Flaim stepped into the circle. His face was flushed with excitement and exhilaration. Dion did not enter the circle yet. He was still pale, still shaken from the confrontation over Kamil. He glanced at her once or twice, worried, to see if she was all right.
The kid better concentrate on what he's doing," came a muttered voice at Sagan's shoulder.
Tusk had pulled himself to a standing position, was slouched against the wall at the Warlord's side.
"Never did understand how those damn swords worked," Tusk continued casually, too casually. "Dad tried to explain it once, but, hell, what did I care? You mind going over it now?"
"Why?" Sagan asked dryly, his gaze fixed on Dion. "You thinking of using one?"
Tusk shrugged. "A guy never knows when information like that might come in handy."
Sagan was glad the folds of the cowl hid his smile. "When the swordsman grasps the hilt, those five prongs inject a virus into the bloodstream. In the Blood Royal—someone with the correct blood type and DNA structure—the virus opens channels that parallel the normal nerve channels and eventually reach the brain. Micromachines are injected, making connection with the body's lymphatic systems to draw energy from the body's cells to power the weapon. The energy comes from adenosine tri—"
"Skip the science lecture," Tusk interrupted, scowling. "My head aches enough as it is. I thought the damn thing had its own external energy source."
"It does, but once that is depleted, the sword draws on the body's energy."
"Uh-huh." Tusk faced him, dark eyes red-rimmed, one of them starting to swell shut. "I know what happens if someone who isn't Blood Royal uses it. What about me? Half-and-half."
Sagan shook his head. "I can't say. No studies were ever done that I know of. Half-breeds weren't considered of much importance. I wouldn't advise it, however," he added quietly. "You would probably be able to use it, though not very well.
And you would risk contracting the disease. Only in a mild form...."
"I might live for months, eh?" Tusk asked with interest.
"If you were lucky," Sagan replied. "If not, you might last for years."
Tusk regarded the Warlord thoughtfully, probably trying to decide if he was bluffing or telling the truth. The mercenary jammed his hands back in his pockets, gloomily hunched his shoulders, and turned his attention to the duel.
Dion had at last pulled himself together. Now that he was forced to take this action, he must know that he would have to kill his cousin. Kill ... to keep from being killed.
Both bloodswords activated. The thoughts of each cousin rushed into Sagan, ran through him, mingled with his own thoughts in a boiling confusion as difficult to separate as it would be to separate the mingled strains of blood.
He had to be careful, very, very careful. Fortunately, the two were concentrating heavily on each other, would pay little attention to him—a broken old man. He settled back to watch the duel.
The two saluted each other; Flaim bowed, as ritual demanded. Dion, however merely inclined his head. A king still. Each assumed the correct stance, blades burning. Blue flame held blue flame, blue eyes held blue eyes. The thoughts were already probing, though the swords were still. Then Dion lunged; Flaim parried, and the battle began.
The two are evenly matched, Sagan decided after the first few moments. Advantages, disadvantages canceled each other out. Dion had the advantage of having sparred against a living, breathing, thinking opponent (Sagan himself had been the young man's tutor), whereas Flaim had only fought against his own imagination. But Dion, busy and preoccupied with the cares of kingship, was out of practice. He had not used the bloodsword in action in years. Flaim, by contrast, had practiced daily, following the routine pattern Pantha had taught him, a routine that kept both body and mind in prime condition.
Dion remembered his tutelage, opened aggressively, attacking with spirit and skill, and soon forced his opponent to go on the defensive. Flaim's blade disappeared, the weapon shitting—with the swiftness of thought—from bright blade to invisible shield.
The use of the shield required far more energy than the blade, drained the sword's reserves, would soon start to drain the body's. Dion's swift and furious onslaught actually forced Flaim backward, caused him to step outside the circle.
"Hold!" Sagan called, palm raised outward.
Dion fell back, resting, breathing hard.
Flaim, looking grim and defiant, leapt back into the circle immediately and, having learned his lesson, went on the offensive. A flurry of blows made the eyes ache trying to follow them. Dion's foot slipped once, but he shielded himself, held Flaim's battering attack off until he could regain his balance. With a tricky maneuver (one Sagan recognized as his own), Dion dove under Flaim's guard with a slashing stab that might well have ended both the duel and the prince's life.
