Ghost Legion (66 page)

The Warlord said this last offhand, with a slight curl of the lip.
Surrender might exist in the rule book, but it was an option never
seriously considered.

Flaim stepped into the circle. His face was flushed with excitement
and exhilaration. Dion did not enter the circle yet. He was still
pale, still shaken from the confrontation over Kamil. He glanced at
her once or twice, worried, to see if she was all right.

The kid better concentrate on what he's doing," came a muttered
voice at Sagan's shoulder.

Tusk had pulled himself to a standing position, was slouched against
the wall at the Warlord's side.

"Never did understand how those damn swords worked," Tusk
continued casually, too casually. "Dad tried to explain it once,
but, hell, what did I care? You mind going over it now?"

"Why?" Sagan asked dryly, his gaze fixed on Dion. "You
thinking of using one?"

Tusk shrugged. "A guy never knows when information like that
might come in handy."

Sagan was glad the folds of the cowl hid his smile. "When the
swordsman grasps the hilt, those five prongs inject a virus into the
bloodstream. In the Blood Royal—someone with the correct blood
type and DNA structure—the virus opens channels that parallel
the normal nerve channels and eventually reach the brain.
Micromachines are injected, making connection with the body's
lymphatic systems to draw energy from the body's cells to power the
weapon. The energy comes from adenosine tri—"

"Skip the science lecture," Tusk interrupted, scowling. "My
head aches enough as it is. I thought the damn thing had its own
external energy source."

"It does, but once that is depleted, the sword draws on the
body's energy."

"Uh-huh." Tusk faced him, dark eyes red-rimmed, one of them
starting to swell shut. "I know what happens if someone who
isn't Blood Royal uses it. What about me? Half-and-half."

Sagan shook his head. "I can't say. No studies were ever done
that I know of. Half-breeds weren't considered of much importance. I
wouldn't advise it, however," he added quietly. "You would
probably be able to use it, though not very well.

And you would risk contracting the disease. Only in a mild form...."

"I might live for months, eh?" Tusk asked with interest.

"If you were lucky," Sagan replied. "If not, you might
last for years."

Tusk regarded the Warlord thoughtfully, probably trying to decide if
he was bluffing or telling the truth. The mercenary jammed his hands
back in his pockets, gloomily hunched his shoulders, and turned his
attention to the duel.

Dion had at last pulled himself together. Now that he was forced to
take this action, he must know that he would have to kill his cousin.
Kill ... to keep from being killed.

Both bloodswords activated. The thoughts of each cousin rushed into
Sagan, ran through him, mingled with his own thoughts in a boiling
confusion as difficult to separate as it would be to separate the
mingled strains of blood.

He had to be careful, very, very careful. Fortunately, the two were
concentrating heavily on each other, would pay little attention to
him—a broken old man. He settled back to watch the duel.

The two saluted each other; Flaim bowed, as ritual demanded. Dion,
however merely inclined his head. A king still. Each assumed the
correct stance, blades burning. Blue flame held blue flame, blue eyes
held blue eyes. The thoughts were already probing, though the swords
were still. Then Dion lunged; Flaim parried, and the battle began.

The two are evenly matched, Sagan decided after the first few
moments. Advantages, disadvantages canceled each other out. Dion had
the advantage of having sparred against a living, breathing, thinking
opponent (Sagan himself had been the young man's tutor), whereas
Flaim had only fought against his own imagination. But Dion, busy and
preoccupied with the cares of kingship, was out of practice. He had
not used the bloodsword in action in years. Flaim, by contrast, had
practiced daily, following the routine pattern Pantha had taught him,
a routine that kept both body and mind in prime condition.

Dion remembered his tutelage, opened aggressively, attacking with
spirit and skill, and soon forced his opponent to go on the
defensive. Flaim's blade disappeared, the weapon shitting—with
the swiftness of thought—from bright blade to invisible shield.

The use of the shield required far more energy than the blade,
drained the sword's reserves, would soon start to drain the body's.
Dion's swift and furious onslaught actually forced Flaim backward,
caused him to step outside the circle.

"Hold!" Sagan called, palm raised outward.

