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wild ride through the stars. Yet where will the
ride end?"
    The face of the
Warlord appeared on the screen. Immediately, everyone in the room
tensed. The buzz and hum of voices hushed, those who could broke off
communications or, forced to continue speaking, they did so in tones
barely above a whisper. Tusk had the insane impression that even the
lights in the room dimmed, the temperature seemed to drop measurably.
Thus does the atmosphere change, the crowd fall silent and come
alert, when the two combatants enter the arena.
    Dion was on his
guard, treading warily, knowing the first slip, the first sign of
weakness, and he would be lying facedown in the dust, his opponent's
boot on his neck. Tusk could see the strain of the contest take its
toll, could see Dion's jaw muscles tighten to hold his chin firm, the
fingers of one hand twitched spasmodically.
    Tusk's fist
clenched. Damn it, he would hit someone! Right when he got out
of here. Too bad Link wasn't aboard. . . .
    An elbow prodded
Tusk in the ribs.
    "You're
being watched," Dixter shot out of the corner of his mouth with
an oblique glance at various cams stationed throughout the room.
    Tusk grunted,
scowled, but forced himself to calm down. He was somewhat comforted
by the sight of Dixter. The general remained standing at his ease,
lounging against a table, arms folded across his chest, his uniform
collar undone. (His aide Bennett was futilely endeavoring, by
semaphore messages from his eyebrows, to remedy the collar
situation.) Dixter's eyes were on Dion, a half smile played on the
general's hps.
    He's picked the
winner. But how can he be sure?
    Comets, after
all, are held in their orbit by far stronger suns.

Chapter Four
    Hell trembled as
he strode . . .
    John Milton, Paradise Lost

    Aboard Phoenix II, Warlord Derek Sagan stood alone on the bridge;
Admiral Aks having retreated as far from his lord as was physically
possible in the cramped surroundings. Sagan was angry, extremely
angry, and it was conducive neither to one's health nor well-being to
be too near the Warlord when he was in this mood. The admiral would,
in fact, have been in another, far-distant part of the ship had not
Sagan requested his presence.
    The heat of the
Warlord's fury seemed to radiate from his ceremonial armor, the
golden breastplate fashioned in Roman style, decorated with the
phoenix rising from flames. The wretched ensign charged with the task
of transmitting his lord's image and anger to another part of the
galaxy was sweating as if he were sitting in front of a blast
furnace.
    "We have
established contact, my lord," reported the ensign.
    Numerous
vidscreens came to life, revealing, from every conceivable angle, a
communications center in a spaceship light-years away. One of the
shots panned wide, to provide a view of everyone in the room. Others
were more selective, focusing in on certain individual faces.
    One screen held
the image of a young man with flaming red-golden hair, who appeared
defensive, defiant. Another portrayed a black man, sullen and angry,
and, next to him, an older man, in his early fifties, who seemed
slightly amused by the whole proceeding. Sagan's gaze flicked to each
of these in turn.
    "Your
Majesty." Sagan's head inclined slightly in what passed for a
bow, the shadowed-eyed gaze focused on Dion. "I trust you are
well after the rigors of this day?"
    The king was
outwardly composed. But Aks saw the shoulders stiffen beneath the
purple sash, the blue eyes narrow, intent on the eyes of his
opponent, searching for the slight shift in focus that would tell
where would fall the first blow. The admiral shook his head, caught
himself hoping that some minor crisis would arise, call him from the
bridge.
    "I'm
getting too old for these games," he said silently. "They're
not fun anymore."
    Dion's tone was
cool and controlled. "Yes, Lord Sagan, thank you for asking. I
am tired, but otherwise well."
    "I am
pleased to hear it, sire. I have important matters to discuss with
Your