Traitor's Sun

  over the years poured into a single certainty.

  She caught fragments of thought as if from a great distance, but the terror

  within them barely reached her. It was just a jumble of energy, and Marguerida

  saw it as a whirl of colors, sickly yellows and greens.

  The thick sticks fell to the ground, and swords were cast down. The Guardsmen

  seized the moment and charged the momentarily paralyzed men, and slew a few

  before stubby metal objects appeared from beneath the muffling garments. There

  was a bright flash from one then, and a Guardsman fell back with a large hole in

  his chest. His horse reared and kicked at the attacker, and there was another

  blast, catching the mount in the muzzle. It fell on the enemy as it died, its

  weight pinning the man to the earth, while he screamed with fury.

  Mikhail drove his thoughts through his matrix, drawing on Marguerida's

  supportive energy. A broad beam of light snapped from the blinding facets, wove

  out from the protective bubble, and fanned across the oncoming fighters.

  Guardsmen yanked their horses aside, for Mikhail's weapon could not distinguish

  friend from foe, and they had been forewarned. It flickered into the cluster of

  now firing troopers like lightning, searing the men so quickly they could not

  think to escape its scorching touch.

  Everything seemed to slow to a crawl, and all Marguerida could do was endure the

  hideous vision that opened before her eyes. The dull metal weapons

  disintegrated, and then the men who held them seemed to . . . fall to pieces.

  Mikhail had reversed his healing ability, and now he was undoing the very sinews

  of the enemy. Blood flowed from every bodily orifice, as torsos collapsed in on

  themselves, the ground was a river of blood as men turned to ghouls then to

  corpses in a matter of moments.

  There was confusion everywhere now, with the Guardsmen desperately scrambling to

  get out of the reach of Mikhail's deadly energy, and those who remained of the

  first attackers running blindly in every direction. The men who had only started

  to emerge from the cover of the trees were caught unprepared, and had no time to

  save themselves. The baleful light from Mikhail's hand spread across the

  thicket, blasting everything it touched. The conifers went up like torches, and

  the smell of burned flesh mingled with the hot tree resin, as the ground turned

  from red to black with bloody ash. Those few more fortunate foes who were beyond

  the range of this destruction were being ridden down by the Guardsmen.

  Fire began to leap from tree to tree now, the rich sap of the evergreens feeding

  its hunger, adding to the confusion. Now Marguerida could clearly hear screams

  of pain and fear, and they made her sick. But she did not waver, and neither did

  Mikhail. Instead, she sensed him guide his horse to one side, and she turned

  with him, so that his destruction began to work its way down the side of the

  road toward the back of the train. She tried not to think of the rear of the

  caravan, where there was no protection for the fighters and the Renunciates. She

  knew that there were people back there who were dying in the service of the

  Hasturs. Swords were little use against blasters, but she felt them bravely

  fighting on regardless.

  The sound of the battle began to change, and, as if from a great distance,

  Marguerida realized that what remained of the enemy had only one thought in its

  communal awareness-get away! Neither she nor Mikhail had imagined how terrifying

  the manifestation of their power would be to the Federation troops. She heard

  the occasional sizzle of blaster fire, here and there, between the burning

  trees, but even as she listened, it became less frequent.

  The battle at the front of the train was over almost before it began. A few more

  were caught in the continuing energy of Mikhail's matrix. Those who escaped it

  were hacked down by the guardsmen, or were trapped by the fire. She could hear

  their mental chorus of despair and disbelief as they perished. These men were

  stunned by the turn of events, humbled even as they died.

  From within the smoke and flames Marguerida saw a mounted man, riding toward the

  fight, his face still concealed. She sensed his mind, his purpose, and worse,

  his fatality. It was only for a moment, and she wondered if he would turn away.

  Instead, he rode directly into the glare of Mikhail's destruction, raising a

  gloved hand in a kind of salute as he turned to ash. There was a last thought,

  strong enough to penetrate her senses even in the chaos. At least an honorable

  death.

  Mikhail moved his hand slightly, and the protective shield around them started

  to diminish. Marguerida felt the withdrawal of energy, the painful loss of the

  tremendous intimacy that they had shared during the brief battle, and then only

  her own weariness. She closed her eyes, focused on clearing her channels, and

  slowly felt the exhaustion drop away, to be replaced by ravenous hunger of a

  sort she had not experienced in years. Then, before she was prepared for it, the

  shock and grief struck her. So many good men had died in the short minutes of

  the battle, and more were going to.

  Without a word, she pushed aside the emotion, and saw that Mikhail was

  dismounting, followed by Donal, who was ghastly pale. Two Guardsmen protested

  this action, but Mikhail was already walking toward the slumped bodies of those

  who had been outside the circle of his protection. He bent over a fallen Guard,

  then knelt on the ground beside him, while Donal hovered at his back, vigilant

  even in his slowly diminishing terror.

