Authors: Margaret Weis
Abdiel, shrouded
in his thick robes, rose to his feet, bowing. "Enter and
welcome, my king. I know that the temperature is uncomfortably warm
for you. The bones of the aged are thin and brittle, our skin
shriveled. The cold penetrates to the heart. Years from now"—the
old man's eyes glinted—"you, too, will suffer the
indignities of old age."
Something in the
old man's tone made Tusk's blood run cold, the sweat chill on his
body. "Not if he has his way, we won't," he whispered to
Nola, who crept nearer to him.
The three
entered the windowless room and took seats where Abdiel indicated,
reclining on oblong-shaped, cushion-covered cedar couches that
looked, to Tusk, too much like coffins for him to be exactly
comfortable. He was startled and pleased, however, to feel cool air
blowing on his face. Glancing up, the mercenary saw that it came from
vents, located in the ceiling, directed only on himself, Dion, and
Nola. The zombies, standing like statues around the room, were
sweating profusely but did not appear to be otherwise uncomfortably
affected by the heat.
Abdiel resumed
his spot by the furnace, huddling near to it greedily. A hookah stood
beside him. The water bubbling in the porcelain vase contrast
soothingly with the hiss of the steam on the rocks. The old man put a
pipe to his lips, sucked on it, then removed it and offered it
politely to Tusk. A thin curl of smoke wafted from the bowl.
"No,
thanks," the mercenary said. "I don't like having my mind
bent out of shape."
"I find the
drug eases the pain. I do not complain; my affliction was
self-inflicted and I have derived great benefit from it." Abdiel
removed his left hand from the winding coils of fabric, extended it,
palm up. The red glow from the rocks shone on five needles, embedded
in the palm.
Dion sucked in a
startled breath. Tusk stood up without realizing he'd done so. Nola
tugged sharply on his pants leg, and the mercenary slowly and numbly
resumed his seat. His father's voice was talking to him, coming from
somewhere out of the past. He wished desperately he'd listened to his
old man, but what teenager, whose eyes look only ahead, wants to hear
about days behind, days dead and gone?
"I am one
of the Order of Dark Lightning," Abdiel said. "Ah, I see
recognition dawn, my king."
"The Lady
Maigrey said . . . something. You were all killed during the
revolution. 'Good came out of evil,' she said."
"That's
what she said?" Abdiel appeared saddened, grieved. "Ah,
poor woman. Poor woman. She was right, almost. Sagan attempted to
destroy us. He feared us, as well he should. But I survived. He could
not destroy
me\
I am afraid, however, that I have arrived too
late. Too late to help my Lady Maigrey."
"Why do you
keep saying that?" Dion demanded impatiently. "Where is
she? I want to see her! She sent me a message—"
"The
message." The old man's skin attained a crimson hue; the
sleepless eyes glittered. "I must make a confession, my king. I
sent the message."
"I knew
it!" Tusk was on his feet again. "C mon, kid—"
"If you
please. You are so hasty, Mendaharin Tusca. It was a fault of your
father's and because I enjoy being reminded of him, I will overlook
it. But I beg of you, do not interrupt again. This is between myself
and your king."
"Tusk, sit
down!" Dion snapped.
"Yes, Your
Majesty!" Tusk made an elaborate bow. "Anything you say,
Your Majesty!"
"Stop it!"
Nola whispered. "You're acting like children. Both of you!"
Dion overheard
her, flushed, looked momentarily ashamed. He cast Tusk an apologetic
glance. Tusk subsided back onto the couch, muttering to himself. Nola
gave him a vicious jab in the ribs, and he fell silent.
Dion turned back
to the old man. "Is the Lady Maigrey in danger?"
"She is."
Abdiel sighed. "She was. But, as I said, I arrived too late.
Lord Sagan has landed on this planet. . . . You didn't know that?"
"No, I
didn't," Dion said slowly. "Tusk—"
"I'm with
you, kid."
Abdiel raised
his hand. "There is no need for alarm. Do not be afraid, my
king. You are now under my protection. I tried to save the lady, as
well, but I could not. She is with him now. He possesses her, body
and soul."
