Ghost Legion (38 page)

Someone was waiting for him, waiting impatiently.

Sagan stood up. The pain in his head subsided to a dull throbbing
that he relegated to the inner core of his being, ignored. He washed
the blood from his face, stripped off the battle fatigues, stowed
them in the trash compactor. He dressed himself once again in the
plain and shabby cassock of the humble Brother Paenitens.

The outside atmosphere was breathable. He opened the hatch, found a
splintered tree limb lying across it, blocking his way. Heaving the
tree to one side, he kicked his way through a tangle of broken
branches, walked down the stairs to the ground.

Dark night. And cold. No wind, but the air temperature was chill.
There would be thick, heavy frost by morning. The sky was cloudless,
spanned by a rift of stars. His plane had landed (been
dropped
might be a more appropriate term) on the fringes of a forest of
deciduous trees. Last year's rotting leaves matted the ground. And
there were evergreens, too; he could smell the sharp, clean scent of
pine.

Looking around, he saw that the spaceplane rested on the gently
sloping side of a steep hill, extending upward. The tree line ended
not far beyond. A vast expanse of smooth, cropped grass was clearly
visible in the darkness, a lighter grayish color against the
tree-covered hills surrounding it. At the top burned a fire.

The fire was the only indication of life, of habitation any-where
around. The blaze was enormous. Flames leapt high into the air. He
could hear the crackling roar from where he stood, several hundred
meters away. A man stood before the fire, silhouetted black against
it. Calmly waiting. Calmly watching. Yet with that hint of impatience
that drifted through the air like the smoke.

Sagan drew his cowl up over his head, clasped his hands over his
wrists beneath the sleeves of his cassock. He began to climb the
hill, moving toward the fire.

Suddenly he had the strange impression that he was not walking alone.
He was being followed. The hair on the right side of the back of his
neck prickled; the skin on his right shoulder and back twitched, as
if any second he expected a touch—a hand ... a blade. He
listened, heard nothing. The soft, thick grass underfoot would muffle
all but the most careless sounds. Sagan cursed the hood that blocked
his peripheral vision, continued walking at an even, measured pace.

The man standing in front of the fire had not moved.

Sagan left the forest behind and with it any cover for his pursuer,
who was still keeping close behind him—or so he sensed. The
follower must be counting on his own silent movements not to betray
him; that and the fact that Warlord's vision was partially obscured
by the cowl.

But why track him at all? Why not watch from the cover of the trees?
If the man waiting at the fire felt the need to guard the Warlord,
why the stealth?

Sagan moved his hands silently from out of the sleeves, loosened the
starjewel he wore on the leather thong around his neck.

The starjewel fell to the ground.

Muttering to himself, the Warlord halted, bent to retrieve it. He
jerked his head, flung back the cowl, looked around to see behind
him.

Nothing. No one. Yet in the instant of his turning, he'd caught, out
of the corner of his eye, a flash of silver armor.

He picked up the starjewel, hung it back around his neck, working
slowly, deliberately, giving himself time to think. Had he truly seen
that flash? Or was it his imagination? He looked to the fire.

The figure standing by the blaze stirred impatiently, peered into the
darkness to see what was causing the delay.

Sagan shook his head. With a wry half-smile, he replaced the cowl
over his head, straightened, walked on, quickening his pace.

He stepped into the circle of light.

The figure remained standing where he was, aware that he was under
inspection. A man of about twenty-eight years, with saturnine
features, square-jawed, hawk-nosed, arched brows. His glistening
blue-black hair was pulled tight from his face, gathered in a
blunt-cut tail at the back of his head, in the fashion of Earth's
ancient Oriental warriors.

He was clad in a richly embroidered tunic, worn over a long, flowing
sleeved blouse. The tunic's stiff, extended shoulders enhanced
muscular shoulders of his own, a wide chest, and strong arms. His
stance was straight, upright, open. His posture was regal,
self-confident.

Not much like his father, was Sagan's first thought.

Of course, when the Warlord had met the king, Amodius was in middle
age, sickly, bowed down by the burdens of an empire that were rapidly
burying him. But if Sagan had previously had any doubts as to this
younger man's heritage, they were resolved when he saw the eyes; the
Starfire blue eyes, brilliant, sharp, and many-faceted. And at his
side he wore the bloodsword.

