"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. 'Though 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
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. 'Though 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
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