  The movement of a horse alongside her as she began to swing out of the saddle to

  join Mikhail seemed perfectly normal, and Marguerida barely noticed it. Then she

  realized that Francisco Ridenow was riding toward Mikhail, lifting his sword, a

  look of hatred on his pale face. Donal started to turn at the sound of hooves

  behind him, but not quickly enough. In a second he was down on the ground,

  trying to avoid being trampled.

  Before she could move, or even try to use the Command Voice to stop Francisco's

  attack, Marguerida saw another movement from the corner of her eye. Rafael

  Hastur's horse thundered forward and he brought the hilt of his sword down on

  the head of the Ridenow lord so hard there was an audible crack. The man swayed

  in his saddle, clutching at the pommel with his free hand, then swung around to

  bring the blade of his sword down on the neck of Rafael's horse, missing the

  rider's knee by a few inches. The horse shied and screamed, beginning to fall.

  Donal scrambled to his feet, his face dripping blood. She saw the young paxman

  brush his eyes clean, and then he drove his sword into Francisco's thigh,

  screaming, "You traitorous bastard!"

  Then a half dozen Guardsmen surrounded Dom Francisco, and one of them knocked

  him out of the saddle. He lay unconscious, blood spilling from his leg, and

  Donal, furious and swaying, raised his weapon to finish what he had begun.

  "No!" The word sprang from Marguerida's mouth without thought.

  Donal hesitated, and one of the Guardsmen dismounted quickly and bent over the

  fallen lord. He looked up at her. "You want him alive, dom
na, or should we let

  him bleed to death?"

  Mikhail pushed between Donal and the Guardsman, his face grim and pale. He

  studied Francisco for a moment, then knelt down beside him. Without a word, he

  placed his hand above the wound, the light glittering from the facets of his

  ring in the red light from the fire behind him. Within the space of a few

  seconds the bleeding had begun to slow. "I want him alive," he told the Guard.

  "Death is too easy an escape."

  "If you say so, vai dom, if you say so." The Guard seemed disappointed.

  Marguerida looked down at Francisco, and the entire scene became surreal, as if

  she could not really grasp what had just happened. Kate had been right. As she

  tried to grapple with her inner confusion, she felt an agitation bloom at the

  edge of her mind. It was faint at first, and then it penetrated the cloudiness

  within her. She turned and stared toward the back of the funeral train, toward

  the carriages, and felt her heart tighten terribly. She could see movement, the

  rush of fighters back and forth, punctuated by the occasional wild flare of

  blaster fire. A clutch of fear seized her guts, twisting them.

  Domenic! Mikhail's head snapped toward her, and then she started to run through

  the milling horses and men, past the great flat wagon where the body of Regis

  Hastur lay in his coffin. A broad chest rose before her eyes, clad in the blue

  of the Hastur Guards, and she pushed her right hand into it and shoved with all

  her weight. Despite his greater heft, the man went down on his bottom into the

  dirt, making a noise as the air was knocked out of him. Behind her, she could

  sense Mikhail following, and several others trying to make certain he was safe.

  Her mouth was dry, and her blood was hammering in her veins so loudly she barely

  heard the shouts around her. All she could think of was to get to her son as

  quickly as possible.

  By the time she reached the carriage, she was gasping for breath. The door was

  open, and a pair of legs hung down to the ground. Marguerida moved around the

  door and peered inside. Domenic looked back at her, his eyes very wide and his

  face a sickly white. In his hand there was a short dagger, smeared with blood.

  The torso and head of a man lay sprawled at Nico's knees, a wound in his thick

  neck. Katherine was shrunk back into the far corner and Herm was trying to

  staunch a flow of blood from his left shoulder.

  "He didn't think a boy was any danger," Nico muttered dazedly, and then vomited

  up the excellent lunch he had eaten an hour or so before onto the bloody

  floorboards. The dagger slipped from his fingers and Marguerida swept him into

  her arms, hugging him fiercely.

  Katherine slid across the bench toward her husband. With a sharp movement, she

  yanked the undersleeve from her chemise, pulling like a madwoman until the

  stitches gave way. She dragged the torn sleeve out from beneath her tunic and

  tied it above the wound as fast and tightly as she could, swearing and crying at

  the same time. Herm was only half conscious, but he kept muttering that he was

  all right.

  Marguerida swallowed hard, assured herself quickly that her son had come to no

  physical harm, and crawled onto the back of the dead man, her knees pressing

  against the still warm flesh beneath the clothes. "Here, let me help, Kate."

  "What can you do?" shrilled the other woman, appealing to her with stricken

  eyes.

  "You would be surprised," she answered, calmness claiming her so suddenly she

  wondered where her fear had gone. The makeshift tourniquet had slowed the flow

  of blood, but Herm's arm was a gory, terrible sight. "Get out of my way!"

  Katherine stared at her for a moment, looked as if she would not move, then drew

  back. Marguerida leaned toward Herm, lifted her still bare left hand, and closed

  her eyes. By Aldones, she was tired! It felt like an eternity before she could

  locate the vessels that had been damaged. The cut had missed the artery by no

  more than a breath, but the wound was bleeding badly.

