The Captive (26 page)

“Believe what you like,” Drade snapped. “But if you had
stayed home, where you belonged, she would be alive today.”

The truth of Drade’s words penetrated every fiber of his
being, more agonizing that the excruciating effects of the collar.

“I got there too late,” Drade said heavily. “And so did
you.” He stared past Falkon, his thoughts turned inward. “I loved her,” he said
quietly. “She should have been mine. They both should have been mine.”

Falkon stared at Drade, feeling Drade’s pain as if it were
his own. “Don’t take your hatred for me out on Ashlynne. I’m begging you. Let
her go.”

“She’s Hassrick’s wife, and he wants to be rid of her.
There’s nothing I can do.”

* * * * *

“Push, Chaney,” Ashlynne said. “Push hard.”

Chaney writhed on the narrow cot, her hands grasping the
bars behind her head, as she sought to expel the child from her womb.

“Relax, my love,” Darf said. “Do not fight the pain.” He
stood in the cell across the way, his hands clenched around the bars, his face
a mask of concern. Chaney had been in labor for the last seven hours, an
unusually long period of time for a Cherlin female.

“Chaney, listen to Darf,” Ashlynne said. She wiped the
perspiration from Chaney’s face. “Try to relax between contractions.”

Chaney nodded. She turned her head to the side and focused
on her husband’s face.

“I love you,” Darf said. “Try not to think about the pain.
Think about our child. Think of how much I love you.”

She nodded, gasping as another pain splintered through her.

“I see the head,” Ashlynne exclaimed. “Push!”

Chaney screamed, pushed, and the head and shoulders emerged.

A moment later, Ashlynne cradled a tiny furry body in her
hands. She looked over at Darf, smiled at Chaney.

“It’s a girl.” She spoke through a mist of tears. Never, she
thought, never had she seen anything as miraculous as the infant mewling
softly.

“Is she all right?”

Ashlynne pulled the blanket from her cot and wrapped it
around the baby, then laid the child in Chaney’s arms. “See for yourself. She’s
prefect.”

In the way of mothers everywhere, Chaney counted each finger
and toe, ran her hand over the tiny furred head and body.

Ashlynne pressed one hand over her womb as she watched her
friend. In a few months, she, too, would be giving birth. Where would she be
when the time came? Where would Falkon be? Would they ever be together again?

Falkon paced the narrow cell, his agitation growing. He had
to get out of here, had to get Ashlynne out of here, but how?

He paused at the door, staring out into the darkness,
Drade’s words echoing in his mind.
I loved her. She should have been mine.
They both should have been mine.
All these years, he had hated the man for
something he hadn’t done.

Looking back, his mind unclouded by hate and thoughts of
vengeance, he was forced to confront a bitter truth. Maiya had been in love
with Drade, but Falkon had wanted her, and when Drade was sent out on a special
training mission, Falkon had pursued her relentlessly. He knew now that Drade
would have made Maiya a far better husband than he had. Drade had spoken of his
plans for the future. He had intended to marry Maiya, to give up his career in
the Army. It was only after Falkon married Maiya that Drade had gone over to
the Romarians.

He rested his forehead against the rough wooden door. All
these years he had blamed Drade for Maiya’s death when the guilt had been his.

“I’m sorry, Maiya,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”

He looked up at the sound of footsteps, saw Drade coming
toward him. “What do you want?”

Drade shook his head. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Just come to gloat?”

Drade shrugged.

“How’s Ashlynne?”

“She’s well.”

“And the Cherlin?”

“The female gave birth last night. They leave for Tierde in
the morning.”

“Drade, don’t do this. I’m begging you.”

“I begged you once,” Drade retorted, his voice bitter. “I
begged you not to marry Maiya. It was you who refused to listen then.”

“I loved her, too.”

“No! No. You only wanted to prove you could take her from
me.”

