Ghost Legion (78 page)

"And that's where you're going, isn't it?" Cynthia said.

"It's my job to rescue the king," he said.

"You mean the Usur . . ." Her voice died. She swallowed.
"You've been on his side all along. You and Lord Sagan."

"It was Sagan's plan," Tusk said, shrugging. "I just
did what I was told."

"I'm glad," Cynthia said suddenly. "I know it sounds
silly, but even when you were supposedly on our side, I didn't much
like you—betraying your friend like that."

"I didn't much like myself. You three are taking over this ship,
right? What's your next move?"

"Mrs. Mopup will pay a visit to the bridge." Perrin stared
into his glass, sloshed ice around. "Things could get real
ugly."

"I doubt if it'll come to that," Captain Dhure said. "Once
we explain what we know, the rest of the crew will listen to reason."

"And when they do, if you'll take my advice, you'll get this
ship outta here. The real space-rotation bomb's down there"—
Tusk gestured out the viewscreen toward Vallombrosa—"and
the devil himself only knows what could happen. And, would you do me
a favor? See if you can locate the queen. Take care of her, will you?
If anything goes wrong . . . say Flaim manages to come out of this. .
. ."

Dhure nodded. "Don't worry. I think we understand our prince a
little better now than we used to. And ourselves even more. We'll see
to it that Her Majesty's safe. It's the least we can do, to make up
for what we did on Ceres."

"Thanks." Tusk nodded, turned to go. Then he paused, looked
back at Cynthia. "Why did you do this for me? What made you
change your mind?"

"I'm not sure. The creatures attacking Bidaldi. The other ships
leaving and this one staying behind. The bomb on board, like you
said. All of it happening just like you said. That. And him."

"Dion." Tusk guessed.

"The more I was around him ... I can't explain it. But he
is
king. Do you understand?"

"No,' said Tusk, shaking his head. "I never did."

"And you," she said. "I'm sorry I had to rough you
up."

"I'm not," he told her, smiling. "I'm a happily
married man." He touched his split lip. "This makes it
easier to say good-bye. Take care of yourselves."

Careful to keep clear of Mrs. Mopup, Tusk edged his way around the
vacuum cleaner and left the prince's quarters, heading for his
Scimitar.

"Yeah, he is king," Tusk commented on his way out. "And
I can't do a damn thing about it. Except maybe stop hating him for
it." Wincing, he inserted the tiny needles of the bloodlink into
his arm. "It's okay, my lord," he reported. "We've
taken the ship. I'm on my way."

Things fail apart . . .

William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

Flaim advanced, swinging the bloodsword in a flaming arc.

"Knock him off his feet, Kamil!" Maigrey's voice jolted
through the young woman like an electric shock. "Dive! Roll into
him!"

Kamil had no time to think, no time to prepare. She saw immediately
the wisdom of the lady's plan and acted. Springing at him in a
diving, twisting roll, Kamil drove her right shoulder into Flaim's
knees.

Her move caught the prince off guard, took him completely by
surprise. Flaim pitched forward. His swing went wild.

The Warlord started to turn, to fall back, as Kamil dashed forward.
The arcing flame of the bloodsword struck him, but the blow was not
lethal, as it would have been if Flaim had connected. The blade
sliced into Sagan's left side.

He gasped in pain, put his hand over the wound. Blood spilled over
his fingers. Smiling grimly, he banished the pain, forgot about it.

"Well done, my lady," he said, and started for the storage
room.

Dion ran past him, hoping to stop the old man before he could reach
the bomb.

"Pantha' Look out!" the prince shouted, struggling to
regain his feet.

Pantha turned around, lifted the lasgun . . .

Dion slammed into the old man, grabbed Pantha's hand. The two rolled
on the floor, wrestling for the gun.

Flaim started to go to his friend's aid, but Kamil lunged for him,
grabbed hold of his leg, tried to drag him back down. The prince
kicked at her savagely, endeavoring to free himself. Cursing, he
lifted the bloodsword over her head.

"Drop it!" roared Tusk.

The mercenary stood in the doorway, peering into the flaring light,
the baffling darkness, lie saw the blue flash of the sword, caught a
glimpse of Kamil, her face bruised and bloodied, yet still clinging
to Flaim.

