Sneaking silently across a lawn carpeted with smooth prairie grass, the boy reached the house and crouched below the window. He listened but couldn't hear anything. Cautiously he rose halfway and peered over the windowsill.
What he saw made him gasp in astonishment. He clapped his hand over his mouth, fearing he might be heard.
Platus stood alone in the room. His back was to Dion; he faced the front door. But this wasn't a Platus Dion knew. This wasn't his teacher, the poet, the musician. The long blond hair fell over shoulders encased in shining silver armor—armor that appeared old-fashioned and outmoded. Armor that dated back before the revolution, armor that was marked with the emblem of the late king.
But it wasn't the sight of the armor that made Dion gasp—although the sudden, confusing knowledge that Platus had perhaps been a member of the murdered king's own elite guard made the boy's mind reel in confusion. What took Dion's breath was the sight of a silver scabbard lying on a table before him, lying within easy reach of his gentle master's hand.
Three knocks fell heavily upon the door.
Fear convulsed Dion. He didn't know why, he didn't know what he feared. Perhaps it was the sight of Platus, dressed so strangely, so unlike himself. Perhaps it was the sound of those knocks, falling upon the door like the three dread notes representing the hammer-blows of Fate that opened Verdi's opera, La Forza del Destino.
The forces of destiny. Dion, for the first time, felt their power. If he could have been granted any gift in the universe, he would have frozen that moment and lived this one single instant into forever. But he could no more stop this minute, those forces, than he could stop the sun in its orbit. What would follow was as inevitable as the coming of night after a bright and beautiful day.
"Enter," Platus said, and Dion saw the door flung open.
Flashing golden armor, and the great bulk of the man from the shuttle was framed in the doorway. The man's eyes beneath the shadow of his helmet widened in astonishment no less than the boy's at the sight before him.
The two men stood regarding each other, one from the doorway, one from the center of the room. The boy watched from his hiding place at the window. No one spoke; not an indrawn breath broke the silence.
Then Platus smiled slightly. Taking off his glasses, he wiped them—a habitual movement that made Dion's throat hurt with unshed tears. "You come upon me like Lucifer, Derek . . . his face, deep scars of thunder had intrenched . . . ? Do you remember your Milton?"
"Still the poet," the man in the doorway commented in a deep baritone that was passionless, grave, and quiet. Removing his helmet, he placed it under his left arm in military fashion, then—ducking his head—he walked through the doorway and stepped into the simple living room. Dion could see him quite clearly; the light of a lamp shone directly on his face.
The man called Derek appeared older without the helmet. Though he had the muscular build of a young man, Dion guessed that he was in his late forties, about the same age as Platus. It was the face that aged him. It might have been carved of granite, each stroke of the sculptor's blade bearing downward in grim, stern resolve. Black hair, damp from perspiration, was worn long and was tied at the back erf his neck with a leather thong. His skin color was the rich, even bronze of those who live in space and must depend on artificial suns for their health. The eyes that glanced about the room were dark and narrow, cold and forbidding as a grave.
Dion shivered in the warm darkness.
"I remember my Milton, poet. I'll finish the line: . . waiting revenge.' You were warned of my arrival. Stavros, of course. I thought I had shut down his transmission in time."
"You did. You were as efficient as always, Sagan. It was only a simple, mathematical sequence sent out by a friend of his when Stavros knew it was too late to escape. Easily overlooked by your monitoring devices, yet it told me . . . all."
Sagan glanced about the room, taking in the shelves and shelves of books; the few, fine paintings hanging on the wall; the simply, homely luxuries. Dion saw them, too, with new eyes, eyes blurred by tears. How precious they seemed suddenly. When the man reached down and picked up a small lap harp—Platus's harp—with his gauntleted hand, the boy would have given anything for the strength to rush inside and snatch it from him. But Dion barely had strength enough to hang on to the windowsill. He could still give no reason for his fear, but it was very real and it was eating him alive.
"It has been a long time, poet," Sagan said, returning the harp carefully and respectfully to its place. "I have sought you many years."
