King's Sacrifice (11 page)

"What's the
reason?"

"Dangerous
solar winds, sir, caused by an unstable sun in the Ringo system."

Dixter, who was
no pilot, cocked an eye at Tusk.

"Bullshit,"
Tusk answered.

"We're too
late," Nola whispered.

"Should I
get ready for takeoff anyway, sir?" XJ hinted. "We could
blast our way out—"

"No, thank
you, XJ. Some other time." Dixter nodded at Tusk, who shut down
the transmission.

The elevator
came to a stop on Dion's level. The doors slid open. Six armed
centurions stood waiting. Tusk reached for his lasgun. Nola cried
out, grabbed at his arm.

"No, son,"
Dixter said calmly, fingers closing over Tusk's gunhand. "That
won't help."

"General
Dixter, sir," said the centurion respectfully. "Lord
Sagan's orders. You and your friends are to come with me."

"Have my
spaceplane ready. Alert the patrols," Sagan snapped at Agis, who
met him outside the banquet hall. "We'll find His Majesty and—"

"We have
already found him, my lord. He's in his quarters."

"He is?"
The Warlord regarded his captain in surprise, paused to consider this
development. Surely Dion knew the fate that awaited him. And yet,
after committing an act of such brazen, blatant, ill-judged defiance,
he was sitting in his quarters?

"Perhaps he
thinks because he is king"—Sagan's lip curled, his voice
shook with fury—"he is beyond my reach He has forgotten
who it was made him king. But he will soon remember. Yes, he
will
remember!"

The Warlord
started to issue orders, realized he had no idea where he was. He'd
walked his ship, blinded by a blood-dimmed mist before his eyes.
Glancing around, he found himself standing in front of the private
elevator that led to his quarters, could not recall how he'd come to
be there.

He felt an ache
in his upper arms and wrists, looked down at his hands, saw the
fingers curled tightly, painfully. His shoulders were stiff, neck
muscles tense. His injured leg throbbed. The flame of his anger died
instantly, blown out by the chill, biting wind of self-command.

"Captain."

"My lord."

"General
Dixter, Major Tusca, and that woman—What's her name?"

"Rian, my
lord?"

"Yes, Rian.
Have them all arrested, take their weapons. Dion may consider himself
to be above my wrath, but General Dixter will be operating under no
such delusion. I'll be surprised if our gallant trio isn't on their
way to attempt to rescue their king right now. Have your men keep
watch for them near His Majesty's quarters."

"Yes, my
lord." Agis relayed the message.

"Bring them
all, including the king, to me. And bring me the bomb. I trust it's
still in the same hiding place. We've given His Majesty no cause to
think we discovered it; I don't suppose he's moved it."

Sagan turned to
enter the elevator. The centurions who posted guard stood to either
side, the doors slid open.

"What's
this?"

The Warlord's
sharp eye caught sight of a scrap of paper, lying on the deck near
the doors of his own private elevator, almost beneath the boot of one
of his guards. The centurion glanced down in astonishment. Agis
swooped to remove the trash littering the ship's sterile, immaculate
surroundings.

Sagan's hand
forestalled his captain's, snatched up the scrap, glanced at it, and
crumpled it in his palm.

"I will not
tolerate slovenly habits among the crew. Captain. See to it that this
does not happen again."

"Yes, my
lord."

The Warlord
entered the elevator, paused in the doorway. "Did anyone try to
use the elevator during my absence, centurion?"

"No one, my
lord. No one who would be of interest to your lordship, that is."
The centurion's glance shifted to his captain, his mouth twitched in
a half grin. "The male nurse was here again—"

"Male
nurse." The Warlord was mildly curious. "What male nurse?"

"One of Dr.
Giesk's staff, my lord. A young man—around twenty-four years of
age."

"Indeed?
And this young man has been to see me before now? The matter must be
important. Did he say what it was?"

"He has,
quite frankly, my lord, been making a nuisance of himself," Agis
struck in, somewhat astonished that during this emergency his lord
was interested in such a trivial matter. "He's been here nine
times during the last three days. I asked what he wanted and he
replied that it was a private matter. I told him that your lordship
was not in the habit of listening to the grievances of every minor
member of his crew. I advised the nurse to go through channels, talk
to his superior, fill out the requisite forms."

