The Lost King (45 page)

"He's sleeping."

"That probably
won't last long. I can't give him any more of the drug without
risking serious harm. He'll wake up suffering the galaxy's worst
hangover, but beyond that, my lord, he'll be all right."

The Warlord stared down
at the boy in grim silence. Marcus had retreated to a far corner, the
centurion letting it be known that he was here if needed and was not
if he wasn't.

"I tried to spare
you this, Dion. But—so be it. You might as well see that the
shining toy you want so much has a dark and lethal heart. Giesk!"

"What were you
saying, my lord? There's nothing wrong with his heart—"

"Don't be any more
of a fool than you can help, Giesk. Can you give the boy something
that will bring him around now?"

"Yes, my lord. A
pep shot. He won't feel very good—"

"Where he's going,
he won't feel good no matter what kind of shot you give him. You have
your orders."

"Yes, my lord.
I'll send the medicbot—"

The Warlord broke the
connection. Rising to his feet, he looked around the small room.

"Centurion."

"My lord."

"When the boy
regains consciousness, bring him to the arena. But see to it that he
doesn't interfere."

"Yes, my lord."

Sagan started to leave.
The door slid aside, the medicbot hovered just beyond. Pausing, the
Warlord turned around and fixed his shadowed gaze upon the soldier.

"Your name is
Marcus, isn't it, centurion?"

"Yes, my lord."

There were one hundred
men in the Honor Guard. Sagan knew every one of them by name.

"Tell me, Marcus.
Why didn't you take the boy back to sick bay? Or just allow the
medicbot to do its duty?"

Marcus hesitated,
swallowing, passing his tongue over dry lips. This could earn him a
reprimand—if he was lucky. Punishment, if he wasn't. It might
get him thrown out of the Guard, dishonorably discharged from the
service. Men had killed themselves rather than face that fate.

It was always best,
with the Warlord, to tell the truth. He knew when a man was lying. He
could, it was said, see inside the brain.

"My lord, the
young man asked about the Lady Maigrey. He could have let the drug
put him to sleep, but he didn't. He was fighting against it to come
to her aid. Such courage shouldn't be thwarted."

Marcus had no idea if
what he'd said made any impression. Sagan did not immediately
respond. He might not have been paying attention. He was looking at
Dion, lying on the bed, the flame-red hair tousled on the pillow.

"Centurion,"
the Warlord said suddenly, "if I fall this day, the Lady Maigrey
will be in considerable danger. Would you be prepared to defend
her—against your own comrades?"

Marcus, completely
confounded by the question, stared at the Warlord, uncertain how to
answer. "My lord—"

"The truth,
centurion."

"Yes, my lord. I
would defend her with my life."

What Marcus had said
amounted to treason. Sagan could very well put him to death for such
a statement. But the Warlord had commanded his soldier speak the
truth, and though Sagan was known to be unmerciful, he was not known
to be unjust.

The Warlord glanced
outside the door. The medicbot hummed in its impatience to carry out
its instructions.

"Very good,
centurion. If I fall, see to it that Lady Maigrey aiid the boy are
taken to a place of safety."

Marcus couldn't speak.
His face must have registered his astonishment, however, for the
Warlord, glancing at him, smiled wryly. "Don't worry, centurion.
That's one command I don't expect you to have to carry out. However,
it's well to be prepared." He reached out his hand; the tips of
his fingers touched the red-golden hair.

"Yes, my lord."
Marcus saluted, fist over heart.

The Warlord nodded,
returned the salute, and stalked out. His red cape, billowing behind
him, nearly engulfed the medicbot coming in. It whirred irritably and
began puttering around the boy, drawing blood samples and
surreptitiously carrying out numerous other tests for the benefit of
Dr. Giesk. Finally it planted a small wet dot on the boy's arm and,
clicking and clanking, whirred itself out of the room.

Marcus sighing, wiped
his hand across his sweat-beaded upper lip, and sank down into a
chair.

"Admiral Aks
requests permission to see you, my lord."

"Let him enter."

Aks strode through the
golden double doors. Seeing the Warlord clad in a tight-fitting body
suit that he used only for physical exercise, the admiral stopped
dead in the entry hall.

