The Lost King (46 page)

"Yeah, I can
walk." Dion remembered, and looked around fearfully. "Where's
the Warlord?"

"Relax. He's not
hiding in my footlocker. He was here and ordered Giesk to give you a
shot. That's what brought you around." Marcus grew more serious.
"I'm to take you to the arena."

Dion shivered. The
small room was cold and he had nothing covering his chest and arms.
He was barefoot, too, standing on the cold metal deck.

"The arena. That's
where . . . this fight ..."

"Yes." Marcus
rummaged in his locker. "Here, put these on. Your feet are some
bigger than mine, but I wear these in the gym and they're stretched
out. I've got a shirt, too."

"Thanks."
Dion struggled into the shoes and pulled the shirt gingerly over his
aching head. He saw Marcus putting on his armor. "Aren't you
coming with me? Are you on duty?"

"Yes. You
are
my duty. And I'm coming. Everyone on the ship who isn't manning some
critical station—or dead—will be there. And I bet even
the dead are lined up to watch this contest."

Dion's face grew dark
and shadowed. He turned away and would have shrugged off Marcus's
comforting hand, but the man gripped the boy's shoulder tightly.
"Dion, there's an old soldier's saying. 'We live for the day,
and we die for it.' They're both soldiers." Marcus put on his
helmet, buckled it beneath his chin. "We should be going. It's
nearly time."

The two left the
centurion's quarters and walked into the corridors, joining a flow of
men that were all moving the same direction.

"See," said
Dion, waving his hand. "Everyone hurrying to view the show! It's
like the gladiators, only worse, because we're supposed to have
another three thousand years of civilization behind us."

"It was the lady's
decision. It was her choice, as it must be, according to the law."

"What?"

Dion stopped in the
corridor, and was immediately in imminent danger of being run down.
Men cursed him and shoved him out of their way. Marcus, grabbing hold
of the sleeve of the boy's shirt, pulled him to one side, out of
traffic.

"I don't believe
it!" Dion retorted.

"Would you have
her die like a sheep led to the slaughter? That would have been the
easy way for her, Dion, and you can bet that she knows it. This gives
her the chance to fight for her life, but if she fails—"
Marcus shook his head.

"Fails? She can't
win!" Dion cried. "If she—"

"Lower your
voice."

"If she wins, if
she kills ..." Dion paused, unwilling to say the bad luck words,
and then wondered why the thought of Sagan's death was difficult for
him to accept. He made himself continue, speaking coldly. "If
she kills the Warlord, then you centurions will kill her. Won't you?"

Marcus did not answer
aloud, but he turned his face toward the boy. The eyes were barely
visible beneath the shadow of the helm, the face was stern and
expressionless. But Dion understood. The man's silence said more than
Words.

My God! She knew this;
she's been planning this all along. Dion felt her nails, digging into
his flesh.
What you are experiencing is the power of the Blood
Royal
. What a dumb, stupid . . . kid . . . I've been.

The two continued on,
walking in silence for several paces. Then Dion asked in a subdued
tone, "You said her right by law. What
law
are you
talking about?"

"It's sort of the
final appeal. You see, on board a ship like this, with thousands of
men living side by side, justice has to be swift and thorough. A man
is tried by his superior officers, who determine his sentence. But
sometimes, when a crime is committed, it's one man's word against
another's. When this happens, the Warlord deemed that the accused has
the right to trial by combat. God is considered to be the final
judge, for it's known that He wouldn't allow an innocent man to pay
for a crime he didn't commit."

But that's a
superstition that dates back to the Dark Ages
! Dion started to
say. The centurions—like their commander— were pious men.
The boy wanted Marcus's respect, so he swallowed his blasphemous
words. "It just doesn't seem fair," he said instead. "Lord
Sagan's a strong and powerful man and Lady Maigrey's . . . well ... a
woman."

"Strength doesn't
count. Agility, stamina are what's important. The bloodsword makes
all else equal."

They were halted by a
gigantic crowd swarming into the arena. Dion stopped, dismayed.
Marcus grabbed hold of the boy and bullied his way forward.

