The Lost King (67 page)

Mental torture. The
Corasians had developed it into an art form. After all, if the mind
thinks its body's limbs are being hacked off, what's the difference
if they're not? Don't want to damage tomorrow night's dinner; let's
keep the meat intact, the juices flowing.

Maigrey laid her hand
on Dion's forehead. The boy shivered at her touch and tossed his
head, crying out frantically.

"Dion!" she
said, trying to be gentle, yet conscious of the fact that the orange
glow in the corridor was growing steadily brighter. "Dion, it's
Lady Maigrey. Hush, there, it's all right."

"You sound like
his nursemaid! Get him on his feet!" Sagan growled. He tossed a
grenade. A flare of white light, an explosion, and the orange glow
dimmed again.

"Dion!"
Maigrey pleaded. Putting her arms beneath his shoulders, she raised
the young man to a sitting position. He shook his head groggilv and
groaned in pain. "Dion"— Maigrey's voice grew
stern—"you're all right. It's in your mind. There's
nothing wrong with you."

Dion's eyes flew open,
looked swiftly, wildly, at his right arm. He appeared puzzled, then
stared at her. Maigrey saw the terror in his eyes and her heart ached
for him, but he was going to be a lot more terrified if they didn't
get out of here.

"Dion—"
she began.

Sagan shoved her
roughly aside. "Guard the door," he commanded, thrusting a
grenade into her hand. "That's the last one."

Maigrey ran to the door
and peered out. The corridor was dark in one direction; an orange
glow, like a setting sun or a raging fire, lit the other. The
Corasians were being cautious, waiting. They could have stormed the
room, but why bother? The "meat" would be forced to come to
them eventually. It occurred to her, too, that there probably weren't
many of the enemy left on board. They would be forced to ration both
supplies and energy this far from their home base, and so undoubtedly
operated with the barest number of crew possible. Not that this
mattered a lot. It only took one to kill you.

Maigrey glanced back
over her shoulder, saw Sagan grab Dion by the collar of his flight
suit, drag him from the table, and force him to stand. The boy's legs
collapsed and he crumpled to the deck in a heap.

"Get up, boy. You
look just like that Guardian of yours— Platus—groveling
at my feet!"

Dion was awake, alert,
the blue eyes glittering in the sword's light as brightly as the
starjewel. Slowly, hand on the steel table, he pulled himself to his
feet. His eyes never left Sagan's.

"Platus didn't
grovel!" Dion's voice was thick; he spit blood. "I saw him.
He faced you—"

"The Starfires,
then. The blood of your father runs in your veins, runs piss-yellow!"
Sagan laid his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Why did you come
for me, then?" Dion cried.

"Because I need a
warm, living body with red hair and the Starfire eyes and genes and
chromosomes. Whether or not that body has a backbone isn't my
concern."

The Warlord gave Dion a
shove that sent the boy stumbling across the deck toward the door.
Maigrey caught him as he reeled into her. She saw tears in his eyes.

"Snap out erf it!"
Maigrey gave him a shake.

900 and still counting.

Maigrey took hold of
one of Dion's arms; Sagan had the other. Together, they guided the
boy down the corridor. Dion walked like a blind man, uncaring,
letting them take him where they would. "You didn't have to be
that rough on him, my lord."

"I suppose I could
have wakened him with a kiss, my lady, but at the moment it didn't
occur to me. Here they come. Get behind us, boy!"

Dion's head snapped up.
"I can fight," he said, and raised his bloodsword.

The Warlord heard the
dullness in the tone and cast the young man a keen, speculative
glance. "Good," was his only comment.

The orange glow burst
upon them, fiery bolts whizzed around them. Maigrey hurled the last
grenade. They flattened themselves against a wall, braced for the
explosion, and when it came, jumped forward and dashed down the
corridor before the debris had settled.

Dion moved in time with
them, the bloodsword connecting their minds, playing its mystical
music. The three slashed at anything that still glowed or moved. But
that had been their last grenade. The exhilaration of the shared
power could support the spirit but not the flesh.

The light of Maigrey's
bloodsword was growing dim. She was losing energy. Sagan's sword,
too, wasn't flaring as brightly. The breath whistled through his
clenched teeth, and he winced when he swung the blade and paused to
massage his shoulder. Dion fought numbly, the look on his face the
look of one who walks in his sleep.

