The Lost King (56 page)

Down below them, the
hatch of the shuttlecraft swung open. The Warlord appeared in the
entryway, looked up to where they were standing in the garden.
Maigrey read impatience in every line of the tall, armored form.

"I'll escort you
back, my lady," the general said. He, too, had seen Sagan.
Slowly, in no hurry, they walked out of the garden. "What was
the decision of the officers, Tusk?"

"It's up to you,
sir. Whatever you say."

Dixter nodded. His face
was solemn and Maigrey, at his side, could not prevent a sigh. The
general smiled down at her, squeezed her hand. "It'll be just
like the old days."

"Yes, Maigrey
answered and glanced back at the dead garden.

She turned away and the
three of them entered the colonnade. "Speaking of old days,"
she continued with forced cheerfulness, "I want to say that
meeting you, Mendaharin Tusca, has been a true pleasure. Your father
was one of my closest friends, though he was several years older than
I was—nearer my brother's age, I believe. I remember the day
you were born. He'd gone home to be with your mother. He sent us a
vid transmission from the hospital. He was holding you up for us to
see. Your mouth was wide open, you were wrinkled up like a prune,
your head was covered with black fuzz, and you were screaming so we
couldn't hear a word Tusca said. But we didn't need to."

Tusk walked along at
her side, head bowed, his eyes on the ground.

"We knew how he
felt by the expression on his face. He loved you very much. I wish he
could see you today. He'd be so proud of you!"

The mercenary lifted
his head. His black skin glistened with sweat. The dark brown eyes
were shadowed, moody. "You think so?" He fingered the
earring, as if it were irritating him. "I don't!"

Maigrey caught back her
glib reply, paused to consider her words. "Dion told me
something about your life, Tusca—"

"Tusk, my lady.
Everyone calls me Tusk."

"Tusk. Your father
was a brave man, an honorable man. He was a gallant warrior, a
skilled pilot. He was proud and independent—perhaps too
independent. If he had a fault, it was that he lacked tact. He never
learned that if your way to what you want is barred, there are
generally paths to be found around the obstacle. Your father"—Maigrey
smiled ruefully— "put his head down and charged. More than
once, he came back with a cracked skull and a bloodied brow.

"He fought with
Sagan over battle plans and strategy, he fought with Platus over
music. He and I fought over books." Her lips pursed. "He
maintained Eldridge Cleaver was the greatest writer of the twentieth
century! Eldridge Cleaver! Your father even fought the king himself,
over his marriage outside the Blood Royal. Up there"—Maigrey
glanced into the orange-clouded heavens—"I would guess
he's probably fighting with God."

"That was dear old
dad," Tusk said, kicking at a loose fragment of rock at his
feet.

Maigrey stopped, laid
her hand on his arm. "Tusk, don't you understand? He loved us,
all of us." Her eye went involuntarily to the space shuttle, to
the figure in golden armor, flaming in the sun. "He gave his
life, rather than betray the secret he had vowed to guard. But not
before he had passed on his most valuable possession—that
secret—to the person he loved and trusted most. His son."

Tusk kept his face
averted.

"Thank you for all
you've done for Dion, Tusk. Your service to your king is not ended,
however. I name you a Guardian, Mendaharin Tusca. I wish I had a
starjewel to present to you, but for the time being you'll have to
make do with one in your heart." Maigrey held out her hand.
"Welcome to our ranks. God be with you."

Tusk, dazed, allowed
the woman to take his hand and shake it firmly. He couldn't match her
strong grip; his bones and sinews and muscles were all tangled up and
felt just the way the electrical wiring on his control panel looked.

Dixter and Maigrey
walked on, leaving Tusk standing in the shadows of the colonnade,
trying to cram his insides back where they belonged.

"What about Dion?"
John Dixter asked.

He and Maigrey had come
to the head of the stairs. The Warlord, impatience radiating from
him, stood at the bottom.

Gathering up the folds
of the blue dress in her hand so that she wouldn't trip over the hem,
Maigrey began to slowly descend the stairs. Dixter kept fast hold of
her, matching his pace to hers.

"You know who and
what the boy is?" Maigrey asked.

