The Lost King (47 page)

"What's going on?"
Dion stared in confusion. "Why does the blade vanish?"

"It doesn't. Not
really. That's the weapon's defense shield. It will protect against
the enemy's blow, but to use the shield requires almost double the
energy needed to use the blade. They're playing a mental game with
each other, trying to drain each other's strength."

"I don't
understand."

"You had better,
for you may be called on to use it."

The two were circling,
feinting attacks now and then. The swords blazed blue, then
disappeared and then were blue, switching from offense to defense
with the swiftness of a thought.

"Have you ever
seen one of the swords?"

"Yes." Dion
did not tell Marcus where or under what circumstances. He saw it
clearly, though, in Platus's hand.

"You've seen that
there are five prongs on the hilt. When the user grasps the hilt,
these prongs penetrate the flesh and inject a virus into the
bloodstream. In a person with the correct blood type and DNA
structure, this virus opens channels that parallel the normal nerve
channels and eventually reach the brain. Micromachines are injected,
making connections with the lymphatic systems to draw energy from the
body's cells to power the weapon. The energy used comes from ATP,
adenosine triphosphate. The sword has its own energy source, but once
that is depleted, it begins to draw on the only other source
available—your body."

"What happens if
you don't have the correct blood type and you pick up the sword?"

Sagan made a sudden
lunge at Maigrey, who didn't meet him with a block as expected, but
who swiftly and agilely dodged, whirled, and sent her blade slicing
through the air with a vicious downward stroke that would have cut
the man in two had he not guessed her attack and reacted in time,
falling back away from her. The two paused a moment, eyeing each
other, then resumed their places in the center of the circle.

Dion resumed breathing.

"The virus
injected into a body that doesn't have the proper bloodline turns
into a particularly nasty form of cancer," Marcus said quietly.
"It mutates rapidly. There is no cure. Death, if you're lucky,
comes in about three days. At least there's one thing you won't have
to worry about. If my lord falls, no one will be eager to take
possession of his bloodsword. You'll have it all to yourself."

Death, if you're
lucky, in three days
. The inside of the palm of Dion's right hand
itched unpleasantly. He rubbed the skin. "But Sagan's wearing
gloves. How could—"

"Doesn't matter.
The prongs will penetrate the heaviest gauntlet. And the hilt is
weighted in such a way that, in order to use it, you must hold it so
that the prongs dig into the flesh. Oh, good exchange. Well done!"

The crowd was losing
its awe, getting into the spirit of the battle. A rapid series of
attacks made the air hum with the blade's energy. The afterimage of
the blue light burning the retina of the eye made it seem as if the
two were surrounded in red streaks and it was difficult, for an
instant, to see what had happened.

Both emerged unscathed,
though each was sweating profusely and their breath was visibly
coming quicker and shorter. They took up their positions again when
Maigrey suddenly made the same gesture that had drawn Dion's concern
earlier. She put her hand to her temple, blinking her eyes. She had
just presence of mind left to stumble out of the circle. Sagan,
standing in the center, his sword arm relaxed, watched her closely,
warily, apparently suspecting some trick.

But Dion, who could see
Sagan's face clearly, saw a tiny frown appear between the thick black
brows. The man was puzzled, obviously wondering what was going on.

"That will cost
her," Marcus said in grim tones. "She should have taken the
rest later in the battle when she'll need it more."

"There's something
wrong with her! That's obvious. Why don't they stop?"

"There's no way
they can. The only way to stop now is for one to yield to the other,
and that would mean not only death but dishonor."

"What honor is
there in this? Fighting someone who's sick?"

"The lady doesn't
appear sick to me. She fought with too much energy. There, she's
going back. I don't know what the matter is, but she better control
it."

The fight seemed, to
Dion, to drag on for hours. The tension was unbearable. It was, as
Marcus said, a battle of wits as much as of physical prowess. Eyes
were focused on each other, the brain endeavoring to penetrate the
mental shield while the body tried to penetrate the physical. Each
was growing visibly tired, each making tiny mistakes, saving
themselves only by sheer bursts of energy, skill, and intuition.
Blood oozed from wounds each had taken.