A skillful diving roll carried Flaim out of danger . . . and out of the circle.
"Hold," Sagan called out for the second time. "If you step out again, Your Highness," he cautioned the prince grimly, "you forfeit and must surrender."
"I understand, Thank you, my lord," Flaim said.
Dion's blow had cut open the prince's white shirt; it hung around his body in bloody tatters. His left knee was slashed open.
Both combatants were sweating; Dion's shirt clung to him. He wiped his hair out of his face. Of the two, Flaim appeared the more fatigued, however, and he had certainly taken the most serious injuries. He limped when he walked back into the circle.
Dion did not look triumphant, however. He was watching Flaim warily, cautiously, knowing that these duels were—as Sagan had once told him—one-tenth physical and nine-tenths mental. Flaim seemed in just a little too much pain, he was limping just a little too weakly, breathing just a bit too heavily.
Dion was on his guard, therefore, when Flaim suddenly regained his strength with a bound and, grinning, swept into the circle with slashing fury. Dion shielded, came back to the offensive. Flaim shielded, came back.
The duel went on. Tusk rubbed his eyes, wincing at the bright light. Astarte and Kamil watched silently, both very properly fearful of breaking Dion's concentration. Each woman was instinctively, perhaps unknowingly, clasping tight hold of the other's hand.
Pantha watched with no more than a placid interest as if he were already certain of the end.
Dion stepped outside the circle, but was back in before Sagan could call a halt. Though the king knew the misstep counted against him, he chose not to take advantage of the rest period—to rest himself was to give his opponent the opportunity to do the same. Dions blade flamed and vanished, attacking far more than defending. He was in control of the fight. It was as if some angel with a flaming sword had descended from heaven to do battle for the king.
He burned with a pure, holy fire. Imbued with the rightness of his cause, the knowledge that he was light battling darkness, he fought with valor and skill.
Watching Dion, Sagan remembered. He knew that look—it had once been his own. He could feel again the exhilaration of battle that brought with it a strange calm, an air of detachment. Let go of fear and advance to meet death. Step partway into the silent realm, stand straddling die border. And when you do so, you become vibrantly aware of life, from the cloudless sky above to the tiny, glistening drop of blood on the ground at your feet. Let go of fear and the soul floats free, the mind is clear and fixed and the flaring blade is the fatal embodiment of thought.
"Well done, boy," Derek Sagan said, deep, deep within.
But Dion heard. The blue eyes, brighter than the fire of suns, turned upon Sagan and the king's smile was that of one exalted.
And then Flaim stepped out of the circle and fell upon one knee, raising his hand over his head, the classic position of surrender. He shut off his bloodsword.
It took Sagan a moment for his soul to rejoin his body. He felt the flesh's heavy dead weight acutely, dragging him down; came back with a bitter sigh.
"Hold!" he called, harsh and strident.
>
He stepped into the circle, between the combatants—one standing tall, the other bent-kneed on the ground. Dion, breathing heavily, could not speak. He had lowered his sword, but the blade hummed. His face was expressionless; his own soul still floated far above. He seemed not to understand that he had won.
No one in the courtyard spoke; Kamil and Astarte were confused. Never having seen a duel, they were uncertain what this meant. Tusk, having—or so Sagan hoped—learned his lesson, was watching the Warlord for a cue. Garth Pantha knew. He'd seen bloodsword duels before, likely fought in a few. He sat unmoved, watching with detached interest.
"By the rules of the contest, by stepping outside the circle, by shutting off your sword, you, Flaim Starfire, admit defeat," Sagan informed him.
"Oh, yes," said Flaim, with a laugh Rising gracefully to his feet, he bowed to the king. Thank you, cousin. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Pantha."
The elderly man came forward, bearing the box. He opened the lid. Flaim laid his bloodsword inside. Shaking the raven hair out of his face, he smiled at the queen, who still neither moved nor spoke.
"I am certain the ladies enjoyed it," he added, with a bow and a flourish for Her Majesty.
