Mistworld (Deathstalker Prelude)

by Simon R. Green

  Taylor picked up a nearby table and tore it in two, the heavy wood groaning as it ripped apart. The Hadenman pulled at one of the legs and it came away in his hand, a yard-long club of iron wood. You couldn’t cut iron wood with steel; it had to be trimmed and shaped with a laser. And Taylor had just demolished an ironwood table with his bare hands. If he’s trying to impress me, thought Blackjack, he’s succeeding.

  Taylor moved forward, and swung the massive club at Blackjack’s head. He brought up his shield, and Taylor changed the direction of the blow at the last instant. The club twisted in his hands and slipped under the glowing shield to hammer into Blackjack’s side, throwing him back. He felt his ribs break under the impact, and had to fight to stay on his feet. He coughed painfully, and there was blood in his mouth. Taylor came at him again and he backed quickly away, holding his shield low to cover his injured side. Taylor swung his club with blinding speed, and only a lucky stumble saved Blackjack from a crushed skull. He felt a brief wind caress his face as the club swept past his head, and then, in the split second that Taylor was still off balance from the force of the blow, Blackjack brought his shield hard across against the club. The shield’s glowing edge sliced clean through the ironwood, and Taylor was left with a short stub of wood in his hand. Blackjack stepped quickly back, and crouched behind his shield again. Taylor looked at the wooden stump in his hand, and then tossed it casually aside. He looked at Blackjack and smiled.

  Blackjack circled slowly to his left, pushing chairs and tables out of his way. He needed room to manoeuvre. His broken ribs were a solid blaze of pain, but he ignored them. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Taylor lifted his left arm and pointed at Blackjack. For a moment the Hadenman held the pose, and then he lifted his hand in a curious gesture and Blackjack’s heart missed a beat as he saw a stubby steel nozzle emerge from a slit in the underside of Taylor’s wrist. He started to back away, and then brought his shield across to cover his chest just as a searing blast of energy spat from the Hadenman’s disrupter implant. The energy beam ricochetted off the force shield and shot away to demolish a nearby overturned table. Taylor lowered his arm.

  Blackjack swallowed dryly. He had to get in close and finish this while he still had a chance. There was no telling how many other surprises the Hadenman had built into his body. Blackjack moved carefully forward, and Taylor came to meet him. He cut at Taylor’s unprotected ribs, and the Hadenman’s right hand shot out to grab the sword. The wide, blocky hand clamped firmly onto the steel blade and held it tight, despite the razor-sharp edges. Blackjack could see the flesh part as he jerked the sword back and forth in the Hadenman’s hand, and caught a glimpse of implanted steelmesh beneath the skin. He tried to pull the sword free, and couldn’t. Taylor raised his other hand and reached unhurriedly for Blackjack’s throat. The mercenary brought his force shield across to strike at Taylor’s arm, and the Hadenman quickly released the sword and jumped back out of range.

  They stood staring at each other for a moment, and then Taylor suddenly crouched and leapt into the air with a single graceful movement. His augmented muscles carried him clear over the startled mercenary, and absorbed the landing impact with hardly a jar. Before Blackjack could even start to turn, Taylor’s leg shot out in a vicious karate kick, slamming into the mercenary’s back. Blackjack’s face contorted at the horrid pain and he fell heavily to the floor, dropping his sword and nearly cutting himself badly on the edges of his own shield. He rolled awkwardly over onto his back, fighting off the pain, and pulled a throwing knife from the top of his boot. Taylor stood watching him, smiling. Blackjack threw the knife straight for Taylor’s heart, putting all his strength into it. The Hadenman snatched the knife in midair, snapped the steel blade in two, and threw the pieces aside. Blackjack’s shield flickered and went out.

  Taylor moved slowly forward, savouring the open desperation in the mercenary’s face as he scrambled backwards across the thick carpeting. The Hadenman flexed his hands eagerly. Blackjack slammed up against the far wall, and knew there was nowhere left to retreat. He fumbled at the steel band on his wrist, to no effect. The glowing force shield did not return.

  “You should have checked your energy level,” said Taylor. “It’ll be at least an hour now before the crystal recharges. A lot can happen in an hour.”

