A Game of Universe (19 page)

Clever. After the King announced the one to heal his daughter would win her hand, I bet the Queen gave the alchemist prince the “cure” to the princess’s “sickness”—after a suitable time, of course, to heighten the drama. Osrick never really had a chance.

The ambassador’s blood pressure shot dangerously high, so I overrode the safety monitor and more sedatives hissed into his body. “Go on,” I said in a smoothing tone. “What happened after his death?”

“Osrick’s ghost,” he said. “It materialized at the wedding, in the middle of the ceremony. He pronounced his curse and made the princess ill again. If she married, we all would suffer.”

“Exactly what did Osrick say?”

Despite the narcotics he twisted in pain. “No,” he hissed, “I may not repeat it.”

This was an unusual reaction. The blue shield ought to compensate for any mental blocks, embarrassments, or willpower the ambassador had.

“Let’s forget the wording of the curse then,” I said. The ambassador relaxed, exhaling a sigh. “How did the ghost of Osrick, a mere knight, manage such an enchantment?”

“We struggled to discover that ourselves,” he whispered. “But so much time has passed, I can’t even say how long, and his magic remains stronger than all the wizards in the castle.”

“Didn’t you suspect the chalice he returned with? What do you call it, the Cup of Regulus?”

“Yes, that was the first thing we thought of, but it was buried with him the same day he died. It is customary to bury the honored dead with their wealth.”

Some honor.

I unfolded the disposable computer and projected an image of the Grail. “Open your eyes,” I commanded.

They snapped open.

A virtual image of a cup of blue stone floated above the computer. “Was this it?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied, “that is what Osrick had. With it, he said he would cure the princess. He claimed it had the power to eliminate all traces of plague from her body. He said it could cure anything.”

“Have you retrieved the cup to study it?”

“Impossible. Twenty-three warriors have entered the catacombs where Osrick is entombed. None have returned. He is down there!” The ambassador’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and his heartbeat became asynchronous. The blue shield flashed a warning, indicating a toxic level of sedatives in his blood.

I reset his heart with a mild shock, ended the interrogation program, then commanded the robot doctor to neutralize the drugs in his body. While he was still in a trance, I planted a command into his soft mind: “You will recall nothing of this conversation, Sebastian. Tonight, upon my request, you will show me the way into these so-called ‘catacombs.’ You will take me to the tomb of Osrick.”

He answered, “Yes.”

“Now, tell me more of your Queen.” A woman who engineered her own daughter’s illness to marry her off, and then murdered Osrick, deserved careful attention.

“The noble Queen Isadora,” he sighed. “You would do best, Prince Germain, to not cross her. She has had her enemies ground into pieces and buried in the mushroom forest. The King uses them as fish bait. That keeps them from returning.”

“Returning? Clarify that remark please.”

The ambassador yawned. He’d be unconscious for several hours soon. In a slurred voice he told me, “We cannot die. Osrick intended for us to be trapped forever … isolated … until the Queen’s prophecy came … to free … us.” He gently snored.

Cannot die? The apple in the waiting room healed itself; the bite I took from it sealed. I wondered if the Bren’s flesh did the same. If so, then what happened to the Queen’s enemies? Transformed into fish food, were they a layer of excrement in the bottom of the moat? Still sentient?

The door handle jostled, then a kick rattled the whole thing in its frame.

I activated my shadow skin and slipped into the darkness on the far side of the bed.

A second kick. The door crashed open.

Three armored knights with swords drawn entered and quickly closed the door. The first one was Sir Benjamin, the second, the old knight I had seen earlier in the hallways, and the third, the young one who had wanted to skewer me in the throne room.

“Where is he?” the oldest whispered. “And what is that fool ambassador doing here asleep?” He shook his body, but the ambassador continued to snore.

The young knight raised his visor, and replied, “He must be here. I’ll wager he is in the water closet, hiding.” He placed a hand on Sir Benjamin’s shoulder and said, “Ready yourself. I shall open the door and catch the knave with his trousers about his feet.” He noticed my rifle propped by the side of the bed and grabbed it for himself.

Medea took an interest in the situation. She whispered,
Three against one with blades? Looks like fun.