"Yes," Dixter
answered, his voice quiet, his eyes on the woman walking beside him,
not on the figure blazing beneath them. "I saw him when he came
back. More to the point, I saw him before he left."

"You know, then,
what Dion wants. You can guess how he means to get it."

"If
it
doesn't get him first."

Maigrey put her hand
over her twitching lips, but it didn't work. She couldn't help
herself and began to laugh. The sound—incongruous in the stern,
forbidding surroundings— echoed off the rocks. The mercenaries
poured out onto the colonnade, peered over the fortress walls.
Sagan's head snapped up, his eyes glaring at her disapprovingly from
the depths of the helm. Even John Dixter looked mildly astonished and
somewhat concerned, and Maigrey did her best to bring her self back
under control.

"I'll leave with
laughter between us," she said, starting to slip her hand out of
John's grasp, but he held her tightly. His gaze went to the Warlord,
who was approaching them.

"I've just
received a report," Sagan said. "The enemy is preparing to
move. Our time grows short. Have you reached a decision, 'General'?"

"I have,"
Dixter said, his expression and his voice cool and unperturbed. "We
will join you. Allies under duress."

"Excellent.
Captain Williams will stay behind to coordinate details. I will be in
contact when you are on
Defiant
, 'General' Dixter. Oh, and by
the way, you might be interested to know that our ship's doctor, Dr.
Giesk, has developed a remedy for space sickness."

"Thank you, Lord
Sagan," John Dixter said dryly.

The Warlord remained
standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting. A gust of wind whipped
his red cloak around him, the sun glinting off the threads of gold
embroidery.

Stinging dust and her
own hair blew in Maigrey's face, nearly blinding her. There was
nothing more to say. This was only prolonging the pain. She started
to go, but Dixter kept hold of her, turned her face to his. Reaching
out his hand, he gently traced his fingers over the scar on her
cheek.

"I've had
nightmares about that night, Maigrey. I'd see you lying there, torn
and bleeding—" His face blanched; he cleared his throat of
a sudden huskiness. "I used to pray to God to drive that memory
from my mind! He's answered my prayers, my lady. From now on, I'll
see you smile, hear your laughter."

His handkerchief was
still in her hand—wet, tear-stained, crumpled. Maigrey tucked
it carefully back into Dixter's pocket over his heart. Resting her
hand there, she kissed his cheek and, turning, left him.

Sagan, bowing, held out
his arm.

"My lady?"

Maigrey laid her hand
on his.

"My lord."

He led her back to the
shuttlecraft. The mercenaries lined the walls of the fortress that
could have halted any enemy except the enemy within. John Dixter
stood on the stairs, watching. Maigrey did not look back.

The sun had set. The
shuttlecraft had turned on its running lights, they outshone the
stars. In the hatchway stood Dion. The light streaming out behind him
cast his shadow a vast distance, far longer than he was tall.
He's
answered my prayers.

"God's answering
somebody's prayers
," Maigrey said, clinging tightly to
Sagan's hand, night's rising wind threatening to blow her off
balance. "I wish I knew whose!"

To war and arms I fly.

Richard Lovelace, "To
Lucasta, Going to the Wars"

Tiny, puny,
insignificant, the Warlord's fleet hung motionless in the vast
darkness of space—a slender line of silken cobwebs stretched
out to stop a juggernaut. No one doubted the enemy would endeavor to
trundle over them. As Lord Sagan was overheard to tell Admiral Aks,
President Robes had likely provided the Corasians with the fleet's
coordinates. This grim joke was passed around the mess room, the
gymnasium, and the lounges and became a favorite among the men. It
was a subtle compliment to their prowess, as the Warlord had intended
it to be. His crew knew now, to a man, who—after the
Corasians—would be their next enemy.

All was in readiness.
The mercenaries—some five hundred with their own planes and
additional manpower available to staff communications, computers, and
fire and rescue units— had arrived on board
Defiant
,
where they had been cordially welcomed by the energetic and
intelligent Captain Williams. The mercenaries were given their own
quarters in their own portion of the ship. They kept to themselves,
the crew of
Defiant
kept to themselves, and the alliance was,
so far, peaceful. General Dixter, sick as a dog, had locked himself
in his quarters.