We're finished, thought
Maigrey. We can't survive another onslaught. The darkness will close
over us, enfold us, peaceful, restful. . . .

Darkness. Maigrey
looked around. She was in darkness. They were standing in the
corridor that led to the hangar decks, to their planes, to escape,
and it was dark.

"Shut down the
swords," came Sagan's command, and Maigrey reacted a
split-second before he spoke. "Conserve your energy."

The light of the
bloodswords gone, the starjewel gleamed brL -.intly. Seeing Sagan's
stern gaze fixed on it, Maigrey tucked the Star of the Guardians away
beneath her body armor. The darkness around them was now complete and
absolute.

"This is weird,"
Maigrey whispered. She thought, all in all, she preferred the enemy.

"How did you leave
your plane, my lady?"

"As you ordered
me, my lord. It'll blow in"—she was too distracted to
calculate—"however many seconds we have left."

"779. What about
your plane, boy? Where's the Scimitar?"

"I don't know. I
can't remember," Dion said dispiritedly.

Maigrey heard the sound
of a blow, not a gentle one.

Dion staggered back
against her and she caught him and shoved him upright. Taut and
tense, unnerved by the smothering darkness and the seconds beating
faster than her heart, she was tempted to slap him herself.

"You have to!"
Sagan said, his breathing labored. "You told me once that Platus
taught you to take note of your surroundings. It was apparently the
only worthwhile thing he ever did teach you. You'd better make use of
it!"

Dion was silent.
Maigrey, standing near him, could feel his body tremble.

"Down this
corridor. Second hangar we'll come to on our right."

TTiey activated the
swords for light and protection and began to move stealthily down the
passageway, Maigrey taking the front, Dion in the middle, Sagan
walking behind, guarding the rear. Maigrey glided warily past each
doorway, prepared to see it flung open; ready for the sudden attack.

Nothing.

"This is it,"
called Dion.

They flattened
themselves against the wall. Sagan motioned and Maigrey cautiously,
sword at the ready, slid to the entryway and twisted her head around
to peer inside. Cool air flowed from it, lifting her hair, drying the
sweat on her scalp and temples.

"The plane's
there. The hangar's empty. No sign of the enemy." 500.

"Then let's get
the hell outta here," Dion said, scowling. He started forward.

Maigrey heard a click,
the sound coming from somewhere near her ankle.

That was why there were
no Corasians in sight.

She hurled herself at
the boy and knocked him backward as far as she could carry him.
Maigrey landed on top of Dion and felt a heavy weight smash down
across her. A strong hand pressed her head down flat, covered her
face and eyes.

A sheet of flame shot
out into the corridor. The intense heat seared the lungs; noxious
fumes poisoned the air.

"Run!" Sagan
grunted.

Twisting to his feet,
he dragged Maigrey up and propelled her forward. Shaken from the fall
and dizzy from the femes, she pressed her hand over her nose and
mouth and staggered into the hangar. The air in here was cool, and
she gasped for breath. The bomb had burst outward, avoiding damage to
the coveted spaceplane.

439.

Sagan helped Dion into
the hangar.

"Go on ahead,"
he commanded the stunned boy, "and get the plane started."

Dion nodded wordlessly
and ran past Maigrey, heading for the Scimitar. She looked him over
as he went by her. He seemed unhurt, but she noted that he was
rubbing the back of his head with his hand.

I hit him pretty hard,
she reflected ruefully.

Maigrey glanced out the
hangar. The orange glow could be dimly seen reflecting off the steel
walls of the corridor—the Corasians coming to see the results
of their booby trap. Sagan was searching for the controls to shut the
doors. Sword ready, Maigrey took her place by his side.

350.

Sagan found the
controls. Copied from the human ships the Corasians had scavenged,
the mechanism was familiar and easy to operate. The doors rumbled
shut and the Warlord slashed at the controls with his sword,
effectively putting them out of commission.

