Ghost Legion (65 page)

For those who are not, it can kill.

"Surely you will try a few passes with me, cousin," Flaim
urged. His face reflected the warm and tingling sensation that comes
after the pain, when the micromachines are surging into the
bloodstream, connecting the weapon with the brain, making it another
limb, respondent to the brain's command.

"No," replied Dion.

"Oh, come, come," Flaim pleaded, still charming. "We
need not even bother with the rules, if you don't want. A couple of
passes ... to get the blood flowing."

He activated the sword as he spoke the words. The hot blade flared,
hummed, loud and discordant in the still air. Swift as thought, Flaim
slashed the fiery blade past Dion.

Dion fell back, stumbling, averting his face or the sword would have
blinded him.

As it was, the blade scorched his skin. Everyone in the silent
courtyard heard the sizzle, smelled the burning flesh.

Kamil gasped and started to jump to her feet. Astarte caught hold of
the girl's wrist, pulled her down.

Tusk shifted his weight, uncrossed his arms, jammed his hands into
his pockets. He glanced over at Sagan, who was very careful to take
no notice.

Flaim shook his head in concern. "I am deeply sorry, cousin.
Forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you. Just provoke you a bit. Come,
this is poor sport! Pick up your sword."

Dion brought the back of his hand to his injured cheek, glanced at
the blood on his fingers.

"I will not fight you, cousin. If you are going to kill me, then
you must do it in cold blood." Dion looked at Sagan as he spoke,
perhaps thinking back to a time when the Warlord had said almost
those very same words to him.

Sagan permitted the memory to enter his mind; it might prove useful.
But any emotions attached to it were stripped away, leaving it
skeletal, bare.

"Kill you? Yes, cousin, I could kill you. I could slay you where
you stand." Flaim spoke impatiently. He lowered the bloodsword;
then, abruptly, he switched the sword off. "But I don't want to.
Your death would serve no purpose. It would be a waste."

Reaching out with the warm, strong, persuasive clasp of an elder,
wiser, more knowledgeable brother, he embraced Dion, drew him near.

"Abdicate the throne, cousin. Give me the crown. We both know I
am the worthier of the two. Give me the trouble, the crushing
responsibility. Give me the sleepless nights, the lonely days. I am
the stronger. I will bear the burden. You have only to live the rest
of your life in peace"—he glanced obliquely at Kamil—"with
one who loves you."

Dion's brows drew low over the blue eyes; his lips parted, as though
he would answer. Flaim gripped him tighter, moved nearer, forestalled
him.

"You have much to live for. More than you might think. Did you
know, cousin, that your wife is pregnant? Yes, she bears vour child.
No trick, cousin. Look at her. You will see the truth."

Dion was astounded. Involuntarily, he turned his head to look at his
wife.

Astarte knew, though she could not possibly have heard, what Flaim
had just said to her husband. And at that moment, the queens
composure failed her. The blood mounted to her face, staining it
crimson, then fled, making her deathly pale by contrast. She opened
her mouth, but no words came out.

Beside her, Kamil sat rigid, flushed, her head bowed, unable to look
at Dion, unable to see anything else.

Dion sighed, a sigh that seemed to come from the echoing empty well
of the past three years.

"I will make you a deal, cousin," said Flaim softly. He
spoke in Dion's ear, but the flow of the Blood Royal through both
their veins and through the bloodsword brought his words to Derek
Sagan. "Give me the throne and I will make your child heir. I
swear it. I will swear to it in public, sign papers, whatever you
would have me do. I can't father children of my own, you see."

Dion shook his head.

"Listen, cousin." Flaim's voice altered subtly, became
softly lethal. "I would seriously consider this offer if I were
you. Because either way I will have what I want. If I must kill you
and marry the grieving widow, I will. She won't marry me, you say?
Oh, yes. She'll have no choice. Not if she wants her child to be
king! Come, cousin! Give me the crown! Don't make me kill you!"

Dion lifted the blue eyes, looked into the blue eyes that must have
been like looking into his own reflection. "No."

Flaim glared at him, the prince's blue eyes flaring with thwarted
desire. He dropped his hand from Dion's arm and, turning, paced once
about the courtyard, his expression dark and frowning.

"Then I have no choice," he said, but he spoke reluctantly
and he did not look at Dion as he said the words.

