The Lost King

by Margaret Weis

  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.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  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."
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  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.

  "What's going on?" Dion stared in confusion. "Why does the blade vanish?"

  "It doesn't. Not really. That's the weapon's defense shield. It will protect against the enemy's blow, but to use the shield requires almost double the energy needed to use the blade. They're playing a mental game with each other, trying to drain each other's strength."

  "I don't understand."

  "You had better, for you may be called on to use it."

  The two were circling, feinting attacks now and then. The swords blazed blue, then disappeared and then were blue, switching from offense to defense with the swiftness of a thought.

  "Have you ever seen one of the swords?"

  "Yes." Dion did not tell Marcus where or under what circumstances. He saw it clearly, though, in Platus's hand.

  "You've seen that there are five prongs on the hilt. When the user grasps the hilt, these prongs penetrate the flesh and inject a virus into the bloodstream. In a person with the correct blood type and DNA structure, this virus opens channels that parallel the normal nerve channels and eventually reach the brain. Micromachines are injected, making connections with the lymphatic systems to draw energy from the body's cells to power the weapon. The energy used comes from ATP, adenosine triphosphate. The sword has its own energy source, but once that is depleted, it begins to draw on the only other source available—your body."

  "What happens if you don't have the correct blood type and you pick up the sword?"

  Sagan made a sudden lunge at Maigrey, who didn't meet him with a block as expected, but who swiftly and agilely dodged, whirled, and sent her blade slicing through the air with a vicious downward stroke that would have cut the man in two had he not guessed her attack and reacted in time, falling back away from her. The two paused a moment, eyeing each other, then resumed their places in the center of the circle.

  Dion resumed breathing.

  "The virus injected into a body that doesn't have the proper bloodline turns into a particularly nasty form of cancer," Marcus said quietly. "It mutates rapidly. There is no cure. Death, if you're lucky, comes in about three days. At least there's one thing you won't have to worry about. If my lord falls, no one will be eager to take possession of his bloodsword. You'll have it all to yourself."

  Death, if you're lucky, in three days. The inside of the palm of Dion's right hand itched unpleasantly. He rubbed the skin. "But Sagan's wearing gloves. How could—"

  "Doesn't matter. The prongs will penetrate the heaviest gauntlet. And the hilt is weighted in such a way that, in order to use it, you must hold it so that the prongs dig into the flesh. Oh, good exchange. Well done!"

  The crowd was losing its awe, getting into the spirit of the battle. A rapid series of attacks made the air hum with the blade's energy. The afterimage of the blue light burning the retina of the eye made it seem as if the two were surrounded in red streaks and it was difficult, for an instant, to see what had happened.

  Both emerged unscathed, though each was sweating profusely and their breath was visibly coming quicker and shorter. They took up their positions again when Maigrey suddenly made the same gesture that had drawn Dion's concern earlier. She put her hand to her temple, blinking her eyes. She had just presence of mind left to stumble out of the circle. Sagan, standing in the center, his sword arm relaxed, watched her closely, warily, apparently suspecting some trick.

  But Dion, who could see Sagan's face clearly, saw a tiny frown appear between the thick black brows. The man was puzzled, obviously wondering what was going on.

  "That will cost her," Marcus said in grim tones. "She should have taken the rest later in the battle when she'll need it more."

  "There's something wrong with her! That's obvious. Why don't they stop?"

  "There's no way they can. The only way to stop now is for one to yield to the other, and that would mean not only death but dishonor."

  "What honor is there in this? Fighting someone who's sick?"

  "The lady doesn't appear sick to me. She fought with too much energy. There, she's going back. I don't know what the matter is, but she better control it."

  The fight seemed, to Dion, to drag on for hours. The tension was unbearable. It was, as Marcus said, a battle of wits as much as of physical prowess. Eyes were focused on each other, the brain endeavoring to penetrate the mental shield while the body tried to penetrate the physical. Each was growing visibly tired, each making tiny mistakes, saving themselves only by sheer bursts of energy, skill, and intuition. Blood oozed from wounds each had taken.

  And then Sagan slipped, the aching muscle of his legs giving out. Maigrey was on him in an instant and only the fact that he was standing next to the circle and could throw himself out saved him.

  Picking himself up from the dirt, he jumped back into the circle, and those who knew him knew that he was furious. Unlike other men, the Warlord's rage did not kindle a fire, but rather seemed to quench one. He was cold and remote and intent on ending this contest that had, in his estimation, gone on far too long. His attack was vicious. He hammered at Maigrey's sword again and again until it seemed impossible that his arms would possess the strength to keep inflicting such blows ... or hers to absorb them.

  Maigrey was forced to keep her shield switched on continually and her strength was waning fast. But she defended herself bravely. The shouting in the arena was deafening and seemed not to be for either one in particular but in homage to the valor of both and the eager, brutal expectation that is humanity's worst failing—the thirst for blood.

  Dion strained forward, his heart thudding in his chest, his throat burning. Marcus, mindful of his duty in the midst of the excitement, had hold of him, or else the young man would have hurled himself into that circle of death. The noise reverberated off the walls, sending the blood pounding in his head until he feared something inside him must burst from the pressure.

  And then suddenly Maigrey collapsed. She sank to her knees in the dirt of the arena, her head bowed, her shoulders slumped, the sword gone lifeless in her hand.

  "Get out!" shouted many, on their feet, urging her to seek the sanctuary outside the edge of the circle.

  Lord Sagan paused, flaming sword in hand, waiting to see if she would make the attempt to save her own life. But Maigrey didn't move. She had fallen in the classic pose of one who faces execution, and the Warlord, taking this for her surrender, raised the blade above her head.

  The crowd roared. Some shouted for Sagan to finish it. Others shou
ted for the lady to find her courage.

  A scream of rage welled up inside Dion. He leapt forward, only to feel Marcus's arm around his neck, throttling him. The young man fought viciously, hopelessly, and Marcus was forced to nearly choke the breath from Dion before he could calm him down.

  "Look, boy! Look!" Marcus's hissing voice finally penetrated.

  "She's in a trance!" Dion whispered.

  Maigrey seemingly had no idea where she was or that her own death was standing over her. She was staring at something no one else could see, a look of tense concentration on her face. The Warlord hesitated to strike; it would be like killing her in her sleep. Still thinking it might be a trick, he kicked the sword from her hand out of her reach. Maigrey didn't move, didn't appear to notice her weapon was gone. The expression on her face had changed to one of horror. Whatever visions she was seeing must be terrible.

  The shouting in the arena had changed to a murmur, puzzled and ominous.

  Hurling his own sword into the dirt, Sagan knelt beside the woman, and taking hold of her by the shoulders, he shook her. Maigrey's head snapped back, her hair straggled over her face. Her eyes were gray; the scar was a leaden streak across her skin. Her lips parted to gasp for breath. She didn't speak. Blinking, she focused on Sagan and a shudder went through her body. Reaching out her hands, she caught hold of him, clutching at him as she were drowning.

  The Warlord's black hair had come undone and fell about his sweat-streaked face. He held her, supported her.

  "What is it, Maigrey? What do you see? Share it with me!"

  Looking up into his eyes, her expression ghastly, Maigrey placed both hands on either side of the Warlord's face.

  The murmur of the crowd became a muttering, an exchanging of glances, grim and fearful. The arena seemed to grow darker. A shadow was spreading, emanating from the two unmoving figures in the center of the arena, like a perverse sun that brings night, not day.