Authors: Margaret Weis
The centurion's
eyes held the young man in their gaze for an instant, lips forming
words that would never be spoken. The right hand clenched in agony,
but the body's struggle against death was mercifully brief. Marcus's
hand relaxed, slid down to fall lifeless on the floor. The head
sagged forward, resting on the young man's shoulder.
"I'm sorry.
..." Dion whispered, holding the limp body tightly. "I'm
sorry!"
He felt a hand
touch his shoulder, looked up into the eyes of the Warlord. Gently,
Dion eased the body down.
"'Lux
aeterna, luceat eis, Domine, cum sanctis tuis in aeternam; quia pius
es."'
Sagan knelt beside the dead centurion, laid his hand
upon the forehead. "'Let eternal light shine upon them, O Lord,
with Thy saints forever, for Thou art merciful.'"
Rising to his
feet, he turned to Dion.
Whatever Sagan
had been going to say went unsaid. The boy was like a clear, crystal
votive lamp that guards within it the sacrificial flame. Outside he
was smooth, cold glass; within he burned with a devouring fire. His
bright clothes, with the lion-faced sun, were wet with blood.
The Warlord was
shaken to the core of his being. The awe he had experienced once,
during the boy's rite, returned and overwhelmed him. He stood in the
Presence, and curse and rail against God as he might, he could not
deny it.
The fire in the
blue eyes flickered over Sagan.
"It was my
responsibility," Dion said, rising to his feet. My, the
singular, not the royal we.
The Warlord did
not respond. What the boy said was true, there was no comfort to be
offered.
Dion leaned
down, lifted the bloodsword, and handed it back to the Warlord. Their
hands met. Sagan could have sworn he felt the touch of flame upon his
skin.
The young man
turned and walked down the hall, never once glancing at the body on
the floor.
Mere anarchy is
loosed upon the world . . .
William Butler
Yeats, "
The Second Coming
"
"Honored
guests and members of the household of Snaga Ohme, your attention,
please." Sagan's voice, deep and cold, sounded over the paging
system like the tolling of the death knell, instantly silencing the
merriment, putting a halt to all business transactions, bringing
everyone to alert, tense attention. "I am Warlord Derek Sagan,
speaking to you from the control center of the Adonian's mansion.
Your host, Snaga Ohme, is dead."
The Warlord
paused only long enough to let any astonished murmurings die down so
that he could be heard. "And there has been an unfortunate
accident. One of the nuclear bombs has been armed and is primed to
explode. We are endeavoring to disarm it, but I would advise all of
you to evacuate the planet without delay. Please remain calm. There
is no need for panic.
"Which
warning," the Warlord added, shutting down the paging system,
"should send everyone stampeding madly for the nearest exits."
The Warlord was
inside the central control room. The bodies of several of Ohme's
guards lay on the floor, cut down by the bloodsword. The takeover had
been swift, resistance minimal. Those manning the control center were
already in a state of confusion. They had received reports of an army
moving into position outside the estate and had been unable to reach
their leader for orders. Most, after witnessing the deaths of the
guards, surrendered themselves to the Warlord.
Now, hearing his
announcement about the bomb, they stood staring at him in wide-eyed
terror.
"Get out!"
he ordered them, and none hesitated.
Glancing over
the equipment, Sagan rapidly located those devices that controlled
the force field and the defenses on the estates outer perimeter.
Swiftly, he shut them off.
"Haupt"—Sagan
spoke into the commlink—"the force field is down. I ve
issued the warning to the people inside. Any second now, pandemonium
should be in full swing. Move your men into position. You shouldn't
meet much, if any, organized resistance."
"My
lord"—Haupt sounded worried—"we heard the
announcement. About the bomb—"
"A hoax,
Brigadier," Sagan cut him off impatiently, "to clear people
from the estate. Send in those two land-jets—one for my use and
one for the boy. Now!" And he shut down the communication before
Haupt could ask more questions.
"You two
stay here," he ordered his centurions, who had armed themselves
with the dead guard's weapons. "A team from the base will
relieve you shortly. Report back to me at the fort Bring your
comrade's body for the rites and cremation."
