimately and forever. True to my oath, I warn you of what I am about to do. You will have time to take Dion and escape. And, in case you doubt me or my intent, I leave
you with this quote: The center cannot hold. God be with you and my king!
Sagan stood unmoving, attention strained, trying to catch each word, which came to him more faintly than the one before it. Involuntarily, he reached out his hand, as if to hold on to her. His fingers closed on air, on nothing, and clenched into a fist.
"My lord!" Marcus was alarmed.
The Warlord returned to his surroundings. His eyes flickered with sardonic, grim amusement. "How long would you judge you have to live, Marcus?"
The centurion was shocked, startled by the question. He looked down at his palm. The five wounds were swollen, inflamed, and continued to ooze blood. "I'm not certain, my lord. A few days, perhaps. ..."
"You are wrong, centurion." The Warlord smiled, thin-lipped, dark. "From now on, those of us on this planet measure our lives in seconds. My lady knows the code. She has the starjewel. She has armed and activated the bomb."
"May God have mercy!" Marcus intoned.
"May He, indeed!" Sagan muttered. He needed to act, act immediately. He could feel the seconds sliding through his fingers like sand, hear the ticking of the clock in every heartbeat. He could do as she told him, take Dion, flee the planet as she advised. That would be the smart course, the wise one.
But to give up everything! Just when it was in his grasp! To lose the bomb! Not only that. To lose Snaga Ohme's arsenal of weapons, the Adonian's computer records. Though Ohme himself was dead, his genius in weapons design and engineering would live on. By now, Haupt would have his troops in position, ready to move in and take over once Sagan gave the command.
This was to have been his power base! This was to have given him the means to rule the galaxy . . . with Dion, of course.
"My lady has beaten Abdiel, and she has beaten me. All without breaking her oath."
The Warlord swore bitterly, softly beneath his breath—a reflexive response; he wasn't even aware he was doing it. He made his decision, realized afterward that there had never been a decision to make.
"Not a word of this to the boy!" he ordered Marcus. "Come with me."
Proceeding down the hallway, the Warlord spoke on the commlink located inside his helm. Ohme's people would be monitoring the transmission, but it was too late for that now. "Haupt! Come in!"
"My lord." The brigadier's response was immediate. Haupt must have been eagerly awaiting word from his commander.
"Alert the base. Have one of the spaceplanes standing by, ready for immediate takeoff. The boy I told you about is in danger on this planet. I want him away from Laskar, away from this system. I'm going to shut the force field down. Send two land-jets to the house to pick us up. Stand by."
Sagan ended the transmission, continued walking. Marcus had made a valiant attempt to accompany him, but Sagan saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the dying centurion was having a difficult time keeping up. Something would have to be done about that.
The Warlord reached the end of the hallway, flicked a glance at Dion, turned his gaze to the connecting hall, to his men standing near the Adonian's control center.
Sagan's eyes suddenly shifted back to Dion. The boy was rapt, staring out into nothing with fixed attention, the full, pouting lips slightly parted, lines of pain smoothed from the face. It occurred to the Warlord that Maigrey might have informed Dion of her intent, but for what purpose—other than frightening the hell out of the boy—Sagan couldn't imagine.
"Dion!" he snapped, and the young man returned to his surroundings with a jolt.
"My lord."
Sagan scrutinized him carefully. Dion's blue eyes were wary, guarded.
"The Adonian is dead. I'm taking over. Whoever controls this arsenal has a good chance of controlling at least a piece of the galaxy But there's probably going to be fighting. Ohme's people may put up resistance. For your own safety, my liege, I'm taking you off-planet."
The blue eyes were unblinking, their gaze steady and unwavering. "What about the Lady Maigrey, my lord?"
"The Lady Maigrey is beyond our help for the moment. But I wouldn't concern myself with her, my liege," the Warlord added dryly. "My lady can take care of herself."
"We will do what you consider best for the safety of our person, my lord," Dion replied coolly.
Damn! Sagan thought to himself. He's even beginning to sound like his uncle! Something inside warned the Warlord that the young man was taking this much too calmly, but Sagan didn't have time to pay any heed to it. He turned and started down the corridor, heading for the control center. A crash behind him brought him to a halt. The Warlord glanced around.
Marcus, his breath coming in painful gasps, had fallen to his knees.
The Warlord checked his stride, turned back.
Seeing his lord approach him, the centurion attempted to stand, pushing himself up the wall with his hands, the right hand leaving a smeared trail of blood.
