Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  "And you," she said. "I'm sorry I had to rough you up."

  "I'm not," he told her, smiling. "I'm a happily married man." He touched his split lip. "This makes it easier to say good-bye. Take care of yourselves."

  Careful to keep clear of Mrs. Mopup, Tusk edged his way around the vacuum cleaner and left the prince's quarters, heading for his Scimitar.

  "Yeah, he is king," Tusk commented on his way out. "And I can't do a damn thing about it. Except maybe stop hating him for it." Wincing, he inserted the tiny needles of the bloodlink into his arm. "It's okay, my lord," he reported. "We've taken the ship. I'm on my way."

  Chapter Nine

  Things fail apart . . .

  William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

  Flaim advanced, swinging the bloodsword in a flaming arc.

  "Knock him off his feet, Kamil!" Maigrey's voice jolted through the young woman like an electric shock. "Dive! Roll into him!"

  Kamil had no time to think, no time to prepare. She saw immediately the wisdom of the lady's plan and acted. Springing at him in a diving, twisting roll, Kamil drove her right shoulder into Flaim's knees.

  Her move caught the prince off guard, took him completely by surprise. Flaim pitched forward. His swing went wild.

  The Warlord started to turn, to fall back, as Kamil dashed forward. The arcing flame of the bloodsword struck him, but the blow was not lethal, as it would have been if Flaim had connected. The blade sliced into Sagan's left side.

  He gasped in pain, put his hand over the wound. Blood spilled over his fingers. Smiling grimly, he banished the pain, forgot about it.

  "Well done, my lady," he said, and started for the storage room.

  Dion ran past him, hoping to stop the old man before he could reach the bomb.

  "Pantha' Look out!" the prince shouted, struggling to regain his feet.

  Pantha turned around, lifted the lasgun . . .

  Dion slammed into the old man, grabbed Pantha's hand. The two rolled on the floor, wrestling for the gun.

  Flaim started to go to his friend's aid, but Kamil lunged for him, grabbed hold of his leg, tried to drag him back down. The prince kicked at her savagely, endeavoring to free himself. Cursing, he lifted the bloodsword over her head.

  "Drop it!" roared Tusk.

  The mercenary stood in the doorway, peering into the flaring light, the baffling darkness, lie saw the blue flash of the sword, caught a glimpse of Kamil, her face bruised and bloodied, yet still clinging to Flaim.

  "Drop it!" Tusk yelled again, and then he fired.

  The sword's fight disappeared. Flaim shifted from attack to defense. Tusk's shot burst harmlessly on the prince's shield, but it gave Kamil time to get out of the way. She crawled on her hands and knees, then fell flat, limp, unconscious. Tusk dashed to help her, firing again, forcing Flaim to use his weapon to protect himself.

  Pantha fought Dion with the strength of despair. But Tusk's shout and firing distracted him.

  "Flaim?" Pantha tried to find his prince. His deathlike grip on the gun relaxed.

  Dion wrestled it from him, jumped to his feet, and made a dash for the storage room.

  Derek Sagan was there ahead of him. He held the bomb in a blood-stained hand.

  "I'll cover you, my—" Dion began.

  Sagan shouted in warning.

  A blow smote Dion from behind, sent him staggering to his knees. Flaim hurtled past the king, bloodsword again flaring blue. He was no longer interested in Dion. The prince wanted the bomb—and his revenge on the man who had betrayed him.

  Tusk stood protectively over Kamil, peering into the flaring light, trying desperately to see. His lasgun was raised, but he didn't dare shoot, for fear of hitting either Sagan or the king.

  Dion was on his feet again. He surged forward, caught a confused glimpse of Flaim and Sagan, of blue fire reflected in the bomb's crystal . . .

  And then darkness.

  Dion halted so suddenly, he nearly fell over.

  Nothing in the room but darkness. The prince and Sagan were gone.

  "I'll be a son of a bitch," Tusk breathed in awe.

  Splatters of blood marked the place where the two had— only seconds before—been standing. They had both disappeared, as if they had been swept up by the whispering shadows.

  "What the—" Tusk began.

