"Haupt"—Sagan spoke into the commlink—"the force field is down. I ve issued the warning to the people inside. Any second now, pandemonium should be in full swing. Move your men into position. You shouldn't meet much, if any, organized resistance."
"My lord"—Haupt sounded worried—"we heard the announcement. About the bomb—"
"A hoax, Brigadier," Sagan cut him off impatiently, "to clear people from the estate. Send in those two land-jets—one for my use and one for the boy. Now!" And he shut down the communication before Haupt could ask more questions.
"You two stay here," he ordered his centurions, who had armed themselves with the dead guard's weapons. "A team from the base will relieve you shortly. Report back to me at the fort Bring your comrade's body for the rites and cremation."
The centurions saluted, fist over heart, and took up their positions.
We may all be cremated, Sagan found himself thinking grimly, if I can't stop Maigrey. Catching hold of the young man. who had observed the takeover with a distant and remote expression on his pale face, the Warlord propelled his king unceremoniously toward the elevators and the lower level.
"Why do I need a separate land-jet?" Dion asked, hurrying to keep up with Sagan's long strides. He glanced at Sagan out of the corner of his eye. "Aren't we going to the same place?"
I would rather reign in hell . . .
"I rather doubt it," the Warlord said.
The Warlord and Dion entered the ballroom. Sagan looked about him in satisfaction. Pandemonium had been an understatement. People jammed the elevators, some fighting to get in. others fighting to get out. Crowds swarmed up the stairs and through side exits that had been hastily opened, people pushing and shoving each other aside in their haste to flee the doomed planet. Everyone was shouting, using whatever communications devices they had brought with them, ordering their ships readied for immediate takeoff. Sagan noted many of Ohme's people among the fleeing multitude. Their leader's body had been discovered and either they believed the story about the bomb or they didn't want to be around when the authorities arrived to ask questions.
All except one. The tear-ravaged face of Bosk loomed suddenly up in front of the Warlord. "Sagan!" the Adonian hissed, leaping at him, hands going for the Warlord's throat. "You're responsible! You murdered him! I'll—"
The Warlord stiff-armed the man; a knife-handed jab to the neck sent Bosk sprawling to the floor. Sagan kept a tight grip on Dion, stepped over the writhing body, continued past. By now, the media had caught sight of the Warlord and the boy-king and were pushing their way forward. Bomb or no bomb, they intended to get their story.
Sagan shoved and literally beat several reporters out of his path, but the going was slow. The crush of people increased around them, impeding their way. The Warlord cursed. He was beginning to think that he had done his job not wisely but too well when a gigantic form—implacable, immovable as a bearded oak tree—planted itself directly in front of him.
Sagan halted, looked up into a hairy, grinning face.
"My lord!" Bear Olefsky boomed. His laughing eyes sparked, shifted to Dion. "And the kinglet! Well met. You appear to be in need of assistance."
"Get us out of here!" Sagan said shortly.
"With pleasure, my lord!"
Laughing, calm as if he were wading through a stream of water instead of a stream of human and alien life-forms, Bear and his two sons began to clear the Warlord's path. The swelling tide of people pounded against them, but it might as well have washed up against a rock cliff. The Bear moved forward steadily; the masses parted, flowed, and eddied around them. Sagan and Dion surged along in the wake.
They reached the main staircase, Bear catching hold of and tossing overboard those who didn't get out of his way. Once outside of the Adonian's estate, they arrived in time to see a pillar of orange flame shoot into the air—Haupt's forces had blown the power generator. The ground shook beneath their feet. Lights went out, plunging the mansion into darkness, increasing—if possible—panic's reign inside.
Sagan looked above him, saw stars and Laskar's nail-paring of a moon in the sky overhead. The force field was down. He could hear the whine of approaching land-jets. The Warlord took out his bloodsword, inserted the needles into his hand, and activated it. The blade flamed to life. He raised it, signaling to the jets.
"So the Adonian is really dead?" Bear rumbled, coming up to stand next to him. "And who inherits his estate, I wonder?" Olefsky cocked one eye at the Warlord.
