King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  Agis ran across the bridge, then stopped, brought up short by the amazing sight of Brother Daniel, unarmed, hands grasping for the knife, flinging himself bodily on the assassin.

  The two fell into Maigrey, knocked the bloodsword from her hand. She lunged for the sword; Agis expected her to turn and fight. But she paused, the sword fell from her grasp. She was far away, Agis realized, perhaps locked in her own desperate struggle.

  The two combatants reeled back, flailing. Sparafucile shrieked terrible curses, strove to shake the priest loose. Daniel clung to the assassin with grim determination. The two crashed to the floor behind the bier, out of Agis's view.

  Recovering from his astonishment, the centurion raced around the bier, found the two locked in a deadly embrace, rolling on the floor. Brother Daniel, wrestling with the crazed half-breed, seemed to be struggling to calm him, as he might have tried to calm a patient gone berserk.

  Daniel had the assassin pinned, for an instant, but Sparafucile was strong and lithe as a panther and slipped easily from the young priest's grasp.

  Agis stood over them, frustrated, his dart gun drawn, ready to shoot, but forced to hold his fire, afraid—in the dim, shadow-dodging light—of hitting Daniel.

  Sparafucile leapt on the priest, straddled him; strong legs held his victim fast. Fire flashed on the blade of the assassin's knife. Agis had a clear shot at last, but in that split second the assassin struck.

  A pain-filled scream shattered the silence. Both bodies froze, motionless, immobile. Agis lowered his weapon, grabbed hold of Sparafucile, who crouched over the young priest. Agis flung the assassin back, prepared to kill him. But he looked into the half-breed's face and saw, in the startled eyes, the shadows of approaching death.

  Startled, the centurion released his grasp. Sparafucile sank to the floor, hands clutching at his middle. The hilt of the assassin's own knife protruded from the rags that were slowly darkening with blood. The half-breed's lips parted, his pain-shadowed gaze focused on the priest.

  Brother Daniel, shaken, sat up, stared around.

  "Are you all right?" Agis asked him.

  "Yes, praise God. What . . . what happened?" Daniel looked dazedly over at the assassin.

  Sparafucile grinned horribly. "You kill me, I think, Priest, eh?"

  Daniel saw the knife's hilt, the blood.

  "No!" He crawled over to the dying man, caught hold of the bloody hand. "No, I swear before God, I never-—"

  "Be careful!" Agis tensed, fearing Sparafucile might try to take his killer with him.

  But a spasm of pain twisted the grotesque features of the half-breed, his breath gurgled in his throat.

  "God!" Sparafucile seemed to grasp feebly at what was, perhaps, the only word he had heard. "Your God ... He kill me!"

  The half-breed's head lolled to one side, blood ran from the open mouth. Lank hair fell forward, covering the misaligned eyes that stared blankly into the darkness.

  Brother Daniel sat back on his heels. His face was ashen, his breathing harsh and shallow.

  "I never touched the knife! I swear it! Before God, I swear it. You saw, didn't you?" He looked up at Agis.

  "Yes, I saw," the centurion lied. Reaching down, he put an awkward hand on the young man's shoulder. "The half-breed's knee slipped. He fell, stabbed himself."

  Daniel's gaze shifted back to the corpse. "No," he said. "That was not the way it happened."

  "However it happened, you saved my lady's life," said Agis gruffly.

  Brother Daniel seemed to recall where he was, what was transpiring around him. Turning his head, he saw Maigrey holding Sagan's hand, her head bent over his, her pale hair falling forward, hiding them both behind a silken curtain.

  Brother Daniel sighed softly. "Who knows?"

  He closed the staring, misaligned eyes, and began to repeat the prayer for the dead.

  Inside the Abbey walls, the darkness was not threatening or fearful, but warm, comforting, offering solace after a day's hard labor, ease for pain. Maigrey walked the halls, following behind the monk. She saw none of the other brethren; it being forbidden them to set eyes upon a woman. She was aware of their presence, however. Shadowy figures moved in the corner of her vision, vanished when she turned her head to look at them directly.

  And, far away, in the distance, she heard the voices lifted in supplication.

