Ghost Legion (79 page)

It was not surprising that she was with him and that she had thrown
him her weapon.

He caught it, inserted the needles into his hand, felt the painful,
stimulating warmth of the micromachines surging into his body, felt
the sword become one with his mind.

The weapon flared blue. Flaim fell back before the Warlord. The
prince's baleful gaze darted around the cell block. He could not see
her, but he knew she was there.

"So, Lady," the prince said, "I wondered how long you
could stay out of this fight without interfering. And you, my lord."
Flaim took a defensive stance. "What about your vow to forgo the
use of weapons?"

"I've broken so many vows in my life," Sagan responded,
watching the eyes, "one more isn't likely to make much
difference."

"You're an old man." Flaim sneered. "Old and weak and
hurting. How long do you think you can last against me?"

"Dion is returning to the warship with Tusk," Maigrey said
to Sagan, her voice singing its sweet, familiar music in his mind.
"They need time to reach the plane, leave orbit, and enter the
Lanes."

"Long enough, Your Highness," Sagan responded.

They circled around each other, around the bomb, lying on the floor
between them.

A feint. No takers.

Another feint. A quick strike.

A flurry of blows, blue sparks flaring.

Shield, attack.

Attack, shield.

Around and around.

Watch the eyes. Watch the eyes.

And on and on and on.

Buying time.

Sagan's wound reopened, started bleeding. He was conscious of pain
now, pain be could no longer ignore. He was grow ing weak from blood
loss. The weakness and the pain affected his use of the bloodsword
Keeping the shield up took more energy, greater concentration.

Soon, he knew, it would take more energy than he possessed.

A broken old man.

Flaim saw his opponent's weakness, saw it in small mistakes—in
missed footing, in strokes that pulled up short. The prince redoubled
his attack. The Warlord's skill and experience kept him alive, were
all that kept him alive against Flaim's strength and agility and
youth.

On and on and on.

Watch the eyes . . .

Watch .. . the .. . eyes ...

The Warlord was nearing the end, and Flaim knew it. The prince was
setting a trap, pretending to be weakening himself, hoping to draw
Sagan into making a rash move that would leave him open, unguarded.

It was old gambit, well executed . . . except that at the last
moment, the trap closed over the trapper.

Sagan lunged, struck.

Flaim flung himself down, threw himself flat on the floor. The
bloodsword flared in a flaming arc over his head.

And then the bastard prince should have died at the Warlord's hand,
as had so many before him. But Sagan lacked the strength to press
home his advantage. He staggered back against the wall, drew a ragged
breath, tried to clear the mists that were fast dimming his vision.

Maigrey was with him, watching him. He could see her now, see her so
very clearly. She had remained silent, not moving, knowing better
than to do or say anything that might distract him. The moonlight
shone on her pale hair, shone on the silver armor. She was starlight,
pure, cold, ethereal.

His eyes went to her and beyond her, out the barred window, into the
night skies. Another star—or what seemed a star—lifted
off from the planet's surface, rose into the heavens.

Sagan followed it with his gaze. It was, like her, the only light he
could now see.

"Dion," she said to him softly.

The light of the spaceplane flared, blazed a fiery trail, like a
comet across the night sky. The light soared—a brilliant and
radiant light that glinted off blue eyes like moonlight on a frozen
sea. It shone warm and red-golden in the center of the galaxy like a
lion-faced sun. It would burn long and bright, and when its glow
faded into peaceful darkness, other lights would have been kindled
from it, their bright fires illuminating hearts, keeping back the
fear of night.

The light vanished. The spaceplane had entered hyperspace.

"My lord!" Maigrey shouted a warning.

Flaim was on his feet, lunging. The bloodsword's lethal light flared,
blinding. Sagan raised his sword, activated his shield. His own light
burst, then died.

Flaim's sword entered the Warlord's body, drove Sagan back against
the wall, pinned him.

The prince stared at him a moment in grim triumph, then yanked the
flaring blade free.

A gush of dark blood spewed out. Horrible, searing agony ripped at
Sagan with fiery claws. He doubled over, his hands clutching his
wound, trying vainly to hold on to his life, which flowed out, red,
over his fingers.