  "The dark-matter creatures!" Pantha howled, his voice rising to a triumphant shriek. "They have him!" Whirling, robes flapping, the old man raced for the doors.

  Dion started to run after him.

  Tusk grabbed on to his sleeve. "Kid! Wait! Let him go! Who knows where the hell the creatures took Sagan?"

  "Pantha knows, obviously," Dion said grimly. "I'll follow— Dear God! No!"

  They'd come out of the storage room. Tusk was carrying the nuke lamp, flashing it around. The light beamed on Kamil's body lying on the floor.

  Her face was battered almost beyond recognition, swollen, bruised. A dark streak of blood trickled down from her skull. One arm was twisted at a strange angle, the fingers of her left hand were broken and bleeding; jagged bone shone white in the harsh light.

  Dion took a step toward her, then stopped. Anguished, he looked in the direction of Garth Pantha.

  "Kid! She's hurt bad!" Tusk said urgently. He knelt beside her, was examining her with gentle hands. "I think her skull's fractured."

  "Take her back to your plane, Tusk. I'll be there as soon as I can." Dion turned away.

  "That won't be soon enough!" Tusk told his back. "She's dying!"

  Dion stopped. He put his hands over his eyes, shuddered. Then, not looking back, he started forward again.

  "Your duty lies here, my king," came a clear voice.

  A woman, clad in silver armor, appeared before him.

  "Nope," Tusk muttered in a tight voice, "I don't believe it. I do not believe it."

  "My lady!" Dion stared at her in awe.

  "Let the others continue the battle, Dion. Your task is to heal the wounds. Your duty is to your subjects, to Kamil and Tusk, to your wife and child. Take Tusk and Kamil out of here. Lead them to safety."

  "But . . . Sagan, Flaim . . ."

  "The bomb is armed. The code has been entered. My lord has only to add one more letter—the last letter of the last word—and the bomb will detonate."

  Dion was silent a moment. Then he said, "He won't be able to escape, will he?"

  "No," Maigrey answered quietly. "But all is as it should be.

  Once, long ago, he pledged his life to his king. This day, he will keep his vow."

  Dion hesitated. He looked again at Kamil. Tears filled his eyes. He looked back at Maigrey. "I can't leave him to die alone."

  "He won't be alone," she said softly. She rested her hand on the hilt of the bloodsword at her side. "And now you must hurry. My lord will buy you what time he can, but you don't have long. Farewell, my king."

  "I won't see you again, will I?"

  "No, Dion. It is time for your Guardians to leave you. You need us no longer. May God bless and keep Your Majesty."

  And then she was gone, as if she had never been.

  Except that Dion could see, in his dazzled vision, the bright, argent glow of her armor, gleaming, cold and pure, like the moon.

  Chapter Ten

  Though much is taken, much abides; and though

  We are not now that strength which in old days

  Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are:

  One equal temper of heroic hearts,

  Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

  To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Ulysses

  It seemed to Sagan that he had shut his eyes in the great hall, blinked to find himself somewhere else. The movement was so swift that he had no sensation of it at all, beyond the strange feelings elicited by the proximity of the dark-matter creatures. That, and their fear and their anger.

  They seethed around him, invisible, but he could sense t
heir threat, like smelling thunder on a still summer night. He wondered how they knew their danger had increased. Undoubtedly they could sense the heightened energy of the armed bomb. But why didn't they take it, why take him with it?

  Afraid. Perhaps afraid that they might accidentally set it off. For they have no concept of how it works—only the knowledge that, unless it can be stopped, they are doomed.

  And so they had brought him here, away from help. And they had brought his enemy with him.

  It took Flaim a moment to assimilate where he was. He, too, glanced around in astonishment. Then recognition dawned.

  Moonlight streamed in through a barred window, illuminated five cells, which were actually nothing more than five small caverns scooped out of the solid rock of the planet's interior. Iron bars stood before each cell. The bars had been driven into the ground like javelins thrown by some immensely powerful hand. The five cells formed a crude star shape around a center open area: two facing each other, one at the head. A five-pointed star, locked in a dungeon.

  "How suitable," said Sagan to himself.