Wait,
I cautioned her.
They are under an enchantment.

Didn’t you hear the ambassador? They cannot die.

All things die,
she said.
I know that for a fact. Let me have your body
—
now.

When I overheard Sir Benjamin and the old knight before, they said the Queen would test my strength. This little ambush must be what they meant. Very well, if they wanted a test, they’d get more than they bargained for. They’d get Medea.

She and I traded places. My personality submerged, a sensation of sinking in dark water, then my senses dulled, black and white, distorted sounds, thick layers of mist. I watched over her shoulder, a spectator.

Medea crouched in the shadows. The old knight bent down to look under the bed, while the others readied themselves by the water closet.

“This is odd,” the old knight whispered, “there is a peculiar shadow on the other side.”

She jumped, a bounce across the bed, almost on the chest of the ambassador, then a flying kick into the head of the old knight. He fell over with a crash, the sound of iron screeching across marble, dropped his blade, and struggled to get up. Medea took the opportunity to grab his hand, twist his arm, and place my foot just beneath his elbow. There was a satisfying crack.

The younger knight and Sir Benjamin forgot the water closet and ran to their fallen comrade.

Medea turned the shadow skin off. Such quick motions could not be cloaked by its circuits; besides, she wanted them to see her. She wanted a close bloody fight.

When she materialized from the darkness, they stopped short.

“He has magic!” the younger one exclaimed.

“Be quick to run him through,” cried the old knight on the ground.

Medea glared at him, and stomped on his neck with all my weight. There was a crushing sensation then he stopped struggling in her grasp.

“Such noble knights,” she said and grinned. “Planning to kill an unarmed man? Did you hope I would be asleep or bathing to make your task easier? You are more the King’s assassins than his knights.” She meant that as a compliment, but from the expression on Sir Benjamin’s face I saw it wounded him.

“One tends to become practical about these matters after a few centuries,” Sir Benjamin answered.

The young knight circled to my flank—hoping no doubt to impale me while they discussed this matter. Medea was not so easily tricked.

She flicked my blade free from its sheath, and rubbed the third stone on the handle to turn the metal black, and make it harder to see, and harder to parry.

The young knight laughed when he saw our weapon. “He’s got nothing more than a dagger.” He lowered the tip of his sword.

That was all the opening she needed. Medea beat his blade aside and lunged. My knife pierced his breastplate, squealing, metal against metal, and throwing sparks. Through the sure stick grip, we felt the pulsing of his heart. She twisted the blade, ripped it free. He fell with an astonished look on his face.

“That’s two down,” she said calmly to Sir Benjamin. “I usually kill three men before dinner to work up my appetite. Care to try your luck?”

His reply was a cut to my leg.

She deflected his blade, riposted, and aimed for an obvious opening in his defense, his left hand. She cut through his gauntlet and took two fingers.

Sir Benjamin didn’t flinch. He reversed his grip and sent a numbing backslash into my stomach, knocking the wind from my body and Medea to the floor.

The only thing that saved me from being disemboweled was the quality of my armor. I’d still have one hell of a bruise, maybe a few cracked ribs—hard to tell from the sidelines. She rolled away quickly before he recovered his stroke.

“You’re good,” she said, gasping air.

“Years of practice.”

Medea feinted high, struck low.

Sir Benjamin used neither his shield nor his sword to deflect our attack. He merely stepped backward.

She nicked his knee. While my body was extended, Sir Benjamin aimed his next blow at my unarmored neck. She couldn’t move out of the way quick enough, so she parried. Sir Benjamin was stronger than we were, had better leverage, and his blade had five times the mass of mine. The impact drove my own knife into my throat. Without its enchantment to never cut its wielder, I’d have taken my own head off.

Medea took three steps back, fast, and stood sideways, blade held high, knees bent. She was frustrated by his skill, intrigued at the same time.

“Your blade and armor serve you well,” he remarked.

Sir Benjamin then lunged at my chest, not at full speed, perhaps waiting for a better opportunity in the riposte. She caught his blade and swept it down. This left her wide open and her center of gravity low. What was she doing?

He brought his blade back in line with my body.

