Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  Maigrey watched them leave, then shut the door.

  Kneeling on the floor beside the Warlord, she drew off her blue cloak, folded it, gently placed the bundle beneath his head. He groaned in agony when she lifted him. She took hold of his right hand, brought it to her lips, clasped her own right hand tightly around it.

  He looked up at her.

  "You're not crying, are you?" he asked, with a faint touch of irritation.

  "No, my lord," she said softly. "I'm not crying. I can't."

  The beams of light in the bomb grew stronger, brighter. The humming grew louder, was harsh and discordant.

  Sagan looked at it and his face blenched. He couldn't help but think of the end, the blast, the one unspeakable, horrifying moment of unendurable agony before the blessed solace of death.

  Maigrey saw his glance. She leaned forward; her pale hair fell around him like a curtain, hiding death from sight.

  The floor and walls began to shake, shuddering as if in terror. A crash and a rumble came from somewhere in the alcazar. Rock dust drifted down over them. And out of the night—a hideous shriek of rage, a despairing wail of terror.

  "The creatures have answered Flaim's plea." Maigrey said.

  He tried to speak, but blood flowed from his mouth. He choked, fell back, shuddering.

  "Hold fast to me, my lord," she said. "I'm here."

  He gripped her hand hard. The spasm passed. Everything else seemed to be fading from his sight, was drowning in darkness. Everything except her. She shone more clearly, became more real to him each passing moment.

  "What did you give up to come to me, my lady?" he asked her. Their minds spoke. His voice was silenced forever.

  "Nothing that matters, my lord," she answered.

  Lifting his left hand with a great effort, he smoothed back the pale cloud of hair, touched her cheek, ran his fingers along the scar. He left a crimson mark, his own blood.

  "Your soul. You are damned, my lady, as I am damned."

  "My soul was never mine to lose, my lord. It was yours. Always yours."

  He smiled, a true smile. And then he stiffened. A stifled cry of wrenching agony escaped his lips. The pain was unendurable.

  "Not long now," Maigrey said softly.

  The starfire light inside the crystal case shone brightly, pulsed stronger than his own torn and wounded heart.

  "Don't leave me," he breathed.

  "I won't," she promised.

  She bent over him, put her arms around him. She lay her head on his breast.

  "Ever."

  The center cannot hold.

  Chapter Eleven

  king: I tell thee truly, herald,I know not if the day be ours . . .

  herald: The day is yours.

  William Shakespeare, King Henry V, Act IV, Scene vii

  The Scimitar shot through the Lanes. The silence on board the spaceplane was one with the silence of the eternal night around it. The only words spoken were terse conversations between Tusk and the computer, figuring the fastest way possible to get the plane off Vallombrosa and into hyperspace.

  Dion had carried Kamil from the alcazar. He made her comfortable on the bed, as comfortable as possible; she was wandering, now, in her mind. He sat beside her in a chair. So many miracles were needed now; what gave him the right to ask for this, in particular? His thoughts went back to the golden-tinged day he'd met her. He'd been so lonely then. Searching desperately for someone to love, for someone to love him. He had found her. She had found him.

  His shieldmaid. As in the dream, she had fallen, protecting him. As in the dream, he would pick up his weapon and go forward, leaving her behind.

  He held her hand and her wild ravings ceased. But she sank into a frightening sleep, which seemed far too deep. Try as he might, he could not rouse her.

  He was aware of Tusk, standing at his shoulder.

  "We're ready to make the Jump. Is she ... is she any better?"

  Dion shook his head.

  Tusk, who could see things for himself, laid his hand in silent sympathy on his friend's shoulder, then returned hastily back to the cockpit.

  Dion listlessly strapped himself in, made Kamil secure. He had long ago learned to cope with the effects of leaping into hyperspace. Leaning back in his chair, he forced himself to relax, closed his eyes.

  They were fighting together, side by side. The battle raged around them. Friends and comrades fell, struck down, dead, dying. And then there came a lull. The horrific noise of slaugh-ter ceased. The enemy was gone. The two of them stood alone on the field, resting, waiting for the next onslaught. They could hear the din of terrible trumpets. It was coming. He drew his bloodied sword, advanced to meet it. He turned to smile one last time at his shieldmaid.