  He put his hand to his injured side. The wound was serious, deep, but not mortal. He had lost a lot of blood, but he felt no pain. He had learned when he was a boy bow to thrust pain down into the depths of his being, how to ignore it, banish it from his mind. His wound was an irritant only, a stiffness in his left side that hampered swift movement, a catch in his breathing every now and then, when his discipline slipped.

  He could fight with such a wound, could hold his own against an enemy—even an enemy young and strong and uninjured, like the one standing before him. But Sagan was not armed. He held the bomb, and it was armed, the code was entered. He had only to add one more letter and it would explode, destroying Flaim, destroying the dark-matter creatures, destroying itself.

  Unless he could gain time, the bomb would also destroy his king.

  Flaim knew where he was now, what had happened. He smiled at Sagan grimly. "You're finished, my lord. You have no weapon. Put the bomb down, surrender."

  "I surrendered only once in my life," Sagan replied. "Long ago, when I was young. To a man called Abdiel. A mistake. I swore I would never do it again. If you want the bomb, you must kill me."

  Sagan held the bomb in front of him, in his left hand. He put his right hand on top of it, on top of the row of buttons. "And you must act swiftly. Your aim must be certain. You must kill me before I press this one button. Once I touch it, the bomb will detonate in five minutes."

  "Hardly time enough for your precious king to escape," Flaim said, unconcerned. He advanced, bloodsword blazing. "And I don't need to kill you. All I have to do is sever your hand from your body. And I think—"

  Still talking, hoping to distract him, Flaim lunged.

  But Sagan had been watching the prince's eyes, not listening to his voice. He saw the blow coming. Springing aside, Sagan hurled the bomb at Flaim.

  The bomb's crystal case flared in the sword's light. Nothing could harm it, not even the bloodsword. Without the code punched in, the bomb would land harmlessly on the floor.

  But Flaim reacted involuntarily, as Sagan had hoped he would.

  Seeing the bomb flying at him, the prince arrested his stroke to avoid hitting the bomb. He cringed involuntarily as it tumbled to the floor.

  "My lord!" a voice cried. "You have a weapon now!"

  She stood before him, pale hair, sea-gray eyes, shining silver armor. A bloodsword spun in the air, flung from her hand to his hand—a move the two had spent endless hours practicing together.

  He caught it without thinking, just as he had responded without thinking to Kamil's diving roll. In his mind, she had been Maigrey and they had been in Abdiel's prison, or on the Corasian mothership, or in any other of the countless battles they had fought together.

  It was not surprising that she was with him and that she had thrown him her weapon.

  He caught it, inserted the needles into his hand, felt the painful, stimulating warmth of the micromachines surging into his body, felt the sword become one with his mind.

  The weapon flared blue. Flaim fell back before the Warlord. The prince's baleful gaze darted around the cell block. He could not see her, but he knew she was there.

  "So, Lady," the prince said, "I wondered how long you could stay out of this fight without interfering. And you, my lord." Flaim took a defensive stance. "What about your vow to forgo the use of weapons?"

  "I've broken so many vows in my life," Sagan responded, watching the eyes, "one more isn't likely to make much difference."

  "You're an old man." Flaim sneered. "Old and weak and hurting. How long do you think you can last against me?"

  "Dion is returning to the warship with Tusk," Maigrey said to Sagan, her voice singing its sweet, familiar music in his mind. "They need time to reach the plane, leave orbit, and enter the Lanes."

  "Long enough, Your Highness," Sagan responded.

  They circled around each other, around the bomb, lying on the floor between them.

  A feint. No takers.

  Another feint. A quick strike.

  A flurry of blows, blue sparks flaring.

  Shield, attack.

  Attack, shield.

  Around and around.

  Watch the eyes. Watch the eyes.

  And on and on and on.

  Buying time.

  Sagan's wound reopened, started bleeding. He was conscious of pain now, pain be could no longer ignore. He was grow ing weak from blood loss. The weakness and the pain affected his use of the bloodsword Keeping the shield up took more energy, greater concentration.

  Soon, he knew, it would take more energy than he possessed.

  A broken old man.

