Survivors - Jean Lorrah [92]
Adin turned from the screen. “So should I have been, but for you, Data.” He added, “Barb died fighting; she would have asked no more. Now, let’s make certain she didn’t die in vain. Where’s Rikan?”
“Here,” came the warlord’s voice. Like the rest of them, he had been caught dressing for dinner. He wore an elegant lace-trimmed shirt and perfectly-cut trousers, but no tunic or jacket. One shoulder of his shirt was torn, drops of blood spattered its pristine whiteness, and a bruise darkened the warlord’s cheek. But, like Data, he was marked with the blood of somebody else. The knife thrust through his belt, wiped off but not properly cleaned of clinging stains, testified to how he had come by it.
“Jevsithian?” Adin asked.
“I am here.” The seer was seated in a far corner, untouched by the activity.
“Poet?”
“Bloody, but unbowed.” The man was seated on the edge of a back table, cleaning his glasses while someone treated a cut on his forehead.
His remaining people and their charge accounted for, Adin requested Rikan to check his people, and turned back to the viewscreen.
Suddenly Sdan said, “Here they come!”
Everyone surged toward the viewscreens as the schematic of the castle shrank to include the surrounding countryside.
From three directions, Rikan’s people were on the move, on foot, in ground vehicles, and in flyers. They might live in the country, but these were no primitive farmers armed with pitchforks and pruning hooks. Soft glows indicated the power packs of phasers, disruptors, percussion guns.
“Where did they get all those weapons?” Tasha asked.
“It’s rather that they managed to keep them,” Rikan replied. “Nalavia attempted to disarm Treva’s citizenry, but the country folk would have none of it. The reason for their delay is that to keep her troops from finding them they have kept their weapons disassembled, the parts separate and mingled with tools and machinery.”
“Your idea, Dare?” Tasha asked.
“Not that one,” Adin replied. “One of the reasons I was willing to take this job is that these people are ready to fight their own battles-all they need is some expert guidance.”
“Not that we can give them much at this moment,” said Aurora. Data heard the frustration in her voice.
“We can give them leadership,” said Rikan, and started for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Adin demanded. “You hired us to protect you.”
The warlord stopped, turned, and looked down at the man from his imposing height. “No, sir, I did not. I hired you to help us fight Nalavia.” Rikan might be old, but he had lost none of his noble bearing. “A Trevan warlord does not hide while other people fight his battles.”
“And if Nalavia succeeds in killing you-who will be the rallying point for those who oppose her?” Adin threw back at him.
“Not a coward, you may be certain,” Rikan replied with dignity.
“Rikan is right,” Jevsithian suddenly spoke up. “He is the last of the warlords-and his crest will be adopted as the sign of Treva’s true freedom.”
Rikan’s man, Trell, turned on the seer. “What are you saying? That my lord will win? Or that he will be made a martyr?”
But the Grokarian replied only, “I see what I see: Rikan’s crest as the emblem of freedom, side by side with the sign of the Silver Paladin.”
Rikan put a hand on Trell’s shoulder. “I must lead my people. Trell, if I die, it is my time. I fought in my youth on the field of battle, but in recent years only in the halls of politics. This is my last battle-I know it in my blood!”
Rikan went to arm himself, as Sdan reported, “The rebel flyers are engaging Nalavia’s-and her infantry are being diverted to fight Rikan’s ground troops. They’re pulling away from the castle-now’s the time to reclaim it!”
So Adin’s gang, Data, Tasha, and Rikan’s personnel began working their way up through the castle, clearing out Nalavia’s soldiers. Someone had adjusted Tasha’s combadge to the frequencies Adin used. Data stopped and adjusted his own, so that he was able to follow more of the battle than what was happening in