King's Test (63 page)

"Thank you,
my dear," Abdiel said, and thrust the needles into her
outstretched palm, just to make certain she was his and that all went
as he had planned.

"Who's
there?" a voice called sharply. "Answer me this instant or
I'll vaporize—"

"It's me,
Lady Maigrey, XJ," the woman responded in lifeless tones.

"Oh, your
ladyship!" It sounded as if the computer's circuits were
practically melting with relief. "You're back! Does this mean
that we can get rid of this infernal bomb?"

Abdiel glanced
at Maigrey sharply, saw her waver. The mind-seizer squeezed the
needles more deeply into her flesh. She gasped, cried out softly,
then said, shuddering, "Yes, XJ, we're getting rid of it."

The mind-seizer
led the woman to the cockpit of the plane. The bomb, its gold and
crystal sparkling in the light, sat in plain view on the console.

Abdiel removed
the needles to allow the woman freedom to use her hands. "And
now, my dear, you will release the bomb from the computer's command.
First, visual identification of yourself."

"You know
me, XJ," Maigrey said.

"I think
so." The computer didn't sound convinced.

"You know
me, XJ!" Her tone sharpened.

"Yes,
ma'am," the computer answered, subdued.

"And now
the starjewel," Abdiel breathed, scratching at a patch of
decaying skin on his arm in his eagerness. "The starjewel, Lady
Maigrey! Show it to the computer!"

Her hand moved
to her breast. This time there was no hesitation, no trembling.
Reaching beneath the silver armor, she drew forth the jewel, dark and
horrible to look at, crusted with the Adonian's dried blood.

"XJ,"
she said softly, extending the hand with the jewel in it toward the
bomb, "you will follow my instructions. ..."

The Warlord
looked at Marcus sharply, noticed his skin had an ashen tinge and was
covered with sweat. Marcus's fingers clenched over the wounds on his
palm. He gently, respectfully removed his hand from his lord's.

"Where's
Lady Maigrey?" Sagan demanded.

The centurion
straightened, stood on his own, without aid. "A man called
Abdiel attacked us—"

"Abdiel!"
Dion sprang forward, came up hard against the Warlords outthrust arm.

The centurion's
pallid face was grim, stern. "I'm sorry, my lord. I failed in my
trust—"

Sagan’s
glance went again to the centurion's right hand.

Marcus's face
flushed, life returning for a moment to the wan complexion. "It
was the only weapon available to me, my lord."

Dion stared. "I
don't understand—"

"He used
the bloodsword," Sagan said, his voice grating.

"But that
means ..." Dion bit his lip, cast a desperate, questioning
glance at the Warlord. "Isn't there anything—"

Sagan shook his
head. A spasm of pain convulsed the centurion's body, twisted his
face, but, with an effort, he remained standing attentive, alert.

"It was a
trap, my lord. The Adonian arranged to meet my lady, ostensibly to
negotiate for the necklace—"

"Damn it!"
Dion exploded. "We don't need to waste time listening to this!
We have to go rescue her! If you won't, I—"

"Your Sagan
whirled to confront the young man. "Just remember, my liege,
that if it hadn't been for you, I might have been able to prevent
this."

The blow struck
home. Dion went white to the lips, was shattered into silence.

The Warlord
turned back to Marcus. "Continue your report, centurion."

"Yes, my
lord. According to what Abdiel told my lady, Snaga Ohme intended to
kill her, using robots with live fire inside the target range.
Instead, it was the Adonian who died. He was strangled with the chain
of the starjewel. My lady cut him down, took the jewel from the
corpse—" Marcus coughed, began to choke, gasped for
breath.

The Warlord
recognized the symptoms: the lungs beginning to fill with fluid, the
burning fever, the onset of pneumonia.

"Fetch
water!" Sagan ordered Dion.

"No . . .
I'm all right ..." The centurion spoke normally; his breath was
coming easier.

"How are
you feeling?" the Warlord asked.

"Not too
bad yet, my lord," Marcus answered quietly when he could speak.

"It will
get worse, I'm afraid. Especially near the end."

"Yes, my
lord. I know."

Dion made a
strangled sound, turned, and bolted down the hallway. The Warlord
watched him, prepared to call his guard to chase the boy down, but
Dion came up against a wall at the far end of the hall. He slumped
against it, his head bent, shoulders heaving.

