King's Test (53 page)

Warm fingers
closed over his hand. He held on to her tightly.

Yeah, she knows.

They were moving
toward the boulders. Tusk could see the gully gaping wide, a large
crack in the desert floor. The perfect grave. No one would ever find
the bodies. Not that anybody'd be looking. He knew, now, as sure as
fate, that Abdiel planned to murder Dion after the kid had done the
mind-seizer's dirty work and killed Sagan for him. Perhaps the kid
was already dead. . . .

I wasn't much of
a Guardian, Tusk said to himself. He could see the sad, careworn face
of the boy's mentor, the calm, proud, scarred face of his sister. I'm
sorry, Platus. Sorry, Starlady. ... He squeezed tightly the hand
clinging to his. I'm sorry, Nola.

At least I'll go
out fighting. No one'll find me—
if
anyone finds me—with
a hole blasted in my back.

They were
circling around the shuttlecraft, heading for the boulders, the
gully. I'll wait until we're out of sight of the other mind-dead,
wait until we reach the jumble of rocks. If by some miracle we
escape, the boulders and gully will offer cover.

Tusk trudged
over the hard-packed ground. They had reached the outcropping of
boulders—huge red rocks that lay scattered across the desert
floor like marbles belonging to some giant's child. The light from
the house was partially blocked by the shuttlecraft, which cast long,
dark shadows. The gully was wide and deep and, now that they were
near, Tusk could hear the faint sound of rushing water—one of
those dry creek beds that come to life only when it rains.

Nola tried to
wriggle her hand free. Tusk knew why—she was planning to help
him fight—and he held on fast. He had a plan himself. We reach
the lip of the gully. I give Nola a hard tug, fling her over the
edge. Then I'll turn and fight. I hope she's got sense enough to get
away. I hope she can swim, he thought, hearing the water gurgling
beneath them.

They reached the
edge of the ditch.

"Stop,"
the mind-dead ordered.

So I was right.
This is gonna be our grave.

He tensed, drew
a breath that would probably be his last, and flashed Nola a quick
look that said everything in his heart. . . .

A stabbing beam
of light damn near blinded him. Stinging pain tore through his arm.
For a moment he thought the mind-dead had fired and missed, then the
zombie standing behind him crumpled to the ground.

Tusk blinked,
dazed, paralyzed, trying desperately to see what was going on. He
wondered if he'd seen the light at all. It had been like a lightning
flash on a perfectly clear day. He doubted his senses. But before he
could move or react, another deadly beam arced past Nola, and then
another . . . and the mind-dead—now really, most sincerely
dead—lay on the ground behind them.

"Jump for
it, fools!" hissed a voice from the rocks on the other side of
the gully.

Tusk was only
too happy to obey. He and Nola scrambled and slid down the side of
the ravine. It was pitch dark here, out of the nuke lights, and he
was still half-blinded. The sound of running water was louder. Tusk
came to a halt.

"C'mon!"
Nola tugged at him. "What are you waiting for? Someone's bound
to wonder why those zombies aren't coming back!"

"You go
ahead," Tusk told her. The water thundered in his ears. His ribs
hurt like hell; every breath was like sucking in fire.

"Don't be
stupid! What's the—"

"Damn it,
Nola! I can't swim!"

He was getting
his night vision, and he could see her eyes widen. She started to
giggle, choked it off. "Tusk," she began, trying to speak
calmly, "I don't think the water's that deep. ..."

"Doesn't
matter," Tusk said, breathing heavily. "I've always been
afraid of water. Hell, I can't even sit in a bathtub. If it wasn't
for showers I'd—"

"What you
two waiting for?" A shadowy figure appeared at the opposite edge
of the ravine. "Maybe I make mistake. Maybe you want to die."

"Go ahead,
Nola. I'll catch up with you. Just give me a minute—"

"No, I'm
staying right here with you."

Tusk glared at
her. "You can be a real bitch sometimes!"

"I know,"
she said sweetly. "Well, do we stay here or go across the creek?
C'mon. I'll even hold your hand. "

"No,
thanks!"

And before he
could give himself time to think about it,

Tusk stepped
into the rushing water, prepared to sink, flounder helplessly. . . .

The water washed
over his feet, came to his ankles, and stopped. Nola splashed in
beside him. "Want a life raft?"