  He leant forward, grabbed the front of Blackjack’s furs, and lifted him easily off the floor with one hand. Blackjack hit him in the gut. Taylor didn’t even seem to feel it. Blackjack clawed at the hand so easily supporting his weight, and then reached out with both hands to take Taylor’s throat in a stranglehold. Beneath the rough, scarred skin the mercenary could feel a thick layer of steelmesh. Taylor struck Blackjack casually across the face, and blood flew from his crushed lips. Taylor hit him again, and Blackjack felt his cheekbone crack and break under the impact.

  And then the force shield sprang into being again on Blackjack’s arm, and Taylor screamed briefly as the shield’s upper edge shot up to slice deep into his throat. He dropped Blackjack and fell backwards, blood gushing from the wide cut that had nearly decapitated him. He rolled back and forth on the floor, grasping his throat with both hands, as though trying to hold the wound together by brute force. Finally the flow of blood lessened, and Taylor’s hands fell limply away. Blackjack rose painfully to his feet, and turned off his force shield.

  “A timing device,” he said hoarsely to the unmoving Hadenman. “An old mercenary’s trick. I was beginning to think I’d set it for too long an interval.”

  He moved cautiously forward and checked the Hadenman’s pulse and breathing, to be sure he was dead. He took his time about it, but finally straightened up, satisfied, and looked around for something to drink. He felt very strongly that he’d earned a drink. He headed for the bar, walking slowly and carefully. He had at least one broken rib, probably more, and his back was giving him hell, along with his battered face. The Green Man’s patrons slowly emerged from their hiding places, talking quietly but animatedly among themselves. There was even a smattering of applause. Blackjack wondered if he should take a bow. He’d just reached the bar, when the talk died suddenly away into silence.

  “You did well against the Hadenman,” said a cold voice behind him. “I’m impressed.”

  Blackjack turned painfully round to find a striking medium-height woman with close-cropped dark hair regarding him calmly from just inside the door. She wore an Investigator’s cloak of navy blue. Blackjack knew without looking that there was a hole burned through the back of the cloak.

  “Topaz,” said Blackjack hoarsely. His eyes went to his sword, lying on the floor too far away, while his hand hovered over his holstered gun.

  “You’ve heard of me,” said Topaz, stepping elegantly forward. “Nothing good, I hope.”

  “You’re taking a chance coming here,” said Blackjack. “No one here has any love for the Watch.”

  Even as he spoke, he could see the fifty or so patrons moving forward. It was an unwritten law, enforced by the richer and more powerful patrons, that the Watch left the Green Man strictly alone. It was a small price to pay to avoid open war. It was also understood that any Watchman who entered the Green Man did so entirely at his own risk. No one there liked the Watch, and most had old scores to settle. There was a general rasping of steel on leather as swords were drawn from scabbards. Someone took a bottle by the neck and smashed it against a table. Light gleamed brightly on the jagged ends of the broken glass. The Green Man’s patrons moved slowly forward in a pack, united by an eager, vicious anger. Topaz stood unmoving in the middle of the tavern, looking coldly about her. And then she opened her mouth, and sang.

  The pack fell apart as the song washed over them, scrambling their nervous systems and screaming pain through their bodies. Swords, daggers, and broken bottles fell unnoticed to the floor as their owners staggered back and forth, hands pressed to their ears, unable to concentrate on anything but the awful sound that was tearing through their minds. Topaz stopped singing, and the
sudden silence was broken only by the muted cries and groans of the Green Man’s patrons. They turned away in ones and twos, and then there was a rush for the rear entrance. In the space of a few moments the tavern was empty, save for Topaz and Blackjack.

  All through the Siren attack the mercenary had stood to one side, untouched. He watched, fascinated and horrified, as Topaz took on a murderous mob and routed it in a matter of seconds. Maybe that story about the company of the Guard hadn’t been an exaggeration after all. He wondered for a moment why the song hadn’t touched him. He had no immunity; nobody did, not even another esper. It could only be that Topaz had deliberately focused her song to avoid him. He didn’t need to ask why she’d done it. She still needed information on her husband’s death, and she meant to get it from him. As long as he was careful what he said, he might get out of this alive yet. He watched uncertainly as Topaz moved slowly towards him.

