The Captive

  "Just come to gloat?"

  Drade shrugged.

  "How's Ashlynne?"

  "She's well."

  "And the Cherlin?"

  "The female gave birth last night. They leave for Tierde in the morning."

  "Drade, don't do this. I'm begging you."

  "I begged you once," Drade retorted, his voice bitter. "I begged you not to marry Maiya. It was you who refused to listen then."

  "I loved her, too."

  "No! No. You only wanted to prove you could take her from me."

  "That's not true." But even as he denied it, he knew that, even though he had loved Maiya, he had relished the thought of taking her from Drade. Though they had been friends, they had always been rivals, competing for the highest scores in the academy, for the highest honors in battle, always going head-to-head to see who could be the best, the fastest.

  "What's behind all this?" Falkon asked. "You owe me that much."

  "Hassrick was in financial trouble. Brezor offered him a way out."

  "Where do you fit in?"

  Drade shrugged. "I was with Hassrick when he made the deal with Brezor. When Marcus refused to admit the Cenians to the Confederation, I suggested the attack on the mine. If Marcus was killed, I knew Hassrick would gain control of the mine through Ashlynne. If the attack failed, then I knew Romariz would step in and take over. Either way, I would have access to the mine."

  "What did you have to gain from all this?"

  "Don't you know?"

  Falkon thought about it, and he did know. "I heard that Hodore had secretly allied with Romariz, but that was just to cover up the truth, wasn't it? They've allied with Cenia. And when they have access to the mine, they'll have the fuel they need to attack Romariz." He shook his head. "You're running true to form, aren't you? First you sold out to Romariz, and now to Cenia."

  "Think whatever you want."

  "Hodore and Cenia aren't strong enough to go up against Romariz. Who else is involved?"

  "Riga Twelve. Polixe. Hodore. Trellis, of course. I have convinced them to put their petty squabbles aside for the greater good of all."

  Falkon frowned thoughtfully. "What of Andoria and Swernolt?"

  "They refuse to join us without Daccar."

  All the minor powers of the galaxy, Falkon mused. Combined, they had enough men and firepower to bring Romariz to its knees. "What of Daccar?" he asked.

  Drade glanced away. "They have not yet agreed, but they will."

  "Why, Drade?" he asked. "What's in it for you?"

  Drade shook his head, refusing to answer.

  But Falkon knew, just as he knew he had done Drade a terrible wrong. "Revenge," he said. "For Maiya."

  "Yes!" Hatred flared in the depths of Drade's eyes. "I helped the Romarians get where they are, and I will bring them down." Drade shook his head. "She was married to you, but you were never there. I was the one she turned to when she was lonely, the one she turned to when she needed help."

  Falkon took a deep breath. "I loved her. I couldn't help it. But I was wrong to take her from you. I know that now, and I'm—" His hands tightened around the bars. "I'm sorry."

  Drade didn't say anything, only stood there, staring back at him, making Falkon wonder if he, too, was remembering the past, when the two of them had been almost inseparable, when they were both young and eager for war.

  And then Drade nodded. "She was too good for either of us."

  It had taken five years, Falkon mused, but they had finally found something they could agree on.

  "You've lost whatever you hoped to gain," Falkon said. "Our people will never unite with Cenia. The counsel will not listen to your advice, or follow you into battle. You know that, don't you? You are a traitor in their eyes, stripped of your rank. They will never forgive you for what you've done."

  "And you are their hero."

  Falkon slammed his fist against one of the bars. "Some hero!"

  A slow smile spread over Drade's face and then, to Falkon's amazement, he laughed.

  He was still laughing when he turned and walked away.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Be careful what you ask for, daughter, lest you get it.

  Her mother's words rang in Ashlynne's mind as she was pushed into a small gray cell. She had longed to go home again, but not like this. Her hair had been cut short, and she had been issued a pair of black breeches, a coarse shirt, and a pair of thick-soled boots.

  She lifted a hand to her hair, her eyes burning with tears. Of all the things she had endured, standing with her hands and feet bound while a slave with dirty hands and fetid breath cut her hair was the worst. She had closed her eyes, remembering the touch of Falkon's hand moving in her hair, the way her hair had looked brushing against his chest when they made love, shining silver against dark bronze, and cried harder.

  They were going to be slaves in the mine. She stood at the door, staring out into the darkness, remembering the look on Darf's face when Drade came to take the baby, the long anguished wail that had risen in Chaney's throat as her child was wrested from her arms. Darf and Chaney were also here, locked in adjoining cells. And Falkon… where was Falkon?

  She stood at the door for what seemed like hours, her hands and feet feeling heavy from the unfamiliar weight of the shackles she wore. She was aware of the collar at her throat every time she swallowed. It made her feel as if she was going to choke to death. How had Falkon endured it for so long? Falkon, where are you? He wouldn't be able to save her now. She placed her hand over her belly, a terrible pain engulfing her as she glanced over her shoulder at the grim surroundings. She would give birth to her child in this awful place, and then they would take it from her, as they had taken Chaney's child, and she would never see it again.