"Shut up!"
he growled, fighting down the irrational panic that had him
envisioning black water closing over his head. Grimly, he sloshed
forward, reached the other side of the bank, and clambered thankfully
back onto dry land.

They scaled the
side of the gully with difficulty. The ravine was steep and the loose
sand gave way underfoot, while Tusk's bruised and battered body
reminded him in no uncertain terms that it wasn't at all amused by
the proceedings. Gasping and grunting, every breath a painful effort,
he managed—with Nola's help—to make it most of the way. A
strong hand snaked down, caught hold of him, and yanked him over the
edge. Nola pulled herself up beside him.

Their rescuer
grinned at them.

Seeing the
deformed face, the cunning, misaligned eyes glittering in the lights
of the shuttlecraft, Tusk wondered if they wouldn't be safer back in
the bottom of the water-filled ditch. Nola recoiled, her hand
reaching for his.

"Who are
you?" Tusk growled.

"This way!
You come!" The man gestured, leading them into the dark shadow
of a gigantic boulder.

Tusk glanced
over his shoulder at the shuttlecraft. No one was chasing after them,
but it would be only a matter of time. Reluctantly, he and Nola
followed the man, who moved with the grace of a snake.

"I am
called Sparafucile." The half-breed grinned, white teeth shining
in the lambent light of shuttlecraft and stars and a thin, newly
risen moon. "That was some nice shooting I did, eh?"

"Lucky
shooting," Tusk muttered, looking down at the black hole in his
sleeve, feeling acutely the sting of his burn. "Assuming, that
is, that you
meant
to miss us. ..."

"Not luck.
Never luck. Sparafucile makes his own luck. And, yes, I mean to miss
you." The half-breed's gaze was on Nola. Involuntarily, she
shrank away from him, edging her way behind Tusk.

"Why did
you save us?" Tusk persisted, eyeing the breed suspiciously. If
he was telling the truth, if he was that good a shot, he was probably
accustomed to being paid—well paid— for his skill.
"What's your price?"

Sparafucile's
grin widened. "We understand each other. But do not worry. My
price . . . small. Part you pay. Part already paid. Sagan Lord, he
say—"

"Sagan!"
Tusk sucked in a deep breath and almost gagged with the pain. "Whose
side is
he
on?" he demanded when he could talk.

"Sagan
Lord?" Sparafucile made a gurgling sound in his throat,
apparently an approximation of a laugh. "His own side. Always
his own." The half-breed reached out a finger, poked Tusk in the
chest. "But this time his side is your side. And your side is my
side. I help you. You help me. Understand?"

"No,"
growled Tusk. "But I don't suppose it much matters, does it,
Spara-whatever-your-name-is?"

The assassin
shook his head. One eye drooped in a ghastly approximation of a wink
at the young woman. Nola tried to smile back, but her smile was
strained and she shot an alarmed glance at Tusk when she thought the
half-breed wasn't looking.

Scowling, the
mercenary rubbed his hurting ribs and flashed her a look of
exasperation. I don't like this character any better than you do, but
he
did
save our lives.

And while it's
not exactly comforting to think of the Warlord as our guardian angel,
Tusk decided, I'll take Sagan over Abdiel any day.

"I'll keep
an eye on him," he promised Nola, nodding obliquely at the
half-breed.

Nola, tossing
her head contemptuously, asked the breed crisply, "You mentioned
a price to rescue us. What do we do to earn it?"

Sparafucile
leered at her. "You shoot? You warrior-lady like Sagan's lady?"

"I'm
probably not as good a shot as she is, but yes, I can shoot,"
Nola answered.

So, Maigrey's
with Sagan, just like Abdiel told the boy. Tusk sighed, frowned.

Sparafucile
reached into the shadows, lifted what appeared to be a blanket roll,
spread it open. It turned out to be a small arsenal. Needle-guns,
lasguns, grenade guns, what looked like a hand-held missile launcher,
and—in a neat row on the bottom—an assortment of knives.
The assassin gazed at his tools with pride, spread his hands over
them like a jeweler showing his wares. "You see something you
like, warrior-lady?"

Nola looked
slightly startled, but—giving Tusk another dance—began
examining the weapons with grave attention. Tusk drew near her. He
could feel her shivering in the warm darkness, and he patted her arm
in awkward comfort. She found his hand and squeezed it tight.