  But she had laid down the shield, laid it at his feet. Reaching out her hand, she took the sword from him, to wield it for herself.

  "The shield is yours, sire, to defend and protect. It is my place to continue the fight. Good-bye, Dion. ..."

  "Dion . . ."

  He jolted awake. Kamil lay propped up on one elbow, her hand on his arm, shaking him. Her face was bruised and covered with blood, but her eyes were clear and focused and alert and puzzled.

  "You're all right!" he breathed.

  "I'm fine," she said, "except for a splitting headache. And, oh, Dion, I had the strangest dream ..."

  The Scimitar was in the Lanes, putting light-years between them and the Vale of Ghosts. They were safe. Unless the universe ripped apart—always a possibility, however remote, with the space-rotation bomb.

  The three of them could do nothing now but wait. Kamil ignored pleadings to stay in bed. A shot from Tusk's medkit eased the pain in her head. She came forward, to be with Dion and Tusk. They huddled together in the small cramped cockpit, waited in silence. To try to put into words what they had seen, what they had been through, what they laced would have demeaned it, diminished it. And so they spoke of it in silence, heart to heart, and found far greater comfort.

  It was Tusk, sitting in the pilot's chair, who first broke the silence, broke it softly, reluctantly. "We're coming up on the point you wanted to leave the Lanes, kid. Do you— Shall I . .. take us out?"

  "Yes," said Dion.

  "Get hold of Dixter; fast," Tusk told XJ.

  XJ obeyed without adding its normal sarcastic comment. Either the computer was impressed with the awful solemnity and tension of the situation or else the threat Tusk had muttered under his breath when they first came aboard had been dreadful enough to at last muzzle XJ-27.

  "Sir John Dixter, Your Majesty," announced the computer in a tone that could almost have been called respectful.

  "Dion! Son!" Dixter appeared to be struggling against a need to reach out and embrace the vidscreen, a need to reassure himself that Dion was real. "I heard what happened! Are you all right? And Tusk and—"

  "We're fine, for the moment. All fine. How did you know—•"

  "Her Majesty." Dixter's expression was grim. "She's been in contact with us. Yes, she's safe. Sagan spoke to her on board the ship, told her what he planned. He also gave her the names of some people she might be able to count on—friends of ours, Tusk, from the old days. Gorbag the Jarun, some of the other mercenary pilots.

  "They'd all grown disenchanted with the prince, especially when they heard that the dark-matter creatures were running amuck. The queen was able to persuade them to help her seize control of the ship. They did so, without bloodshed. She's a remarkable woman, Dion," Dixter said with enthusiasm, speaking before he thought.

  He looked uncomfortable immediately after.

  "Yes, sir," said Dion, smiling, "she is."

  Kamil stood up suddenly from the co-pilot's chair where Dion had ordered her to sit. "You belong there," she told him. "Tusk .. . might need your help."

  "Kamil ..."

  "No, it's all right. Really." She smiled at him.

  "Kid?" Tusk twisted around.

  "Yes, I'm here," said Dion briskly.

  He
took the co-pilot's seat, continued talking to Dixter. "You know, then, sir, what Sagan planned to do. How he switched bombs. He was going to detonate the space-rotation bomb harmlessly, far, far out in some remote part of the galaxy. But ... it didn't quite work out."

  Dion cleared his throat, his voice choked by the ache of fear and dread inside him. "Flaim discovered the plan at the last minute, went to Vallombrosa to try to stop Sagan. We escaped. My lord . . . did not."

  "Yes, son," said John Dixter. "I know. You see . . ." He hesitated, rubbed his jaw.

  "Tell me," Dion commanded. "What happened?"

  "Vallombrosa's not there anymore, son. The planet's gone—as though it had never been. Nothing left of it, that we can detect. Of course, we can only scan it from a distance. We don't dare send in recon planes. Not yet. Sagan was correct in his postulation that the dark matter would contain the blast. He theorized that the dark matter would act like a shield, prevent the chain reaction from continuing throughout the galaxy. Destruction was confined to a relatively limited area."

  "To Vallombrosa."