  " 'Kyrie eleison. . . .

  "'Lord, have mercy. . . .' "

  The darkness, the warmth, the music, were a reproach to Maigrey, whose armor pierced the soft shadows with a harsh, warlike, metallic light. She sensed the priests' resentment, their disapproval.

  "I'm doing my duty," she told them, and her voice was jarring, discordant, echoed through the halls whose stones knew only the sound of prayer and soft, muted discussions of the necessary, the mundane.

  Ashamed, she glanced sideways at the tall priest, to see if he was angry at her, but the hood was pulled low over his head, she could not see his face. He said nothing, continued on. Bowing her head, she followed.

  They descended a flight of stairs, came to the dortoir, the living quarters, turned into a hallway that was dark, narrow. Maigrey could touch the walls on either side of her by barely extending her arms. She had only to reach up to brush her fingers against the ceiling. The tall monk was forced to stoop as he moved along.

  It was difficult to see. The monk carried a thin white taper, but its fragile flame wavered and glimmered in the gentle draft created by their movement. What light it did shed was eclipsed by the priest's body, engulfed in the shroudlike folds of his robes. He knew where he was going, could have undoubtedly walked it blind. Maigrey tripped and stumbled, for though the stone was worn smooth by countless feet, the floor was not level, dipped and rose unexpectedly. Her armor clashed and clattered.

  They passed countless wooden doors, all of them shut. No light gleamed from beneath, no sound came from the still and silent rooms. They had almost reached the end of the hallway, when the priest halted.

  Maigrey had no need to ask which door. She knew. She looked at the priest, seeking a sign, reassurance, approval. He stood quietly, his face hidden, offering no comfort, no urging. The choice was hers.

  Sighing softly, Maigrey pushed gently on the wooden door. It swung open.

  A man, clad in robes, knelt before an altar. He kept his back to her, though he must have heard her enter, for her armor made a silvery ringing sound. She knew him, however, by the long black hair that fell over his shoulders, knew him by the pain in her heart.

  Standing straight and tall, silver armor illuminating the room more brightly than moonlight, she spoke to him.

  "Lord Derek Sagan, I call you to fulfill your oath. I call you to the service of your king. "

  He remained kneeling long moments, then, finally, he rose and turned to face her. His face was grim and forbidding and dark and in his eyes was the bitter reproach she'd felt the moment she'd entered his sanctuary. She sensed him about to refuse and she was frightened, wondering what she would say to persuade him, having nothing to offer him in exchange for this peace but despair, terror, death. . . .

  His gaze shifted.

  "Father," he said, and the fire of his reproach glimmered and died, even as the flame of the candle the monk carried wavered and guttered out.

  The only light in the darkness shone from Maigrey's silver armor.

  Sagan looked back to her, sighed deeply.

  "You should not have come," he said.

  Agis and Brother Daniel stood beside the bier, watching. Agis felt increasingly uneasy, nervous. He kept his hand on his dartgun, glanced continually around.

  "The enemy's near," he muttered. "I can feel them ..."

  "Not without," said Brother Daniel. The priest had his eyes on the still, unmoving figure on the bier. "But within."

  Agis stared at him questioningly, not understanding.

  "My lord is dying," the priest responded. "My lady fights to hold him to this life, but her heart is not in the battle. Ho
w could it be? Fear for herself, fear for him—"

  "She must save him!"

  "Yes," said Daniel sadly. "She must. She knows it, and I think she will. But her choice is bitter. Kyrie eleison. Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy on them both."

  Agis had once visited a world of oceans and tides and he was reminded suddenly of standing upon the shore and watching a wave crash upon the beach. He saw again the water rush away from him, and take—so it seemed—the world with it. Sand, pebbles, shells, seaweed, were sucked away from beneath his feet and he remembered experiencing the strange sensation that he was next, that the wave would catch hold of him and draw him out to vanish beneath the green water.

  But then another wave came, returned the water, returned the shells and sand and seaweed, sent them back to him, brought life flooding over his feet that stood in the sand. And so it would continue, always.

  "It is over," said Brother Daniel softly.