Medea lashed out with a roundhouse kick to his head—so quick, it even caught me off guard. She connected.

Sir Benjamin’s helmet flew off, dark blood exploded from his nose, and his teeth shattered. We spun about and kicked him again in the face. I heard bone break and wasn’t sure if that was my foot or his skull.

He stood there stunned for a second, both eyes blackened, lip busted, then fell backwards.

Medea was on him instantly, and sheathed my blade in his eye to finish him off. She patted his swollen cheek and sighed, “Not bad, Ben. Too bad one of us had to die. I could have learned a trick or two from a man like you.”

At my back, we heard a familiar hum: my accelerator rifle. Medea turned to see the young knight holding the weapon level with my abdomen. Blood no longer pumped from the wound in his chest.

You locked that rifle?
she asked.

I’m not certain.

“The last thief to come here carried such a lance,” the young knight said. “I saw him use it. Fitting that you should die by your own cowardly weapon.”

He pulled the trigger.

A fan of ions exploded from the locked prechamber of the accelerator—backwards—and washed over him. His midsection vanished. What was left turned to sausage. Bits of his armor spattered the far side of the room with molten silver dots.

I’m certain now,
I told her.

Medea rubbed my stomach and said aloud, “It was fun while it lasted, Germain, but I’m done now. You’re going to ache a bit until you get a blue shield on you, and you better fix the metatarsals in your foot so you can move.” She offered my body back and I took it. Three ribs were cracked, I figured, as I doubled over in pain, and my foot was definitely broken. I gulped in air that was full of the stench of burnt flesh. My rifle was ruined.

I retrieved my knife and watched with fascination as Sir Benjamin’s eye sealed itself. It was as the ambassador said: they could not die. However, the younger knight’s cooked bits and pieces were not reforming. So they were vulnerable after all. Good.

The old knight with the crushed windpipe stirred. I collected their swords and tossed them under the bed, then got the accelerator pistol from my boot and aimed it at him.

He rose, massaging his neck, then bowed to me respectfully, but said nothing.

I was reluctant to take off my armor and use the blue shield, uncertain what these knights would do for an encore. The older knight and I observed each other for a few minutes until Sir Benjamin moved. He blinked several times then bowed to me. “Prince Germain,” he said, “please forgive us. We had to know.”

“Know what?” I spat. “The color of my blood?”

The old knight croaked, “In a manner of speaking, Sire, yes. We had to test your character. You are the finest warrior we have seen for a very long time.”

Sir Benjamin explained, “The Queen has foreseen that only a man with the strength to defeat three of our finest warriors would stand a chance. Others have been here, and failed. We could not disappoint the princess again.”

“Others?” I said then snapped my fingers. “A man from Earth, right? That’s why I got the cold shoulder when the ambassador announced me.”

“I do not know what you mean by ‘cold shoulder,’” answered Sir Benjamin, “but, yes, the last man to visit us had pale skin as you do. He possessed similar mannerisms, armaments, and was also from Earth.”

“He promised to help us,” the old knight whispered, “but left our princess heartbroken, violated our trust, and defiled our sacred place. He was a lowborn thief, not the great warrior of the Queen’s prophecy. He accepted the challenge, but did so only to deceive us, only to steal from our dead.” He examined me carefully, then added, “But you, Prince Germain, you have the ability and training of a nobleman. Your prowess with the blade far surpasses any knight in this castle.” He turned to Sir Benjamin. “He defeated three of us with a mere knife. Imagine what he could do with a real sword.”

“You said he went into the catacombs, this other man?” I asked. “Where Sir Osrick is buried?”

“How do you know of Osrick?” Sir Benjamin demanded.

“I’m asking the questions,” I replied and waved my pistol at him.

Sir Benjamin took a long look at the smoldering remains of the young knight, swallowed, then answered, “Very well, I shall tell you what I can. This thief indeed stole from Sir Osrick’s tomb. How the craven avoided the perils there, I know not.”

“I’m curious,” I said. “What exactly do you expect me to do that this other man was incapable of?”

The old knight said, “As you know, being under a curse yourself, we are not permitted to reveal how our enchantment may be lifted.”

I laughed. “What am I supposed to do? Marry your princess?”