"Quite
proper, Captain. Nonetheless, I think I will see this . . . male
nurse. I suppose you could find him?"

"I suppose
so, my lord." Agis looked dubious.

"Excellent.
Bring him to me now."

"Now, my
lord?"

"Are you
questioning one of my commands, Captain?"

"No,
certainly not, my lord. But—your orders concerning His Majesty
..."

Sagan's lips
tightened to a grim smile. "Confine him to his quarters. Let him
wait. Give him time to think long and hard about what he has done . .
. and what he faces."

"Yes, my
lord. And General Dixter and the other two—?"

"Lock them
up with His Majesty."

"Yes, my
lord."

"The nurse
is to be sent to me immediately."

"Yes, my
lord. Very good, my lord."

Agis left
swiftly. He'd been having a struggle with his face, trying hard not
to appear bemused by his Warlord's sudden shift in commands, and was
glad to take his face out of Sagan's sight.

The Warlord
entered the elevator. The doors shut. It rose smoothly and swiftly to
the upper levels of the ship, to his chamber. Once alone, he opened
his palm, carefully smoothed out the paper, and read again the words
inscribed in an ancient language.

"Benedictus,
qui venit in nomine Domini.

"Blessed is
he that cometh in the name of the Lord."

Dies irae

. . . A day of
wrath . . .

—Requiem
Mass

A soldier,
lying in a hospital bed, dying. A spasm of pain contorts the face. A
male nurse moves near, a hypodermic in hand. The Warlord closes his
hand over the nurse's arm., stops him, instructs the soldier to
continue his report on Dion.

"The
eyes . . ." the private whispers, his own widening in awe and
horror. "I saw his eyes . .

The nurse
starts to administer the drug, sees it won't be necessary. The froth
on the ashen lips lies undisturbed. The Warlord murmurs something
beneath his breath.

" 'Requiem
aeternam dona eis, Domnie—' "

" '—et
lux perpetua luceat eis.' "
The nurse's voice slides beneath
his.

The Warlord
glances at the nurse in astonishment. The two of them are alone. A
screen conceals the dying man from his fellows.

"I am
one of the Order, my lord," the nurse replies in a soft, low
voice. "Many of us are, who serve you in this capacity."

The golden
double door slid aside, framed a slender figure dressed in white,
flanked by Agis.

"Enter,"
ordered the Warlord.

He sat in a
high-backed chair, busy about some paperwork at his desk. He had
removed his helm and the red cape, but he remained clad in his
ceremonial armor. He did not glance up from his work.

The male nurse
did as commanded, gliding into the room with the noiseless ease of
one accustomed to moving silently, lest he disturb the sick, the
injured, the dying. He remained standing near the door, arms crossed,
hands clasped on his elbows, head bowed, eyes on the ground.

The Warlord
noted the posture, out of the corner of his eye; felt a queer,
painful constriction of his heart. He calmed himself, scrutinized the
young man closely. He was tall and slender, with strong,
well-developed muscles in his upper body and arms.

"Thank you,
Captain. Continue with your duties."

"Yes, my
lord." Agis saluted, left the room.

The golden doors
slid shut behind him.

Sagan ceased
reading, clasped his hands on the desk before him. "Look at me,"
he commanded.

The young man
lifted his head. The face was masculine, not delicate, yet refined.
Its expression was calm in the dread presence of the Warlord. The
eyes that met Sagan's were sensitive, intense, penetrating. Eyes that
saw clearly both within and without. His sterile white uniform
gleamed in the harsh, bright light. He seemed clothed in light.

"I've met
you before, haven't I?" Sagan asked.

"Yes, my
lord. I worked originally on
Phoenix.
When that ship was
destroyed, I was assigned to
Defiant.
I worked in the
infirmary on board
Defiant
and I was present the time when you
came to interview the dying—"

Sagan cut him
short. "How do you come to be on this ship,
Phoenix II,
if you were assigned to
Defiant?"

"I asked to
be transferred, my lord."

"It would
seem you are following me."

