The Lost King (17 page)

"What?"

"They want the
good old days. They want a king. They're starting to think they made
a mistake. Life was pretty great, back then, when they didn't have to
think about who to vote for, didn't have to make all these decisions.
There's a lot more royalists around than you might think, kid. And
their numbers're growing. If the true heir was to turn up . .

"The Congress
would kill him," Dion said, fiddling with a dial.

"Or the President,
or both at once. I know I would, if I were in their shoes!"

"I wouldn't,"
XJ struck in. "And, hey, kid, don't mess with the equipment. No,
I wouldn't bump off the true heir. Not as long as the true heir
minded his manners, of course. Think about it—what would be
more impressive than the true heir appearing on prime time, putting
his arm around Peter Robes's padded shoulders and swearing that
there's nothing like the good old democratic system, after all. Get
out and vote for the candidate of your choice. Throw in a few remarks
about how the king was a money-grubbing, power-hungry elitist and how
the Republic's made for life, liberty, and the—"'

"Whose life?"
Tusk demanded. "Certainly not the heir's if one of the Warlords
steps in and wipes out the Congress."

"Are there any
powerful enough to do that?" Dion asked.

"Sagan, for one.
At least that's the rumor."

"Mrrft!" XJ
made a noise that the boy was later to learn was the computer's
approximation of a snort. "No way."

"Well, maybe not
yet," Tusk amended. Sneakily, he shed the leather flight jacket,
hoping the computer wouldn't notice. XJ had apparently become so
interested in the conversation it hadn't realized that Tusk had
readjusted the thermostat.

"So what do I do?
Rot in some military school?" Dion put his finger on a button,
then suddenly snatched it back. "Ouch!"

"Told you not to
touch those, kid," the computer said. "Small electrical
charge. Won't hurt you. This time."

"Uh, well, you
see, kid, we've decided not to take you to the military school, after
all—" Tusk began.

"You could be
worth your weight in gold," XJ remarked.

"Oh, so that's
it!" Dion said, flushing angrily. "You can sell me to the
highest bidder—"

"That's not it!"
Tusk snapped. "I promised, remember? And I may not be good for
much else, but I keep promises." He gave the computer a swift
kick beneath the console. "I promised that Platus of yours that
I'd take care of you. We ought to try to find out for certain—if
we can—who you are and . . . and—" Tusk's eyes
brightened. He sat forward excitedly in his chair. "And, by the
Creator, I know someone who might be able to help us!"

"Who?" Dion
asked sullenly, sucking his injured fingers.

"Someone who was
on Minas Tares the night of the revolution! John Dixter. He's
fighting a war on Vangelis. We're already on course for the planet,
aren't we, XJ?"

The computer muttered
something unintelligible.

"You really think
he can help?" Dion was still regarding the mercenary
suspiciously.

"Sure!" Tusk
said with more confidence than he felt. "Dixter was a general in
the Royal Army. Barely escaped the revolution with his life and now
he earns his living by selling his military expertise to those who
can afford him. And that's not just anyone. He's good, kid. Real
good. Fair and honest, too. Besides, you'll probably see some combat.
And what's military school compared to the real thing?"

"I guess you're
right." Dion relaxed. Sighing, he shook out the mane of red-gold
hair. "I'm sorry, Tusk. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions—"

"Think nothing of
it, kid. Now, XJ and I got a lot of work to do around here. Why don't
you go up and . . . uh . . . play some more of that harp stuff for
us?"

"You like it?"
Dion appeared pleased.

"You bet!"

Stuffing his plastic
dish into the trash liquidator, Dion climbed the ladder that led back
up into the living quarters of the Scimitar. Within moments, the
weird music of the light strings reverberated through the small
cabin.

"Liar!" XJ
said.

"Shut up,"
Tusk muttered, gritting his teeth.

One flesh; to lose thee
were to lose myself.

John Milton,
Paradise
Lost

"My lord, we have
landed."

"Yes. Thank you,
Captain."

