The Lost King (49 page)

"Robes's agents?"

"
Someone's
agents. And not, I think, the Corasians."

Turning, the Warlord
left the viewscreen and went over to seat himself wearily in a chair.
Suppressing a groan, he rubbed a knotted muscle in his thigh.

Maigrey turned away.
She found she couldn't look at him—weary and beaten—without
feeling a wrenching pain in her heart. Plus she sensed him afraid,
and his fear unnerved her. But what was he afraid of? Certainly not
the Corasians, not impending battle, however uneven the odds. It was
something else, something buried that had just been recently brought
to the surface—like an exhumed corpse.

"The tea's cold,
I'm afraid, my lord." She spoke just to fill the silence. "You
never liked the lapsong much, anyway. I could send for oolong—"

"No, it doesn't
matter. Come sit with me, lady, like the old days. We have much to
discuss. Pour me a cup of this stuff. I won't taste it anyway."

Dying would have been
so much easier.

Maigrey turned from the
window and walked over to the table. Pouring the tea, she handed the
cup to him and he gulped it down thirstily. Silently, she poured him
another. He drank half of this cup, then sat, holding it in his hand,
staring at it. The delicate porcelain looked fragile as an eggshell
in his large hands.

"Robes has ordered
me to make a stand. To stop the Corasians here and now. No
reinforcements."

Maigrey seated herself
in the chair opposite that of the Warlord. "And he kills two
birds with one stone."

"Not precisely.
Let's say that he allows the birds to kill each other."

"He knows you're
plotting against him?"

"Yes, he knows!"
Sagan beat a clenched fist softly against the arm of the chair,
emphasizing his words. "Damn the man! He's clever, Maigrey. I
keep forgetting how clever! And there's another more clever—"
he broke off abruptly.

Maigrey wondered what
he had been going to say, but she kept clear of his mind. The last
thing she wanted right now was to get too close to him.

"The President
orders us to stand and fight the initial assault out here, where
there are few populated systems—a command that will be
applauded by the Congress and the press."

"And the other
marshals?"

"He's pulling them
in to form a second line of defense around the major populated
zones."

"We're on our
own."

Sagan's mouth twisted.
"We?"

Maigrey flushed and
looked down at her hands.

"Yes," the
Warlord added quietly, "we're on our own."

"But the enemy
could penetrate anywhere! A thousand different places!" Maigrey
gestured to the stars. "How can he be certain—" But
she knew the answer, the moment she asked the question.

"They'll come
straight for us, lady. I would bet all my fortune on the fact that
somehow, undoubtedly through a leak in security, the enemy knows our
exact coordinates, knows all our moves. That's why they've attacked
before they were ready. They didn't need to be ready. Undoubtedly
they've promised Robes they'll turn and run after they've destroyed
us. If he believes that, he's a bigger fool than I thought. You know,
of course, what the enemy's really after?"

"
Phoenix
."
Maigrey's hands curled over the arms of the chair. Her eyes glanced
around the ship.

"And the rest of
the ships. The reports we've received from the survivors fleeing
Shelton's system tell us that the Corasians are following their same
pattern—rounding up the people, using them either for food or
slave labor, destroying everything else except the machines. It's our
technology they want. They'll come straight for us, all right. We
have the unique distinction of being both bait and trap."

"You know their
numbers?"

"I can estimate
them, from the early reports."

"Can the fleet
survive?"

"The computers say
no, not with our current strength. But we can do a significant amount
of damage before we die. By God, I'll blow up this ship myself before
I turn it over to them!"

"You've never been
one to give a damn about orders, Sagan. You could retreat, fall
back."

"I'd be branded a
coward—disgraced forever. Not but what I might do it; I can
handle the newsmedia, and Robes knows it. But you see, my lady,
there's a possibility I can win this.

And, if I do, I'll be
the galaxy's hero. Nothing will be too good for me."

"Not even the
galaxy itself." Rising to her feet abruptly, Maigrey left the
Warlord, returned to staring out the window. Her back was to him, her
arms crossed across her chest. "It's quite a risk Robes is
taking."

