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
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
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