Suddenly, struck by an idea, he turned on his heel, faced the king.

"I tell you what, cousin. We will settle this as princes of the
blood settled such disputes a thousand years ago. We will fight for
the right to wear the crown. The victor takes the throne. What do you
say to this? Who knows?" Flaim laughed lightly.

"
You might kill me
. And then all your problems would be
solved."

Dion was tempted. Sagan could see the temptation in his face, feel it
in the young man's heart. The king hesitated, considering.

No one in the courtyard spoke. The only sound was the distant echo of
music, now troubled and played in a minor key, and the faint rustle
of the stiff folds of Sagan's cassock.

Dion glanced again in the Warlord's direction. Sagan said nothing,
either aloud or silently through the blood. But Dion must have heard
anyway. Or perhaps he had finally learned to listen to his heart, as
Sagan had advised him.

"I will not hazard what is not mine to wager. I am the rightful
king. I believe I was destined to be king." He glanced again at
Sagan; this time his gaze was troubled. "Though some might
dispute it. I will not fight."

Flaim was frustrated, more than angry. Scratching his head, he took
another turn about the courtyard, then came to stand in front of
Sagan.

"My lord, how is this to be resolved, short of murder? Have you
any suggestion?"

"I do, Your Highness," said Sagan smoothly. His shadowed
eyes did not leave Dion, even to look at the prince, to whom he
spoke. "In the ancient days, to which you referred, a king might
name a champion to fight in his stead."

"A champion," said Flaim, appearing to consider, but his
voice took on a cool note. "I trust your lordship is not
offering himself ..."

"No, Highness," said Sagan, bowing. "My vows prohibit
me from bearing arms. But there is one who would be honored, I
believe, to fight for the king's cause." His gaze shifted from
Dion and went across the courtyard to Kamil.

Flaim had not expected this. He was suspicious, dubious. Then,
suddenly, he grinned broadly.

"Well done, my lord," he said softly beneath his breath,
with a chuckle.

Turning on his heel, he walked over to the box, which lay at the
king's feet. Flaim grasped hold of Dion's bloodsword, lifted it out
of the box—taking care not to touch the five sharp needles.

"Tusca, bring forth the king's champion," he ordered.

Tusk jerked bolt upright, gawked. "What?"

"Bring forth the king's champion!" Flaim instructed him,
somewhat impatiently.

"You've all gone nuts," Tusk said in disgust, and leaned
back against the wall.

"Do it!" Sagan shot out of the corner of his mouth.

"Do what?" Tusk scowled at him. "Rush out and polish
up my plate mail? Come back with my two-handed broadsword? This is
the stupidest—"

Sagan left the wall against which he'd been standing. Ignoring Tusk,
the Warlord stalked over to Kamil, who was staring in confusion, not
understanding. Well, she soon would. It would be interesting to see
how she reacted. He hoped, for Maigrey's sake, she would accord
herself bravely.

Sagan grabbed hold of Kamil's right wrist.

Astarte clasped hold of the girl's other arm protectively, glared at
the Warlord with a bold defiance that would have done her warrior
mother credit.

"Let her go!" she demanded.

"Do not interfere, Your Majesty," Sagan told her coldly.

He stared at the queen, exerting the influence of the Blood Royal
over her. Astarte paled; her hand slid limply away.

Sagan yanked Kamil to her feet. The girl stumbled, and held back; he
was forced to drag her over to Flaim. Grasping Kamil firmly around
her shoulders with his left arm, Sagan took hold of her right arm,
thrust forward her right hand, palm up.

"Give her the weapon, Your Highness."

Flaim held the needles of the bloodsword poised above Kamil's flesh
and looked questioningly at Dion.

Behind him, Sagan heard Tusk surging forward. "Are you mad? Do
you know what that'll do to her? It'll kill her! You bastard! I
didn't agree to—"

Sagan shifted his hold on Kamil, struck Tusk a backhanded blow
against the side of his head.

Tusk hit the ground, as if he'd been felled by lightning. Shaking his
head, he made a feeble effort to get up. Blood dripped from his
mouth. He groaned, collapsed, lay still. Sagan paid no further
attention to him.