"Drop it!" Tusk yelled again, and then he fired.

The sword's fight disappeared. Flaim shifted from attack to defense.
Tusk's shot burst harmlessly on the prince's shield, but it gave
Kamil time to get out of the way. She crawled on her hands and knees,
then fell flat, limp, unconscious. Tusk dashed to help her, firing
again, forcing Flaim to use his weapon to protect himself.

Pantha fought Dion with the strength of despair. But Tusk's shout and
firing distracted him.

"Flaim?" Pantha tried to find his prince. His deathlike
grip on the gun relaxed.

Dion wrestled it from him, jumped to his feet, and made a dash for
the storage room.

Derek Sagan was there ahead of him. He held the bomb in a
blood-stained hand.

"I'll cover you, my—" Dion began.

Sagan shouted in warning.

A blow smote Dion from behind, sent him staggering to his knees.
Flaim hurtled past the king, bloodsword again flaring blue. He was no
longer interested in Dion. The prince wanted the bomb—and his
revenge on the man who had betrayed him.

Tusk stood protectively over Kamil, peering into the flaring light,
trying desperately to see. His lasgun was raised, but he didn't dare
shoot, for fear of hitting either Sagan or the king.

Dion was on his feet again. He surged forward, caught a confused
glimpse of Flaim and Sagan, of blue fire reflected in the bomb's
crystal . . .

And then darkness.

Dion halted so suddenly, he nearly fell over.

Nothing in the room but darkness. The prince and Sagan were gone.

"I'll be a son of a bitch," Tusk breathed in awe.

Splatters of blood marked the place where the two had— only
seconds before—been standing. They had both disappeared, as if
they had been swept up by the whispering shadows.

"What the—" Tusk began.

"The dark-matter creatures!" Pantha howled, his voice
rising to a triumphant shriek. "They have him!" Whirling,
robes flapping, the old man raced for the doors.

Dion started to run after him.

Tusk grabbed on to his sleeve. "Kid! Wait! Let him go! Who knows
where the hell the creatures took Sagan?"

"Pantha knows, obviously," Dion said grimly. "I'll
follow— Dear God! No!"

They'd come out of the storage room. Tusk was carrying the nuke lamp,
flashing it around. The light beamed on Kamil's body lying on the
floor.

Her face was battered almost beyond recognition, swollen, bruised. A
dark streak of blood trickled down from her skull. One arm was
twisted at a strange angle, the fingers of her left hand were broken
and bleeding; jagged bone shone white in the harsh light.

Dion took a step toward her, then stopped. Anguished, he looked in
the direction of Garth Pantha.

"Kid! She's hurt bad!" Tusk said urgently. He knelt beside
her, was examining her with gentle hands. "I think her skull's
fractured."

"Take her back to your plane, Tusk. I'll be there as soon as I
can." Dion turned away.

"That won't be soon enough!" Tusk told his back. "She's
dying!"

Dion stopped. He put his hands over his eyes, shuddered. Then, not
looking back, he started forward again.

"Your duty lies here, my king," came a clear voice.

A woman, clad in silver armor, appeared before him.

"Nope," Tusk muttered in a tight voice, "I don't
believe it. I do not believe it."

"My lady!" Dion stared at her in awe.

"Let the others continue the battle, Dion. Your task is to heal
the wounds. Your duty is to your subjects, to Kamil and Tusk, to your
wife and child. Take Tusk and Kamil out of here. Lead them to
safety."

"But . . . Sagan, Flaim . . ."

"The bomb is armed. The code has been entered. My lord has only
to add one more letter—the last letter of the last word—and
the bomb will detonate."

Dion was silent a moment. Then he said, "He won't be able to
escape, will he?"

"No," Maigrey answered quietly. "But all is as it
should be.

Once, long ago, he pledged his life to his king. This day, he will
keep his vow."

Dion hesitated. He looked again at Kamil. Tears filled his eyes. He
looked back at Maigrey. "I can't leave him to die alone."

"He won't be alone," she said softly. She rested her hand
on the hilt of the bloodsword at her side. "And now you must
hurry. My lord will buy you what time he can, but you don't have
long. Farewell, my king."