He walked across the room toward the window and Dions chest almost burst from the suffocating fear that he'd been seen. But the man turned his back to Dion, to face Platus. A magnificent phoenix, embroidered in gold, had been stitched on the man's cloak. "The boy is gone."
"Yes, I sent him away."
"Why didn't you go with him?"
Platus shrugged, the silver armor glistened in the fight. He turned to face his visitor and Dion saw a marvelous jewel, hanging from a silver chain around his master's neck.
"I am easy to find, Sagan. You have me on file, everything from my blood type to my hand print to the pattern of my brain waves. Witness how easily you traced me to this house, once you knew the name of the planet on which I lived! How much longer could I hide from you, Derek? Yet, the boy. That is different. He is anonymous—"
"Anonymous!" Sagan sneered. "Bah! Whatever else that family of his may have been, they were never anonymous. Surely, he must have all the traits! Unless ..." The man stared at Platus in disbelief. "He doesn't know!"
"No. He knows nothing, not even his real name."
"Creator!" Sagan breathed. His face darkened and it seemed to the boy that the man was not swearing but calling upon God in reverence. "And I can imagine how you have raised him, you weak, sniveling worm!" The narrow-eyed gaze swept the room. "Poetry! Music!" His booted foot shoved contemptuously at the harp. It fell over, its strings quivering in a discordant cry. "Why she left him in your care, I will never understand!"
Sagan pondered silently for a moment. "This makes it difficult, Platus, I admit. Difficult, but not impossible Stavros did you no favor. Your death would have been quite easy and painless—a simple execution as proscribed by the law of the Galactic Democratic Republic for those royalists once known as the Guardians. Now, of course, it will be different. I must find the boy, and you will tell me where he has gone. Stavros held out only three days against me, Platus. Three days. And he was far stronger than you."
Dion gripped the windowsill with hands that were white and slowly losing all feeling. He wanted to scream, yell, rush inside. But he could do nothing. Fear had stolen his voice, his reason, his strength. None of the words the two men spoke made sense to him. It would only be later that he would recall them.
"I must say, Platus"—Derek Sagan regarded the slender man with a cool, grave expression of contempt—"that I am amazed to find you still alive. Surely you knew what you faced at my hands?"
"You are right, Sagan. I—I am not strong." Platus drew a deep breath. "Nonetheless, I am of the Blood Royal. You will not take me alive."
Reaching out his hand, Platus grasped hold of the silver scabbard that lay upon the table, lifted it unsteadily and appeared—to Dion—to remove the scabbard's handle. Five needles projected from a short, stubby hilt. Platus, somewhat clumsily and with a wince of pain, pressed his paha over tbe needles, driving them into his skin. "I will fight ... for my life."
Sagan stared at him a moment, completely confounded. Then he began to laugh—rich, deep laughter that sprang from some dark well deep inside.
Platus stood before him, unmoving, holding the sword's hilt awkwardly in his hand.
"So, pacifist," Sagan said, when his laughter had subsided, "you have found something worth fighting for at last. Put the bloodsword down, fool!" He made a contemptuous gesture. "It is of no use against this armor."
"I know better than that, Derek," Platus answered with quiet dignity. 'T
hough I was not a swordsman, my sister was. One of the best, in fact, as you well know, for you were her teacher. Forged by the High Priests, guided by my mental powers, its blade will cut through your armor as if it were so much feeble flesh. You want to take me? You must fight me."
"This is ridiculous, pacifist!" Sagan's hps twitched in a smile.
It was almost funny, the gentle Platus holding at bay a man who wore his own sword with the casual ease of long familiarity, a man whose bare, muscular arms were seamed with the scars of his battles. Dion felt wild laughter of his own surge up inside him and he buried his face in his hands, choked it down, then again lifted his head.
The smile on Sagan's face had vanished, the dark eyes grown narrower still. Moving slowly, he raised his hand. "Give me the weapon, Platus. You can't fight me. You can't win. You know that. This is a waste ..." Continuing to talk in a hypnotic monotone, the man took a step toward Platus, his gloved hand reaching for the bloodsword. "You are an avowed pacifist, poet. You believe in peaceful means to settle contentions between men. Life is sacred, so you have often said. Hand me the sword. Then tell me where to find the boy."
