King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  "Tusk!" Dixter sighed in exasperation. "Maigrey's not running from Abdiel. She never ran from an enemy in her life. Yet all her life she's been running, trying to escape the one enemy who has the power to ultimately defeat her."

  "Who's that? Sagan?"

  "No, son. Herself."

  Tusk saw the mingled pain and love on the general's face, saw the pain the love had cost. The mercenary was forced to clear his throat of a sudden husky sensation that clogged his windpipe.

  "I think I understand, sir. I ran around in that wire wheel myself not long back." His hand went to an earring in his left earlobe, an earring fashioned in the shape of an eight-pointed star. "Odd, though. It was the lady who helped me climb out."

  "It's always easier to help others than ourselves, son."

  "Yeah, I guess that's right. Anyway, sir, I'm sorry about what I said. I wasn't thinking—"

  "What did you say, anyway?" Dixter smiled. Reaching out, he took Tusk's hand and pressed it warmly. "I can't seem to remember. It must not have been all that important."

  "Lord Sagan on vidscreen three, sir," reported the operator.

  The door to the comm slid open. Dion entered, followed by a fussing Bennett—clothes brush in hand—and the omnipresent Honor Guard.

  Dion had changed to the same severe black uniform worn by Tusk and Dixter, worn by all the officers aboard the Warlord's ships. No insignia of rank glittered on the collar or banded his sleeve. A sash of purple satin, attached at his left shoulder, tied at his waist, banding his chest was the mark of his royal stature. That and the brooch, made of gold, with the face of a lion whose mane was the rays of the sun. The lion's eyes were blue sapphires. The brooch had been a gift from the Warlord.

  The Honor Guard drew up in a line, snapped to attention.

  General Dixter bowed, grave and dignified. "Your Majesty."

  Tusk bowed as well, clumsily. He'd practiced and practiced, Nola coaching him, but he could never quite make it come off with ease and grace. The atmosphere in the comm changed, crackled with energy and tension, as if that red hair of Dion's was a generator that sent a jolt of current through everyone present. He fed them. It was exhilarating, exciting to be in his presence.

  And they fed off him. Drained him.

  Those in the comm who could leave their duties rose and bowed respectfully. Those who couldn't darted glances at him out of the corners of their eyes, hoping for a look, a smile, before turning back to their work.

  Dion gave them what they wanted. He smiled, gracious, yet aloof, a perfect blend. How does he know where to draw the line? Tusk wondered, marveling. How does he know what to say and how to act and how to command the respect of these men, men like Agis, men double his age? When had he learned it? How had Tusk missed it?

  Or had he missed it? No, he admitted. He was a part of it himself. Had been, all along. Something the general told him a long time back returned to Tusk.

  "We've flown too close to the comet," he said to himself. "Now we're trapped, just one more spark in the fiery tail streaking through the heavens, being carried along behind a brilliant, beautiful, flaming ball of ice. He flashed into our lives, and before we could help ourselves, we were lit by his light, warmed by his fire, swept up in the wild ride through the stars. Yet where will the ride end?"

  The face of the Warlord appeared on the screen. Immediately, everyone in the room tensed. The buzz and hum of voices hushed, those who could broke off communications or, forced to continue speaking, they did so in tones barely above a whisper. Tusk had the insane impression that even the lights in the room dimmed, the temperature seemed to drop measurably. Thus does the atmosphere change, the crowd fall silent and come alert, when the two combatants enter the arena.

  Dion was on his guard, treading warily, knowing the first slip, the first sign of weakness, and he would be lying facedown in the dust, his opponent's boot on his neck. Tusk could see the strain of the contest take its toll, could see Dion's jaw muscles tighten to hold his chin firm, the fingers of one hand twitched spasmodically.

  Tusk's fist clenched. Damn it, he would hit someone! Right when he got out of here. Too bad Link wasn't aboard. . . .

  An elbow prodded Tusk in the ribs.

  "You're being watched," Dixter shot out of the corner of his mouth with an oblique glance at various cams stationed throughout the room.