Maigrey sighed, and
shut off the bloodsword. The darkness that enveloped her now was
welcome—cool shade to one sweltering in blazing sun. Strength
ebbed from her body, every muscle ached, and it was going to take an
effort to make it to the plane. She should feel elated, but she
didn't. She was drained. Unable to see in the darkness, she tripped
and fell headlong over something unknown. Sagan caught hold of her
arm. supported her, steadied her.

His grip was strong,
almost painful.

"Thank you, my
lord. I'm all right now," she said, keeping careful control of
her voice. "You can let go of me."

Instead of releasing
her, his hand tightened. He drew her close, drew her to warmth and
strength, a fast-beating heart and deep, quick breathing.

Maigrey hesitated,
knowing that this was a seduction not of the body but of the soul.
She saw in his mind what he wanted from her, what he wanted her to
give him. She saw clearly what he could give to her.

A galaxy, with its
billions of people, all looking to her in adoration, hailing her
their queen.

Maigrey struggled, not
against him, but against herself. His hps brushed the scar on her
cheek; his chin, unshaven, was rough against her skin.

To rule was wrong, it
wasn't her right; she hadn't been born to it.

That didn't mean she
didn't deserve it. That didn't mean she couldn't take it.

Maigrey clasped her
arms around the Warlord's body, pressing close to him, almost as
though she would crawl inside him, become part of his flesh and blood
and bone.

Sagan's mouth crushed
against hers, drawing out her breath, her life.

300.

Something sharp was
piercing her flesh—the edges of the starjewel. Drawing back
from Sagan to catch her breath, she reached to break the chain around
her neck, snatch off the necklace. Her hand closed over it.

A brilliant white light
flared around her, nearly blinding her.

"I might have
known," said a young and bitter voice.

The lights of the
spaceplane illuminated the hangar with a harsh, artificial radiance
that threw everything into sharp relief—white and black, seen
and unseen, visible and lost in darkness. Maigrey freed herself from
Sagan's embrace and twisted around. The Warlord let her go, but kept
his hand on her shoulder, kept her near.

Dion stood in front of
them, his arms crossed across his chest, his blue eyes wide and
rimmed with white, his face pale and bloodless.

"Guardians! Old
comrades! Pah!" The boy spit blood. "You were lovers!"

230 seconds.

Their lives were
ticking away and they stood immobile.

225 seconds.

"I told you to
start up the plane, boy," Derek Sagan said.

"Don't call me
'boy !' Dion flashed. "My name is Starfire,

Dion Starfire!" He
threw back his head proudly; the mane of red-golden hair glistened in
the shining light. "And I am your king!"

His words echoed in the
silent hangar. Maigrey clasped the starjewel tightly, welcoming the
scourge, the sharp points pressing into her flesh. She stepped away
from Sagan. His hand lingered on her shoulder an instant. Maigrey
tensed, her body stiffened, and he let her go. Glancing at him, she
saw his lip curled in a sneer. His shadowed gaze was fixed on Dion.

"King? You're a
whelp, a pup, and you'll do what I tell you to do." The Warlord
strode forward. "We have barely enough time to escape. You may
have cost us our lives, boy—"

Dion's bloodsword
flared. The young man stepped in front of the Warlord, blocking his
path.

189 seconds.

Sagan activated his
sword. He wasn't going to kill, Maigrey knew. He was going to maim. A
royal heir missing an arm or a leg, his eyes slashed to eternal
darkness, would be useful to him still.

The Warlord raised his
sword. Dion moved clumsily to block the blow. Maigrey, forgotten,
slid her sword noiselessly back into its scabbard. Clenching her
fists together, concentrating all the enhanced strength of mind and
body, she lunged forward and clubbed Sagan on the back of the neck,
right above the shoulder.

At the last moment, he
was aware of her and tried to swing around to defend himself, but she
had the advantage. The blow felled him; he sprawled unconscious at
Maigrey's feet.

"You should have
never let me get behind you, my lord." Maigrey glanced up at
Dion, who was staring at her, open-mouthed.

"He'll be all
right. We don't have much time. Help me carry him to the plane."

"We could . . .
leave him." Dion was white to the lips.

"We'd never get
back onto
Phoenix
without him," Maigrey returned.

100.

Between them, they
dragged the Warlord to the plane and pushed and shoved and hoisted
him on board.