"He's a gambler;
he knows the odds and they're in his favor."

"What about the
local systems? Won't they send help?"

"They'll be too
concerned for their own safety. We're keeping this quiet, but the
news will break soon and then we'll be deluged with pleas for
us
to rush to
their
aid."

Maigrey stood at the
window, her hands rubbing up and down her arms. Sagan, suddenly
realizing what she was thinking, rose to his feet.

"You're wrong,
Maigrey. Dixter and his people won't join me."

"Would it help if
they did?"

"Yes, of course.
Any addition to our manpower would help. "

"His people are
good, from what I've heard. "

"They're good. I
trained most of them myself. Three-fourths are deserters from my air
corps!"

Maigrey smiled slightly
at the bitter edge in his voice. "John Dixter will come."

"He might if
you
asked him, is that what you mean, Maigrey?"

"No." She
shook her head, the pale hair falling around her face, hiding it from
view. "Dion."

Sagan was caught off
guard. He hadn't seen that one coming. Moving close behind her, he
rested his hands on her shoulders. "Nice try, my lady, but it
won't work. Even if Dion did go, he would come back to me. What do
you call it? The taint in our blood? Ambition, the lust for power
burns in that boy. And I have what he wants."

Maigrey held herself
rigid beneath his touch. Hours ago, they had been intent on killing
each other. Still alive. Her biggest disappointment. Setting her jaw,
she turned, breaking his grip, and faced him stolidly.

"And what will you
do with him now? What will you do with a boy our God has told us is
His chosen. A boy destined, perhaps, to be both king and savior of
his people?"

Sagan clasped his arms
behind his back, beneath his cloak. "A foolish question, my
lady. You know that—like Lucifer—I would far rather reign
in hell, than serve in heaven."

"You dare to defy
God?"

"Let us say, my
lady, that I am working to persuade Him to change His mind."

"I'll stop you in
this, Sagan!" Maigrey advanced a step. "I fought you for
Dion once, long ago. I'll fight for him again."

"Be warned, my
lady, I can rid myself of you right this moment—"

"No, you can't.
That's an empty threat, my lord. You could have killed me this
afternoon, but you didn't. You hesitated, held back. I see into your
mind clearly now. You're torn two ways. God has granted you a glimpse
into the future and you've forseen my death at your hands. But not
now. Not yet. Something wasn't right today, was it? Something I wore,
something I said— Killing me today
would
have defied
God, and you don't dare do it! He has brought us together for a
purpose, perhaps to fight together against this new peril."

She took a step nearer;
they were practically touching.

"Our motives will
be different, my lord. You think of your own glory, your lust for
power. I'm thinking of the people, the millions who will die. Like it
or not, we're shackled to each other. There's no way to break the
chain. We've tried it, and it didn't work. The only way it seems
we'll ever escape this hellish prison is to help each other climb the
walls! I'll help you, Sagan, but only if you keep your chains from
entangling Dion. If you don't, I'll drag you down myself!"

"And you'd drag
the boy down with us. It's too late, Maigrey. Dion's bound, body and
soul. He was from the day he was born." Sagan backed away from
her. Reaching into the bowl of fruit, he selected an apple, and held
it up to the light. "I accept your premise, lady. But I question
your motives. I don't believe they are as pure as you pretend. Since
we're peering into others' minds, I see you, standing behind Dion's
throne . . .
very close
behind his throne." He tossed the
apple into the air. "I think I'll take this to the boy. He's
probably hungry."

"Yes,"
Maigrey said, biting the word. "He probably is."

The Warlord turned to
go, paused, looked back. "But I like your idea about Dixter.
I'll consider it. Thank you, my lady."

He turned, and was
gone.

Still alive. Maigrey
sighed. Still alive.

'Great are thy virtues,
doubtless, best of fruits.'

John Milton,
Paradise
Lost

A sudden buzzing roused
Sagan from the deep meditative state he used in times of emergency,
preferring it to that of sleep. He came out of his meditation
mentally alert, physically ready for any type of action. No action
was called for at the moment, however, except to respond to a
flashing red light on his personal computer.