Derek Sagan halted within the outer edge of the circle of light. He
said nothing, made no move.

The man left the fire, strode rapidly down the gentle slope of the
hill, came to stand in front of the Warlord. Reaching out his
hands—his movements graceful, respectful—he took hold of
the hood covering Sagan's head and laid it back, revealing his face.

The Starfire eyes regarded Sagan intently, taking in every line,
every shadow.

"It
is
you," the man said at last. "I knew you
would come. Welcome, my lord. Welcome."

He extended his hands. Sagan's hands opened. The young man grasped
them in a firm, strong grip.

"Welcome, my lord," he said again.

"What are you called?" Sagan asked, studying the younger
man's face, attempting to trace some feature he knew, find a family
resemblance.

This young man and Dion were first cousins. Coming from an incestuous
liaison between brother and sister, they were linked genetically
closer than most first cousins. And there
was
a resemblance.
But beyond the eyes, which could have been exchanged two for two, the
resemblance was subtle—a way of tilting the head, an echo in
the voice, the lift of the hand.

"I am Flaim," said the younger man, with a glance at the
blazing fire and a smile that included Sagan in the jest. "The
name was my poor mother's choice. She was something of a romantic,
Pantha tells me. I have a poem she wrote shortly after my birth,
explaining the name. It is a long, rambling piece, filled with images
of purifying fires, exploding suns consuming the universe, that sort
of thing. Probably all sexual in nature; a psychiatrist would find it
most enlightening.

"Yes," he added, in response to Sagan's frowning,
questioning look, "I am aware of the truth about my past. Pantha
has never made a secret of it. Why should he? I have no need to be
ashamed. In this age, are we to allow ourselves to be governed by
out-of-date taboos handed down from our forefathers? We might as well
be wearing their animal skins and living in their caves.

"But come, my lord." Flaim gestured toward a large pavilion
set on a rise beyond the crackling blaze. "Come inside, rest
yourself. Take food and drink. We have much to talk about, you and
I." He took hold of the Warlord's hand. "I have heard so
much about you. It is good to meet you at last."

Sagan made no response, and his silence did not seem to disappoint
Flaim. He smiled again, a warm smile, brilliant as the eyes, and,
keeping hold of the Warlord's hand, led him with charming grace to a
large striped tent that had been erected on a level plot of ground
near the fire. The tent flap was raised, attached to two spearlike
poles thrust into the ground. A glowing brazier inside kept the
pavilion warm. Colorful rugs covered the ground, tasseled bolsters
provided arm rests when seated.

As they entered, a man emerged from the shadows at the back of the
pavilion. Flaim motioned to him.

"Garth Pantha. Lord Derek Sagan. I don't believe you two ever
met," said Flaim, his gaze shifting from one to the other,
curious to note the reaction of each.

"No, I never had the pleasure," said Pantha, extending his
hand. His voice was the deep, rich baritone that so enthralled his
millions of fans, and though he must be nearing ninety, he stood
erect, walked firmly, had obviously kept himself in superb physical
condition.

Sagan saw the accumulation of years in the wise scrutiny ofthe dark
eyes, in the white hair that was a marked contrast to the black skin,
in the tightening of the flesh across the finely sculpted bones of
the face.

"I never had the pleasure of meeting you, my lord," Pantha
repeated, "but I do feel that I know you. I have followed your
exploits with interest. I remember hearing about you and your Golden
Squadron. I said to myself, 'There goes a dangerous young man, one
who knows what he wants and will take it.' "

Pantha smiled, shrugged. "Too bad I did not share my concerns
about you with Amodius. Not that he would have listened. And I must
admit that the Revolution caught even me by surprise. I discounted
Abdiel, you see. As did others. .. ."

His keen gaze probed, sought to penetrate.

Sagan met the gaze, blocked it, turned it.

"Needless to say I am quite familiar with your exploits, sir."
the Warlord returned. He added, with a significant glance at the
world around him, "Though obviously not all of them."