“That’s not true.” But even as he denied it, he knew that,
even though he had loved Maiya, he had relished the thought of taking her from
Drade. Though they had been friends, they had ever been rivals, competing for
the highest scores in the Academy, for the highest honors in battle, always
going head-to-head to see who could be the best, the fastest.

“What’s behind all this?” Falkon asked. “You owe me that
much.”

“Hassrick was in financial trouble. Brezor offered him a way
out.”

“Where do you fit in?”

Drade shrugged. “I was with Hassrick when he made the deal
with Brezor. When Marcus refused to admit the Cenians to the Confederation, I
suggested the attack on the mine. If Marcus was killed, I knew Hassrick would
gain control of the mine through Ashlynne. If the attack failed, then I knew
Romariz would step in and take over. Either way, I would have access to the
mine.”

“What did you have to gain from all this?”

“Don’t you know?”

Falkon thought about it, and he did know. “I heard that Hodore
had secretly allied with Romariz, but that was just to cover up the truth,
wasn’t it? They’ve allied with Cenia. And when they have access to the mine,
they’ll have the fuel they need to attack Romariz.” He shook his head. “You’re
running true to form, aren’t you? First you sold out to Romariz, and now to
Cenia.”

“Think whatever you want.”

“Hodore and Cenia aren’t strong enough to go up against
Romariz. Who else is involved?”

“Riga Twelve. Polixe. Hodore. Trellis, of course. I have
convinced them to put their petty squabbles aside for the greater good of all.”

Falkon frowned thoughtfully. “What of Andoria and Swernolt?”

“They refuse to join us without Daccar.”

All the minor powers of the galaxy, Falkon mused. Combined,
they had enough men and fire power to bring Romariz to its knees. “What of
Daccar?” he asked.

Drade glanced away. “They have not yet agreed, but they
will.”

Daccar would never agree to an alliance with Cenia. Falkon
didn’t approve of their barbaric religion, yet he thought it far more civilized
to sacrifice a virgin once a year than it was to rob a man of his freedom and
condemn him to a life of slavery and degradation.

“Why, Drade?” he asked. “What’s in it for you?”

Drade shook his head, refusing to answer.

But Falkon knew, just as he knew he had done Drade a
terrible wrong. “Revenge,” he said. “For Maiya.”

“Yes!” Hatred flared in the depths of Drade’s eyes. “I
helped the Romarians get where they are, and I will bring them down.” Drade
shook his head. “She was married to you, but you were never there. I was the
one she turned to when she was lonely, the one she turned to when she needed
help.”

Falkon took a deep breath. “I loved her. I couldn’t help it.
But I was wrong to take her from you. I know that now, and I’m…” His hands
tightened around the bars. “I’m sorry.”

Drade didn’t say anything, only stood there, staring back at
him, making Falkon wonder if he, too, was remembering the past, when the two of
them had been almost inseparable, when they were both young and eager for war.

And then Drade nodded. “She was too good for either of us.”

It had taken five years, Falkon mused, but they had finally
found something they could agree on.

“You’ve lost whatever you hoped to gain,” Falkon said. “Our
people will never unite with Cenia.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Drade replied. “We no longer need
them.” He shrugged. “I no longer need them.”

“The Counsel will not listen to your advice, or follow you
into battle. You know that, don’t you? You are a traitor in their eyes,
stripped of your rank. They will never forgive you for what you’ve done.”

“And you are their hero.”

Falkon slammed his fist against one of the bars. “Some
hero!”

A slow smile spread over Drade’s face and then, to Falkon’s
amazement, he laughed.

He was still laughing when he turned and walked away.

Be careful what you ask for, daughter, lest you get it.

Her mother’s words rang in Ashlynne’s mind as she was pushed
into a small gray cell. She had longed to go home again, but not like this. Her
hair had been cut short, she had been issued a pair of black breeches, a coarse
woolsey shirt, and a pair of thick-soled boots.