Maigrey stood watching, silent, unmoving, the tears the dead could
not shed shining like starjewels in her gray eyes.

The prince stepped back to gloat over his victory, stepped back to
watch his enemy die.

Sagan reached out his hand . . .

"Flaim! Stop him! Stop him!" Pantha screamed from the
prison entryway.

Flaim—seeing at last the Warlord's intention—flung
himself at the dying man.

Too late.

Sagan's bloodstained hand grasped hold of the bomb, fumbled for the
button, the fourth one from the beginning of row twenty-six.

The one marked with the symbol
d.

Convulsively gasping, eyes closed against the burning pain or death,
he pressed the button down.

Thin beams of light, like tiny threads of starfire, radiated outward.
They extended from the starjewel, planted in the bomb's heart to the
golden pyramid. When the light touched the pyramid, the bomb began to
make a faint sound, as if humming to itself.

Flaim stared at it, his eyes wide in horror. "Stop it!" he
breathed.

Sagan lay on the floor. "Five minutes," he said, and the
words came out a whisper, stained with his life's blood.

"We must get out of here!" Pantha screeched. He caught hold
of Flaim, fingers like talons. "The creatures! The creatures can
save us. Quickly, my prince. We must reach the room! We must
communicate with them."

Flaim flung the old man away from him.

"Why?" he demanded savagely, standing over Sagan. "Why?
I was everything
you
wanted to be!"

"That is why," Sagan answered.

"Flaim!" Pantha begged.

The prince glared at Sagan in impotent outrage; then, turning, he ran
from the star-shaped prison. Pantha dashed after him.

Maigrey watched them leave, then shut the door.

Kneeling on the floor beside the Warlord, she drew off her blue
cloak, folded it, gently placed the bundle beneath his head. He
groaned in agony when she lifted him. She took hold of his right
hand, brought it to her lips, clasped her own right hand tightly
around it.

He looked up at her.

"You're not crying, are you?" he asked, with a faint touch
of irritation.

"No, my lord," she said softly. "I'm not crying. I
can't."

The beams of light in the bomb grew stronger, brighter. The humming
grew louder, was harsh and discordant.

Sagan looked at it and his face blenched. He couldn't help but think
of the end, the blast, the one unspeakable, horrifying moment of
unendurable agony before the blessed solace of death.

Maigrey saw his glance. She leaned forward; her pale hair fell around
him like a curtain, hiding death from sight.

The floor and walls began to shake, shuddering as if in terror. A
crash and a rumble came from somewhere in the alcazar. Rock dust
drifted down over them. And out of the night—a hideous shriek
of rage, a despairing wail of terror.

"The creatures have answered Flaim's plea." Maigrey said.

He tried to speak, but blood flowed from his mouth. He choked, fell
back, shuddering.

"Hold fast to me, my lord," she said. "I'm here."

He gripped her hand hard. The spasm passed. Everything else seemed to
be fading from his sight, was drowning in darkness. Everything except
her. She shone more clearly, became more real to him each passing
moment.

"What did you give up to come to me, my lady?" he asked
her. Their minds spoke. His voice was silenced forever.

"Nothing that matters, my lord," she answered.

Lifting his left hand with a great effort, he smoothed back the pale
cloud of hair, touched her cheek, ran his fingers along the scar. He
left a crimson mark, his own blood.

"Your soul. You are damned, my lady, as I am damned."

"My soul was never mine to lose, my lord. It was yours. Always
yours."

He smiled, a true smile. And then he stiffened. A stifled cry of
wrenching agony escaped his lips. The pain was unendurable.

"Not long now," Maigrey said softly.

The starfire light inside the crystal case shone brightly, pulsed
stronger than his own torn and wounded heart.

"Don't leave me," he breathed.

"I won't," she promised.

She bent over him, put her arms around him. She lay her head on his
breast.

"Ever."

The center cannot hold.

king: I tell thee truly, herald,I know not if the day be ours . . .

herald: The day is yours.