"So this
ridiculous rumor I've heard is true, my lord?"

"Not knowing to
which ridiculous rumor you are referring, Aks, I couldn't say."

The body suit slid over
the Warlord's smooth muscles, emphasizing his strong build and girth.
He flexed his arms, to make certain the suit allowed suitable freedom
of movement. Satisfied, he tied back his long, gray-streaked black
hair with a leather cord.

"You've actually
agreed to fight the Lady Maigrey in a duel! My lord, I must protest.
This is preposterous." Aks was red in the face with the exertion
of his emotions. "You're far too valuable to the Republic to
risk yourself in this manner."

Sagan flicked him a
glance.

"Hardly an
argument conducive to forcing me to change my mind, Admiral. You know
better than anyone aboard this ship that I am
not
valuable to
the Republic. I am, in fact, a distinct menace to the Republic."

"Damn it, Derek,
you know what I mean!" Aks rarely resorted to swearing and never
in front of his liege lord. He had never called Sagan by his given
name. "You're our hope. You can squash this imbecilic democracy
and put power back into the hands of those who deserve to hold it.
You've made your plans. You've spent years on them! Now, when all is
nearly ready—"

"—I remove
the last obstacle, Aks."

"But at such a
risk to yourself, my lord!"

"Thank you,
Admiral, for your vote of confidence. Are you suggesting the lady
might defeat me?"

Aks paused, nonplussed,
but his fear overrode his usual strong sense of self-preservation. Or
perhaps it was his sense of self-preservation that goaded him on. The
admiral was well aware of Captain Nada's spying. Aks knew that he
himself had figured largely in Nada's reports of Sagan's treasonous
actions. At the moment, the admiral stood safely behind his Warlord.
He didn't like to think what would happen to him if that secure
bulwark was removed.

"My lord, of the
two of you, she
was
the better swordsman."

Sagan looked at himself
in the mirror. The muscles of the arms and legs were well rounded,
smooth. There was not a stronger man on the ship, not a man—even
among the young ones—who could keep up with him in running,
swimming. There was not a wrestler who could bring him to a fall, not
a fencer who could come within his guard. Yet every day it took a
little more effort to keep up his pace. Every race he ran, the
Warlord wondered if this would be the one in which he would slip,
falter. He put his hand on his abdominal muscles, felt them not rock
hard, as in his youth, but softer, beginning to sag.

Lifting his right hand,
he stared at five white marks in the palm. In his mind he could hear
the chanting of an unseen crowd. "Die now!" they cried.
"Die now." The shouts of the ancient Greeks to one who had
achieved some great triumph in his life. "Die now, while you are
happy, for nothing in your life can be better than this moment."
Or, in other words, Go out in glory, it's all downhill from here.
Angrily, Sagan shook his head, physically shaking off the thoughts.
What a fool's notion. He hadn't yet reached the pinnacle of his
success. "The blood-dimmed tide is loosed." He had it in
his power, now, to conquer the galaxy.

The Warlord's open palm
clenched slowly to a fist.

"I've waited
seventeen years for this moment, Aks. Don't tell me it isn't worth
it! She's the last. The last who turned on me. My victory over her is
assured. God has given her into my hands. I've foreseen it."

The Warlord turned
abruptly and, lifting a pair of fencing gloves, pulled them on. The
Admiral, though daunted by Sagan's anger, was frightened enough to
blunder ahead.

"My lord," he
said, lowering his voice, though he knew they couldn't possibly be
overheard, "there are ways. . . . No one could ever say you had
anything to do with it. One of the men, gone crazy. A fanatic,
killing her to protect you. You could be furious, outraged—"

"—and live
with myself the rest of my life?"

Sagan's anger had
cooled. He appeared amused and he laid a hand on the admiral's
shoulder.

"The men would
always wonder, Aks. I'd see the shadow of doubt in the eyes that now
regard me with fear and respect. No, it's fitting, after all, that we
meet this way, as we met that last night. I wonder, Aks, if I didn't
know what she was planning. I think I must have. It came as no
surprise to me, when she issued the challenge. I knew, when she said
the words, that this was our destiny. I saw again the vision of her
death in my mind when she spoke. And yet—yet—"

"My lord?"

