ANDERSON, TAYLOR - Crusade

She gently touched his lips, reassured by the warm breath she felt. He was getting old beyond his years, with the burden placed upon him, and she noticed for the first time that a few white whiskers had appeared in the stubble on his chin. Maybe he had been wrong to trust the Aryaalans, although she would never, ever, tell him so. Maybe even his whole grand strategy to roll back the Grik and create a world where all of them, destroyermen and Lemurians, could live in safety, was hopeless and doomed from the start. She slowly stood so as not to wake him, and stretched her painful muscles. That may very well be, she thought grimly, but it’s something that needs doing, and we have to try . If Walker and Mahan had been saved from the Japanese only so they could linger in some sort of purgatory of endless strife, so be it. At least she would be there to support Matthew Reddy however he would let her, and patch him up when the need arose as well. And if he believed they could make a difference, then somehow she would believe it too.

CHAPTER 2

Prince Rasik-Alcas sprawled on the heap of cushions opposite his father’s massive throne in the Royal Chamber of the high, sprawling palace. Blood matted his fur—none of it his—and he idly reflected that the opulent pillows would be ruined, but he didn’t care. He was exhausted by the fighting that Phad convulsed the city, even while the titanic struggle raged beyond the walls. He had, of course, never intended to get as caught up in it as he had, but when some of the palace guard, spurred by rage and shame, actually rose against the king, Rasik had been forced to fight. It was something he didn’t much enjoy, strangely enough—at least the physical aspects of it. He was keenly interested in war and strategy and politics and all the heady matters a future king should be interested in, but the actual fighting was something he’d just as soon leave to others. That didn’t mean he wasn’t any good at it.

And a good thing too, he mused, watching his bloated father nervously stuffing food into his jowly face. The king certainly wasn’t much good in a fight. He’d literally squeaked in surprised terror when the guard’s sword flashed down from behind. It missed him by the very thickness of the royal cloak it slashed, and Rasik was still amazed that anyone could miss something so fat and awkward. It just goes to show, he thought philosophically, if you’re going to retain a palace guard, always choose them from the nobility. Then, if they are treacherous, they will probably be incompetent as well.

He lifted an eyelid and glanced idly at the only guard currently in the chamber. A loyal one, he thought with a smirk. Rasik didn’t know the guard’s name and didn’t care what it was, but he was a formidable warrior. He’d fought alongside Rasik, defending his king and prince from the very beginning of the attempt against them. He had, in fact, been the only one for a time. Now he stood, nervously vigilant, as the occasional sounds of renewed fighting wafted through the broad arched windows and all it might be a while before they managed to root out all the traitors. And, of course, there was Rolak. Rasik seethed. He could still feel the cold metal of Rolak’s blade against his neck. That one would surely die, he promised himself. And the Orphan Queen as well.

“I told you!” proclaimed Fet-Alcas in a frail attempt at a menacing growl. “We should have let Rolak out!”

Rasik sighed. “No, you didn’t, sire.”

Fet-Alcas blinked. “Well, he got out anyway,” he grumped. “And then those ridiculous sea folk actually defeated the Grik!” His voice became shrill. “That . . . that you did tell me would not happen!” Rasik lazily blinked unconcern. “And then a rebellion!” wheezed the king, spewing food across the tiled chamber. “Never before in history has Aryaal rebelled against its rightful king!” Fet-Alcas’s rheumy eyes smoldered. “And all because you counseled me to deprive our people of their place in the battle! A battle arranged by the rightful Protector himself.” He stared out the windows at the darkness beyond. “No wonder they rebelled,” he murmured. “The greatest battle ever fought—and a victory!” He glared back at his son. “You did that!” he accused darkly, draining a cup of seep. Rasik yawned and blinked irony. “I did not want Rolak to go,” the king admitted, “but only because you said the sea folk would lose! We could fall upon the Grik remnants and have our great battle to ourselves!”

Fet-Alcas belched then, and shifted uncomfortably on his throne. “But no!” he continued bitterly. “The miserable sea folk and their friends with the iron ships did not lose! It is we who lost!” He stared back into the darkness with a grimace. “The greatest battle ever fought!” he repeated and took a gulp from another cup of seep.

“Do not complain, sire,” Rasik sneered. “Our people had their battle after all!”

Fet-Alcas turned to him and began a furious shout, but all that emerged was a gout of blood. It splashed down on his white robe and pooled like vomit at his feet. Both Rasik and the guard rushed to his side and stared at the king as he looked at them in shock.

“The king is ill!” cried the guard in alarm.

“No,” said Rasik, as he drove his own sword into the distracted retainer’s throat. Blood spurted down the sword onto Rasik’s hand and splattered on the king’s white robe. The guard fell to the floor and thrashed, describing great crimson arcs upon the tile as his mouth opened and closed spasmodically. His tail whipped back and forth for a few seconds more, smearing the blood still further, and then he lay still.

Fet-Alcas, stunned, looked at the corpse that had fallen almost at his feet. He tried to speak, but yet another gush of blood poured forth and he was wracked with spasms of agony. Silently, for the most part, he continued to retch, but by now the blood had slowed to a trickle. The poison in the seep from the cup he still held was of a type that deadened all pain and sensation while it corrosively ate any flesh that it touched. At least it deadened it for a while. Fet-Alcas looked at the cup in his paw and then dropped it in horror.

Rasik slowly sheathed his own sword and drew the one worn by the dead guard. His eyes were wide with excitement and his tail twitched nervously back and forth. “No,” he repeated with a hiss, drawing his thin lips hard across his teeth. “You are not ill, sire. You are dead. Killed by another traitorous guard!”

With that, he slashed down repeatedly across the king’s neck and upper chest, grunting with effort as the blade bit deep. Finally,peate throne and joined the guard on the tile abattoir. Rasik stood motionless, listening, while his breathing returned to normal. Laying the bloody sword on the floor, he drew his own again and looked at it wonderingly. Then he dipped the tip into the pool of blood rapidly spreading beneath his father’s corpse.

“A king’s blood on a king’s sword,” he whispered, and stepping toward the hallway that led to the chamber door, he began to run. “Murderers!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, flinging the door wide. “They have murdered the king!”

Courtney Bradford stood at the barricade staring through his “borrowed” binoculars at the scene of the previous day’s battle. The first rays of the sun were creeping above the horizon, but so far all he could see was a seemingly endless sea of indistinct shapes, alone or massed in piles, across the marshy plain. Occasionally he saw movement. Either a wounded Grik that the searchers hadn’t dispatched the night before, or possibly some scavenger darting furtively through the unprecedented smorgasbord.