The information was
unnecessary. The Warlord's shuttle did not touch down with such
smoothness that landings went unnoticed. This landing had been a
particularly rough one, the shuttle having been forced to blast away
a large portion of jungle growth to create a clear area in which to
set down the craft. Despite that, branches splintered, trees cracked,
vines slithered past the steelglass windows before the shuttle came
to a bumpy, bone-jolting stop.

Why the Warlord had
chosen to land in this overgrown jungle when there was a large smooth
area near a principal village was a mystery to the shuttlecraft's
commander. He had obeyed orders, however, and hoped that Sagan would
take into account the difficulties of setting down by night in
heavily wooded terrain when it came time for the commander's next
review.

The captain of the
centurions left the bridge and hastened to post himself at the
hatchway to await orders. He was considerably startled to find no one
there. Following landing, the Warlord was invariably on his feet,
standing by the hatch, waiting with obvious impatience for pressure
seals to release, the hatch to slide open, the ramp to slide out. But
now he was not there. He was nowhere to be seen.

His uneasiness
increasing, the captain waited a few nerve-racking moments to see if
the Warlord would make his appearance. When he did not, the captain
made his way to Sagan's quarters aboard the shuttlecraft. It was the
officer's duty, after all, to inform his superior that they had
arrived on-planet, in case the Warlord had not noticed that
vine-looped tree trunks now replaced the stars outside his view port.

The Honor Guard stood
alert and rigid outside the entrance to Sagan's quarters, and if the
centurions had been exchanging wondering glances between themselves
before their captain's arrival, they immediately assumed a formal
impassivity in the presence of the commander of the ring of steel
they formed around their lord. The captain could not forbear casting
them a questioning look. One raised an eyebrow and his left shoulder.
They didn't know what was going on either. The captain entered the
compartment.

The Warlord sat by
himself in moonlit darkness. The moonlight glistened off the
moisture-slick boles of the trees and their huge, dripping wet leaves
outside Sagan's viewport, shone brilliantly on the silver scabbard of
a sword—one of the legendary bloodswords-—lying across
the Warlord's knees. His hand rested on the hilt. Seen by moonlight,
the Warlord's face was a series of deep cleft marks scored into rock,
all slanting downward. The eyes were abstracted, staring intently at
nothing, and the captain realized that the Warlord's body may have
been in this compartment but his soul was not.

The captain was at a
loss. He had been given strict orders to attend the Warlord the
moment they arrived on the planet. He could do nothing but obey,
although it was quite obvious to him that his liege lord had gone
into one of his mystical trances. The captain knew that speech
sometimes roused the Warlord. Sometimes not. Having no idea what to
do if it didn't work, the captain decided to speak.

"My lord, we have
landed," he said in the tone one uses to waken a fast sleeper.

"Yes. Thank you,
Captain." Sagan spoke quietly, without turning his gaze on his
officer.

The captain felt hot
blood rush to his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, my
lord, I didn't know— I thought you were—"

"We'll leave now,
Captain."

Sword in hand, Sagan
rose to his feet. He was clad in the Romanesque military style he
fancied. A golden phoenix decorated a breastplate made of
null-gravity steel. Lightweight, comfortable, it could withstand the
blast of a laser. Projectiles—including those fired by
gas-guns—bounced off harmlessly. The only weapon that could
penetrate it was reputedly the bloodsword, and then only one wielded
by a person whose mind was powerful enough to fully control it.

If the Warlord had been
going into battle, he would have worn full armor made of this
material. He expected no danger on this mission, apparently, for he
was clad in a short tunic protected by heavy leather strips, ornately
decorated with inlaid silver and gold. Leather sandals that laced to
the knee completed his costume. The Warlord had no adjutant. At his
gesture, one of the centurions brought forward the red cape and
draped it around the man's bare, well-muscled shoulders. A golden
chain, attached to two phoenix pins—one on either shoulder—held
the cape securely in place. The Honor Guard reverently lifted the
Warlord's golden helmet with the blood-red feather crest and stood
holding it patiently until his lord should request it.

The captain was
somewhat confused. He had been told they were landing on this planet
to apprehend a prisoner. From his ceremonial dress, Lord Sagan might
have been going to an audience with the defunct king.