Flaim was holding Kamil's hand firmly, forcing the palm open b>
pressing down on the thumb joint, bending the wrist. The girl gasped
from the pain, but did not cry out. She didn't struggle, knowing it
would be ineffectual against the strength of the Warlord. She stared
in terrible fascination at the needles, glittering in the light of
the double suns, at the strange double shadows they cast over her
flesh.

Does she know what terrible death she faces? Sagan wondered
curiously.

Yes, she knows. She lifted her eyes and looked at Dion.

He had gone white, so pale it seemed he might have died where he
stood. No color at all was left in him, except the flaming hair. Wet
with sweat, his hair trailed down over his face like rivulets of
blood. He stared at the needles and at Kamil's hand, and he breathed
suddenly, very hard and heavily.

"I saw Marcus die," he whispered.

"Not by the bloodsword," Sagan returned. "You saw him
die swiftly, mercifully, by your own hand. And he was in the early
stages of the disease, before the cancer had spread like poison
through the body. Three days he would have lingered; no drugs to ease
his terribly agony. Of all the deaths a man can die, this death is
said to be the worst. A man ... or a woman."

Flaim forced Kamil's hand nearer the sharp needles. She flinched, and
Sagan felt her shudder in his grasp, but she still did not cry out.
She averted her face from the sight of the deadly needles, or perhaps
to keep from influencing Dion, keep him from seeing the fear she
couldn't help but feel.

Sagan was pleased with the girl's courage ... for Maigrey's sake.

"What will it be, cousin?" Flaim demanded. "Will
you
fight for your crown? Or will she?"

Dion stared at Sagan, a searching look. The Warlord felt the mental
probe, was careful to keep all inner doors sealed, shuttered, barred.
He assumed he had done so, was somewhat surprised and considerably
displeased to see a faint flicker of light in the despairing blue
eyes. It was gone swiftly. The eyes dimmed, looked away. Then, as if
he'd found the answer to his unspoken question, the king reached out
and snatched the bloodsword from Flaim's grasp.

Dion thrust the needles into his own hand. The spasm of pain that
crossed his face was only partly caused by the needles entering his
flesh. The more bitter pain came—as was obvious from the last,
dark glance he cast at Sagan—from betrayal.

The Warlord released his hold on Kamil abruptly, with little care.
Weak and trembling, now that the danger was past, the girl staggered
and nearly fell. It was Flaim who gallantly caught hold of her, led
her back to her bench with a soothingwords of apology. She only shook
her head, availing herself of his support because it was either that
or fall down on her hands and knees.

Astarte received her gently, drew her down on the bench, said
something to her that no one else could hear. Kamil shook her head
and pulled away. Slumped against the wall, huddled on the bench, she
stared bleakly at the ground.

Because of me
. Her lips formed the words.
Because of me
.

Girlish innocence had apparently come to a swift and painful end.

Tusk, groaning, was regaining consciousness. The Warlord bent down,
grasped the mercenary by the combat vest he wore, and dragged him out
of the sun into the meager shade of a wall.

"You bastard . . ." Tusk mumbled through split and swollen
lips.

"I had no choice. You nearly got us all killed," Sagan said
softly, coldly, talking under cover of the sound made by Tusk's body
scraping across the courtyard. "One more stupid stunt like that
and I will have no choice but to destroy you."

Tusk started to say something.

"Shut up," Sagan told him.

Yanking the mercenary to a seated position, the Warlord shoved him
back against the wall. Tusk caught himself, barely saved himself from
falling. Propping himself up, he rubbed his jaw, spit out a tooth,
and groaned again.

Flaim walked jauntily back to the circle. He appeared inordinately
pleased, was sweeping the bloodsword this way and that, loosening up
his arm.

"Perhaps, my lord, you would go over the rules of combat. For my
sake," he added, with an apologetic smile for Dion. "Since
I have never been privileged enough to witness a duel, as has my
cousin."

Again the memories. The duel: Sagan and Maigrey. And he knew he
wasn't the only one who was remembering, for he heard the music,
faintly sweet and sorrowful.

"Combat must take place within the circle," intoned the
Warlord, speaking coolly, impassively, sinking memory deep. "A
combatant may step outside the circle to rest. The other may not
pursue him. Two rest periods are permitted. Then it is a fight to the
finish If a combatant steps outside the circle after the two rest
periods, he is deemed to have surrendered and therefore lost the
match."