Sagan lifted the
bloodsword, held it in his hand, staring at it. "Something isn't
right, Aks. You know that when I have these glimpses into the future,
they are clear and accurate to the last detail. And, in that vision,
she is wearing armor—silver armor. An exact copy of mine."
The Warlord cast a glance at his gold armor, carefully arranged by
his orderly on its stand near his bed.

The admiral failed to
see what silver armor had to do with anything. He had never really
given credence to his lord's visions, considering them dreams and
nothing more. Aks spread his hands deprecatingly.

"Women's fashions
change with such rapidity, my lord—"

"Aks, you're a
dolt."

I may be a dolt, my
lord, but
I'm
not the one risking my life for some worn-out
notion of honor. Aks did not say this aloud. He didn't say anything,
and the Warlord didn't notice his silence.

"Such armor as
that doesn't exist, Admiral. It couldn't possibly exist, unless I had
it made for her. And, in my hand, I'm holding a dagger—a silver
dagger of ancient make and design—"

The chiming of the
ship's bells interrupted him. Sagan straightened, glanced around.
"Leave me, Aks."

"You're determined
to go through with this, my lord?"

The dark line of the
Warlord's lips expanded slightly. "Don't worry, Aks. If I fall,
you can always claim that you were going along with me simply to
gather evidence to use at my trial for treason. Instead of hanging
around, annoying me, you might want to spend this time erasing any
incriminating computer files."

"You have
completely misunderstood my intentions, my lord. I can assure you of
my undying loyalty. I wish you success, my lord."

Hurt and indignant, Aks
turned on his heels and marched stiffly out of Sagan's chambers. But,
once he was alone in the Warlord's private elevator, the admiral
happened to remember the existence of certain files on the Adonian,
Snaga Ohme. Aks was loyal, but there was no sense in carrying it to
extremes. Emerging from the elevator into the corridor, the admiral
hurried posthaste to his own quarters.

Derek Sagan removed the
hilt of his sword from its protective platinum and palladium
scabbard, which also served as an energy recharger for the weapon.
The Warlord checked the sword out of habit, though he knew that it
was up to full power. He hadn't used it since the night he'd slain
Platus Morianna. Balancing the sword in his hand, making a few passes
to limber his arm, he halted and stared at it.

Silver dagger. Of
ancient make and design.
Not
a bloodsword.

Sagan fitted the hilt
back onto its scabbard, unbuckled the scabbard from around his waist,
and carefully laid the sword upon his bed. One did not come armed
into the presence of God.

Entering the chapel,
the Warlord looked down upon the black cloth, the objects resting
there: the chalice, the lamp, the dagger.

Yes, that was it. That
was the dagger. A ceremonial blade, blessed by the Priests of
Adamant, intended for use in the worship of the Creator, never meant
to take life.

Cursed, he thought. I
would be cursed, my soul damned for eternity to use it for such a
purpose.

Sagan touched the
dagger, traced the pattern of the eight-pointed star with his finger.
He wondered that he hadn't recognized it when he first had the
vision, but it had been unclear then. He had dreamed it many times
since, and each time it became clearer in his mind, each time he saw
more details.

What is God trying to
say to me? What is God doing to me, anyway? To tell me this boy—this
heir of the Starfires—is a savior! Sagan lifted the dagger,
held it in his hand.

A savior!

With a bitter curse,
the Warlord hurled the dagger back onto the altar. He heard a ringing
clatter and something metal fall onto the deck, but he didn't look
around. Walking out the door, he sealed it behind him and, grabbing
the bloodsword from his bed, he summoned his guard and left for the
arena.

In his mind, he could
hear the voices, "Die now!"

"How do you feel?"

"Like warships are
blasting off in my head and using my mouth for a landing pad."
Dion groaned, sat up, and clutched his throbbing temples.

"Can you walk?"

Dion opened his eyes.
The light was like spears flying into his brain, but the walls at
least were where they should be and seemed likely to stay there. The
overhead was up and the deck was down. When he stood, Marcus was at
his side, to keep him from falling.