Sagan shut off the sword. "I suppose Snaga Ohme left a will."
Bear Olefsky burst out into a laugh that was like another explosion. "And made you executor, no doubt! Or is the word executioner?"
"Thank you for your help, Olefsky. You better get off-planet."
"Oh, yes! The bomb!" Bear winked, gave Sagan a slap on the back that nearly knocked the breath from the man's body. "Farewell, Warlord! When you and the lady need me to fight for this redheaded boy-king of yours"—the Bear jerked his head in Dion's direction—"give me a call. I'll be waiting!
"Now, come along, you clumsy oafs! Try not to trample anyone!" Marshaling his two lummoxlike sons, Bear lumbered off into the night. As he left, they could hear the big man repeat, every once in a while, "Bomb!" and chuckle in appreciation.
Sagan stared after him a moment, glanced thoughtfully at the young man. After all, I might fail, he thought. And then Dion would have no one.
"Bear Olefsky is a good man, my liege," he said to the young man. "You could trust him."
"That would be a change, wouldn't it, my lord?" the boy returned with unconcealed bitterness, blue eyes cool and remote in the moonlight.
The Warlord's lips twitched in a half-smile. Activating the sword again, he guided the jets to a landing.
Dion shouted to be heard over the engine's roar. "Where are you sending me?"
The Warlord frowned. Now that he thought of it, this calm acquiescence was disconcerting. Sagan sensed something behind it, but he didn't have time to try to fathom it.
Perhaps, after all, the boy had simply learned his lesson.
"Defiant," the Warlord told him. "To join your old friend, John Dixter. He should be pleased to have company."
"I'm a prisoner, then?" Dion yelled.
"Be any damn thing you can be!" Sagan shouted irritably. He waited only until he saw the boy hustled aboard the jet, then left for his own jet at a dead run.
But it seemed to Sagan that he heard, soft and disquieting, the boy's calm reply: "Thank you, my lord. I will."
Chapter Eighteen
Escape for thy life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the mountain, lest thou be consumed.
Genesis 19:17
Fort Laskar was quiet, almost deserted, most of its forces involved in taking over the Adonian's estate. Lights gleamed from the HQ and communications buildings. The area around the spaceplane and the Warlord's shuttle was shrouded in darkness.
Sagan stood on the tarmac, cautiously observing Maigrey's plane No lights. It appeared empty. The guards—his own centurions—posted around it were attentive and alert, chatting and laughing together in low voices, as if their watch had been uneventful.
The Warlord's expression grew grim. He tried, once again, to get in touch with his agent, as he had been trying for the past few minutes.
"Sparafucile." Sagan spoke into the commlink, his voice cracking with impatience. "Spara—"
"Sagan Lord!" The voice was faint, punctuated by what sounded like explosions. "I am here!"
"More to the point, is Abdiel there? Did he return to his shuttle?"
A deafening boom, then the half-breed could be heard: "—he look like all the hounds of hell were chasing after him. He— Another explosion, a brief interlude of Sparafucile cursing and shouting orders, an answering voice that sounded extremely familiar, though Sagan couldn't for the moment place it. A scrabbling, panting sound, as if the half-breed were sliding into a ditch, and then silence. The link had gone dead.
Sagan tapped irritably at the side of his helm.
Nothing. But at least he could be reasonably certain Abdiel was still on Laskar, since it was undoubtedly the mind-seizer who was attacking the half-breed. And, Sagan thought, eyeing the spaceplane, at least he knew Abdiel was no longer on board. He must have fled when he realized that the bomb had been activated and that he couldn't reverse the process. That would take another code word, one that only Maigrey would know. Sagan wondered, briefly, how Abdiel might have tried to wrest it from her. He wondered in what condition he'd find her.
She was alive, he knew that; he could feel her life pulse within him, as he felt his own. But when he reached out his consciousness to touch her, it was like grasping at the night.
"Captain of the watch!" the Warlord called, striding forward.
The men on duty stiffened to attention.
"My lord."
"How has your watch passed, Captain?"
"Quiet, my lord."
"No one has entered the plane, come near it?"