And then Sagan slipped,
the aching muscle of his legs giving out. Maigrey was on him in an
instant and only the fact that he was standing next to the circle and
could throw himself out saved him.

Picking himself up from
the dirt, he jumped back into the circle, and those who knew him knew
that he was furious. Unlike other men, the Warlord's rage did not
kindle a fire, but rather seemed to quench one. He was cold and
remote and intent on ending this contest that had, in his estimation,
gone on far too long. His attack was vicious. He hammered at
Maigrey's sword again and again until it seemed impossible that his
arms would possess the strength to keep inflicting such blows ... or
hers to absorb them.

Maigrey was forced to
keep her shield switched on continually and her strength was waning
fast. But she defended herself bravely. The shouting in the arena was
deafening and seemed not to be for either one in particular but in
homage to the valor of both and the eager, brutal expectation that is
humanity's worst failing—the thirst for blood.

Dion strained forward,
his heart thudding in his chest, his throat burning. Marcus, mindful
of his duty in the midst of the excitement, had hold of him, or else
the young man would have hurled himself into that circle of death.
The noise reverberated off the walls, sending the blood pounding in
his head until he feared something inside him must burst from the
pressure.

And then suddenly
Maigrey collapsed. She sank to her knees in the dirt of the arena,
her head bowed, her shoulders slumped, the sword gone lifeless in her
hand.

"Get out!"
shouted many, on their feet, urging her to seek the sanctuary outside
the edge of the circle.

Lord Sagan paused,
flaming sword in hand, waiting to see if she would make the attempt
to save her own life. But Maigrey didn't move. She had fallen in the
classic pose of one who faces execution, and the Warlord, taking this
for her surrender, raised the blade above her head.

The crowd roared. Some
shouted for Sagan to finish it. Others shouted for the lady to find
her courage.

A scream of rage welled
up inside Dion. He leapt forward, only to feel Marcus's arm around
his neck, throttling him. The young man fought viciously, hopelessly,
and Marcus was forced to nearly choke the breath from Dion before he
could calm him down.

"Look, boy! Look!"
Marcus's hissing voice finally penetrated.

"She's in a
trance!" Dion whispered.

Maigrey seemingly had
no idea where she was or that her own death was standing over her.
She was staring at something no one else could see, a look of tense
concentration on her face. The Warlord hesitated to strike; it would
be like killing her in her sleep. Still thinking it might be a trick,
he kicked the sword from her hand out of her reach. Maigrey didn't
move, didn't appear to notice her weapon was gone. The expression on
her face had changed to one of horror. Whatever visions she was
seeing must be terrible.

The shouting in the
arena had changed to a murmur, puzzled and ominous.

Hurling his own sword
into the dirt, Sagan knelt beside the woman, and taking hold of her
by the shoulders, he shook her. Maigrey's head snapped back, her hair
straggled over her face. Her eyes were gray; the scar was a leaden
streak across her skin. Her lips parted to gasp for breath. She
didn't speak. Blinking, she focused on Sagan and a shudder went
through her body. Reaching out her hands, she caught hold of him,
clutching at him as she were drowning.

The Warlord's black
hair had come undone and fell about his sweat-streaked face. He held
her, supported her.

"What is it,
Maigrey? What do you see? Share it with me!"

Looking up into his
eyes, her expression ghastly, Maigrey placed both hands on either
side of the Warlord's face.

The murmur of the crowd
became a muttering, an exchanging of glances, grim and fearful. The
arena seemed to grow darker. A shadow was spreading, emanating from
the two unmoving figures in the center of the arena, like a perverse
sun that brings night, not day.

Dion freed himself from
the centurion and started across the arena. Marcus, uncertain what
was happening or how it affected his orders, allowed the boy to go
and followed him. His lord did not look like himself.

"My lord!"