Marcus followed
the young man with concerned eyes, glanced back at his lord. He said
nothing, however, stared down at his feet, at the blood dripping from
his hand onto the floor.

"You think
I'm hard on the boy?" Sagan asked abruptly.

"This can't
be easy for him, my lord."

"He has to
learn to accept the consequences of his actions," the Warlord
returned, "whether he's going to be king or trash sorter on a
garbage scow. And while he may be losing a friend, I am losing a
trusted, valued soldier."

Marcus raised
his head. A semblance of life returned to his fevered face. "Thank
you for your praise, my lord. I don't deserve it. I couldn't save
her—"

"You did
all you could. More than most men," Sagan said, brooding gaze
fixed on the centurion's bleeding hand. "Continue your report.
It's just as well the boy isn't around to hear it."

"Yes, my
lord. The robots opened fire. Caius was guarding the door. He died
instantly. The door shut and sealed. Then I was hit and knocked to
the floor. I played dead, and I heard a voice talking to the
Starlady. The voice told her you had been killed, my lord. You and
the boy both."

"She would
know that wasn't true!" Sagan protested.

"Maybe she
did, my lord. Maybe not. She seemed to die herself when that old man
came up to her. Except when he . . . thrust those needles into her
hand. Then she fought. I couldn't understand what was wrong with her,
my lord, until the old man looked at me." Marcus paled, neck
muscles tensed. "He seemed to come inside me, my lord, and he
showed me—he showed me my own death. . . ."The centurion
swallowed; there came a harsh, clicking sound from his throat. Sweat
ran down his face.

"Where did
he take my lady, Marcus?"

Marcus struggled
to speak. His words came in a choking cough. "To her spaceplane,
my lord."

"Damn!"
The Warlord swore softly beneath his breath.

"But that’s
on the military base, my lord. The Honor Guard surely they'll stop
him—"

"Abdiel
could get past the Portress of Hell's Gate if he chose. How much time
has passed since they left?"

"I'm not
certain, my lord. I . . . blacked out for a few moments When I came
to myself, I had difficulty finding you—"

"It's been
long enough, then. I—"

Sagan stopped
speaking, his words interrupted by a voice, a voice only he could
hear.

My lord, I
can no longer fight Abdiel. But I have found a way to defeat him
ultimately and forever. True to my oath, I warn you of what I am
about to do. You will have time to take Dion and escape. And, in case
you doubt me or my intent, I leave you with this quote:
The
center cannot hold.
God be with you and my king!

Sagan stood
unmoving, attention strained, trying to catch each word, which came
to him more faintly than the one before it. Involuntarily, he reached
out his hand, as if to hold on to her. His fingers closed on air, on
nothing, and clenched into a fist.

"My lord!"
Marcus was alarmed.

The Warlord
returned to his surroundings. His eyes flickered with sardonic, grim
amusement. "How long would you judge you have to live, Marcus?"

The centurion
was shocked, startled by the question. He looked down at his palm.
The five wounds were swollen, inflamed, and continued to ooze blood.
"I'm not certain, my lord. A few days, perhaps. ..."

"You are
wrong, centurion." The Warlord smiled, thin-lipped, dark. "From
now on, those of us on this planet measure our lives in seconds. My
lady knows the code. She has the starjewel. She has armed and
activated the bomb."

"May God
have mercy!" Marcus intoned.

"May He,
indeed!" Sagan muttered. He needed to act, act immediately. He
could feel the seconds sliding through his fingers like sand, hear
the ticking of the clock in every heartbeat. He could do as she told
him, take Dion, flee the planet as she advised. That would be the
smart course, the wise one.

But to give up
everything! Just when it was in his grasp! To lose the bomb! Not only
that. To lose Snaga Ohme's arsenal of weapons, the Adonian's computer
records. Though Ohme himself was dead, his genius in weapons design
and engineering would live on. By now, Haupt would have his troops in
position, ready to move in and take over once Sagan gave the command.

This was to have
been his power base! This was to have given him the means to rule the
galaxy . . . with Dion, of course.

"My lady
has beaten Abdiel, and she has beaten me. All without breaking her
oath."