"I don't
believe you! She fought him—"
"Yes, she
fights him. Poor, brave woman. She has fought him for years, ever
since they were children. The Creator was not kind to her, linking
her to that dark-souled, evil man. Sagan's will is strong and, mind
you, I don't know, but I fear something has happened that has finally
beaten her down, drawn them close together. ..." Abdiel put the
pipe to his lips. Smoke curled up around the bald, sweat-covered
head. The eyes, sharp as needles themselves, jabbed into Dion.
Tusk almost
laughed aloud. Nola nudged him, nodded her head toward Dion. The
boy's expressive face had darkened.
"Dion, you
don't believe this crap!" Tusk began, "You know the lady—"
"You didn't
see them together, Tusk," Dion said in a low voice. "I did.
The two of them ... on that Corasian ship. They were ..." He
fell silent, his cheeks burning.
"Were what?
Ouch!" Tusk glared at Nola, nursed his arm that had imprints of
her nails in his skin.
"They used
to be lovers, you know," Abdiel said, puffing on the pipe, the
water gurgling in the vase. "When they were young. They were to
have been married. The revolution divided them. She remained loyal to
her king—"
"She saved
me," Dion said softly.
"Yes, and
Sagan struck her down. Savagely, without mercy. Then he left her to
die. He didn't even have the nerve to finish her off. He was always a
coward, was Derek Sagan."
Dion said
nothing, looked troubled, confused. Tusk knew how the boy felt. The
mercenary certainly had no love for the Warlord. He'd used them,
betrayed them. He was holding Dixter prisoner, putting him through
God knew what torment. Still, Tusk would never have called Sagan a
coward.
"You know,
of course, why the Lady Maigrey came to Laskar?" Abdiel said.
"No."
Dion shook his head.
The old man
appeared concerned. "She didn't tell you?"
Dion's flush
deepened. "There wasn't time! We were in the middle of a
firefight—"
"Yes,
perhaps
that was the reason." Abdiel sighed delicately.
Tusk, seeing
Dion's pain increasing, repressed an urge to wring the old man's
neck.
"Or perhaps
. . . But who can read a woman's heart? I will tell you what little I
know. She came to Laskar at
his
bidding. She came to perform a
task for him. Have you ever heard of a man named Snaga Ohme?"
Abdiel's gaze
shifted suddenly to Nola. "I believe you said you'd heard of
him, my dear?"
"Sure, I've
heard of him." Nola shrugged. "Who hasn't?"
"Quite
true. Though some, I think, have heard more of him than others. Be
that as it may"—the eyes sent their needle gaze to
Dion—"the Adonian is a genius when it comes to building
weapons. In the last few years, Derek Sagan has devoted his life to
inventing the most horrific killing device yet known to man. He sent
his plans to Snaga Ohme, and the Adonian—who would sell his
soul to the highest bidder-created it. The weapon is known as a
space-rotation bomb and it has the power to destroy solar systems,
perhaps even to destroy a universe. With such a weapon of terror in
his control, the Warlord could place his bootheel upon the necks of
every citizen in the galaxy.
"Snaga Ohme
completed his work. The bomb is finished. Derek Sagan was about to
accept delivery and commence his reign of darkness when the Corasians
attacked him and he was forced to fight or lose his miserable life."
"He fought
bravely!" Dion said, white to the lips.
"Rats
generally do, when they are backed into a corner. His ship, through
his own negligence, was blown out from underneath him. He escaped,
naturally, but he was discommoded by the pressing duties of command
and found that he could not pick up the bomb himself. He sent the
Lady Maigrey in his stead."
"C'mon,
kid. Let's get out of here," Tusk said, but he said it
halfheartedly and he wasn't at all surprised to note that Dion didn't
move.
"I don't
believe you," Dion told the old man.
"I am proud
of you, Your Majesty." Abdiel regarded him with a sad, admiring
expression. "You remain faithful to her. That pleases me."
He put his pipe to his lips, smoked, frowned, seemed to wrestle with
himself. At length, he laid the pipe down, coiled up the tube
carefully, and motioned for one of the zombies to remove the hookah
from his side.
"I hate to
destroy such loyalty, my king, but it is only right that you should
know the truth. How else are you to help this poor woman, if, indeed,
she can be helped? Mikael"—this to one of the
zombies—"prepare the viewing chamber."
Mikael leaned
over, whispered something in his master's ear, gesturing at the
guests. Abdiel nodded, smiled, and with Mikael's assistance rose to
his feet.