  "What are you doing?" Kate shouted, frightened and furious at the same time.

  "Let her be," Domenic yelled back, then spewed again.

  "It is all right, Kate," came Mikhail's voice from behind Marguerida. She knew

  he was standing at the open door of the carriage now, and she felt his weariness

  as well as her own.

  Marguerida tried to close her mind to the sounds around her, the braying of the

  frenzied mules, the shouts of Guardsmen and Renunciates. That was easier that

  shutting out Katherine's panic, Nico's horror, and her husband's concern. It

  seemed to take forever, but at last she managed to focus on nothing but

  Hermes-Gabriel Aldaran, and for a time, she was isolated with him. She lifted

  her matrixed palm and moved it across the severed flesh, cauterizing the wound.

  Momentarily she felt herself falter, and then felt Mikhail support her until she

  had the strength to complete the task at hand. It would need to be cleansed and

  sutured, but for now she had stopped the bleeding.

  Marguerida finally realized she was kneeling on a corpse, and she drew herself

  onto the bench beside her son. Her face was covered with sweat, and her hands

  were trembling. She drew her sleeve across her brow, and caught a whiff of her

  own fear-charged sweat and the blood on her hands. She wrinkled her nose in

  disgust. Katherine was staring at her, her own hands covered with Herm's blood,

  her skin a shade of white Marguerida had never seen before. "He will be all

  right, Kate, until a healer can clean him up," she managed to croak.

  She was too tired to move, but the noisome atmosphere of the carriage was nearly

  unbearable. She wanted to get out of the carriage more than anything, but her

  body refused to move. Then Marguerida saw a pair of strong hands grasp the heels

  of the dead man still lying on the floorboards, covered with vomit and blood.

  They yanked hard, and the corpse began to move away. There was a dull, sickening

  sound as the body hit the earth, and she felt her gorge rise. She swallowed

  hard, forcing her lunch to stay in her belly, as the door on the opposite side

  of the carriage was pulled open.

  She saw a Guardsman and one of the Renunciates there, eyes anxious. She heard

  the sound of the dead body being dragged aside, and then Mikhail leaned inside.

  Herm groaned and opened his eyes slowly. He tried to lean forward and gave a

  gasp of pain. Katherine leaned forward and put her bloodied hands under his

  arms, supporting him as much as she could.

  "Get him out and bring a stretcher," Mikhail ordered the Guard on the other side

  of the vehicle. "Lady Katherine, you might get down now, so it will be easier to

  reach Herm." When she did not move, he spoke more sharply. "Ease him back onto

  the bench and get out!"

  She stared at him dumbfounded, and then she slowly moved her husband against the

  seat and clambered down. "I am never going to get into a carriage again! Never!"

  Then she started sobbing.

  The carriage rocked as the Guardsman climbed in, and the Renunciate reached over

  and took Herm's upper body. It took only a few seconds to remove him from the

  close quarters, but it seemed a very long t
ime to Marguerida, still sitting on

  the bench, too tired to stir.

  "Don't worry, Mother. That's Danila, and Aunt Rafi says she is a good healer."

  Domenic gave a rather hysterical laugh. "She's been wanting to get her hands on

  Uncle Herm for days now. Come on. Let's get out, too. Here, I'll help you."

  A hand grasped hers, and then a slender arm encircled her waist. Marguerida

  smelled her son's flesh as he pulled her against him, the filthy odor of his

  breath so near her face nearly oversetting her again. Beneath that the scents of

  fear and sweat were mingled with woodsmoke and the faintest hint of mountain

  lavender in the fabric of his clothing. For the first time in her life, she

  leaned on her firstborn and allowed him to help her to her feet. He was safe,

  and that was all that really mattered.

  Once they were out of the carriage, Domenic did not release his hold on her, but

  kept his arm around her, as if he knew she would collapse if he let go. Then

  Mikhail swept both of them into his arms, and she leaned her head against his

  broad shoulder. The three of them stood there, surrounded by armed men, and the

  cries of the injured. Something was missing, and after a moment of flogging her

  tired brain, Marguerida realized that the sound of blaster fire was gone.

  Reluctantly, Mikhail released her. "How did that man get into the carriage?" he

  demanded, his voice angry but sure.

  "He broke through our ranks and then fell to the ground, vai dom. We . . . I

  thought he was dead, and there was so much going on . . ."

  "I see," Mikhail answered, unconsciously mimicking a tone that Regis had used

  when he was displeased. He glanced around at the bodies of both Terranan and

  Darkovans that were scattered across the ground. "He was a bit cleverer than his

  friends. Are you all right now, caria?" There was a curt quality to his voice,

  one she had never heard him use before, and she gave him a sharp look. Then she

  realized that he was holding himself together by will alone, and that he needed

  her to be strong.

  "Yes, Mik, I am better now." She lied, and knew it. He probably knew it as well,

  but he just nodded and gave her a firm squeeze on the shoulder. Nico was still

  beside her, his arm around her waist, and she looked into his face. It was the

  same familiar one she knew so well, but he was not the same person who had