Dion fell back, resting, breathing hard.

Flaim, looking grim and defiant, leapt back into the circle
immediately and, having learned his lesson, went on the offensive. A
flurry of blows made the eyes ache trying to follow them. Dion's foot
slipped once, but he shielded himself, held Flaim's battering attack
off until he could regain his balance. With a tricky maneuver (one
Sagan recognized as his own), Dion dove under Flaim's guard with a
slashing stab that might well have ended both the duel and the
prince's life.

A skillful diving roll carried Flaim out of danger . . . and out of
the circle.

"Hold," Sagan called out for the second time. "If you
step out again, Your Highness," he cautioned the prince grimly,
"you forfeit and must surrender."

"I understand, Thank you, my lord," Flaim said.

Dion's blow had cut open the prince's white shirt; it hung around his
body in bloody tatters. His left knee was slashed open.

Both combatants were sweating; Dion's shirt clung to him. He wiped
his hair out of his face. Of the two, Flaim appeared the more
fatigued, however, and he had certainly taken the most serious
injuries. He limped when he walked back into the circle.

Dion did not look triumphant, however. He was watching Flaim warily,
cautiously, knowing that these duels were—as Sagan had once
told him—one-tenth physical and nine-tenths mental. Flaim
seemed in just a little too much pain, he was limping just a little
too weakly, breathing just a bit too heavily.

Dion was on his guard, therefore, when Flaim suddenly regained his
strength with a bound and, grinning, swept into the circle with
slashing fury. Dion shielded, came back to the offensive. Flaim
shielded, came back.

The duel went on. Tusk rubbed his eyes, wincing at the bright light.
Astarte and Kamil watched silently, both very properly fearful of
breaking Dion's concentration. Each woman was instinctively, perhaps
unknowingly, clasping tight hold of the other's hand.

Pantha watched with no more than a placid interest as if he were
already certain of the end.

Dion stepped outside the circle, but was back in before Sagan could
call a halt. Though the king knew the misstep counted against him, he
chose not to take advantage of the rest period—to rest himself
was to give his opponent the opportunity to do the same. Dions blade
flamed and vanished, attacking far more than defending. He was in
control of the fight. It was as if some angel with a flaming sword
had descended from heaven to do battle for the king.

He burned with a pure, holy fire. Imbued with the rightness of his
cause, the knowledge that he was light battling darkness, he fought
with valor and skill.

Watching Dion, Sagan remembered. He knew that look—it had once
been his own. He could feel again the exhilaration of battle that
brought with it a strange calm, an air of detachment. Let go of fear
and advance to meet death. Step partway into the silent realm, stand
straddling die border. And when you do so, you become vibrantly aware
of life, from the cloudless sky above to the tiny, glistening drop of
blood on the ground at your feet. Let go of fear and the soul floats
free, the mind is clear and fixed and the flaring blade is the fatal
embodiment of thought.

"Well done, boy," Derek Sagan said, deep, deep within.

But Dion heard. The blue eyes, brighter than the fire of suns, turned
upon Sagan and the king's smile was that of one exalted.

And then Flaim stepped out of the circle and fell upon one knee,
raising his hand over his head, the classic position of surrender. He
shut off his bloodsword.

It took Sagan a moment for his soul to rejoin his body. He felt the
flesh's heavy dead weight acutely, dragging him down; came back with
a bitter sigh.

"Hold!" he called, harsh and strident.

He stepped into the circle, between the combatants—one standing
tall, the other bent-kneed on the ground. Dion, breathing heavily,
could not speak. He had lowered his sword, but the blade hummed. His
face was expressionless; his own soul still floated far above. He
seemed not to understand that he had won.

No one in the courtyard spoke; Kamil and Astarte were confused. Never
having seen a duel, they were uncertain what this meant. Tusk,
having—or so Sagan hoped—learned his lesson, was watching
the Warlord for a cue. Garth Pantha knew. He'd seen bloodsword duels
before, likely fought in a few. He sat unmoved, watching with
detached interest.

"By the rules of the contest, by stepping outside the circle, by
shutting off your sword, you, Flaim Starfire, admit defeat,"
Sagan informed him.