A message, coded for
him, beamed directly to him.

He gave the voice
response and the message flashed on the screen. His security was
absolutely unbreakable, his computer being programmed to seek out,
identify, and attack any other system trying to surmount his
innumerable defenses. But Sagan had taken the additional precaution
of carrying on his clandestine dealings in twentieth century
English—a wordy, clumsy, and confusing language now almost
totally, but not completely, forgotten.

"Gad, Sagan, what
a beastly language. I quite abhor it. Can you imagine the barbaric
types who used it? I assure you, I get quite nauseated just thinking
about them. In response to your question, my agent reports that after
my removal from Vangelis, a young human female was discovered
snooping around my offices. She is one Nola Rian and she is a—if
you will believe it—TRUC driver. Isn't that too ridiculous?
Further investigation has linked her to a human male, one John
Dixter, commander of the mercenary forces. There is, of course,
always the possibility that I could have been the teeniest bit
careless and let something slip but, gad, Sagan, I'm a genius. What
do you expect? Is this a problem, dear boy? If so, I assure you, it
can be rectified."

"It's a problem
but not for me. For you, Snaga Ohme." The screen had gone dark.
The Warlord was talking to the night. "I will do the rectifying.
You will pay the price."

Returning to his bed,
Sagan stretched himself out, crossed his hands over his chest,
interlacing the fingers, and drew a deep breath. Releasing it, he
murmured, "Yes, lady, your suggestion is an excellent one. John
Dixter's assistance in our cause will be invaluable. Truly
invaluable."

"Dion, a moment's
word with you."

"Certainly, my
lord. Please come in."

The boy's voice was
cold and stilted; he was nurturing his anger. The Warlord, seeming
not to notice, stepped inside the young man's living quarters. Sagan
was clad in his gold ceremonial armor, the golden helm with the
red-feathered crest on his head, his red cape, trimmed in gold,
fluttering behind. He was holding something in his hand, keeping it
concealed beneath his cloak.

The Honor Guards took
up their stance, the door sealed shut, and the two were alone. Dion
rose to his feet, and remained standing, rigid, defensive.

Sagan, glancing around,
saw that the young man had been reading a book—
David
Copperfield
. The Warlord's lips tightened, but he said nothing.
Now was not the time.

"There's to be a
meeting of the fleet's officers, 1800 hours. I want you to attend."

Disarmed, Dion's mouth
sagged. He blinked and brought his gaze to bear on the Warlord. "Me?"

"As the Lady
Maigrey and I were discussing last evening, this current crisis
engulfs us all. There is, in fact, an important mission I'm going to
be asking you to undertake. And since from now on, wherever we walk,
we walk with danger, I thought you should have this."

The Warlord threw aside
his cloak, revealing the object he had hidden—a bloodsword.

Dion gasped, then drew
a shivering breath. His hands itched to touch it, but part of him
wanted to put those same hands firmly behind his back and have
nothing to do with it.

Before he could make
any sort of intelligent response, the Warlord had come forward
and—with all the deference of a squire to his knight—buckled
the sword in its scabbard around the young man's slender waist.

"When wearing this
sword, you should at least dress like royalty." The Warlord
glanced scathingly at Dion's blue jeans. "You can change to your
uniform later. Now, if you like, I have an hour to spare. We could go
to the gymnasium and I could begin to instruct you in the sword's
use."

"If you want, my
lord."

The young man's
response was hesitant. His gaze was fixed on the sword, fear and
desire vying within him.

"There is some
risk involved. Do you understand?"

"About the—the
virus?"
Dead in three days, if you're lucky
. Dion replied
in a steady voice, "Yes, my lord. I understand."

"You don't have to
do this, if you don't want to. You don't have to take the risk. Even
though your parentage seems certain and you were given the rite of
initiation, there remains, still, this final test." Sagan did
not mention that he'd had Dr. Giesk run a blood sample. The boy was
in no danger, none at all. His blood was pure. Or it was "tainted,"
depending on how one looked at it. This moment—though the boy
would never realize it—was the true test.