"Let me help you," Sagan said, reaching down his strong arm. "You'll travel with Dion. We'll take you to Defiant, to Dr. Giesk—"
"What can he do for me, my lord?" Marcus heaved himself to his feet, leaned back weakly against the wall. He burned with fever, struggled against pain, but his armor rattled with his body's agony.
"There are drugs that will ease your suffering—" Sagan began.
"Not this!" Marcus gasped the words. "I know! Abdiel—he showed me my death! My lord!" Reaching out, he grasped hold of Sagan's arm. "My lord, please ..." His voice broke off in a rending cough.
But the Warlord had seen the dying man's request in the pain-filled eyes.
"I can't, centurion!" Sagan answered harshly, drawing back. "God forbids it—"
"Then let the sin be upon me!"
A hand came from nowhere, brushed against him, shoved him aside. Dion stood in front of Sagan, the Warlord's own bloodsword in his grasp.
Marcus, seeing the sword's light begin to glow brightly, understood. "Thank you, my liege." His lips formed the words; his voice was inaudible.
"Are you ready?" Dion asked.
The centurion's pain-shadowed eyes sought his lord's. "My lord?"
Sagan nodded once, heavily. "God go with—"
Dion struck while Marcus's attention was diverted, driving the sword's flaming blade through the armor, deep into the man's chest. Marcus gave a choking gasp. His body began to sag down to the floor. Dion dropped the sword, caught the dying man in his arms.
The centurion's eyes held the young man in their gaze for an instant, lips forming words that would never be spoken. The right hand clenched in agony, but the body's struggle against death was mercifully brief. Marcus's hand relaxed, slid down to fall lifeless on the floor. The head sagged forward, resting on the young man's shoulder.
"I'm sorry. ..." Dion whispered, holding the limp body tightly. "I'm sorry!"
He felt a hand touch his shoulder, looked up into the eyes of the Warlord. Gently, Dion eased the body down.
"'Lux aeterna, luceat eis, Domine, cum sanctis tuis in aeternam; quia pius es."' Sagan knelt beside the dead centurion, laid his hand upon the forehead. "'Let eternal light shine upon them, O Lord, with Thy saints forever, for Thou art merciful.'"
Rising to his feet, he turned to Dion.
Whatever Sagan had been going to say went unsaid. The boy was like a clear, crystal votive lamp that guards within it the sacrificial flame. Outside he was smooth, cold glass; within he burned with a devouring fire. His bright clothes, with the lion-faced sun, were wet with blood.
The Warlord was shaken to the core of his being. The awe he had experienced once, during the boy's rite, returned and overwhelmed him. He stood in the Presence, and curse and rail against God as he might, he could not deny it.
The fire in the blue eyes flickered over Sagan.
"It was my responsibility," Dion said, rising to his feet. My, the singular, not the royal we.
The Warlord did not respond. What the boy said was true, there was no comfort to be offered.
Dion leaned down, lifted the bloodsword, and handed it back to the W
arlord. Their hands met. Sagan could have sworn he felt the touch of flame upon his skin.
The young man turned and walked down the hall, never once glancing at the body on the floor.
Chapter Seventeen
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world . . .
William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"
"Honored guests and members of the household of Snaga Ohme, your attention, please." Sagan's voice, deep and cold, sounded over the paging system like the tolling of the death knell, instantly silencing the merriment, putting a halt to all business transactions, bringing everyone to alert, tense attention. "I am Warlord Derek Sagan, speaking to you from the control center of the Adonian's mansion. Your host, Snaga Ohme, is dead."
The Warlord paused only long enough to let any astonished murmurings die down so that he could be heard. "And there has been an unfortunate accident. One of the nuclear bombs has been armed and is primed to explode. We are endeavoring to disarm it, but I would advise all of you to evacuate the planet without delay. Please remain calm. There is no need for panic.
"Which warning," the Warlord added, shutting down the paging system, "should send everyone stampeding madly for the nearest exits."
The Warlord was inside the central control room. The bodies of several of Ohme's guards lay on the floor, cut down by the bloodsword. The takeover had been swift, resistance minimal. Those manning the control center were already in a state of confusion. They had received reports of an army moving into position outside the estate and had been unable to reach their leader for orders. Most, after witnessing the deaths of the guards, surrendered themselves to the Warlord.
Now, hearing his announcement about the bomb, they stood staring at him in wide-eyed terror.
"Get out!" he ordered them, and none hesitated.
Glancing over the equipment, Sagan rapidly located those devices that controlled the force field and the defenses on the estates outer perimeter. Swiftly, he shut them off.
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