The centurions
saluted, fist over heart, and took up their positions.
We may
all
be cremated, Sagan found himself thinking grimly, if I can't stop
Maigrey. Catching hold of the young man. who had observed the
takeover with a distant and remote expression on his pale face, the
Warlord propelled his king unceremoniously toward the elevators and
the lower level.
"Why do I
need a separate land-jet?" Dion asked, hurrying to keep up with
Sagan's long strides. He glanced at Sagan out of the corner of his
eye. "Aren't we going to the same place?"
I would
rather reign in hell . . .
"I rather
doubt it," the Warlord said.
The Warlord and
Dion entered the ballroom. Sagan looked about him in satisfaction.
Pandemonium had been an understatement. People jammed the elevators,
some fighting to get in. others fighting to get out. Crowds swarmed
up the stairs and through side exits that had been hastily opened,
people pushing and shoving each other aside in their haste to flee
the doomed planet. Everyone was shouting, using whatever
communications devices they had brought with them, ordering their
ships readied for immediate takeoff. Sagan noted many of Ohme's
people among the fleeing multitude. Their leader's body had been
discovered and either they believed the story about the bomb or they
didn't want to be around when the authorities arrived to ask
questions.
All except one.
The tear-ravaged face of Bosk loomed suddenly up in front of the
Warlord. "Sagan!" the Adonian hissed, leaping at him, hands
going for the Warlord's throat. "You're responsible! You
murdered him! I'll—"
The Warlord
stiff-armed the man; a knife-handed jab to the neck sent Bosk
sprawling to the floor. Sagan kept a tight grip on Dion, stepped over
the writhing body, continued past. By now, the media had caught sight
of the Warlord and the boy-king and were pushing their way forward.
Bomb or no bomb, they intended to get their story.
Sagan shoved and
literally beat several reporters out of his path, but the going was
slow. The crush of people increased around them, impeding their way.
The Warlord cursed. He was beginning to think that he had done his
job not wisely but too well when a gigantic form—implacable,
immovable as a bearded oak tree—planted itself directly in
front of him.
Sagan halted,
looked up into a hairy, grinning face.
"My lord!"
Bear Olefsky boomed. His laughing eyes sparked, shifted to Dion. "And
the kinglet! Well met. You appear to be in need of assistance."
"Get us out
of here!" Sagan said shortly.
"With
pleasure, my lord!"
Laughing, calm
as if he were wading through a stream of water instead of a stream of
human and alien life-forms, Bear and his two sons began to clear the
Warlord's path. The swelling tide of people pounded against them, but
it might as well have washed up against a rock cliff. The Bear moved
forward steadily; the masses parted, flowed, and eddied around them.
Sagan and Dion surged along in the wake.
They reached the
main staircase, Bear catching hold of and tossing overboard those who
didn't get out of his way. Once outside of the Adonian's estate, they
arrived in time to see a pillar of orange flame shoot into the
air—Haupt's forces had blown the power generator. The ground
shook beneath their feet. Lights went out, plunging the mansion into
darkness, increasing—if possible—panic's reign inside.
Sagan looked
above him, saw stars and Laskar's nail-paring of a moon in the sky
overhead. The force field was down. He could hear the whine of
approaching land-jets. The Warlord took out his bloodsword, inserted
the needles into his hand, and activated it. The blade flamed to
life. He raised it, signaling to the jets.
"So the
Adonian is really dead?" Bear rumbled, coming up to stand next
to him. "And who inherits his estate, I wonder?" Olefsky
cocked one eye at the Warlord.
Sagan shut off
the sword. "I suppose Snaga Ohme left a will."
Bear Olefsky
burst out into a laugh that was like another explosion. "And
made you executor, no doubt! Or is the word
executioner?"
"Thank you
for your help, Olefsky. You better get off-planet."
"Oh, yes!
The bomb!" Bear winked, gave Sagan a slap on the back that
nearly knocked the breath from the man's body. "Farewell,
Warlord! When you and the lady need me to fight for this redheaded
boy-king of yours"—the Bear jerked his head in Dion's
direction—"give me a call. I'll be waiting!