The centurion, hearing the edge in his lord's voice, looked puzzled, tensed, sensing something wrong. "No, my lord."
Sagan looked again at the spaceplane. No lights could be seen; not a sound could be heard. It appeared lifeless. But inside, a deadly heart beat away the seconds.
"Very well, Captain, I will take over here. You and your men return to the shuttlecraft, prepare it for immediate liftoff"
"Yes, my lord." The Honor Guard saluted, took to their heels.
Sagan hastened to climb the ladder leading up the curved side of the Scimitar. No use reprimanding his men, no use telling them that an enemy had boarded that plane with impunity, strolling right past their very noses, strolling through their minds, leaving no trace of his passage.
The Warlord reached the top, discovered the hatch standing open—a bad sign. He peered down, into the darkness. Sagan eased himself into the gaping hole, dropped down to land soft-footed as a panther inside the spaceplane.
Emergency lights only were operational, bathing the interior in a warm and eerie red glow. Life-support had been shut off. Maigrey must have routed the majority of the computer's systems to the bomb. Sagan inserted the bloodsword into his palm but did not activate it, crept further inside. The air was hot and humid and difficult to breathe, smelling of sweat and fear and the faint, iron-tinged odor of blood.
He found her lying on the deck of the living quarters. She was. to all appearances, dead. Her flesh was chill. His hand on her pulse detected no beat. She was not breathing.
Sagan removed the bloodsword, placed it back in its sheath at his belt, and knelt down beside her. It was all a trick, a sham. She had slowed her body's functions to almost nothing, retreated far back into the inner recesses of her mind.
The Warlord could almost picture Abdiel's terrible frustration The mind-seizer knew what Maigrey was doing, knew how to bring her out of her self-induced comatose state. But dragging her back to consciousness would take time and, for Abdiel. the minutes to total annihilation were ticking away.
Speaking of minutes. "Computer," Sagan called out. "How much time to detonation?"
The computer's audio clicked on, speaking in a monotone, without a trace of even mechanical life.
"I have been programmed not to respond to any questions or commands."
"Computer, override."
"I have been programmed not to respond—"
"Shut up, then!" Sagan snapped irritably.
"I have been programmed not to respond—"
The Warlord ignored it. Sitting back on his heels, he studied Maigrey. "Oh, you're good, my lady. Really good," he told her. Placing his hands on either side of her head, he joined his mind with hers.
At first it was dark, far darker than the spaceplane, and Sagan edged his mental way forward, moving blindly but unerringly toward his goal. He knew where she'd fled, knew she'd run to a place where only he could follow with ease. And if he never came to find her, it would be a place where she could rest in eternal peace.
He entered a chapel, an ancient building, one of the first built on the Academy's grounds. It was night, very late in the night. He found Maigrey, sitting in the back, hidden in the incense-scented shadows that danced to the flickering lights of the votive candles. Sagan seated himself beside her, saying nothing.
In the front of the chapel was a boy—about fifteen years of age. He was well built, strong, muscular. Black hair, uncombed, framed a brooding face. Dark and intelligent eyes watched the flame of a candle he himself had just lit. He appeared to have undergone some recent mental and physical exertion; his hands were raw from rope burns, his hair damp with sweat. He was arguing vehemently with someone.
"Who are you talking to?"
The speaker was a six-year-old girl. She walked up the aisle of the chapel, gazing around it with a solemn air, yet not awed by her surroundings. Her hair was pale and fine and floated around her face like an untidy cloud. She was clad in a white nightgown, the fabric torn and dirty. Her lithe body was thin and tended to run to arms and legs, elbows and knees. Her eyes, especially at this moment, were enormous, luminous in the light of the candle flames.
"They took Stavros to the infirmary," she said, stumbling over the long word. She was newly arrived, and still learning the language of the Academy.
The brooding boy did not answer her, refused to look at her. The girl came to stand beside him, glanced up and down and all around the chapel with easy familiarity.
"I guess you were talking to God, huh, Derek?" she said. "Did you ask Him what happened to us tonight?"