She lifted a hand to her hair, her eyes burning with tears.
Of all the things she had endured, standing with her hands and feet bound while
a slave with dirty hands and fetid breath cut her hair was the worst. She had
closed her eyes, remembering the touch of Falkon’s hand moving in her hair, the
way it had looked brushing against his chest when they made love, shining
silver against dark bronze, and cried harder.

They were going to be slaves in the mine. She stood at the
door, staring out into the darkness, remembering the look on Darf’s face when
Drade came to take the baby, the long anguished wail that had risen in Chaney’s
throat as her child was wrested from her arms. Darf and Chaney were also here,
locked in adjoining cells. And Falkon…where was Falkon?

She stood at the door for what seemed like hours, her hands
and feet feeling heavy from the unfamiliar weight of the shackles she wore. She
was aware of the collar at her throat every time she swallowed. It made her
feel like she was going to choke to death. How had Falkon endured it for so
long?
Falkon, where are you?
He wouldn’t be able to save her now. She
placed her hand over her belly, a terrible pain engulfing her as she glanced
over her shoulder at the grim surroundings. She would give birth to her child
in this awful place, and then they would take it from her, as they had taken
Chaney’s child, and she would never see it again.

Sinking down on the hard narrow cot that was her bed, she
closed her eyes and prayed that she would die in childbirth.

* * * * *

It was still dark outside when she was roused from a
troubled sleep. A man thrust a bowl and a cup into her hand.

She looked at it in horror. She couldn’t eat it, knew she
would be violently ill if she tried.

“You’d best eat it,” the guard said gruffly. “You won’t get
nothing else until mid-day.”

She stared at the dull brownish meal made of ground Horth
grubs and triticale and shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, and turned away, muttering under
his breath about the sheer lunacy of having women working in the mine.

She put the bowl on the floor, sipped the lukewarm bitter
tea.

A quarter of an hour later, the door to her cell swung open
and she was ordered outside. She saw Darf and Chaney a short distance ahead,
but when she started to go to them, a guard stopped her.

“Keep your place in line,” he growled.

She stared at the entrance to the mine, and then the line
began to move. She followed the man in front of her, ducking her head as she
entered the mine’s black maw. A guard thrust a pulse axe into her hands, showed
her how to use it, and told her to get to work. The axe was bulky and heavy.
She was paired with a man who had a drill, and for the next six hours, they
worked side by side, loosing the dirt while a third slave carefully pried the
black crystals from Tierde’s tenacious earth.

By mid-day, the palms of her hands were blistered, her
shoulders ached, her back ached, her head ached, and she was thirsty, so
thirsty. And hungry.

A slave came by a short time later, passing out bowls of
gruel and cups of tea. Closing her eyes, Ashlynne tried not to think of what
was in the bowl as she forced herself to eat, but all she could see were dozens
of fat brown grubs. It was all she could do to make herself swallow the thick
lumpy gruel. She ate it quickly, washed it down with the tea, only to have it
all come up again.

Fifteen minutes later, they were ordered back to work.

The man working at her side patted her shoulder in an
awkward gesture of support.

“Welcome to hell,” he whisperede and thrust the drill into
the hard, unyielding ground.

Drade leaned back in his chair, a glass of Romarian wine in
one hand. Soon it would all be over, the planning, the scheming, the lies. He
had them all where he wanted them. Romariz had grown over-confident and lazy.
They looked out over the galaxy and thought they were in control, but he was
the one in control.

Riga Twelve, Hodore, Cherlin Four, Cenia, Tierde, and
Trellis, of course, had all agreed to put aside their differences. All he
needed now was Daccar, and when he had Daccar, he would have Swernolt and
Andoria as well. United, they would attack Romariz, defeat Ralf, and bring
peace to the galaxy. And he would be the hero, the one who had done the
impossible, the one to bring Romariz to its knees. At last, after five years of
plotting and scheming, he would have his revenge.

And Falkon would have his. Drade blew out a sigh. He had
hated Falkon, blaming him for Maiya’s death, and yet, with one simple apology,
Falkon had erased five years of bitter hatred.