  “I don’t think we have a quarrel,” he said carefully.

  “Then you think wrong,” said Topaz, coming to a stop a few yards short of him. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Taylor. I knew that sooner or later his master would send someone to shut him up. You did rather well, mercenary.”

  “Thank you,” said Blackjack.

  “You’re welcome,” said Topaz. “Now I want the name of your master. He can tell me who murdered my husband. Tell me your master’s name, Blackjack.”

  “Leon Vertue,” said Blackjack steadily. “He runs an organ bank.”

  “I know of him. He’s a coward. He might order a murder, but he wouldn’t have the guts to do it himself. He’d hire someone else to do it, someone like you. I’ll deal with him, eventually. For now, I want the killer’s name.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “Your voice tells me you’re a liar. Sirens know a lot about voices. By any chance, Blackjack, did you kill my husband?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “I did wonder,” said Investigator Topaz. “He was wearing my cloak, and in the confusion of the fighting and the hounds and the mists… I did wonder. Michael died because of me. I’ll kill you slowly for that.”

  “Of course you will,” said Blackjack. “You esper trash never did have the guts for a fair fight.”

  Topaz studied him silently, her head cocked slightly to one side. “You’re trying to anger me,” she said finally. “You want me to throw away my advantages in a rush of emotion. But Investigators have no emotions. Surely you know that.”

  “You’re different,” said Blackjack.

  “Yes,” said Topaz. “I am. Michael taught me to be human again. And so, when he died, when you murdered him, I swore my husband the mercenary’s oath of vengeance. I swore him blood and terror. You know what that means, Blackjack, don’t you?”

  The mercenary didn’t answer. Topaz nodded slowly, her face cold and emotionless.

  “Very well. A fair fight, Blackjack. Then, when I kill you, I will be able to savour it all the more. Pick up your sword, mercenary.”

  Blackjack moved quickly over to where his sword lay, and stooped down to pick it up. He caught his breath as his damaged ribs hurt him, and for a moment everything disappeared in a throbbing blood-red haze. He gritted his teeth and forced down the pain, shutting it away in the back of his mind where it couldn’t reach him. He grabbed his sword and straightened up again. His injured side felt stiff and binding, but that was all. His mercenary’s training would keep the pain at bay for as long as was necessary. He looked narrowly at Topaz, and took a firm grip on his sword. The Investigator had to die. She knew too much, and besides, he didn’t like people who interfered in his business. Blackjack smiled slightly. She really should have known better than to agree to a fair fight. He’d never fought fair in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now. Especially not against some damned esper freak. His smile slowly widened as he advanced on the waiting Investigator. No need to hurry this; he had time to mix business with a little pleasure. He’d show her the real meaning of blood and terror.

  Topaz smiled at him and sang a single piercing note. Blackjack jumped, startled, as the steel band on his wrist suddenly shattered and fell away. He stared stupidly at the smoking wreckage of his force shield lying at his feet, and then looked back at Topaz. She was still smiling.

  “You wanted a fair fight, didn’t you? Now, it will be.”

  She took off her own bracelet and put it in her pocket, drew her sword, and started towards him. Blackjack hefted his sword and went to meet her. They circled each other warily, their blades reaching out to rasp briefly against each other, testing for strengths and weaknesses. Blackjack struck the first blow, and Topaz parried it easily. For the next few minutes the empty tavern rang to the sound of steel on steel as Blackjack used every tactic and dirty trick he knew to try and finish the fight quickly. He used every skill he’d learned in his long years as a mercenary, and felt a cold sweat start on his face as he slowly realised that, this time, those skills weren’t going to be enough. Topaz was an Investigator. He fought on, not giving an inch, searching frantically for something that would give him an edge. He was already hurt and tired, and with his modified force shield gone the odds were too even for his liking.