  Maigrey laid her head on Sagan's chest.

  The centurion knew, then, that his lord was dead. He unbuckled the bloodsword from his waist, made ready to lay it on the bier, as his lord would have wanted. He took a step forward, stopped.

  Sagan drew a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. He put his arm around Maigrey, held her close, pressed her to him.

  "You should not have come," he said.

  Chapter Ten

  Hail, holy light, offspring of Heaven . . .

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  "Lady Maigrey's spaceplane," reported Tusk, his Scimitar making a low pass over the broken planet's barren surface. "And I recognize the junker. It belongs to that assassin, Spara-something-or-other."

  "He saved our lives," Nola reminded him.

  Tusk grunted. "Only because he had more use for us alive than dead. I don't know who those other planes belong to, probably those commandos the lady hired."

  "This must be the place," said Dion. "Make one more orbit. Scanners reading anything, XJ?"

  "All the weird energy levels bouncing around here, and you want me to find a few measly humans!" the computer scoffed. "Ask me next time to look for a lit match in a forest fire."

  "Scimitar." A voice came over the commlink. "Scimitar, this is Galaxy Belle. Can you read me?"

  "Verified," reported XJ. "Transmission's coming from the liner."

  "Yes, we can read you," Tusk said. "We've been tryin' to raise you—"

  "I had to check you out, first. This is the captain. Corbett, Tomi. And I want to talk to whoever's in charge."

  "Captain Corbett," Dion began. "I am—"

  "Shut up! I don't care who you are. I was told a goddam fleet was coming to pick us up. I suppose you're it?"

  "No, Captain. There has been a change in plans. I am Dion Starfire, in command of the fleet. It's currently stationed on the Corasian perimeter."

  "That does me a hell of a lot of good!"

  "I will transmit their coordinates to you. I suggest, Captain," Dion continued, "that you make the Jump as soon as possible.

  I'm carrying with me the space-rotation bomb and I may be forced to detonate it. In that eventuality, the fleet will be warned in advance to make the Jump into the Void. You should be with them. XJ, transmit the coordinates."

  Silence on the other end, then the captain's voice came back, strangely altered.

  "I don't understand. You mean . . . something's happened to them down there?"

  "Have you received the coordinates?" Dion asked, ignoring the question.

  "Yeah, I got them." Silence again, then, "I don't suppose there'd be any way I could help?"

  "Thank you, Captain, but you have a responsibility to your passengers—"

  "Those rich bastards. This is probably the only good they've ever done for anyone else in their lives, and wouldn't you know, they had to be unconscious to do it."

  The captain's voice sounded odd, thick and slurred. Tusk looked at Dion, rolled his eyes, raised an eyebrow. "Jump-juice. "

  "Captain," Dion repeated, "have you received the coordinates?"

  "Yeah, I got them. And I heard that. I'm not on the juice. It's that damn drug your friends gave me. It's wearing off, though. Don't worry. I'll make the Jump. I'm programming for it now. That goddam fleet better be there—"

  "They will be," Dion promised.

  "Look, one thing before I go. Have you . . . Have you heard any word from . . . anybody that went down there. If they're okay, I mean? One in particular ..."

  Dion waited for the captain to finish, but the voice trailed off.

  "No," he said finally. "I'm sorry. I haven't."

  "That's all right." After a pause. "It wouldn't have worked out anyway."

  The transmission abruptly ended.

  "How strange." Dion frowned. "I hope she can operate the ship safely—"

  "I would like to remind everyone that it is actually her computer who is running the ship," stated XJ in lofty tones, "and the computer who will be in charge of the Jump. Any human involvement is strictly superfluous—the only reason Tusk has managed to live this long."

  XJ waited smugly for Tusk to attempt a verbal riposte.

  Tusk said nothing. He stared at the controls, silent, thoughtful. Nola reached out, took his hand, twined his fingers through hers.

  "Hey, Tusk, it was a joke," said the computer.

  Tusk didn't answer.

  "Look, Tusk, I'm sorr—"

  "Jeez!" The mercenary leapt to his feet. "Don't do that!"