It seemed the man's spell was working, if spell it was. Platus's sword arm began to droop, his body trembled. Sagan drew another step closer.
There was a blur of movement. Dion heard a wild cry and saw flame burst from the sword's hilt, swinging in a deadly arc.
The blow would have cut Sagan in two if the warrior had not saved himself by an experienced, reflexive dive backward. Leaping after his enemy, Platus pressed his advantage, attacking with such violence that Sagan—unable to take time to draw his own sword—was forced to block one savage blow with his left forearm. The fiery blade of the bloodsword cut through the metal bracer Sagan wore, cut painfully into his wrist. He kicked Platus in the leg, knocking his feet out from under him, throwing him off balance.
Recovering himself, Platus was up, slashing out again. Sagan flung his helm to the floor and drew his own sword—a weapon similar in design to the one Platus held. Blood streamed down the man's left hand, pulsing from his wound. He appeared to ignore it.
Sagan held his sword in a defensive attitude, prepared to block his opponent's jabs and swipes, seemingly looking for an opportunity to disarm or wound him. Platus continued to attack, but it was obvious he was rapidly weakening.
This man would take his master prisoner. Dion would come out of hiding and reveal himself and then there would be no reason for this Sagan to hurt Platus. The boy tensed, ready to pull himself up through the open window, when he saw Platus's lips part in a smile, a strange smile in such a hopeless situation—a smile of triumph.
And suddenly Dion saw his master's intent. He saw it only a split second before Sagan saw it, too. Neither had time to react. Lunging forward, Platus impaled himself up the bloodsword's flaming blade.
With a bitter oath, Sagan instantly shut off the sword. The blade disappeared, but it was too late. Blood spurted from the silver armor. Platus sank to the floor. Dion sprang to his feet, his fear riven by the same blade that had pierced his master. A cry in his throat, he reached for the windowsill.
A hand caught hold of him by the back of his neck; a flash of pain shot through his head . . .
Derek Sagan heard a noise outside the window, a muffled thud. But he couldn't turn his attention from the dying man long enough to investigate. Kneeling, he lifted the bleeding body in his arms.
"Platus," he said urgently, turning the head, forcing the fast-dimming eyes to look into his. "You fool! Killing yourself is a mortal sin! You've doomed your soul to endless torment!"
Platus smiled wearily. "I don't . . . believe in your god . . . Derek. It is fitting this way, after all." He gasped for breath. "My blood is on your hands ... as was the blood of my king."
"Tell me where to find the boy!" Sagan urged.
With his last strength, Platus raised his hand, the fingers closed over the jewel that hung around his neck. "The boy is safe!"
Sagan, in his rage and frustration, shook the dying man. "You have damned yourself eternally! I alone still have the power of the High Priests to intercede with God! I can—"
The eyes fixed in the head, gazing unseeing at the ceiling of the small house. The body, encased in silver armor, shuddered and was still. The hand holding the jewel went limp.
Cursing, the Warlord dumped the lifeless corpse to the floor and stood up, staring in fury at the wretched husk at his feet. His men would search the house, as a matter of course, but Sagan knew Platus well enough to know that they would find nothing. No trace of the boy, nothing to tell what he looked like, no clue as to where he had gone.
Reaching down, the Warlord picked up the hilt of the sword, now as lifeless as the body. Once again the Guardians had defeated him. Once again they had been just one step ahead of him!
"Why, Creator? You have given them to me, as I prayed. Yet still you thwart me! What is the reason?" He waited a moment for the answer to his prayer. None was forthcoming and he irritably thrust the bloodsword back into its silver scabbard.
He spoke into the commlink in his helmet, calling his men. Remembering the noise he had heard outside, he took a step toward the window to investigate when suddenly he stopped, his attention arrested.
A sound had caught his ear. It was not a sound from his ship, it was not a sound from outside the dwelling. Indeed, it was not a sound that emanated from this world, and he heard it not with his physical ear but with the ear of his soul. A voice! A well-remembered voice ... a voice that had not spoken in seventeen years.