"Now, come
along, you clumsy oafs! Try not to trample anyone!" Marshaling
his two lummoxlike sons, Bear lumbered off into the night. As he
left, they could hear the big man repeat, every once in a while,
"Bomb!" and chuckle in appreciation.
Sagan stared
after him a moment, glanced thoughtfully at the young man. After all,
I might fail, he thought. And then Dion would have no one.
"Bear
Olefsky is a good man, my liege," he said to the young man. "You
could trust him."
"That would
be a change, wouldn't it, my lord?" the boy returned with
unconcealed bitterness, blue eyes cool and remote in the moonlight.
The Warlord's
lips twitched in a half-smile. Activating the sword again, he guided
the jets to a landing.
Dion shouted to
be heard over the engine's roar. "Where are you sending me?"
The Warlord
frowned. Now that he thought of it, this calm acquiescence was
disconcerting. Sagan sensed something behind it, but he didn't have
time to try to fathom it.
Perhaps, after
all, the boy had simply learned his lesson.
"Defiant,"
the Warlord told him. "To join your old friend, John Dixter. He
should be pleased to have company."
"I'm a
prisoner, then?" Dion yelled.
"Be any
damn thing you can be!" Sagan shouted irritably. He waited only
until he saw the boy hustled aboard the jet, then left for his own
jet at a dead run.
But it seemed to
Sagan that he heard, soft and disquieting, the boy's calm reply:
"Thank you, my lord. I will."
Escape for thy
life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain;
escape to the mountain, lest thou be consumed.
Genesis 19:17
Fort Laskar was
quiet, almost deserted, most of its forces involved in taking over
the Adonian's estate. Lights gleamed from the HQ and communications
buildings. The area around the spaceplane and the Warlord's shuttle
was shrouded in darkness.
Sagan stood on
the tarmac, cautiously observing Maigrey's plane No lights. It
appeared empty. The guards—his own centurions—posted
around it were attentive and alert, chatting and laughing together in
low voices, as if their watch had been uneventful.
The Warlord's
expression grew grim. He tried, once again, to get in touch with his
agent, as he had been trying for the past few minutes.
"Sparafucile."
Sagan spoke into the commlink, his voice cracking with impatience.
"Spara—"
"Sagan
Lord!" The voice was faint, punctuated by what sounded like
explosions. "I am here!"
"More to
the point, is Abdiel there? Did he return to his shuttle?"
A deafening
boom, then the half-breed could be heard: "—he look like
all the hounds of hell were chasing after him. He— Another
explosion, a brief interlude of Sparafucile cursing and shouting
orders, an answering voice that sounded extremely familiar, though
Sagan couldn't for the moment place it. A scrabbling, panting sound,
as if the half-breed were sliding into a ditch, and then silence. The
link had gone dead.
Sagan tapped
irritably at the side of his helm.
Nothing. But at
least he could be reasonably certain Abdiel was still on Laskar,
since it was undoubtedly the mind-seizer who was attacking the
half-breed. And, Sagan thought, eyeing the spaceplane, at least he
knew Abdiel was no longer on board. He must have fled when he
realized that the bomb had been activated and that he couldn't
reverse the process. That would take another code word, one that only
Maigrey would know. Sagan wondered, briefly, how Abdiel might have
tried to wrest it from her. He wondered in what condition he'd find
her.
She was alive,
he knew that; he could feel her life pulse within him, as he felt his
own. But when he reached out his consciousness to touch her, it was
like grasping at the night.
"Captain of
the watch!" the Warlord called, striding forward.
The men on duty
stiffened to attention.
"My lord."
"How has
your watch passed, Captain?"
"Quiet, my
lord."
"No one has
entered the plane, come near it?"
The centurion,
hearing the edge in his lord's voice, looked puzzled, tensed, sensing
something wrong. "No, my lord."
Sagan looked
again at the spaceplane. No lights could be seen; not a sound could
be heard. It appeared lifeless. But inside, a deadly heart beat away
the seconds.
"Very well,
Captain, I will take over here. You and your men return to the
shuttlecraft, prepare it for immediate liftoff"
"Yes, my
lord." The Honor Guard saluted, took to their heels.