"I won't see you again, will I?"

"No, Dion. It is time for your Guardians to leave you. You need
us no longer. May God bless and keep Your Majesty."

And then she was gone, as if she had never been.

Except that Dion could see, in his dazzled vision, the bright, argent
glow of her armor, gleaming, cold and pure, like the moon.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are:

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
Ulysses

It seemed to Sagan that he had shut his eyes in the great hall,
blinked to find himself somewhere else. The movement was so swift
that he had no sensation of it at all, beyond the strange feelings
elicited by the proximity of the dark-matter creatures. That, and
their fear and their anger.

They seethed around him, invisible, but he could sense their threat,
like smelling thunder on a still summer night. He wondered how they
knew their danger had increased. Undoubtedly they could sense the
heightened energy of the armed bomb. But why didn't they take it, why
take him with it?

Afraid. Perhaps afraid that they might accidentally set it off. For
they have no concept of how it works—only the knowledge that,
unless it can be stopped, they are doomed.

And so they had brought him here, away from help. And they had
brought his enemy with him.

It took Flaim a moment to assimilate where he was. He, too, glanced
around in astonishment. Then recognition dawned.

Moonlight streamed in through a barred window, illuminated five
cells, which were actually nothing more than five small caverns
scooped out of the solid rock of the planet's interior. Iron bars
stood before each cell. The bars had been driven into the ground like
javelins thrown by some immensely powerful hand. The five cells
formed a crude star shape around a center open area: two facing each
other, one at the head. A five-pointed star, locked in a dungeon.

"How suitable," said Sagan to himself.

He put his hand to his injured side. The wound was serious, deep, but
not mortal. He had lost a lot of blood, but he felt no pain. He had
learned when he was a boy bow to thrust pain down into the depths of
his being, how to ignore it, banish it from his mind. His wound was
an irritant only, a stiffness in his left side that hampered swift
movement, a catch in his breathing every now and then, when his
discipline slipped.

He could fight with such a wound, could hold his own against an
enemy—even an enemy young and strong and uninjured, like the
one standing before him. But Sagan was not armed. He held the bomb,
and it was armed, the code was entered. He had only to add one more
letter and it would explode, destroying Flaim, destroying the
dark-matter creatures, destroying itself.

Unless he could gain time, the bomb would also destroy his king.

Flaim knew where he was now, what had happened. He smiled at Sagan
grimly. "You're finished, my lord. You have no weapon. Put the
bomb down, surrender."

"I surrendered only once in my life," Sagan replied. "Long
ago, when I was young. To a man called Abdiel. A mistake. I swore I
would never do it again. If you want the bomb, you must kill me."

Sagan held the bomb in front of him, in his left hand. He put his
right hand on top of it, on top of the row of buttons. "And you
must act swiftly. Your aim must be certain. You must kill me before I
press this one button. Once I touch it, the bomb will detonate in
five minutes."

"Hardly time enough for your precious king to escape,"
Flaim said, unconcerned. He advanced, bloodsword blazing. "And I
don't need to kill you. All I have to do is sever your hand from your
body. And I think—"

Still talking, hoping to distract him, Flaim lunged.

But Sagan had been watching the prince's eyes, not listening to his
voice. He saw the blow coming. Springing aside, Sagan hurled the bomb
at Flaim.

The bomb's crystal case flared in the sword's light. Nothing could
harm it, not even the bloodsword. Without the code punched in, the
bomb would land harmlessly on the floor.

But Flaim reacted involuntarily, as Sagan had hoped he would.

Seeing the bomb flying at him, the prince arrested his stroke to
avoid hitting the bomb. He cringed involuntarily as it tumbled to the
floor.

"My lord!" a voice cried. "You have a weapon now!"

She stood before him, pale hair, sea-gray eyes, shining silver armor.
A bloodsword spun in the air, flung from her hand to his hand—a
move the two had spent endless hours practicing together.

He caught it without thinking, just as he had responded without
thinking to Kamil's diving roll. In his mind, she had been Maigrey
and they had been in Abdiel's prison, or on the Corasian mothership,
or in any other of the countless battles they had fought together.