Sagan closed his eyes, shutting out his surroundings, with drawing deep into himself as he had been taught as a child until he was aware of nothing around him or even within him. His soul left his body, floating into the night, and there it listened, free from the noise of heartbeat and rushing blood.
And he heard the sound, falling upon his burning spirit like cool mist. A cry of grief and sorrow—the cry of a sister mourning the death of a brother.
The answer to Sagan's prayer. God's plan became clear to him. "Forgive me for my doubts, Creator. I understand!"
"My lord."
This voice was coporeal and it grabbed hold of Sagan and snatched him back to the world, forcing him to meld the two separate halves of his being together again. Opening his eyes, the Warlord stared without recognition at the centurion standing before him.
"My lord, forgive me for disturbing you, but the men have been deployed and I'm reporting to you as ordered—"
"Yes, Captain. You have done well." Sagan glanced around the house, remembering. "I heard a sound outside the window. Have your men investigate."
"Yes, my lord." The captain made a motion and two centurions standing inside the door departed with alacrity, two others moving to take their places. "Further orders, my lord?"
"Secure the town immediately. Ground all spacecraft of every type. No one is to leave the planet. Any spacecraft that attempt to flee are to be captured, not shot down. Send interrogators into the city. Begin a systematic roundup of the town's population. I want to know everything, no matter how insignificant, about this man"—the Warlord shoved the body with the toe of his boot—"and a boy who lived here with him. The dead man's name was Platus Morianna, though according to our reports he used the alias Platus Moran. Search the house. Bring me anything that looks like it might belong to a teenager—anything! A picture of a girl, a model spacecraft, his computer files. When you've finished, burn the house."
"Yes, my lord. And the body?"
"He was an atheist and he died by his own hand. May God have mercy on his soul." Sagan bent down on one knee. "Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.[Rest eternal grant them, O Lord.—Requiem Mass] Closing the staring eyes, he lifted the limp hand and placed it over the starjewel, whose bright light was fading into darkness. "Leave the body in the house. Burn it over him."
"Very good, my lord." The captain gestured again, and the two centurions, followed by two more, entered the house and bega
n to literally take it apart. Speaking into his helmet's commlink, the captain relayed his orders, and soon hoverjeeps loaded with men could be seen leaving the shuttlecraft, sweeping over the plains, heading for the small port city.
A centurion poked his head through the open window.
"Captain, the grass is so trampled out here, we can't make out any definite tracks. Footprints all over—here and in the garden. There're animal tracks, too. Wolves, looks like."
The captain glanced inquiringly at the Warlord, who shrugged, no longer interested. "The tracks could have been made days ago. This late at night, most likely it was the animal I heard."
Stepping over the body, he walked across the living room and out the door. Behind him, he heard the thud of books hitting the floor, wood splintering, the jangling twang of a broken harp string. The Warlord's gaze went to the stars burning in the heavens, stars that to poets might be sparkling gems but to him were pins upon a huge galactic map.
Mentally taking up one of those pins, he twirled it in the fingers of his mind.
"At long last, my lady. At long last!"
Chapter Five
Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose.
Kris Kristofferson, "Me and Bobbie McGee"
"Hey, kid, damn it! Can you hear me?"
A hand was over his mouth. A heavy weight was smashing down on his chest, and burning pain seared his soul. Dion opened his eyes. He didn't recognize the face of the mercenary inches away from his. Or if he did, it didn't matter. Dion's muscles leapt, he struggled desperately to free himself. He had to get inside the house! He had to get to Platus!
"Shit, kid, that's a Warlord in there!" hissed the voice, not an inch from his ear.
The pressure on his chest increased, the hand tightened over his mouth. Dion glared furiously at the black face. Lit by the red and golden lights of the shuttlecraft, it might have been a demon's face gazing at him from the fires of hell. Beads of sweat stood on Tusk's forehead; the shuttle's lights were tiny pinpoints of flame in his dark eyes.
The Lost King Page 5