"I didn't ask Him 'what.' I know what !" the boy responded bitterly, glaring at the child with flashing black eyes. "I was asking Him why!"
Many others at the Academy had quailed before those eyes. The girl remained undaunted. "You mean you asked God why He let us talk together without saying any words? Can't everyone do that?"
"It's called a mind-link and no, everyone can't do it," the boy retorted. "Can you talk to that feeble brother of yours that way?"
"I guess not," the child conceded. "But then, I didn't ever want to." Her eyes were on the wavering flames. "Sometimes, though, I knew what my father was going to say before he said it. I miss my father." Her head turned. She looked at the boy with a new understanding, a sympathy. "Your father ..." she began, faltering. "I'm sorry. ..."
"Shut up!" The boy turned on her savagely. "Get away! Leave me alone!" It seemed he might strike her.
The girl stood her ground, her gray eyes wide and fearless and glimmering with tears. "I know why God did this." She reached out her hand, laid it timidly on the boy's arm. "It's because we're both alone."
The boy tensed at her touch, stared at the small, sun-browned hand on his strong arm. Then he relaxed, as if something inside him had broken, given way. He bent his head, seeking to regain control. The child removed her hand, stood before him in respectful silence.
"You don't have any shoes on," he said to her suddenly, his voice harsh.
The girl shrugged. "I never wore shoes at home."
"But it's cold here. You'll catch your death. You're shivering. Besides, someone must be looking for you."
"Someone was," the child said, and, reaching out, she took gentle hold of the boy's hand.
"Maigrey," Sagan said quietly, "it's time to go."
She drew a breath, another, and another. Her eyelids flickered, the long lashes casting delicate shadows over the scarred cheek. Sitting back, he waited with as much patience as he could muster, knowing that it would take some time for her body and mind to reconnect.
"Maigrey," he said after a short while, shaking her.
Her eyes opened. She glanced around dazedly, surprised to find herself wherever she was, perhaps surprised to find that she was no longer in the chapel. Awareness returned to her, and she smiled wanly.
"You decided to come. I guessed you would. You couldn't bear to give it up, could you, my lord?"
He slid his arm ben
eath her shoulders. She sat up, too quickly. The red-washed shadows spun around her. She closed her eyes, shutting them out, rested wearily against his chest.
"You sent Dion away, my lord?"
"Far away. Can you walk?"
"Give me a moment—"
"We don't have a moment, lady!" the Warlord reminded her tersely.
Again, Maigrey smiled. The Warlord helped her to her feet. She paused, to give the plane's hull time to stop moving in and out. Then she and Sagan made their way down into the cramped space of the small cockpit. The crystal bomb sat on the console. Thin beams of light ran from the computer to the bomb. It made a faint sound, as if humming softly to itself.
The Warlord looked inside the bomb, saw the starjewel—or what had once been a starjewel. It had become a grotesque lump, its shape indistinguishable, its eight sharp points clotted with dried blood. Its aspect was hideous, filling the mind with horror and images of tortured death. Sagan looked away from it quickly.
"How much longer?" he demanded.
A smile twisted the corner of Maigrey's lip, twisted the scar that now pulsed faintly with a trace of life. She relaxed into the pilot's chair. Reaching out, she lifted a broken silver chain lying next to the bomb, a chain whose metal was tarnished and dark. Idly, she wrapped the chain around her fingers.
"Oh, I think we'll let that be a surprise."
"It will be," the Warlord said, kneeling down beside her, his eyes seeking to draw level with hers, "to the millions of innocents who will die. One moment of surprise, the next moment one of sheer terror—"
"Don't give me that, my lord." Maigrey's lips tightened; the gray eyes glittered. "You designed this bomb. You caused it to come into being. What is it you tell your men? 'When you pick up a weapon and point it at someone, you better be damn sure in your heart you can use it.' You wouldn't have 'picked it up,' my lord, if you truly cared about those innocents!"
But she was nervous. She wound the chain around and around. Her fingers were black with dried blood. The Warlord probed her mind, but he might have walked into a dark and echoing cavern. Nothing. No fear, no regret, no anger, no hatred. Nothing.
King's Test Page 47