Captain Nada had
entered the arena. Making his way through the dirt toward the two
combatants covered with grime and sweat and their own blood. A
disdainful expression on his face, Nada paused inside the ring to
flick a bit of soil from the pants leg of his uniform. Like the fool
who comes on before the last scene in a tragedy, he gave the audience
a chance to relieve their pent-up feelings. Nervous,
stomach-clenching laughter burst from the watching men. The captain's
face flushed purplish red. He glared around at the men in silent
rage, but it was obvious he blamed this insult on the Warlord. He
gave the man and woman kneeling in the circle a look of complete and
utter disgust.

"My lord, we have
received a message from outpost B545 on Shelton's Planet I. They are
under attack. Enemy unknown. Battleship
Diana
is on patrol in
that vicinity. I have ordered
Jupiter
to reinforce—"

"Call it back."
Lord Sagan's voice cracked harshly, from exhaustion and strain. He
freed himself from Maigrey's grasp and rose wearily to his feet.
Glancing around, he caught sight of Marcus's bright armor.
"Centurion, take the lady to sick bay—"

That threat was enough
to rouse Maigrey from her trance. "No," she murmured,
holding out a warding hand, waving Marcus away. "I'm fine. I'm
all right. Just ... let me rest a moment."

The Warlord was
strolling rapidly out of the arena. The men were breathlessly silent,
straining to hear.

Nada, obviously
incensed, followed. "My lord, I protest—"

"I said order
Jupiter
back, Nada. Their mission is pointless."

"I hardly call
going to the aid of an outpost under attack pointless, my lord. We
have received no further reports from Shelton but—"

Sagan spun on his heel.
Captain Nada, nearly tripping on the Warlord's feet, was forced to
backpedal swiftly to avoid a collision.

"Nor will you,
Captain. Ever. The outpost no longer exists. I've seen it. It has
been wiped out—to the man."

"What—"

"Corasians, Nada.
They've entered the galaxy." Sagan, turning again, continued
walking. His centurions were hurrying to him, eager to be of use, and
he was issuing orders as he walked. "Put the fleet on alert and
get hold of the President. I'll use the emergency channel. Where's
Aks? Send for the admiral and tell him to meet me in the war room.
Alert the outposts on Shelton's Planets II and III, but don't be
surprised if they don't respond."

Maigrey, forgotten,
brushed the pale hair out of her face. Her eyes were on the Warlord.
She looked drained. Dion, kneeling beside her, heard her sigh. She
closed her eyes, overcome with a weariness that was not of the body
but of the spirit.

"And so we go on."
He heard her murmur.

Where All Life Dies

. . . while I abroad

Through all the
coasts of dark destruction seek Deliverance for us all .. .

John Milton,
Paradise
Lost

I wish to have no
connection with any Ship that does not sail fast, for I intend to go
in harm's way. . . .

John Paul Jones

Derek Sagan stood in
the war room aboard
Phoenix
. On the vidscreen before him,
President Robes sat at the oval table. He was alone. Robes was
attired in a white, cable-knit, V-necked sweater, striped at the
neck, and with cuffs of bright lines of red and blue. The white set
off his tan, which in turn set off the touches of gray at the
temples; the entire effect looked extremely good in the newsvids. He
had apparently been taking some sort of gentle exercise which Sagan's
urgent message had interrupted.

The President leaned
forward, nudging to one side a silver water pitcher that sat on the
table before him in order to get a better view of the vidscreen. The
Warlord, glancing at this water pitcher, saw the image of another
person reflected in it, someone who was keeping out of range of the
camera, someone standing directly across the room from the President.
Robes did not look in this person's direction, but clasped his hands
before him—a gesture which meant he was giving you his full and
complete attention. His face was expressive of grave concern.

Derek Sagan swiftly
depressed a series of buttons on the control panel before him.
Robes's face disappeared, replaced by the silver water pitcher that
was, with every shot, growing larger on the screen.

"You have, of
course, verified this news of an attack, Citizen General?"

"Yes, Mr.
President."

The silver water
pitcher was revealing a curved and distorted magenta blob. Sagan
ordered it brought closer. Magenta. The Warlord's blood congealed in
his veins.