  Sinking down on the hard, narrow cot that was her bed, she closed her eyes and prayed that she would die in childbirth.

  It was still dark outside when she was roused from a troubled sleep. A man thrust a bowl and a cup into her hand.

  She looked at it in horror. She couldn't eat the food, knew she would be violently ill if she tried.

  "You'd best eat it," the guard said gruffly. "You won't get nothing else until midday."

  She stared at the dull brownish meal made of ground Horth grubs and triticale and shook her head. "I can't."

  "Suit yourself," he said, and turned away, muttering under his breath about the sheer lunacy of having women working in the mine.

  She put the bowl on the floor, sipped the lukewarm bitter tea.

  A quarter of an hour later, the door to her cell swung open and she was ordered outside. She saw Darf and Chaney a short distance ahead, but when she started to go to them, a guard stopped her.

  "Keep your place in line," he growled.

  She stared at the entrance to the mine, and then the line began to move. She followed the man in front of her, ducking her head as she entered the mine's black maw. A guard thrust a pulse axe into her hands, showed her how to use it, and told her to get to work. The axe was bulky and heavy. She was paired with a man who had a drill, and for the next six hours, they worked side by side, loosening the dirt while a third slave carefully pried the black crystals from Tierde's tenacious earth.

  By midday, the palms of her hands were blistered, her shoulders ached, her back ached, her head ached, and she was thirsty, so thirsty. And hungry.

  A slave came by a short time later, passing out bowls of gruel and cups of tea. Closing her eyes, Ashlynne tried not to think of what was in the bowl as she forced herself to eat, but all she could see were dozens of fat brown grubs. It was all she could do to make herself swallow the thick, lumpy gruel. She ate it quickly, washed it down with the tea, only to have it all come up again.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were ordered back to work.

  The man working at her side patted her shoulder in an awkward gesture of support.

  "Welcome to hell," he whispered, and thrust the drill into the hard, unyielding ground.

  
Chapter Thirty-two

  Drade leaned back in his chair, a glass of Romarian wine in one hand. Soon it would all be over, the planning, the scheming, the lies. He had them all where he wanted them. The Romarians had grown overconfident and lazy. They looked out over the galaxy and thought they were in control, but he was the one in control.

  Riga Twelve, Hodore, Cherlin Four, Cenia, Tierde, and Trellis, of course, had all agreed to put aside their differences. All he needed now was Daccar, and when he had Daccar, he would have Swernolt and Andoria as well. United, they would attack Romariz, defeat Ralf, and bring peace to the galaxy. And he would be the hero, the one who had done the impossible, the one to bring Romariz to its knees. At last, after five years of plotting and scheming, he would have his revenge.

  And Falkon would have his. Drade blew out a sigh. He had hated Falkon, blaming him for Maiya's death, and yet, with one simple apology, Falkon had erased five years of bitter hatred.

  He finished his wine and threw the glass into the hearth. It was time for the last act to begin.

  Falkon stood up as Drade unlocked the door to his cell. "What the hell do you want?"

  Drade lifted one hand. A long silver tube dangled from a thick chain. "Do you want to be rid of that collar, or are you going to stand there and glower at me all night?"

  "If this is a joke, I don't find it very funny."

  "Still as wary as a Hodorian merchant, I see."

  "Wary of enemies bearing gifts."

  Shaking his head, Drade crossed the floor.

  Moments later, Falkon was free of the hated collar and shackles. "Why?"

  "I thought about what you said. Daccar won't follow me, but our people will follow you." Drade grinned. "No one fights like the rebels of Daccar." He held out his hand. "Will you help me bring the Romarians down?"

  With a nod, Falkon clasped his old friend's hand. "Let's do it."

  "I think not."

  Falkon glanced over Drade's shoulder to see Hassrick standing in the open doorway, a blaster in his hand.

  Drade didn't turn around. "I need his help, Niklaus."

  "No. He has no part in this. And neither do you, any longer."

  "What do you mean?" Drade asked.

  "I mean you have outlived your usefulness. Give me your weapon."

  Drade withdrew his gun and dropped it on the floor. He shifted to the right a little, his gaze locking with Falkon's. Slowly, Drade lowered his gaze.

  Following Drade's gaze, Falkon saw the small stunner shoved into the waistband of Drade's trousers. He nodded slightly, and waited.

  "Now." Drade mouthed the word.

  What happened next happened very fast.

  Falkon grabbed the gun as Drade fell to the floor. Dropping to one knee, Falkon squeezed the trigger. Hassrick stared at Falkon as ribbons of bright light engulfed him, paralyzing him instantly. He pitched forward, the gun skittering from a hand gone numb.

  Drade stood up, grinning. "Just like that night on Andoria." He picked up Hassrick's weapon and tossed it to Falkon, then holstered his own.