The nurse
flushed, crimson stained his cheeks. "My lord, I know it
appears—"

The Warlord
waved the young man silent, beckoned him to approach. The nurse, arms
folded, as if he were accustomed to hiding them in flowing sleeves,
came near. Sagan shoved the scrap of paper toward him, across the
desk.

"Did you
leave this note for me near my private elevator? Think well before
you answer, young man."

The Warlord
reached down to his side, removed the blood-sword from its scabbard,
and laid it on top of the desk, his hand resting upon the hilt. "You
indicated to me on
Defiant
that you have somehow penetrated a
secret of mine. It is dangerous to know my secrets. I have long had
you under surveillance. You did your job, remained silent, and so I
left you alone. But now you have obtruded yourself into my life. The
sender of this note is marked for death. Unless you can convince me
otherwise, you will not leave this room alive."

The young man
smiled faintly. "I was the one who left you the note, my lord,"
he said without hesitation. The hands that reached out to touch the
paper were firm and did not tremble. "I tried many times to see
you, but was refused. I was desperate. I didn't know what else to do.
The message that I bear is of such importance, such urgency ..."

"What is
your name?" The Warlord's face was grim.

"The name
as it reads on my files or my true name, my lord?"

"Whatever
name you think it wise to give me."

"You would,
of course, know the name on my files. My true name is Brother
Fideles, my lord."

The Warlord sat
quietly, his expression carefully impassive. Finally, he rose to his
feet. He lifted the bloodsword from the desk, inserted the five steel
needles that protruded from its hilt into five matching scars on the
palm of his hand. The sword flared to life, drawing its energy from
Sagan's body. He held the sword in his right hand, pointed with his
left.

"You see
before you a screen. Step behind it."

The nurse did as
he was told, walked calmly behind a screen made of panels of plain
black cloth. The Warlord accompanied him, the sword's blade hummed
loudly, eagerly.

A low table
covered with a black-velvet cloth stood before them.

"Lift the
cloth," Sagan commanded.

The young man
did as he was bid. On the table, beneath the cloth, were three
objects: a small porcelain bowl holding rare and costly oil, a silver
dagger with a hilt in the shape of an eight-pointed star, a silver
chalice inscribed with eight-pointed stars.

The young man
raised his eyes to meet the Warlord's. Sagan nodded, gestured toward
the table. The young man lowered his eyes in acquiescence. He knelt
down reverently before the table, raised his hands in the air,
pronounced the ritual prayer in soft, inaudible tones. Sagan watched
the lips move, repeated the prayer himself in his heart.

The prayer
ended. The young man struck a match, lit the oil. The bittersweet
odor of incense, of sanctity, perfumed the cold, sterile air of the
Warlord's quarters. The young man rolled up the sleeve of his shirt,
laying bare the flesh of his left arm, an arm marked by scars that
had not been made by an enemy, but were self-inflicted.
Unhesitatingly, the young man lifted the silver dagger and, murmuring
another prayer, placed the sharp point against his skin.

The Warlord bent
down, put his hand upon the hand holding the dagger. "Stop.
There is no need."

The young man
bowed his head, replaced the dagger gently upon the velvet cloth, and
rose to his feet. Sagan switched off the bloodsword, returned it to
its hilt at his side.

The two remained
standing behind the black screen, that partially shut off the harsh
glare of the lights in the Warlord's quarters, cast a dark shadow
over both. The flame of the oil lamp burned a flickering yellow-blue,
which was reflected in the clear eyes of the young man.

Sagan
scrutinized him, studied him intently.

"Fideles.
Faithful. Brother Faithful. A name of honor."

"I strive
to be worthy of it, my lord," the young man said softly, eyes
cast down.

"You know
the prayers, you are familiar with the ritual. You bear the proof of
your faith upon your arm. I would understand this, if you were an old
man. But you are young. The Order was destroyed during the
Revolution, eighteen years ago, while you were but a child. Who are
you, Brother Fideles? And what do you want of me?"

"I am a
priest in the Order of Adamant, my lord. The Order sent me to be near
you, knowing the time would come when my services would be needed.
That time has arrived, my lord"—Brother Fideles lifted his
eyes—"but first I see I should explain ..."