The Lost King Read Online Free PDF

this direction. He was more concerned about the freighters and
the goods that stood on the docks than an empty warehouse. Still, he
might take it into his head to glance this way, and Tusk was worried
about the middle-aged tenor and the kid. The mercenary supposed
they'd have sense enough to keep to the shadows, but the more he
thought about the refined voice, the desperate eyes, the trembling
fingers— Tusk shook his head, gritted his teeth, and made ready
to leap out and grab them at first sight.
    Tusk leapt all right,
but it wasn't out. It was up. A touch on his shoulder nearly sent him
straight into the rafters of the warehouse. His lasgun was in his
hand in a split second, his body twisting, elbow ready, to debilitate
his assailant with a blow to the gut. A deft block countered his
elbow jab, and a firm hand closed over his, relieving him of his
weapon.
    "It is Platus,"
said a voice as Tusk's body tensed and he prepared to fight for his
life. "Forgive me. It was not that I did not trust you, but I
had to make certain you were not followed. Here is your weapon."
    Tusk's heart slid from
his throat back down to his chest. His breathing began to return to
near normal. Snatching back his lasgun, he jammed the weapon in its
holster. He was shaking all over.
    Platus's hand patted
his shoulder "Excellent reflex time. I almost could not disarm
you. Of course, it has been a long while since I—"
    "Where's the kid?"
Tusk growled. He wasn't in the mood for a discussion of his reflex
time.
    "Dion. Come
forward. I want you to meet Mendaharin Tusca. He will be taking you
on ... on your journey."
    A young man, barely
visible in the shadows, stepped into a circle of light that streamed
from a lamp outside the warehouse door. The harsh light illuminated
the boy's face and body with an eerie, otherworldly glow that seemed,
by a trick of the eye, to come from some enchanted source within him
rather than from any mundane source without. Expecting a typical
teenager—gangly, awkward, maybe a little sullen—Tusk
experienced a shock almost as great as when Platus touched him from
the darkness.
    The boy was tall and
walked with head held high, his well-muscled body moved with an
athlete's grace. His skin was fair, his eyes were a deep, clear blue.
Red-golden hair— blazing like Syrac's sun—sprang from a
peak on the boy's forehead, and fell to his shoulders, framing the
finely chiseled face in a wild, glistening mane.
    The boy's gaze met
Tusk's with unwavering steadiness. Tusk noted the strong chin, the
proud stance, the slightly parted lips. If the kid was frightened by
this strange and sudden journey into the night, he was keeping that
fear to himself. Tusk let out his breath in an unheard whistle.
    He'd been scoffing at
this whole business. After all, what possible interest could the
Congress have in a scrawny seventeen-year-old kid? This Platus was
paranoid, jumping at shadows. Now, after seeing this boy, Tusk was
beginning to revise his opinion. There was something unusual about
this young man; something fascinating and compelling, something
dangerous. It was the eyes, he decided. They were too thoughtful, too
grave, too knowing for seventeen.
    Who the devil was this
kid? He didn't belong to Platus, that was certain.
    "I've lived as
long as I have because I've followed my gut feelings," Tusk said
to himself. "And now I've got a gut feeling I should bid
everyone good night, sweet dreams, and get the hell out of here. "
    But just as he was
starting to speak those words, Platus moved to stand beside the boy.
The light beamed off the glittering jewel he wore around his neck
and, for a brief instant, it shone like a small star in the darkness
of the warehouse. Tusk's hand moved to tug at his earlobe, then
stopped halfway. Growling, he glanced about in the darkness.
    "All right,
Father, back off!"
    "What?"
Platus glanced about in alarm. "To whom are you talking?"
    "The kid. I said,
'Better keep out of the