"The
lady'll take that," Tusk said, steering Nola away from the
needle-gun that required unerring accuracy, pointing out a
disassembled beam rifle.

Sparafucile
approved the choice, apparently. He began putting the weapon together
with a skill and rapidity that Tusk found impressive. Tusk selected a
lasgun and a grenade launcher for himself. "What do you want us
to do?"

"Sagan Lord
tell me to disable shuttle. I see many dead-ones around and I say to
myself: To get close to shuttlecraft, I have to kill one, maybe two
or three. The old man comes back. He see the bodies. He get
suspicious. He say to himself: Someone has hurt my ship. But then I
say to myself: I will help prisoners escape. Then the old man says to
himself: It was escaped prisoners that kill my people. He will not
think to worry about his ship. Then I say to myself: It will be
helpful for me to get close to shuttle if you draw attention of
dead-ones away. Understand?"

"Enough."
Tusk handed the rifle to a confused-looking Nola. "He wants us
to create a diversion so that he can sneak in and sabotage the
shuttle."

Sparafucile
watched, nodded. "Sagan Lord say you were good warrior."

"Did he,
though?" Tusk muttered, not particularly liking having been
either the object of Sagan's praise or the subject of the Warlord's
conversation. He wondered what it meant.

"What about
Dion?" Nola asked him softly.

Tusk looked
away, cleared his throat. He hadn't wanted to ask, hadn't wanted to
know. He was afraid he'd hear that the boy was down in that dark
water. . . .

"Dion?
Pretty boy?" Sparafucile, watching them closely, didn't miss a
word. "Pretty boy go with old man. Go to house of Snaga Ohme.
Big party. Everyone there. Sagan Lord. Warrior-lady. Pretty boy. Old
man. Everyone there except you two and Sparafucile, eh? We stay here,
have our own party."

Tusk didn't like
that either, didn't like it one damn bit. The kid was walking into a
snake pit. He was entering a house full of his enemies and blindly
taking his own worst enemy in with him. The Lady Maigrey would be
there, presumably, but Tusk wasn't certain he could trust her
anymore. Somehow, he thought, I ought to try to reach the kid. . . .

"I know
what you are thinking." Sparafucile rose to his feet, loomed
over Tusk. "But such a thing is not possible. You help boy here.
Kill his enemies here."

Or die here
ourselves. Tusk heard the unspoken threat. Grimly, he picked up his
weapons, stood face to face with the assassin.

"Just what
did 'Sagan Lord' tell you to do with us when this little party is
over?" Tusk demanded.

The half-breed's
eyes narrowed to slits. Laughter glinted from between the lids. "He
say to take you to him."

... if destiny
like his awaits me, I shall rest when I have fallen!

Now, though, may
I win my perfect glory . . .

Homer,
The
Iliad
, translated by Robert Fitzgerald

Limo-jets sped
down the highway, gliding on soft cushions of air, their occupants
quaffing champagne, Laskarian brandy, or the preferred intoxicant of
their species. The rich, the beautiful, and/or the powerful were
speeding toward Snaga Ohme's like a flurry of gold-tipped arrows. The
wealth represented by the jewels they wore alone would have bought
and paid for several solar systems.

Crowds of
Laskarian natives lined the route, anxious to catch a glimpse of
anyone famous, waiting for the inevitable traffic tie-ups that
occurred as official arrival time approached and the limos were
forced to reduce their speed and settle toward the ground to wait
their turn to draw near the gate.

Many of the
notables flew in by 'copter, avoiding the crush of traffic, but
sacrificing dignity and coiffed hairdos to the wind whipped up by the
blades. A few of the more flamboyant chose unconventional methods of
arrival. The galaxy's current favorite vid star descended from the
heavens in a hot-air balloon, much to her fans' delight. And it was
rumored among the mob packed around Snaga Ohme's gate that one
barbarian monarch, known as Bear Olefsky, had actually traveled to
Ohme's on foot. The Bear had run from where his shuttle was parked in
an RV lot—a light jog of about forty kilometers, which he made
attired in full battle armor, arriving feeling refreshed and
invigorated by the exercise.

The crowd lining
the drive outside Ohme's estate numbered into the thousands, many
having camped out days in advance. Invisible force fields protected
the glamorous from their adoring public while still allowing both
glamorous and public the chance to feed off each other.