  Falkon nodded as he shoved the gun into his waistband, then tossed the stunner back to Drade.

  "Aren't you going to finish him off?"

  Falkon looked down at Hassrick. It was tempting, but it was too much like cold-blooded murder, and that had never been his style. "No," he replied, certain he would regret it later. "Let's get out of here."

  They took Hassrick's atmospheric transport. It was a small, comfortable craft, prized for its ability to maneuver quickly and efficiently.

  "You should have killed him, you know," Drade remarked, "or let me do it."

  "Yeah. What did he do with Chaney's baby?"

  "He gave it to one of the servants to dispose of."

  "What happened to it?"

  Drade snorted softly. "She kept it."

  "The baby's all right, then?"

  "Far as I know."

  When they arrived at the port of departure, Drade pulled out his Imperial pass, explaining that he was returning an escaped slave to the mines of Tierde.

  Falkon, once again wearing the heavy collar and shackles, stood with his head down. Hurry, hurry. He wanted to shout the words. Every minute they delayed meant another minute Ashlynne spent in the mine… I'm coming, sweetheart, I'm coming.

  At last, they had the proper clearance. A few minutes later they boarded a League cruiser bearing the Romarian crest.

  Once inside, Drade removed the collar and cuffs and headed for the cockpit. "You ever fly one of these?"

  Falkon dropped into the copilot's seat. "No." His gaze moved over the instrument panel. "Doesn't look too different from our own."

  "It's not. Ready?"

  Falkon settled back in his seat. "Let's do it."

  Daccar glowed like a rare earth sapphire in the vast cosmos. Falkon felt a sense of exhileration as they drew closer. This had once been home, he thought, and in the back of his mind, he heard Ashlynne's voice. I'll be your home, she had said, and you'll be mine. Ashlynne. He closed his eyes and pictured her locked in a dreary cell, her life controlled by the collar at her throat, her nails broken, her skin covered with black crystal dust, her hands callused. I'm coming. Hold on, sweetheart, just hold on.

  How? The word pounded in Ashlynne's mind. How had Falkon stood this day after day, week after week? Feeling like she was a hundred years old, Ashlynne lowered herself to the narrow cot that served as her bed and closed her eyes. She couldn't endure another day, another hour. Every muscle in her body ached. And she was dirty, so horribly dirty. Even if she was permitted to soak in a tub for an hour, she doubted she would ever be able to scrub away the fine black dust that covered her from head to foot.

  She lifted a hand to her hair, felt her tears start as she touched the ragged ends. It seemed foolish to cry for something so mundane as her hair when there were so many other worse things to cry over, but she couldn't help it.

  "Oh, Falkon," she whispered, "I'm glad you can't see me now."

  Oh, Falkon, her heart cried, I wish you were here.

  Falkon stood at attention before General Addiz and the six members of the counsel, his voice low and flat as he made his report. Drade stood beside him, as he had so many times in the past. In their youth, they had boasted that the two of them could take on the galaxy. Now, at last, they had their chance.

  The members of the counsel regarded Falkon for several moments when he finished speaking, their faces impassive. It was an old trick, one he had often employed himself. He remained at attention, his gaze focused on the mural behind the counsel table. It depicted a scene from a mythic battle between Dacca and the fierce two-headed dragon, Aka-r.

  "We will consider your remarks," General Addiz said at length. His hard gray gaze settled on Drade. "Your life has been spared in return for the life of Commander Falkon. Had you not returned with him, your life would now be forfeit. The two of you will wait here until we have reached a decision."

  Rising, the general left the chamber. The other members of the counsel rose majestically and followed the general from the room, quietly closing the door behind them.

  "Well," Drade remarked dryly, "that was fun. How long do you think it will take them to make up their minds?"

  "Not long," Falkon replied dryly, and jerked his head toward the door.

  General Addiz entered the room alone. He took his place at the head of the counsel table. He did not sit down, but stood there, his hands braced on the tabletop.

  Falkon took a deep breath. Any decision reached this quickly had been decided before the counsel members left the room.

  "Commander Falkon, despite the recent treaty we have decided to join our forces with the other allies in their fight against Romarian rule."

  "Thank you, General."

  "Our fleet will rendezvous with the others on Swernolt. I trust you will join us."

  Falkon shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't, General. I have other business to take care of."

  "I will take your reasons into
account before I order you to report to your ship."

  "I have to go to Tierde," Falkon said. "My woman, Lady Ashlynne of Myrafloures, was sent to the mine as a slave. I can't leave her there."

  "Myrafloures? Isn't she the daughter of Lord Marcus?"

  "Yes."

  The General frowned. "Is she not the heir to the mine?"

  "It's a long story, General."

  "I'd like to hear, when you have the time." The General drummed his fingers on the tabletop, his expression thoughtful. "Very well. Commander Falkon, the mine on Tierde is vital to the allies. You will go to Tierde and take control of the mine. I will prepare the necessary documents."