"Then I have won," said Dion, appearing to suddenly realize it himself. "You renounce your claim to the throne. You will let us go free."
"I'll let you go ... to the devil."
Flaim had taken a soft leather glove from Pantha, was pulling the glove on over his hand, over the puncture wounds left by the bloodsword.
"I won," Dion repeated grimly.
"You lost," Flaim told him. "You lost the true battle, cousin. The one we were fighting in our minds. I penetrated your secrets. I now know the location of the space-rotation bomb. I know where you've hidden it. Pantha, you must contact the dark-matter creatures, send them to fetch the prize."
Dion stared, white with shock and disbelief and terrible understanding. "A ruse," he whispered. "All a ruse."
"Yes, cousin." Flaim laughed. "A ruse. To goad you into using the bloodsword, to trick you into revealing the location of the bomb."
The bloodsword flared blue. Dion made a sudden lunge at the prince, sweeping the sword in a slashing arc.
Derek Sagan stood in his way, blocked his path. Sliding expertly inside Dion's guard, the Warlord caught hold of the king's sword arm, hurled him off balance.
Dion stumbled, fell, landing heavily on his hip on the ground.
"Don't be a fool!" Sagan told him. He cast a significant glance around the courtyard.
Dion looked up. Armed men were running into the courtyard, their lasguns drawn and aimed—some at the king, others at the queen and Kamil.
Dion's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Your advice comes rather late, my lord," he said bitterly.
Chapter Eleven
You may my glories and my state depose.
But not my griefs; still am I King of those.
William Shakespeare, Richard II, Act IV, Scene i
"I must ask you to hand over the sword, Your Majesty," said Sagan.
Dion rose slowly and stiffly to his feet. Shutting off the bloodsword, he thrust the hilt back into its sheath, unbuckled the belt and removed it from around his waist. He carefully wrapped the belt around the hilt, silently handed the bloodsword to the Warlord.
Sagan replaced the sword in the box, alongside Flaim's. Pantha shut the lid, tucked the box under his arm.
"My lord Sagan, I thank you especially for your assistance in this matter." Flaim cast a triumphant glance at Pantha as he said this. "We will meet in two hours. By that time, the bomb should be in our possession. We have plans to finalize. Would you be interested in hearing them, cousin?"
Dion made no response.
"It seems the Corasians are about to invade the galaxy," Flaim continued. "Yes, cousin, within a few days, your Lord Admiral will start receiving reports that the enemy has crossed the Void and is preparing to attack. You, Your Majesty, will heroically and valiantly defend the galaxy by detonating the space-rotation bomb in the middle of the Corasian invasion force.
"Alas, cousin." Flaim spread wide his hands. "A terrible accident. You yourself are killed in the explosion. You die, a martyr to the cause, having saved your people. Your funeral will be most impressive. And I will be there, the next Starfire in line, to take the throne. The people will welcome me with tears in their eyes. Especially, as it will turn out, when they learn that the Corasian threat has not ended."
"You've allied yourself with the enemy," said Dion, quiet, the quiet of despair.
"By necessity. Kings must do things out of necessity," Flaim said, with a sly glance toward Kamil. "The Corasians will be granted certain planets—secretly, of course—to do with as they please. In return, they will 'retreat' on command, return when needed, keeping the galaxy in a suitable state of turmoil and fear that only I can quell.
"But your soul may rest easily, cousin. I do intend to keep my promise to you. I will marry the queen and raise your child to be heir. And if Her Majesty proves so indelicate as to refuse me, then her planet will be one of the first to fall victim to the enemy."
"I don't suppose she will refuse," said Dion, his eyes on his wife.
"An ingenious plan, don't you dunk, cousin?"
"Most ingenious," Dion agreed.
"I wish I could take credit for it." Flaim shrugged. "But I have Lord Sagan to thank."
"Indeed?" Dion—his expression troubled, thoughtful— turned to the Warlord.
Sagan bowed in acknowledgment.
Dion gazed at him for long moments. Then, the shadow falling dark over him, he lowered his head and stared down at the ground. "I see."