William Shakespeare,
King Henry V,
Act IV, Scene vii

The Scimitar shot through the Lanes. The silence on board the
spaceplane was one with the silence of the eternal night around it.
The only words spoken were terse conversations between Tusk and the
computer, figuring the fastest way possible to get the plane off
Vallombrosa and into hyperspace.

Dion had carried Kamil from the alcazar. He made her comfortable on
the bed, as comfortable as possible; she was wandering, now, in her
mind. He sat beside her in a chair. So many miracles were needed now;
what gave him the right to ask for this, in particular? His thoughts
went back to the golden-tinged day he'd met her. He'd been so lonely
then. Searching desperately for someone to love, for someone to love
him. He had found her. She had found him.

His shieldmaid. As in the dream, she had fallen, protecting him. As
in the dream, he would pick up his weapon and go forward, leaving her
behind.

He held her hand and her wild ravings ceased. But she sank into a
frightening sleep, which seemed far too deep. Try as he might, he
could not rouse her.

He was aware of Tusk, standing at his shoulder.

"We're ready to make the Jump. Is she ... is she any better?"

Dion shook his head.

Tusk, who could see things for himself, laid his hand in silent
sympathy on his friend's shoulder, then returned hastily back to the
cockpit.

Dion listlessly strapped himself in, made Kamil secure. He had long
ago learned to cope with the effects of leaping into hyperspace.
Leaning back in his chair, he forced himself to relax, closed his
eyes.

They were fighting together, side by side. The battle raged around
them. Friends and comrades fell, struck down, dead, dying. And then
there came a lull. The horrific noise of slaugh-ter ceased. The enemy
was gone. The two of them stood alone on the field, resting, waiting
for the next onslaught. They could hear the din of terrible trumpets.
It was coming. He drew his bloodied sword, advanced to meet it. He
turned to smile one last time at his shieldmaid.

But she had laid down the shield, laid it at his feet. Reaching out
her hand, she took the sword from him, to wield it for herself.

"The shield is yours, sire, to defend and protect. It is my
place to continue the fight. Good-bye, Dion. ..."

"Dion . . ."

He jolted awake. Kamil lay propped up on one elbow, her hand on his
arm, shaking him. Her face was bruised and covered with blood, but
her eyes were clear and focused and alert and puzzled.

"You're all right!" he breathed.

"I'm fine," she said, "except for a splitting
headache. And, oh, Dion, I had the strangest dream ..."

The Scimitar was in the Lanes, putting light-years between them and
the Vale of Ghosts. They were safe. Unless the universe ripped
apart—always a possibility, however remote, with the
space-rotation bomb.

The three of them could do nothing now but wait. Kamil ignored
pleadings to stay in bed. A shot from Tusk's medkit eased the pain in
her head. She came forward, to be with Dion and Tusk. They huddled
together in the small cramped cockpit, waited in silence. To try to
put into words what they had seen, what they had been through, what
they laced would have demeaned it, diminished it. And so they spoke
of it in silence, heart to heart, and found far greater comfort.

It was Tusk, sitting in the pilot's chair, who first broke the
silence, broke it softly, reluctantly. "We're coming up on the
point you wanted to leave the Lanes, kid. Do you— Shall I . ..
take us out?"

"Yes," said Dion.

"Get hold of Dixter; fast," Tusk told XJ.

XJ obeyed without adding its normal sarcastic comment. Either the
computer was impressed with the awful solemnity and tension of the
situation or else the threat Tusk had muttered under his breath when
they first came aboard had been dreadful enough to at last muzzle
XJ-27.

"Sir John Dixter, Your Majesty," announced the computer in
a tone that could almost have been called respectful.

"Dion! Son!" Dixter appeared to be struggling against a
need to reach out and embrace the vidscreen, a need to reassure
himself that Dion was real. "I heard what happened! Are you all
right? And Tusk and—"

"We're fine, for the moment. All fine. How did you know—•"

"Her Majesty." Dixter's expression was grim. "She's
been in contact with us. Yes, she's safe. Sagan spoke to her on board
the ship, told her what he planned. He also gave her the names of
some people she might be able to count on—friends of ours,
Tusk, from the old days. Gorbag the Jarun, some of the other
mercenary pilots.