"My lord's
command, let us pass!" he called, and men, turning, seeing the
bright helmet and flashing armor of the Honor Guard, hastily did what
they could to make room.

The arena was a large,
circular, domed hall with tiers of seats extending around a huge
playing field. In the starship, participation in organized sports was
not only encouraged, it was mandatory. Not only did sports provide an
outlet for pent-up energies, they kept minds quick and alert and the
body in shape. And, when not needed for some game, the officers used
the arena to keep the troops drilled, for practice formations, and to
rehearse the military band. Some type of activity was going on in the
arena almost any time of day, But there had never been, in the memory
of anyone on board
Phoenix
, a crowd gathered in the arena
equal to the size of this one. No one had ever personally dared
challenge the Warlord.

As Marcus said, even
the dead must have come to watch.

O, that a man might
know

The end of this day's
business ere it come!

But it sufficeth that
the day will end,

And then the end is
known.

William Shakespeare,
Julius Caesar

Maigrey stood by
herself at the far end of the arena. Opposite her, about ten meters
distant, was the Warlord. A circle had been drawn with chalk in the
artificial dirt between them. Maigrey was dressed in a body suit
similar to the one the Warlord was wearing, except that hers was
silver and his was gold. Sagan was noted to scrutinize this cbstume
of hers, but at length shook his head slightly. Those standing near
the Warlord saw his face was shadowed, sterner and grimmer than
usual.

The Lady Maigrey was
very pale, but composed and calm.

Marcus shoved and
pushed his way through the crowd, dragging Dion after him. Most of
the men, when they saw the boy and recognized him, did what they
could to make way for him. The arena was packed. It was standing room
only. Dion hadn't imagined there were this many men on board
Phoenix
,
and he wondered who was left to run the ship. The noise level, at
least, was tolerable. Voices tended to be hushed in the presence of
the Warlord; there was no cheering or yelling but awed, almost
reverent silence among those gathered to see their lord's moment of
triumph ... or his crushing defeat.

By the time Dion and
Marcus had reached the front of the crowd, the young man had surged
ahead of the centurion. Dion burst through the open doors and was out
onto the floor of the arena before Marcus could catch up with him.

"Let me go!"
Dion attempted to shake off the man's hand.

The pep shot seemed to
give him unusual strength, but it was, he discovered, an illusionary
feeling. Marcus had a grip like iron. "I'm going to stop this!"

"How?" the
centurion asked in a low, cool voice.

Frustrated, Dion paused
to consider. Or try to consider. His head throbbed, the crowd
confused him; the arena was hot and the air stale. He was dimly aware
of hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed upon him, expecting, perhaps, some
entertainment before the main event. This attention didn't fill him
with the same sense of elation he'd experienced in the bar. He felt
tike a fool and knew, from the expression on Marcus's face, that he
looked the part.

"I don't know,"
he said, sick and miserable. He could see Sagan and Maigrey standing
not five meters from him. Both must have noticed him, but if they
did, neither gave any sign. They seemed completely oblivious to
everything going on around them. The Warlord placed the hilt of his
sword carefully in his gloved hand. Dion remembered, vividly, Sagan
performing the same action in Platus's small house. The boy saw the
blade blaze to life, and the blood flow down bright armor. . . .

Marcus was leading him
to a bench that stood on the edge of the field.

"At least let me
talk to them," Dion mumbled, sinking down, his shoulders
slumped, head in his hands.

"Neither would
thank you for breaking their concentration. Using the bloodsword
takes tremendous mental control." Marcus, standing beside him,
suddenly smote Dion on the shoulder. "Brace up, boy. Do you have
less courage than your lord and your lady, who are fighting for their
lives?"

The word "boy"
stung Dion's pride; the blow stung his skin. Sullenly, he sat up
straight and shook the red-golden hair out of his face. Marcus stood
at attention beside him—hands clasped behind his back, his feet
planted firmly apart, his head facing forward. When he spoke, it was
out of the corner of his mouth and in a voice so low, Dion had to
strain to hear him.

"If your lady
wins, she will need your help. You are of the Blood Royal, aren't
you?"