The Warlord
swore bitterly, softly beneath his breath—a reflexive response;
he wasn't even aware he was doing it. He made his decision, realized
afterward that there had never been a decision to make.

"Not a word
of this to the boy!" he ordered Marcus. "Come with me."

Proceeding down
the hallway, the Warlord spoke on the commlink located inside his
helm. Ohme's people would be monitoring the transmission, but it was
too late for that now. "Haupt! Come in!"

"My lord."
The brigadier's response was immediate. Haupt must have been eagerly
awaiting word from his commander.

"Alert the
base. Have one of the spaceplanes standing by, ready for immediate
takeoff. The boy I told you about is in danger on this planet. I want
him away from Laskar, away from this system. I'm going to shut the
force field down. Send two land-jets to the house to pick us up.
Stand by."

Sagan ended the
transmission, continued walking. Marcus had made a valiant attempt to
accompany him, but Sagan saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the
dying centurion was having a difficult time keeping up. Something
would have to be done about that.

The Warlord
reached the end of the hallway, flicked a glance at Dion, turned his
gaze to the connecting hall, to his men standing near the Adonian's
control center.

Sagan's eyes
suddenly shifted back to Dion. The boy was rapt, staring out into
nothing with fixed attention, the full, pouting lips slightly parted,
lines of pain smoothed from the face. It occurred to the Warlord that
Maigrey might have informed Dion of her intent, but for what
purpose—other than frightening the hell out of the boy—Sagan
couldn't imagine.

"Dion!"
he snapped, and the young man returned to his surroundings with a
jolt.

"My lord."

Sagan
scrutinized him carefully. Dion's blue eyes were wary, guarded.

"The
Adonian is dead. I'm taking over. Whoever controls this arsenal has a
good chance of controlling at least a piece of the galaxy But there's
probably going to be fighting. Ohme's people may put up resistance.
For your own safety, my liege, I'm taking you off-planet."

The blue eyes
were unblinking, their gaze steady and unwavering. "What about
the Lady Maigrey, my lord?"

"The Lady
Maigrey is beyond our help for the moment. But I wouldn't concern
myself with her, my liege," the Warlord added dryly. "My
lady can take care of herself."

"We will do
what you consider best for the safety of our person, my lord,"
Dion replied coolly.

Damn! Sagan
thought to himself. He's even beginning to sound like his uncle!
Something inside warned the Warlord that the young man was taking
this much too calmly, but Sagan didn't have time to pay any heed to
it. He turned and started down the corridor, heading for the control
center. A crash behind him brought him to a halt. The Warlord glanced
around.

Marcus, his
breath coming in painful gasps, had fallen to his knees.

The Warlord
checked his stride, turned back.

Seeing his lord
approach him, the centurion attempted to stand, pushing himself up
the wall with his hands, the right hand leaving a smeared trail of
blood.

"Let me
help you," Sagan said, reaching down his strong arm. "You'll
travel with Dion. We'll take you to
Defiant,
to Dr. Giesk—"

"What can
he do for me, my lord?" Marcus heaved himself to his feet,
leaned back weakly against the wall. He burned with fever, struggled
against pain, but his armor rattled with his body's agony.

"There are
drugs that will ease your suffering—" Sagan began.

"Not this!"
Marcus gasped the words. "I know! Abdiel—he showed me my
death! My lord!" Reaching out, he grasped hold of Sagan's arm.
"My lord, please ..." His voice broke off in a rending
cough.

But the Warlord
had seen the dying man's request in the pain-filled eyes.

"I can't,
centurion!" Sagan answered harshly, drawing back. "God
forbids it—"

"Then let
the sin be upon me!"

A hand came from
nowhere, brushed against him, shoved him aside. Dion stood in front
of Sagan, the Warlord's own bloodsword in his grasp.

Marcus, seeing
the sword's light begin to glow brightly, understood. "Thank
you, my liege." His lips formed the words; his voice was
inaudible.

"Are you
ready?" Dion asked.

The centurion's
pain-shadowed eyes sought his lord's. "My lord?"

Sagan nodded
once, heavily. "God go with—"

Dion struck
while Marcus's attention was diverted, driving the sword's flaming
blade through the armor, deep into the man's chest. Marcus gave a
choking gasp. His body began to sag down to the floor. Dion dropped
the sword, caught the dying man in his arms.