He finished his wine and threw the glass into the hearth. It
was time for the last act to begin.

* * * * *

Falkon stood up as Drade unlocked the door to his cell.
“What the hell do you want?”

Drade lifted one hand. A long silver tube dangled from a
thick chain. “Do you want to be rid of that collar, or stand there and glower
at me all night?”

“If this is a joke, I don’t find it very funny.”

“Still as wary as a Hodorian merchant, I see.”

“Wary of enemies bearing gifts.”

Shaking his head, Drade crossed the floor.

Moments later, Falkon was free of the hated collar and
shackles. “Why?”

“I thought about what you said. Daccar won’t follow me, but
they’ll follow you.” Drade grinned. “No one fights like the rebels of Daccar.”
He held out his hand. “Will you help me bring the Romarians down?”

With a nod, Falkon clasped his old friend’s hand. “Let’s do
it.”

“I think not.”

Falkon glanced over Drade’s shoulder to see Hassrick
standing in the open doorway, a blaster in his hand.

Drade didn’t turn around. “I need his help, Niklaus.”

“No. He has no part in this. And neither do you, any
longer.”

“What do you mean?” Drade asked.

“I mean you have outlived your usefulness. Give me your
weapon.”

Drade withdrew his gun and dropped it on the floor. He
shifted to the right a little, his gaze locking with Falkon’s. Slowly, Drade
lowered his gaze.

Following Drade’s gaze, Falkon saw the small stunner shoved
into the waistband of Drade’s trousers. He nodded slightly, and waited.

“Now.” Drade mouthed the word.

What happened next happened very fast.

Falkon grabbed the gun as Drade fell to the floor. Dropping
to one knee, Falkon squeezed the trigger. Hassrick stared at Falkon as ribbons
of bright light engulfed him, paralyzing him instantly. He pitched forward, the
gun skittering from a hand gone numb.

Drade stood up, grinning. “Just like that night on Andoria.”
He picked up Hassrick’s weapon and tossed it to Falkon, then holstered his own.

Falkon nodded as he shoved the gun into his waistband, then
tossed the stunner back to Drade.

“Aren’t you going to finish him off?”

Falkon looked down at Hassrick. It was tempting, but it was
too much like cold-blooded murder, and that had never been his style. “No,” he
replied, certain he would regret it later. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * * * *

They took Hassrick’s atmospheric transport. It was a small
comfortable craft, prized for its ability to maneuver quickly and efficiently.

“You should have killed him, you know,” Drade remarked, “or
let me do it.”

“Yeah. What did he do with Chaney’s baby?”

“He gave it to one of the servants to dispose of.”

“What did they do with it?”

Drade snorted softly. “She kept it.”

“The baby’s all right then?”

“Far as I know.”

When they arrived at the port of departure, Drade pulled out
his Imperial pass, explaining that he was returning an escaped slave to the
mines of Tierde.

Falkon, once again wearing the heavy collar and shackles,
stood with his head down.
Hurry, hurry
. He wanted to shout the words.
Every minute they delayed meant another minute Ashlynne spent in the mine…
I’m
coming, sweetheart, I’m coming.

At last, they had the proper clearance. A few minutes later
they boarded a League cruiser bearing the Romarian crest.

Once inside, Drade removed the collar and cuffs and headed
for the cockpit. “You ever fly one of these?”

Falkon dropped into the co-pilots seat. “No.” His gaze moved
over the instrument panel. “Doesn’t look too different from our own.”

“It’s not. Ready?”

Falkon settled back in his seat. “Let’s do it.”

* * * * *

Daccar glowed like a rare earth sapphire in the vast cosmos.
Falkon felt a sense of exhilaration as they drew closer. This had once been
home, he thought, and in the back of his mind, he heard Ashlynne’s voice.
I’ll
be your home, she had said, and you’ll be mine.
Ashlynne. He closed his
eyes and pictured her locked in a dreary cell, her life controlled by the
collar at her throat, her nails broken, her skin covered with black crystal
dust, her hands callused.
I’m coming. Hold on, sweetheart, just hold on.