Pantha chuckled. "Well put. I trust you studied your instrument
readings on your way here. I would be interested to know what you
deduced—"

"Enough, my friend," Flaim interrupted, placing his hand on
the Warlord's shoulder. "The two of you can discuss scientific
anomalies at a later time." He drew Sagan away from Pantha,
who—with a glance of fond indulgence—bowed and faded back
into the shadows.

But Sagan saw the old man's eyes gleaming in the firelight.

"Seat yourself, my lord. Forgive the informality of our
surroundings." Flaim watched over the Warlord anxiously, eager
to promote his comfort. "I intended that our first meeting
should take place in absolute privacy—as much for your sake as
my own. The alcazar where I reside is a large building. There are
those on my staff who would know you by sight. You want people to
believe you dead. I respect that, you see. Whether and when you
reveal the truth shall be your decision."

Sagan stretched out on the rugs, reclined against the armrest. He
refused an offer of food, but accepted water. Flaim himself poured
the water into a silver tankard, placed it within the Warlord's
reach. Assured that he could do nothing more to add to Sagan's
comfort Flaim sat down cross-legged, with the ease and elasticity of
a youth. His face was sideways to the firelight. Sagan's face was
turned toward the light. Pantha sat in the shadows, near his prince.

"By the way," Flaim said, placing his hands on his knees,
"did you see something move out in the night as you were coming
our direction? I saw it, and I thought you did as well, for you
stopped and turned. What was it? Do you have any idea? Was someone
out there?"

If so, Sagan thought, sipping at his water, you don't appear to be
much worried. No guards in sight. And just what did you see? Or think
you saw? Her? It's possible, I suppose. You are Blood Royal. ...

"I heard something rustle in the brush," he said aloud. "I
assumed it was some animal."

Flaim appeared dubious, regarded Sagan in thoughtful silence, as if
wondering how to say politely that he knew the Warlord was a liar.

"It could have been one of
them,
my prince," said
Pantha from out of the shadows.

Flaim's brow cleared. "Yes, you are right. I hadn't considered
that. Of course they would be curious. And now, my lord," he
continued, leaning forward eagerly, "tell me, why have you
come?"

Sagan carefully replaced the tankard upon the multi-colored rug on
which he reclined. Lifting his gaze, he looked into the Starfire blue
eyes, spoke quietly, calmly.

"I come in search of a king."

Flaim seemed in an instant the embodiment of his name. The heat was
palpable.

"You have found him, my lord," he said softly.

Sagan's heart constricted with a strange pain. He saw a resemblance
at last, a striking resemblance, but not to Dion. The Warlord saw
himself.

He hadn't expected this, wasn't prepared to face it.

"That remains to be seen," he said coolly, looking down at
the water, seeing his reflection again in the smooth surface. "I
have questions, many questions. And there is the rite of initiation."

"Yes, my lord. So Pantha told me. I am ready."

"He did not tell you too much?" Sagan's eyes narrowed. He
looked at the old man.

"Only what is permitted, my lord," Pantha said. "Flaim
needs nothing more, as you will see."

Yes, Sagan concluded, I can well believe that. Still, we will see. .
. .

"And now it is my turn to ask a question: What is it that
you
want, Flaim Starfire?" Sagan asked.

"What do you think, my lord?" Flaim's answer was
illuminated by his blazing smile. "The throne, the crown. I want
to be king."

"Gaining that will be difficult."

"Of course." Flaim shrugged, nonchalant. "My cousin
Dion knows about me, doesn't he? You told him what you discovered at
the hospital. You told him the doctor's story."

"I told him. He was already aware of you, though." Sagan
glanced pointedly at the bloodsword.

Flaim caressed the hilt with his hand. "We've seen each other,
but not communicated. Not as you and I have, my lord. I decided it
would be best if information about me came from you. He would believe
you. But that wasn't the only reason I arranged the hospital
scenario. I wanted to pique your curiosity, my lord."

"Scenario." Sagan frowned. "Was her story a lie?"

"Oh, no, my lord." Flaim was suddenly serious, earnest.
"The doctor told the truth. She
was
with my mother.
Pantha knew her. He was the one who later found her. He can tell
you."