  "I'm sorry, son," Dixter said. "There's a possibility, of course, that Sagan could have escaped. . . ."

  Dion stood up.

  Tusk glanced at him, shook his head, looked away.

  Kamil reached out a hand to him. Dion didn't see it. He walked blindly to the ladder, climbed it—apparently by feel alone—disappeared up into what had once been the gunner's bubble, was now the observation dome.

  Dion sat in the bubble, staring out into space, its dark deadly blackness sparkling with myriad roaring furnaces of suns. Immense fires that give birth to life, sustained life, destroyed life. Viewed from this distance, the suns were nothing but tiny white sparks in the vastness of the universe.

  In the vastness of the mind of God.

  Vallombrosa. Valley of Ghosts. Gone as if it had never been. His cousin. Gone, too.

  Dion looked at his right palm. The five wounds were no longer swollen, had ceased to pain him. Soon they would fade to nothing but five white scars on his hand, for he would never use the bloodsword again.

  Derek Sagan.

  Dion stared into the darkness and its coldly burning stars and thought of the man whose darkness had cast a shadow over the king's own life, a shadow that had forced Dion to close his eyes, look inward, see his own darkness. Only then had he been able to open his eyes, see beyond the darkness, to the light.

  Well done, boy.

  He heard the words echo in his mind, heard them again, as he had heard them clearly that day of the duel. It was then that he had known for certain that Sagan had not betrayed his oath, that he was his king's Guardian, as he had sworn so long ago. It was this faith Flaim had seen inside Dion, though his cousin had not been able to recognize it. It was this faith that had, Dion supposed, cost Sagan his life.

  I can weep for him, Dion thought, but I can't grieve. As Maigrey said, all is as it should be. There is a rightness about it, a suitability. A fittingness, in the mind of God.

  He knew it, though he couldn't explain how. It was as if a door had opened and he had been permitted a swift glance inside before it slammed shut again.

  Cold fingers touched his hand; Kamil's hand closed over his. He drew her up, into the bubble, to sit beside him. There was a lightness about this, too. He couldn't grieve.

  "She and Sagan are together again, aren't they?" Kamil said softly.

  "Yes," answered Dion.

  "As we will be together . . . someday," Kamil said.

  "Someday," Dion held her hand fast.

  " 'You have loved and been loved,'" Kamil said, almost to herself. "I understand now what he meant."

  "We should be thankful," Dion said, his eyes on the stars. "What happened to them would have happened to us. We would have been torn apart by anger, fear, misunderstanding. We would have ended up hating each other. Hating ourselves. That won't happen to us now. When we say good-bye . .."

  He faltered. Her hand pressed his, giving him courage.

  He continued on steadily. "When we say good-bye, it will be with love and trust."

  "Kid?" Tusk peered up at them from down below. "Sorry to interrupt, kid—I mean, Your Majesty. I guess I better get used to saying that. I've made contact with Her Majesty's ship. The queen's anxious to see you. The captain wants to know when you're planning to come aboard and should he lay in a course for Ceres or back to Minas Tares? And Dixter needs to talk to you about the Corasian attack."

  Dion rose. "Her Majesty and I will be going to Ceres. We're going to give thanks. To both God and the Goddess."

  "Sure thing, kid," Tusk said. "I mean, Your Maj— Oh, the hell with it. You know what I mean." He disappeared back down into the cockpit.

  "Yes," said Dion softly. "I know what you mean."

  He turned to Kamil. "Good-bye," he said, kissed her gently, and left.

  "Good-bye," she told him, after he had gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Heaven's last, best gift . ..

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  "You'll come to visit us—Astarte and I. You and Nola and your family."

  "Royal command?" Tusk grinned.

  "Yes." Dion replied gravely. "Royal command."

  "Sure, we'll come," Tusk said, and meant it.

  "Often."

  "Well, as often as we can. What with the business ..." He sighed, ran his hand through his tightly curled hair, cast a harried glance around the Scimitar. "Back to vacuum cleaner salesmen, I guess."

  Dion smiled as if he knew a secret, started to say something, then shook his head. "Good-bye, Tusk."

  The mercenary started to shake hands, but Dion clasped his friend in his arms.