* * * * *

How? The word pounded in Ashlynne’s mind. How had Falkon
stood this day after day, week after week? Feeling like she was a hundred years
old, Ashlynne lowered herself to the narrow cot that served as her bed and
closed her eyes. She couldn’t endure another day, another hour. Every muscle in
her body ached. And she was dirty, so horribly dirty. Even if she was permitted
to soak in a tub for an hour, she doubted she would ever be able to scrub away
the fine black dust that covered her from head to foot.

She lifted a hand to her hair, felt her tears start as she
touched the ragged ends. It seemed foolish to cry for something as ordinary as
her hair when there were so many other worse things to cry over, but she
couldn’t help it.

“Oh, Falkon,” she whispered, “I’m glad you can’t see me
now.”

Oh, Falkon
, her heart cried,
I wish you were here.

* * * * *

Falkon stood at attention before General Addiz and the six
members of the Counsel, his voice low and flat as he made his report. Drade
stood beside him, as he had so many times in the past. In their youth, they had
boasted that the two of them could take on the galaxy. Now, at last, they had
their chance.

The members of the Counsel regarded him for several moments
when he finished speaking, their faces impassive. It was an old trick, one had
often employed himself. He remained at attention, he gaze focused on the mural
behind the counsel table. It depicted a scene from a mythic battle between
Dacca and the fierce two-headed dragon, Aka-r.

“We will consider your remarks,” General Addiz said at
length. His hard gray gaze settled on Drade. “Your life has been spared in
return for the life of Commander Falkon. Had you not returned with him, your
life would now be forfeit. The two of you will wait here until we have reached
a decision.”

Rising, the general left the chamber. The other members of
the counsel rose majestically and followed the general from the room, quietly
closing the door behind them.

“Well,” Drade remarked dryly. “That was fun. How long do you
think it will take them to make up their mind?”

“Not long,” Falkon replied dryly, and jerked his head toward
the door.

General Addiz entered the room alone. He took his place at
the head of the counsel table. He did not sit down, but stood there, his hands
braced on the table top.

Falkon took a deep breath. Any decision reached this quickly
had been decided before the counsel members left the room.

“Commander Falkon, we have decided to join our forces with
the other allies in their fight against Romariz.”

“Thank you, General.”

“Our fleet will rendezvous with the others on Swernolt. I
trust you will join us.”

Falkon shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t, General. I have
other business to take care of.”

“I will take your reasons into account before I order you to
report to your ship.”

“I have to go to Tierde,” Falkon said. “My woman, Lady
Ashlynne of Myrafloures, was sent to the mine as a slave. I can’t leave her
there.”

“Myrafloures? Isn’t she the daughter of Lord Marcus?”

“Yes.”

The General frowned. “Is she not the heir to the mine?”

“It’s a long story, General.”

“I’d like to hear, when you have the time.” The General
drummed his fingers on the desk top, his expression thoughtful.

“Very well. Commander Falkon, the mine on Tierde is vital to
the allies. You will go to Tierde and take control of the mine. I will prepare
the necessary documents.”

“Thank you, General.”

Addiz nodded. “I will expect a report from you when you
arrive.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will have a ship at your disposal.” The General focused
his attention on Drade. “What are your plans?”

“I want to fight.”

“Very well. You will be reinstated, albeit with a reduction
in rank until you have again proven yourself worthy to be an officer.”

Drade nodded. “I understand.”

“You will leave for Swernolt tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The General’s gaze rested briefly on each man. “Good day,
gentlemen.”

“Well,” Drade said when they were again alone in the room,
“looks like I’m back where I started.”

“You’ll earn your rank back by the time the fighting’s
over,” Falkon predicted. He held out his hand. “Good luck to you.”

Drade took Falkon’s hand in his. “And to you.”