The silken thread was
stretched taut. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

On board
Phoenix
,
a woman clad in blue approached the golden double doors that barred
the entry to the Warlord's private chambers. The captain of the
centurions tensed; he had been warned of the Starlady's (as she was
now known among the men) coming and knew what to do—or rather,
what not to do—but she made him nervous. It was much like being
in the presence of the Warlord.

Accompanied by two
guards who had been assigned to her on her return from Vangelis,
Maigrey came to stand in front of the doors. Her gray eyes turned
upon the captain.

"I will speak with
Lord Sagan."

The captain went
through the motions. "He's left orders not to be disturbed—"

"Tell him Lady
Maigrey Morianna will speak with him on a subject of importance. I
ivill speak to him," Maigrey emphasized. She had not raised her
voice, she had not lost her calm and poised demeanor. And she left no
doubt that she would speak with the Warlord.

The captain admitted
defeat with a good grace. "My lord," he said into the
commlink, "Lady Maigrey Morianna insists on being admitted into
your presence."

Maigrey's foot began to
tap on the deck; her breath came and went a little faster. This show
was being performed solely for her benefit. If the Warlord had truly
left orders not to be disturbed, the captain would not have broken
them had Death himself demanded admittance.

"My orders stand,
Captain," the Warlord's voice came over the commlink. "I am
in conference. I will see no one."

Maigrey relaxed, faced
the double doors, and concentrated. Her face was smooth and
impassive; she didn't blink or move a muscle. The captain watched,
his nervousness increasing. Her guards exchanged doubtful glances. A
strong and slightly sweet smell of burning wiring pervaded the
corridor. A wisp of smoke curled out from behind the control panel in
the wall. With a grinding sound that set the teeth on edge, the
double doors wrenched apart.

Maigrey had never
touched them. Without a word, she stepped gracefully through them and
walked into the Warlord's chambers.

The captain, recovering
himself, sprang in after her.

"My lord! Forgive
me, she—"

Lord Sagan, seated at a
desk with Admiral Aks, was perusing a computer screen. The Warlord
did not turn his head or look around.

"Very well,
Captain, you are dismissed. Have a crew up here immediately to repair
the door."

"Yes, my lord."

The captain retreated
thankfully, glad to have come through the ordeal more or less
unscathed. He had been warned what she might do and he had been told
not to stop her. Looking at the damaged door, shaking his head in
rueful awe, the captain wondered how in God's name he was going to
explain this to maintenance.

The Warlord, continuing
to read, heard in front of him a brief scuffling sound. The woman's
guards were attempting to pin her arms; one would have his hand
positioned at the back of her neck, ready to snap it if she so much
as breathed the wrong way.

"You may relax,
gentlemen," the Warlord said, turning a page. "If she
wanted to, she could short-circuit your brain as she did the door and
have you writhing on the floor at her feet. The lady intends me no
harm. If I'm not mistaken, she is, in fact, here to beg."

The centurions released
their hold and fell back a pace, neither being sorry to do so. The
woman's skin was ashen and chill to the touch. As one said later, he
felt as if he'd been holding on to a corpse.

Admiral Aks, sitting
beside the Warlord, appeared extremely uncomfortable and even glanced
involuntarily about the Warlord's chambers, hoping, perhaps, to find
an exit that hadn't been marked.

"Perhaps I should
leave, my lord—"

"No, Aks. This
won't take long."

The admiral scooted his
chair back into a convenient shadow.

Maigrey took a step
forward, leaned her hands on the desk. The starjewel she wore around
her neck sparkled at her breast. If the Warlord shifted his eyes, he
must stare directly into the blindingly brilliant light.

"Very well, Sagan,
I will beg!" Maigrey's hands clenched to fists. "Give me a
plane. Let me fly."

The Warlord did not
look at her. "No, my lady."

Maigrey reached out
across the desk, grasped the man's hands, and fell upon her knees
before him. Admiral Aks, watching, awed, saw light glistening on the
woman's pale hair. Her gray eyes deepened to blue, a crimson flush
stained the pale skin. The -admiral was thankful from the bottom of
his heart that he didn't have to answer, for—had she asked—he
would have given her all he owned, his life and his soul in the
bargain.