"Guards, attend Her Majesty. Escort her back to her quarters," Flaim commanded. "But perhaps Princess Olefsky would like to remain a moment, recover from the shock of her ordeal. For which I do apologize. I think she should be allowed to have a few words alone with the king. Tusca, remain with my cousin, take him back to his room whenever he is ready."
Tusk, standing against the wall, nodded sullenly.
Orders issued, Flaim left the courtyard, accompanied by Pantha and the box. Two female guards came to take charge of Astarte. The queen crossed the courtyard with her accustomed dignity and cool aplomb. But she hesitated when she neared Dion.
He remained standing in the center of the courtyard, inside the circle, his head bowed, rubbing the palm of his right hand.
Astarte stopped beside him, seemed to want to speak, to offer comfort. She reached out her hand.
He didn't see it, didn't look up.
But after all, what comfort can 1 give him? I'm a stranger. .. . Her words were unspoken, but they were written on her face. Her hand fell to her side. She sighed and started past.
Dion, hearing her sigh, became aware of her. He caught hold of her hand, looked at her steadily, intently.
"Astarte, are you all right? The child—" He faltered a moment, then said gently, "Our child—" He couldn't go on.
Astarte's pale face flooded with color. She was radiant, beautiful, life beating within the confines of death and despair. "Our child is fine. I am fine," she said to him, clasping his hand tightly. "Don't worry about us."
He couldn't speak, but brought her hand to his lips, then pressed it against his cheek. Astarte's eyes filled with tears. He smiled at her reassuringly. She returned the smile, blinked back the tears, and, with regal bearing, walked out of the courtyard.
Kamil remained sitting on the bench, staring at Dion, her heart and soul in her eyes. Dion glanced at her, shook his head, stared back down at the bare ground beneath his feet, at the drops of blood in the circle.
The courtyard emptied of people. Sagan, heading for one of the buildings, walked past Tusca. The mercenary looked sick, sat hunch-shouldered on the bench.
"I hope to hell you know what you're doing," Tusk said in a low voice, through split and blood-caked lips.
Ignoring him, the Warlord continued on. Tusk didn't bother to repeat himself. He
sat unmoving on the bench.
Sagan entered one of the buildings adjacent to the courtyard. He walked through the corridor, whose windows looked out upon the courtyard, taking care that his footsteps were loud and heavy. Pausing at the end of the hall, he turned and silently doubled back. Keeping in the shadows, he took his place near a window, as near as he could get to the circle in which the king remained. Kamil had joined Dion now, was standing beside him.
. The air was calm, sound carried well, and the Warlord had excellent hearing. Still, he might have had difficulty eavesdropping on their conversation had not Kamil inadvertently assisted him. Glancing mistrustfully at Tusk, she took hold of Dion's limp hand and, tugging him into responsiveness, drew him away from the mercenary. Her movement took them nearer Sagan, so near he was forced to retreat a step or two back deeper into the shadows to avoid being seen.
Her words took the Warlord by surprise, apparently startled Dion, too.
"Dion," she said to him firmly, her voice pitched low, "you've got to find a way to escape."
He raised his head, roused from his despairing lethargy.
"Listen to me first, before you say no," she continued swiftly. "I have an idea. A good one. When Tusk comes to take you back, grab his weapon. Force him to fly us out of here in the Scimitar. We'll rescue Astarte, take her with us. Tusk knows all the passwords, all the codes. His spaceplane is parked near the alcazar.
"He'll do it. I know he will!" Kamil gulped for air, nervous excitement stealing away her breath. "He doesn't like this, any of this. You saw him. He tried to help me. It was only Sagan, knocking him senseless, who made him back off. We'll escape and ... and ..." She paused, uncertain.
"And what?" Dion asked, smiling sadly.
"Well," she said, faltering, "you'll have to go into hiding. Flaim would be searching for you. But meanwhile we could raise armies against him. My father would help, and the baroness—"
"Until the bomb exploded. Or the strange dark-matter creatures attacked them. Or the Corasians invaded. No," said Dion quietly, "your father might want to help. But he couldn't. He'd be too busy fighting for his own survival."
Ghost Legion Page 49