  Tusk grunted, scowled, but forced himself to calm down. He was somewhat comforted by the sight of Dixter. The general remained standing at his ease, lounging against a table, arms folded across his chest, his uniform collar undone. (His aide Bennett was futilely endeavoring, by semaphore messages from his eyebrows, to remedy the collar situation.) Dixter's eyes were on Dion, a half smile played on the general's hps.

  He's picked the winner. But how can he be sure?

  Comets, after all, are held in their orbit by far stronger suns.

  Chapter Four

  Hell trembled as he strode . . .

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Aboard Phoenix II, Warlord Derek Sagan stood alone on the bridge; Admiral Aks having retreated as far from his lord as was physically possible in the cramped surroundings. Sagan was angry, extremely angry, and it was conducive neither to one's health nor well-being to be too near the Warlord when he was in this mood. The admiral would, in fact, have been in another, far-distant part of the ship had not Sagan requested his presence.

  The heat of the Warlord's fury seemed to radiate from his ceremonial armor, the golden breastplate fashioned in Roman style, decorated with the phoenix rising from flames. The wretched ensign charged with the task of transmitting his lord's image and anger to another part of the galaxy was sweating as if he were sitting in front of a blast furnace.

  "We have established contact, my lord," reported the ensign.

  Numerous vidscreens came to life, revealing, from every conceivable angle, a communications center in a spaceship light-years away. One of the shots panned wide, to provide a view of everyone in the room. Others were more selective, focusing in on certain individual faces.

  One screen held the image of a young man with flaming red-golden hair, who appeared defensive, defiant. Another portrayed a black man, sullen and angry, and, next to him, an older man, in his early fifties, who seemed slightly amused by the whole proceeding. Sagan's gaze flicked to each of these in turn.

  "Your Majesty." Sagan's head inclined slightly in what passed for a bow, the shadowed-eyed gaze focused on Dion. "I trust you are well after the rigors of this day?"

  The king was outwardly composed. But Aks saw the shoulders stiffen beneath the purple sash, the blue eyes narrow, intent on the eyes of his opponent, searching for the slight shift in focus that would tell where would fall the first blow. The admiral shook his head, caught himself hoping that some minor crisis would arise, call him from the bridge.

  "I'm getting too old for these games," he said silently. "They're not fun anymore."

  Dion's tone was cool and controlled. "Yes, Lord Sagan, thank you for asking. I am tired, but otherwise well."

  "I am pleased to hear it, sire. I have important matters to discuss with Your Majesty, but first I beg your indulgence. I must take disciplinary action against one of your guard. I am sorry Your Majesty is forced to witness such an unpleasant proceeding, but the matter cannot be delayed. Discipline must be maintained. Agis, stand forward."

  The captain of the Honor Guard, eyes facing front, stepped to the viewscreen, fist over his heart in salute.

  "Captain, repeat to me your orders regarding any person who approaches His Majesty."

  The Warlord's gaze was, ostensibly, on his unfortunate captain, but Sagan's eyes—Aks saw—were in feet watching the vidscreen that showed him the face of the king, a face that had gone extremely rigid and pale.

  "My lord," answered the captain, standing at attention, "my orders are to prevent said person from coming anywhere near His Majesty."

  "And yet, this very day, a person was able not only to come near His Majesty b
ut to detain His Majesty in conversation. Is that true, Captain?"

  "Yes, my lord." The cords in the man's neck stood out like iron rods.

  "You were derelict in your duty, Captain."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "What is your excuse, Captain?"

  "I have none to give, my lord."

  "Captain Agis did his duty. He attempted to prevent the young woman from speaking to me." Dion's clear voice rang out like a silver bell commanded him to let her approach."

  Sagan bowed. "It is good of Your Majesty to try to defend this officer. Nevertheless, Agis had his orders."

  "Yes, Lord Sagan," returned Dion, "and his orders came from his king."

  Aks could have sworn he heard the clash of steel. He saw them toe-to-toe, pushing against each other, neither prepared to give ground. Suddenly, unexpectedly, die Warlord broke free, fell back a pace.

  "Captain, you are fortunate that His Majesty, in his gracious magnanimity, has intervened in your behalf. No disciplinary action will be taken against you this time. I advise, Captain, that you do not fail His Majesty again."