  "Do what?" XJ's lights blinked in astonishment.

  "Apologize to me! Shit! Now I know my time has come! Damn computer, apologizin."

  "I did nothing of the sort!"

  "You were about to. I heard you start to say 'I'm sorry'—"

  "I'm sorry, all right!" XJ shouted, turning up its audio, nearly deafening everyone within earshot. "Sorry I ever set my optics on you, you sorry excuse for a spacepilot."

  "That's better," said Tusk, looking relieved, sitting back down."

  "XJ, land the plane," Dion ordered.

  "One more orbit, kid. I don't like the looks of that landing site. And I'm picking up lots of strange energy readings."

  "The landing site's flat rock, XJ. And you said yourself that the energy levels made it impossible to read anything."

  "Look, lad, listen to the voice of reason, the voice of intelligence, which, considering the present company you're keeping, means that you listen to my voice. Call General Dixter. Send for the fleet. Send for the marines. Send ten thousand or so soldiers down that rat hole. Let them take care of this mind-seizer."

  "It wouldn't work, XJ. Abdiel could make himself appear as ten thousand different things to ten thousand different people, if he wanted. He'd escape, slip away, or maybe even make the ten thousand turn on each other. No. Sooner or later, I have to face him. Lady Maigrey knew it. Dixter knew it. Tusk knows it. That's why he's here with me."

  "He's here with you because he's a big boob. As I told him when he got us into this in the first place. A sack of gold coins. That's what we got for taking you on, kid. And the money wasn't much, either, what with the bottom dropping out of the gold market. When I think of what it's cost us since then—"

  "Land the goddam plane!" Tusk roared.

  Bleeping irritably to itself, the computer started the landing cycle.

  They didn't say anything to each other as the plane touched down. They went about their tasks in silence. When those tasks were finished, they found things to do that didn't need to be done. There was too much to say and no one quite knew how to begin saying it, except to themselves.

  Nola went up into the bubble, again, to test the gun that didn't need testing now any more than it had needed testing ten minutes previous. Instead she sat there, alone, staring out at the stars.

  "I want kids, Tusk," she said, talking to her reflection in the bubble. "I want a whole bunch of them, rug-rats, running around, driving us crazy, keeping us up all night. Though God knows what they'll look like, poor things. What with my freckles and your n
ose. And they can play vidgames with Grandpa XJ. We'll be a family. A family ..."

  Tusk punched buttons on the console, running systems checks that did nothing except irritate the computer.

  "Soon as we leave here," he promised himself, "I'll take Nola to meet my mother. They'll like each other. Nola complains all the time she never has any other women to talk to. They could talk about . . . women things. And what're those? You know, sitting in gun turrets, blowing people to pieces; lying, wounded, on a pile of bloody flak jackets; landing far behind empty lines; detonating bombs."

  Tusk sighed, rubbed his eyes. "You know, women things."

  Dion removed Maigrey's starjewel from an inner pocket, intending to place it into the space-rotation bomb. He started to do it quickly, keeping his gaze averted from the unlovely object. But he paused, forced himself to look at it, look at it deliberately, long and hard.

  "I remember the first time I saw her, the first time I saw the starjewel. It gleamed with a radiance that seemed to come from its own bright heart, or maybe hers. But now the heart is dead. The jewel's turned black. Not the shining black of jet or obsidian, not the warm black of ebony, not the cold empty black of outer space or the shades of black that make up the night. It is the black of decay, rot, gangrene.

  "'The taint in our blood,' as Maigrey used to say. But if the bomb were detonated, the starjewel would, for one brief second, shine more brilliantly than any sun.

  "And so would all the fallen angels."

  Dion placed the starjewel in the bomb, typed in the code sentence that would detonate it, the line from a poet's dark vision of a second coming. He typed it all except for the last letter of the last word.

  The center cannot hol_ .

  The three went on with their work. And it occurred to each of the three, as each continued to do what didn't need to be done, that when they did finally speak to each other, it would be to say good-bye.

  Chapter Eleven

  ... so matched they stood;

  For never but once more was either like

  To meet so great a foe . . .