"My
assistant has informed me that outside the sun is setting. Your
journey has been long and tiring. Undoubtedly you are hungry. I would
be greatly honored if you would be my guests for dinner."
"Thanks,
but we really should be g—" Tusk began.
"I won't
hear of it." Abdiel cut him off with a wave of his decrepit
hand. "The viewing chamber won't be ready for some time. We so
rarely set up the equipment. Mikael will show you to rooms where you
may refresh yourselves. Lie down, if you like, and take a brief nap.
Dinner will not be ready for an hour or so. I will see you
afterward."
"You won't
be dining with us?" Dion asked.
"No, my
king. You would find my 'meal' singularly unappetizing. I could not
exist on mere food." Abdiel held out his left hand, palm up, to
the light, and tilted it slightly. The needles cast long, thin, dark
shadows against his skin. "Your bloodsword, my king, holds the
virus and neuro micromachines within it, injecting them into your
body when you establish contact with the weapon. I have taken the
virus and micromachines into my body, and my diet must be regulated
accordingly. Twenty-one capsules three times daily constitute my
repast. No, I will not be joining you for dinner."
This was the
first good news Tusk had heard in a week and he was sorry to see that
Dion looked disappointed. The young man was staring at Abdiel's palm
with a kind of puzzled fascination.
"Ah, my
king." Abdiel smiled benignly, placed his hand— the one
without the needles—on the boy's arm and squeezed it
affectionately. "I see your question in your eyes. You wonder
why I have deliberately ruined my health, my life? You need not be
embarrassed. I know many consider my appearance repulsive. This
outward deformity occurred to all of us of the Order. The neuro
micromachines tend to collect at the nerve endings, forming these
nodes and nodules you see on my skin and at the back of my head. The
virus eats up a great deal of energy, lowers my body temperature,
forces me to live in what would be, to normal humans, sweltering
heat. I suffer agonizing pain, sometimes. But the compensations,
Dion! The compensations outweigh all physical discomfort . . . reduce
my sufferings to nothing more than minor inconveniences."
Dion didn't
appear convinced. Abdiel's smile broadened.
"I will
offer you one example, my king, which may help you to understand. I
presume that you are trained in the use of the bloodsword? You know,
then, that the sword can create a bond between you and another member
of the Blood Royal who also wields a sword. The mental bond is
fragile, however, easily broken, and is completely reliant on the
swords being in use.
"We of the
Order discovered that we could, by bonding directly with each other
instead of bonding through the sword, achieve a symbiosis of a most
remarkable nature. We could actually become one with each other,
share our dreams, our knowledge, combine our powers, two becoming
stronger than one could possibly imagine. And this symbiosis did not
diminish, my king! Once we tap into a member of the Blood Royal, once
we inject our . . . shall we say . . . being into that person, we
form a bond that can never be entirely broken. A brotherhood of the
soul and body that lasts a lifetime!"
Dion opened his
right hand, stared down at the five scars on his palm with rapt
attention. Tusk's bowels clenched at the sight—the boy's hand
near the old man's, the five needles protruding from the too-smooth
flesh.
"Dion,
c'mon," Tusk said. He stepped forward, intending to break up
this cozy twosome and drag Dion away.
Abdiel glanced
at him, a tiny frown line forming on the domed forehead. The old man
shot a look from the lidless eyes to his disciple.
The zombie named
Mikael glided over.
"It is
impolite to interrupt the master," Mikael said.
Tusk whipped out
his lasgun, pressed it against the zombie's gut. "Yeah? It's
impolite to burn a hole through your belly, but I'll do it if you
don't get out of my way!"
Abdiel scratched
at his decaying flesh, the old man appearing pained and faintly
embarrassed by the inappropriate behavior of a guest.
"Tusk!"
Dion was shocked. "Have you gone crazy? Put that gun away!"
"I mean it,
lad! We're gettin' out of here. Nola—" Tusk paused, looked
around. "Where's Nola?"
"The female
was tired." Mikael's lifeless eyes stared at him, through him,
never seeming to see him. "I ordered her escorted to her room.
Perhaps you would care to join her?"
Tusk slowly
lowered the weapon. "You're right. I'd 'care to join her.'"
He shoved the lasgun in its holster with a deliberate, angry thrust,
hoping Dion would notice and understand.