  Tusk patted Dion on the back. "Good-bye, kid. Good luck." He paused, then said awkwardly, "I wish ... I wish it all could have turned out different. . . ."

  "All is as it was meant to be, Tusk," said Dion quietly.

  "Yeah, I guess so." Tusk sounded dubious. Backing off, he wiped his nose, turned his head away.

  Dion looked over at Kamil, who had been standing near him, silent, waiting. He reached out his hand. She took it. They held fast to each other for the length of a heartbeat.

  She smiled at him, reassuring. "You better go," she said. "They're waiting for you."

  Their hands parted.

  Dion climbed swiftly up the ladder leading out of the Scimitar. At the top, he paused, took one last look around.

  "Good-bye, XJ," he called.

  There came a sort of a croak and a wheeze. The lights flickered and went out. The hatch whirred slowly open.

  Standing in the darkness, Tusk heard the roar of the crowd on the flight deck of Flare, cheering the appearance of their king. When the lights came back on, Dion was gone.

  "Well," said Tusk to himself with a sigh, a smile. "That's that."

  The ceremonies were over. The crowds had dispersed. XJ was in a high state of indignation.

  "I've never seen such a mob! It's .. . unmilitary. And some fool reporter actually had the nerve to sit his fat fanny down on my wing! He won't do that again soon. I sent about sixty volts through him."

  Tusk grinned, shook his head. "We've got clearance. Lay in a course for the Academy. And then—home."

  Kamil sat beside him in the co-pilot's chair. She was brisk and purposefully cheerful. "I've already got the course plotted, Tusk. I needed ... something to do." Her smile slipped a moment, but then it was back. "You're sure you don't mind taking me back to school? I know how eager you are to see your family—"

  "No trouble at all, kid. It's on the way."

  "Admiral Dixter on line," the computer reported.

  The admiral's face appeared on the vidscreen.

  "We got His Majesty safely delivered, sir," Tusk reported. "Any word on the Corasians?"

  "We've arranged a welcome-to-the-galaxy party. A surprise party. I don't think they'll be bothering us for a long, long time."

  "Good, good," Tusk said, nodding. "I ... I don't suppose, you'v
e heard from Nola?" he asked wistfully.

  Dixter's grim face relaxed in a smile. "As a matter of fact, I have. After you told me where you thought she might be hiding, I made contact with Marek. Nola's fine, other than being worried about you. Your son's fine. And speaking of Nola, . . . Tusk, this may not be the time to bring this up, but there's something I'd like you to think about.

  "Three years ago, His Majesty offered you a commission in the Royal Navy. I know you turned it down, but I wish you'd reconsider. I could use an adjutant, Tusk. Someone I could trust. Someone His Majesty can trust. I'm not that many years away from retirement—"

  "Whoah!" Tusk sat back, stared at the vidscreen in alarm, even terror.

  "I don't mean you'd take over right away," Dixter said, smiling. "I expect to be around a while. Quite a while. Say at least another twenty years. But when I do leave, I'd feel better knowing you were the one who'd be sitting in my chair."

  Tusk was in a state of shock. So was XJ apparently. For once, neither of them had anything to say.

  "You don't have to give me your answer now, son," Dixter advised, seeing that Tusk was in no shape to talk anyway. "Discuss it with Nola. You'd have to move to Minas Tares, of course. But it's a beautiful city. Nola would like it here. And the children would have the very best educational opportunities. Like I said, think it over."

  Tusk tugged on his left earlobe. The eight-pointed star earring was back, a gift from a grateful Astarte.

  "I know this is gonna sound weird, sir. But, if I took it—and I'm not saying I am—but if I did, would there uh ... be a place somewhere for Link? He's a jerk and an ass and a blowhard, but he's a pretty good pilot and if he had somethin to occupy his mind other than cards and the juice, I think he might turn out okay."

  "I believe we could find a place for Link," Dixter said gravely.

  "Now, just a minute." XJ had also recovered. "Excuse me, sir, but you haven't mentioned the most important factor. How much does this job pay us? Are uniforms included? What about cleaning and pressing? And am I going to have to be reprogrammed for military protocol, because I—"