  "No, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

  "Do not thank me, Captain. Thank your king."

  No blade of ordinary steel could possibly attain the sharp cutting edge of the Warlord's tone. The blade's point was not held to the guard's throat, however, but to Dion's. Sagan had a high regard for his officer, he knew perfectly well the circumstances under which Agis had acted, for he had watched it all on his own private monitor from cams concealed at various locations, including one in the captain's breastplate and another in the lion pin worn on the king's own breast.

  Dion had managed to deflect the first attack. He was not about to let down his guard, however. His adversary had seemed to weaken perhaps, only to draw him into a foolish move.

  "Your Majesty, certain matters have arisen that require your immediate attention. With your permission, I will make arrangements with the commander of your vessel to transport you back to Phoenix. I respectfully advise that you should leave within the hour."

  Dion frowned. "My Lord Sagan, I have appointments, commitments."

  "Begging Your Majesty's pardon, but I have taken the liberty of canceling your appointments and commitments. The matter is extremely urgent."

  Dion's face flushed, the blue eyes flared. He retained control of himself, however. "I will speak to you in private, my lord."

  His image disappeared momentarily from the screen. Aks made an oblique, peremptory gesture with his hand and every man whose duties did not absolutely require him to be on the bridge left in discreet and thankful haste. Dion returned, alone. Flame-red hair, flame-blue eyes, the light of his being was almost blinding, causing Aks to avert his gaze, as if he stared into a sun. But the glow reflected off die Warlord, was unable to penetrate the shadowed darkness.

  "I'm the one being disciplined. Is that it, my lord?" Dion demanded.

  The Warlord did not respond.

  "I could have healed that young woman!" Dion persisted, angered at Sagan's silence. "I know it! I felt it inside me, the—the energy. You should have let me! You should have let me!"

  Sagan smiled sardonically. "I didn't stop you, Your Majesty."

  "Yes, you did!" Dion retorted. "Not physically. Mentally. Doubts. You make me doubt myself!"

  "Why the devil," Sagan said with biting mockery, "didn't you just tell her to go see a good plastic surgeon?"

  Dion stared, blinked.

  "No," Sagan continued, anger mounting, "you didn't think of anything that simple, that logical, did you,Your Majesty? You fell into the sentimental trap provided for you. Fortunately, you managed to crawl back out before any harm was done. What would have happened if you had gone ahead and attempted to heal that young woman and you had foiled? Failed in full view of several billion watchers throughout the galaxy. Everything lost! Everything we've worked for gone, disappeared, vanished!"

  Crimson stained Dion's cheeks. He started to say something, but Sagan pretended not to notice.

  "Why do you think Robes planted that woman there?" the Warlord persisted relentlessly. "Why her and not an assassin? Because an assassin's shot makes you a martyr. The people would be furious. Robes would fall tomorrow, his government toppled in an instant. That girl did far worse than almost fool you. She almost made a fool of you. And Robes deals easily with fools."

  The crimson in the king's face faded, leaving behind a deathly pallor. "You are right, my lord," Dion said in a low voice. "I . . . didn't think."

  "You escaped this time, barely. You may not be so fortunate again. I suggest you return to Phoenix without delay."

  Dion's hps tightened. "Very well, my lord."

  Sagan bowed. "By your leave. Your Majesty. End transmission," he ordered.

  The Warlord turned on his heel, stalked off the bridge, booted footfalls resounding like thunder on the deck. The ensign obeyed his lord's orders with alacrity, slumped in relief over his console when the vidscreens went dark. Aks could sympathize. The admiral himself was starting to relax, now that the storm was receding, when Sagan stopped and looked back.

  "Admiral Aks?"

  "My lord?"

  "Cancel His Majesty's next engagements, whatever they are."

  "Yes, my lord." It was hardly an admiral's place to act as a public relations agent, but Aks certainly wasn't going to argue. He would pass the word to where it needed to go.