  He stamped and lunged, his blade whistling through the air in savage cuts and thrusts, but somehow Topaz’s blade was always there to parry him. Step by step, foot by foot, she drove him back, her face never once losing its look of calm, thoughtful concentration. Blood ran from a dozen cuts on Blackjack’s chest and arms, and he couldn’t even get close to touching her. Fear and desperation put new strength into his blows, but still it wasn’t enough. And then he looked into her eyes, and saw the cold remorseless fury that drove her, and knew he didn’t stand a chance. He backed quickly away, switching from attack to defence as his mind worked frantically. When the answer finally came to him, he wondered how he could have missed it for so long. He drove Topaz back with a flurry of blows, and then threw his sword at her. She knocked it easily to one side, but in that short moment the mercenary was able to step back out of range and draw his gun from its holster. Time seemed to slow right down. Blackjack brought the gun to bear on Topaz. His finger tightened on the trigger. And Topaz opened her mouth and sang.

  Blackjack froze in place, unable to move as the song washed over him, scrambling his nervous system. Try as he might, he couldn’t move his finger the fraction of an inch needed to pull the trigger. Topaz’s song rose and fell, roaring through his mind, and Blackjack watched in horror as his own hand slowly lifted the gun and turned it so that the barrel was pointing at his right eye. He couldn’t even scream when Topaz’s song moved in his finger and pulled the trigger.

  Investigator Topaz stared at the crumpled body lying before her. Blood and terror, she thought slowly. /promised you blood and terror, Michael, my love. She turned away, and sheathed her sword. She felt strangely empty. She’d taken a fierce satisfaction in the moment of Blackjack’s death, but now that was gone, and nothing had come to replace it. There was still Leon Vertue to be dealt with. He had ordered Michael’s death. It might be interesting to ask him why before she killed him. But somehow she already knew that Vertue’s death wouldn’t mean as much to her as Blackjack’s had. She looked tiredly about her. Her rage and need for revenge had been all that had kept her going since Michael’s death. Now she had nothing left to fill her life, nothing to stop her from thinking.

  Oh, Michael, what am I going to do now you’re gone.…

  She left the Green Man without looking back, and disappeared into the mists. For a time her footsteps could still be heard, fading slowly away, and then even that was gone, and nothing remained but the cold and empty silence of the night.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  * * *

  In Jamie’s Memory

  SNOW was falling heavily the day they buried Jamie Royal. Thick fog enveloped the cemetery like a dirty grey shroud, and a bitter wind moved sluggishly among the gaunt and twisted trees. Donald Royal stood beside the newly dug grave and
watched silently as the snow-specked coffin was lowered into the waiting ground. Cold Harbour wasn’t the finest cemetery in Mistport, or the most luxurious, but it was one of the oldest. Four generations of the Royal line lay buried at Cold Harbour; five now, with Jamie. Donald bent his head against the wind-swept snow, and tried to concentrate on the priest’s words. The old traditional Latin phrases weren’t as comforting as they once were, perhaps because he’d heard them too often in his life.

  He raised his head slightly, and looked about him. He couldn’t see far into the mists, but he didn’t need to. He knew where his family lay. His wife, Moira, was buried in the shade of the great East Wall. He visited her twice a week; sometimes to sit and talk, sometimes just to sit and remember. Not far away stood a simple stone monument carrying two names; those of his son, James, and his wife, Helen. Both had died in the war against the High Guard, more than twenty years ago. Their bodies had never been found, but Donald had put up a headstone anyway. He felt they would have wanted it. His daughter, Catrina, lay buried close by, next to her mother. She had married twice, both times to scoundrels, but seemed happy enough for all that. Best damned cook he’d ever known. Her restaurant had been famous in its day. She’d deserved better than a knife in the back from some nameless cutpurse.

  And now it was Jamie’s turn. Donald stared silently at the small group of mourners beside the grave. He hadn’t expected many to turn up, and he’d been right. Madelaine Skye stood at his side, unrecognisable in her massive fur cloak and hood. Next to her stood Cyder, the proprietor of the Blackthorn tavern. A hard bitch, by all accounts. Her face was calm and her eyes were dry, but earlier on Donald had seen her place a small bouquet of flowers on Jamie’s coffin. Her hands had been strangely gentle, and before turning away she touched her fingertips lightly to the coffin lid, as though saying goodbye. Beside her stood John Silver, dressed in dark, formal robes and cloak that lent his youthful features an austere dignity. The esper stared down into the open grave with dark, brooding eyes, lost in his own thoughts or memories.