"Oh, yes," said Flaim, with a laugh Rising gracefully to
his feet, he bowed to the king. Thank you, cousin. I thoroughly
enjoyed myself. Pantha."

The elderly man came forward, bearing the box. He opened the lid.
Flaim laid his bloodsword inside. Shaking the raven hair out of his
face, he smiled at the queen, who still neither moved nor spoke.

"I am certain the ladies enjoyed it," he added, with a bow
and a flourish for Her Majesty.

"Then I have won," said Dion, appearing to suddenly realize
it himself. "You renounce your claim to the throne. You will let
us go free."

"I'll let you go ... to the devil."

Flaim had taken a soft leather glove from Pantha, was pulling the
glove on over his hand, over the puncture wounds left by the
bloodsword.

"I won," Dion repeated grimly.

"You lost," Flaim told him. "You lost the true battle,
cousin. The one we were fighting in our minds. I penetrated your
secrets. I now know the location of the space-rotation bomb. I know
where you've hidden it. Pantha, you must contact the dark-matter
creatures, send them to fetch the prize."

Dion stared, white with shock and disbelief and terrible
understanding. "A ruse," he whispered. "All a ruse."

"Yes, cousin." Flaim laughed. "A ruse. To goad you
into using the bloodsword, to trick you into revealing the location
of the bomb."

The bloodsword flared blue. Dion made a sudden lunge at the prince,
sweeping the sword in a slashing arc.

Derek Sagan stood in his way, blocked his path. Sliding expertly
inside Dion's guard, the Warlord caught hold of the king's sword arm,
hurled him off balance.

Dion stumbled, fell, landing heavily on his hip on the ground.

"Don't be a fool!" Sagan told him. He cast a significant
glance around the courtyard.

Dion looked up. Armed men were running into the courtyard, their
lasguns drawn and aimed—some at the king, others at the queen
and Kamil.

Dion's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Your advice comes rather
late, my lord," he said bitterly.

You may my glories and my state depose.

But not my griefs; still am I King of those.

William Shakespeare,
Richard II
, Act IV, Scene i

"I must ask you to hand over the sword, Your Majesty," said
Sagan.

Dion rose slowly and stiffly to his feet. Shutting off the
bloodsword, he thrust the hilt back into its sheath, unbuckled the
belt and removed it from around his waist. He carefully wrapped the
belt around the hilt, silently handed the bloodsword to the Warlord.

Sagan replaced the sword in the box, alongside Flaim's. Pantha shut
the lid, tucked the box under his arm.

"My lord Sagan, I thank you especially for your assistance in
this matter." Flaim cast a triumphant glance at Pantha as he
said this. "We will meet in two hours. By that time, the bomb
should be in our possession. We have plans to finalize. Would you be
interested in hearing them, cousin?"

Dion made no response.

"It seems the Corasians are about to invade the galaxy,"
Flaim continued. "Yes, cousin, within a few days, your Lord
Admiral will start receiving reports that the enemy has crossed the
Void and is preparing to attack. You, Your Majesty, will heroically
and valiantly defend the galaxy by detonating the space-rotation bomb
in the middle of the Corasian invasion force.

"Alas, cousin." Flaim spread wide his hands. "A
terrible accident. You yourself are killed in the explosion. You die,
a martyr to the cause, having saved your people. Your funeral will be
most impressive. And I will be there, the next Starfire in line, to
take the throne. The people will welcome me with tears in their eyes.
Especially, as it will turn out, when they learn that the Corasian
threat has not ended."

"You've allied yourself with the enemy," said Dion, quiet,
the quiet of despair.

"By necessity. Kings must do things out of necessity,"
Flaim said, with a sly glance toward Kamil. "The Corasians will
be granted certain planets—secretly, of course—to do with
as they please. In return, they will 'retreat' on command, return
when needed, keeping the galaxy in a suitable state of turmoil and
fear that only I can quell.

"But your soul may rest easily, cousin. I do intend to keep my
promise to you. I will marry the queen and raise your child to be
heir. And if Her Majesty proves so indelicate as to refuse me, then
her planet will be one of the first to fall victim to the enemy."