  The Warlord strode on, walking the corridors of his ship in mute fury. The admiral knew his lord's moods and, aware that he was needed, followed after, steering a careful course to keep from being swamped in the tidal wave. Sagan's private elevator carried them to the lord's private quarters. Once inside, with the Honor Guard taking up positions outside the sealed door, the Warlord could unleash his anger in private.

  "Damn and blast him! He brought us to the brink of disaster, and then has the gall to defy me, to question my actions!"

  Sagan removed his helm from his head. Aks had the distinct impression that the Warlord's first impulse was to hurl the helm from him, send it crashing into the bulkhead. The admiral wished fervently his lord would do so, would give way to the hot rage that was a devouring flame. Sagan would never permit himself to lose control, however. He held the ornate metal so tightly that it left behind vivid imprints in the flesh when he finally, with deliberate calm, placed it on its stand.

  But Aks knew he stood on fault-lined ground. The pressure of two opposing forces, of Sagan and Dion—two solid rock plates grinding together—had to give, had to be released. The quake, when it came, would be destructive, devastating. It might carry them all to ruin. It would certainly destroy one ... or the other ... or both.

  The admiral decided to risk causing a small tremor. "My lord, perhaps the Lady Maigrey could be of some assistance—"

  The deck might have split beneath his feet. Sagan gave Aks a look that stopped the rest of his sentence, came close to stopping his breath.

  "The Lady Maigrey abandoned him," the Warlord said coldly. "You know what happened that night on Laskar."

  "Not precisely, my lord. " Aks had heard rumors, of course, but the subject of my lady's disappearance always put his lordship in a particularly bad mood and was therefore not often brought up during casual dinner conversation.

  Sagan did not answer immediately, but regarded Aks long and thoughtfully. Deciding how much of the truth to tell me, the admiral knew, from long association with his lord.

  "That night, Aks, following certain circumstances which I need not go into, my lady was left in sole possession of the space-rotation bomb. She deceived both me and His Majesty into believing she had armed and was prepared to detonate it. Maigrey gave Dion the code needed to disarm it, but refused to tell either of us how much time was left ticking away before it blew up. She wanted to find out if His Majesty would be willing to sacrifice his life to obtain it. Dion was, of course. He is Blood Royal. He was willing to die, and to take us with him, unless I promised to turn the bomb over to him. I
did so. He gave me the code and I disarmed a bomb that had, as it turned out, never truly been armed."

  Sagan shook his head ruefully.

  "But I didn't know that, then. I left the spaceplane, Aks, left Dion, left Maigrey with him. I had work to do. Snaga Ohme was dead and all he owned, all his vast store of weapons and wealth, was up for grabs. I had made arrangements. General Haupt's forces were engaged in securing Ohme's estate—an easy task, but the army was encountering stubborn pockets of resistance from Ohme's men. I needed to be there in person. His Majesty was wounded, on the verge of exhaustion. I expected Maigrey to stay with him, kiss his hurts, make him feel better, tuck him in bed, and keep an eye on the bomb."

  Sagan's tone was biting, sardonic. "Instead, Aks, she walked out on him."

  Walked out on you, my lord, Aks amended silently. But he was immediately so uncomfortable even thinking such a thing—in case Sagan might somehow see inside his head—that the admiral was seized by a sudden fit of coughing, forced to cover his face with his handkerchief.

  Fortunately, Sagan was brooding over bitter memory, paying his admiral little attention. "That morning, I came back from Ohme's to discover that my lady had not returned to her quarters. I sent the guard to search for her. She had managed, by faking a message from me, to convince those left behind in command on the base that she was to be given a spaceplane in order to join the fighting at Ohme's. Of course, she never came anywhere near the Adonian's."

  "But you could have gone after her, my lord," ventured Aks, recovered and greatly daring. "You knew where she was."

  "Yes, I knew where she was," Sagan snapped. "I know where she is. And she can stay there. Maigrey abandoned her duty to her king. She obviously has no interest in him or his welfare. She prefers to hide, lick her wounds. Let her. Let her rot!"

  The Warlord poured himself a glass of cool water, drank it. Eyes closed, he breathed deeply, concentrated on his breathing, on cleansing body and mind of the debilitating anger.