"Have the quarters
adjacent to mine prepared to receive a guest, Captain," the
Warlord instructed, carefully attaching the bloodsword to a belt
girded about his waist.

The captain blinked.
"My lord," he said hesitantly, "I was told we were
transporting a dangerous political prisoner. I have made ready the
hold—"

"She will be a
prisoner, Captain. She is dangerous. You will remember that. She is
also the daughter of a planetary king, Morianna—one of the most
feared warriors of his time. Her mother was a princess of the Leiah
system. Of course, I realize, Captain, that in our present society
this noble lineage is worth less than the cost of the microchip on
which it is recorded. Nevertheless, you will accord her the same
respect you accord me."

"Yes, my lord."

The captain heard
something that sounded like a sigh. His face as grim as if he were
facing an army often thousand foes, the Warlord covered his face with
his golden helmet and started for the hatch.

Accompanied by his
Honor Guard, the Warlord moved through the thick vegetation
resolutely. The way seemed impenetrable. The guards' weapons sliced
through twisted, slimy vines as big around as a man's leg, chopped
down giant elephant-ear plants, and hacked the limbs off trees that
seemed—by acts of eerie intelligence—to be determined to
block their path.

It was hot work in the
steaming, humid jungle air, and after only a few yards had been
cleared, the men were panting, wiping sweat from their faces, and
wondering how much farther was their destination. A short distance
from the shuttle, however, the Warlord came upon a cleared path. He
did not arrive at it by accident. He had obviously been expecting to
find it, and chose his direction and began walking along it without
hesitation.

The Honor Guard
followed close and with more caution than their lord. His life, after
all, was in their hands, and the centurions knew this planet to be
inhabited by natives—so it was reported—who were fearful
of them and hostile to their intent. And although these natives were
purportedly only a step removed from the stone age in terms of
weaponry, a spear through the gut kills just as surely as a laser
blast. Sensing devices were useless. The life-form readings they
would pick up in this jungle environment would be too numerous to
count, more confusing than helpful. Their lord preferred depending on
God-given senses—saying that a man was safer to rely on
instincts bred over thousands of years of survival rather than a
machine that, no matter how sophisticated, had never walked in fear
of its life.

An army of thousands
could have been hiding in that moonlit mass of plant life and the
centurions could never have seen it. They could hear rustlings and
growls, snufflings and furtive slitherings among the undergrowth and
in the branches above their heads. Animals going about their nightly
business, said their lord.

The centurions did not
relax their vigilance, but followed closely behind their lord, who
was forging his way ahead without pause. Occasionally, the path split
into two separate trails, heading in diverging directions.
Occasionally, another path left the one on which they walked, wending
its way into another part of the jungle. Sagan never hesitated when
it came to a choice, but went to the right or to the left as whatever
was guiding him dictated.

What
was
guiding
him? His guards had no idea. The magnetic force that both drew him
and repelled him was invisible to them, though its effects on him
were not. He had drawn his helmet over his head; his face was hidden.
He walked purposefully, determinedly, never wavering. Opposite
magnetic fields attracting. Yet every step seemed an effort. The
cords of his neck were taut, the muscles of his shoulders twitched
and bunched as though he were pushing against something that was
pushing back. Like magnetic fields repelling.

His tension
communicated itself to his men, who—after a half-hour of
watching him fight this internal battle—would have welcomed a
flight of arrows. Suddenly one guard touched his captain's arm,
pointing ahead in silent communication. Through the breaks in the
jungle's growth, a light could be seen. It was a bright light, yet
pale and eerie, with a bluish cast to it, almost as if the moon had
fallen from the sky and landed on the ground before them.

The Warlord headed
straight for the light, and no man among his guard had any doubt that
this was their destination. The light grew brighter, illuminating the
jungle with a stark, white glow that sucked all color—and
thereby seemingly all life—out of any object it touched. The
centurions' own flesh appeared corpselike, luminescent, transparent.
Trees seemed carved of white marble; metal glistened like ice.