  Flaim saw his opponent's weakness, saw it in small mistakes—in missed footing, in strokes that pulled up short. The prince redoubled his attack. The Warlord's skill and experience kept him alive, were all that kept him alive against Flaim's strength and agility and youth.

  On and on and on.

  Watch the eyes . . .

  Watch .. . the .. . eyes ...

  The Warlord was nearing the end, and Flaim knew it. The prince was setting a trap, pretending to be weakening himself, hoping to draw Sagan into making a rash move that would leave him open, unguarded.

  It was old gambit, well executed . . . except that at the last moment, the trap closed over the trapper.

  Sagan lunged, struck.

  Flaim flung himself down, threw himself flat on the floor. The bloodsword flared in a flaming arc over his head.

  And then the bastard prince should have died at the Warlord's hand, as had so many before him. But Sagan lacked the strength to press home his advantage. He staggered back against the wall, drew a ragged breath, tried to clear the mists that were fast dimming his vision.

  Maigrey was with him, watching him. He could see her now, see her so very clearly. She had remained silent, not moving, knowing better than to do or say anything that might distract him. The moonlight shone on her pale hair, shone on the silver armor. She was starlight, pure, cold, ethereal.

  His eyes went to her and beyond her, out the barred window, into the night skies. Another star—or what seemed a star—lifted off from the planet's surface, rose into the heavens.

  Sagan followed it with his gaze. It was, like her, the only light he could now see.

  "Dion," she said to him softly.

  The light of the spaceplane flared, blazed a fiery trail, like a comet across the night sky. The light soared—a brilliant and radiant light that glinted off blue eyes like moonlight on a frozen sea. It shone warm and red-golden in the center of the galaxy like a lion-faced sun. It would burn long and bright, and when its glow faded into peaceful darkness, other lights would have been kindled from it, their bright fires illuminating hearts, keeping back the fear of night.

  The light vanished. The spaceplane had entered hyperspace.

  "My lord!" Maigrey shouted a warning.

  Flaim was on his feet, lun
ging. The bloodsword's lethal light flared, blinding. Sagan raised his sword, activated his shield. His own light burst, then died.

  Flaim's sword entered the Warlord's body, drove Sagan back against the wall, pinned him.

  The prince stared at him a moment in grim triumph, then yanked the flaring blade free.

  A gush of dark blood spewed out. Horrible, searing agony ripped at Sagan with fiery claws. He doubled over, his hands clutching his wound, trying vainly to hold on to his life, which flowed out, red, over his fingers.

  Maigrey stood watching, silent, unmoving, the tears the dead could not shed shining like starjewels in her gray eyes.

  The prince stepped back to gloat over his victory, stepped back to watch his enemy die.

  Sagan reached out his hand . . .

  "Flaim! Stop him! Stop him!" Pantha screamed from the prison entryway.

  Flaim—seeing at last the Warlord's intention—flung himself at the dying man.

  Too late.

  Sagan's bloodstained hand grasped hold of the bomb, fumbled for the button, the fourth one from the beginning of row twenty-six.

  The one marked with the symbol d.

  Convulsively gasping, eyes closed against the burning pain or death, he pressed the button down.

  Thin beams of light, like tiny threads of starfire, radiated outward. They extended from the starjewel, planted in the bomb's heart to the golden pyramid. When the light touched the pyramid, the bomb began to make a faint sound, as if humming to itself.

  Flaim stared at it, his eyes wide in horror. "Stop it!" he breathed.

  Sagan lay on the floor. "Five minutes," he said, and the words came out a whisper, stained with his life's blood.

  "We must get out of here!" Pantha screeched. He caught hold of Flaim, fingers like talons. "The creatures! The creatures can save us. Quickly, my prince. We must reach the room! We must communicate with them."

  Flaim flung the old man away from him.

  "Why?" he demanded savagely, standing over Sagan. "Why? I was everything you wanted to be!"

  "That is why," Sagan answered.

  "Flaim!" Pantha begged.

  The prince glared at Sagan in impotent outrage; then, turning, he ran from the star-shaped prison. Pantha dashed after him.