"Yes." Slowly
Dion rose to his feet, to stand next to Marcus.

"You can use the
sword, then." The centurion flicked him a glance from the corner
of his eye, half-shielded by his helm. " But you had better be
certain you have a king's blood flowing in your veins. To handle the
bloodsword otherwise is death."

"I'm certain,"
Dion said, but not without a flutter in the pit of his stomach. Of
course he was. He was the son of the crown prince. Reaching up, he
clasped hold of the ring he wore around his neck. "I'm certain,"
he repeated more firmly.

"Good. Then, if my
lord falls, you must be prepared to take his sword. I will be with
you, but I can't use the blade."

Dion tensed, trying
desperately to will himself to feel better, to banish the ache in his
head. "You'd do that, you'd help her? Us? Why?" There was a
tinge of suspicion in the boy's voice.

"Because it is my
lord's command," Marcus said simply.

Dion forced down a rush
of sickness and dizziness. He was sweating, but his body was shaking
with chills. "I don't . . . know anything about . . . those
swords," he said through lips so stiff he could barely talk.
"Could I even use one?"

The arena blurred in
his vision. He blinked his eyes, focusing on the weapon in the hands
of the Warlord. The two combatants were walking forward to take up
their places directly opposite each other within the center of the
chalked circle.

"She's so pale,"
Dion murmured. "There's something wrong. Look—"

Maigrey started to step
into the circle, but she halted and put her hand to her forehead,
swaying slightly on her feet. A low murmur passed through the crowd.
Dion took a step forward. Marcus's hand reached out and gripped him
so tightly Dion could hear the bones in his wrist crunch.

"No one is allowed
to assist a combatant. If she falls, she falls."

Dion bit his lip with
the pain.

A breathless moment
passed, then Maigrey looked around, confused, as if wondering where
she was. She shook her head, almost angrily, and with firm step, her
slender shoulders squared in resolve, she entered the ring. Sagan
entered it at the same time. The two walked forward to meet each
other.

"By the law, they
must remain in the ring and fight in the ring," Marcus said,
relaxing his grip on the boy's wrist. "They are allowed to step
outside to rest, and when one does, the other is not allowed to
pursue him. But only two rest periods are permitted. Then it is a
fight to the finish."

Maigrey and Sagan came
to stand face to face. The combatants were required to salute each
other before they took up their battle stances. Dion, standing near,
every nerve and fiber of his being attuned to each of them, heard
their softly spoken words.

"The last of the
Oath-breakers. After seventeen years, Maigrey, I take my revenge."

"It isn't
vengeance, Sagan." Dion saw Maigrey's lips part in a smile whose
sorrow pierced his heart. "Let us admit the reason we are truly
here. Life is too painful for each of us to tolerate, if both of us
still live."

The Warlord stared at
her intently for a long moment, and Dion wondered what was passing
between them silently. Sagan bowed, with true respect.

"My lady."

Maigrey bowed in turn.

"My lord."

The arena seemed to
Dion to echo with those words. There was a hushed silence, coughs
were stifled, no one spoke or even appeared to breathe. The two
combatants, stepping back about five paces, took their places and
fell into the battle stance.

"They should at
least wear some sort of armor," Dion said, in an agony of
apprehension.

Marcus cautioned him to
speak softer. Dion saw Maigrey glance his way, saw her frown
slightly, and, fearful of breaking her concentration further, he
gulped and kept quiet. Marcus leaned near him.

"It wouldn't do
any good," the centurion whispered. "There is no protection
from the bloodsword. It can slice through solid, zero-gravity forged
steel as neatly as it will slice through the flesh of your arm. Those
who use it rely on swiftness and agility and their own mental power
to protect them."

"Tell me how it
works." Dion moved closer, their shoulders touching. He never
took his eyes from the two in the center of the ring.

Maigrey and Sagan
circled each other, trying to draw the other into making the first
move. The sword blades glowed an almost blinding blue color, then
suddenly Maigrey made a feinting strike inward and in the precise
instant the Warlord's blade appeared to disappear. She fell back from
the attack. Sagan's blade reappeared and struck out and Maigrey's
weapon blinked out of sight.