Deathstalker War

by Simon R. Green

  “Leave the old-times shit for later,” said Castle. “What kind of help are you offering us, Deathstalker? Going to walk out into the streets and awe the Empire troops to death, are you? You might have esp or juju coming out your ears, but that won’t stop an invading army. Surely Golgotha didn’t just send us the pair of you and their best wishes? We need guns, explosives, equipment.”

  “We brought a ship full of projectile weapons and crates of ammunition,” said Owen calmly. “They should be being distributed even as we speak. That’s it.”

  “Projectile weapons?” said Magnus. “What use are bloody antiques against gravity barges with disrupter cannon?”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Hazel. “Besides, you’ve got me and Owen. We’re an army in our own right.”

  “Oh wonderful,” said Lois Barron. “An ex-aristo and an ex-pirate with overblown esp and delusions of grandeur. Like we haven’t got enough of those already. Why don’t we all just shoot ourselves now, and get it over with?”

  “If you don’t stop whining, I’ll shoot you myself,” snapped Royal. “These two are different. You felt their power.”

  “Oh, we’re different, all right,” said Owen.

  “That’s for sure,” said Hazel. “And there’s always Jenny Psycho. Wherever she is.”

  “I don’t think we need to tell the Council about her yet,” said Owen. “They’d only worry.”

  “And if you find those two disturbing, there’s always me,” said Young Jack Random.

  Everyone turned to look at him. He’d been quiet for so long that everyone had forgotten he was there. It quickly became clear that the Council found his tall muscular frame and handsome face much more satisfying than Hazel and Owen.

  “And who the hell are you?” said Castle, climbing onto a stool to get a better look over people’s heads.

  “I know the face,” said McVey. “I’m sure I know the face.”

  Donald Royal smiled. “Allow me to present my good old friend, the one and only Jack Random.”

  The Council gaped soundlessly for a moment, then left the table en masse to crowd around Random, pumping his hand and slapping him on the back, and saying how delighted they were that he’d come to save them in their hour of need. Random smiled and nodded modestly, looking every inch a hero and a legend born. Owen looked at Hazel.

  “I may puke.”

  “You already did. Try not to get it all over me this time.”

  Eventually the Councillors got tired of telling Random what a savior he was to them, and having him modestly nod and agree, and they brought him over to the table to show him the great map of Mistport. Steel pulled Random in beside him to explain things, and Owen and Hazel pushed in on the other side, determined to not be left out of anything. Steel ignored them, concentrating on Random.

  “Right, Jack, this map covers all four Quarters of the city, from boundary to boundary. The city’s perimeter is defended by high stone walls, but they won’t last long. They were only ever intended to keep out marauding local wildlife. A war machine will walk right through them. And of course they don’t do a thing to stop gravity barges and sleds. To the north we have Merchants and Guilds Quarters, and Thieves and Tech in the south. The River Autumn runs through all of them except Tech. With our communications out, and most of the streets blocked with people and barricades, we’ve been using the barges on the Autumn to transfer messages and people. One of our few Emergency plans that is worth anything. Most of the rest depended on espers, and they’re not part of the agenda anymore. Whatever it is the Empire’s doing, it’s scrambled the minds of practically anyone with even a touch of esp in them. A few of the stronger talents are holding out, but it’s anyone’s guess as to how long. What’s left of the esper union is concentrating on combating the air invasion, but all they’re doing is buying us some time. We’ve got runners bringing in information all the time, but by the time we get to hear about anything, it’s already over. I’d kill for just one working comm system, but the runners are all we’ve got. . .”

  “Not anymore,” said a new voice from the tavern doorway. Everyone looked around, and there was Jenny Psycho, looking very pleased with herself, along with Chance and a dozen esper children from the Abraxus Information Center. The children were awake and more or less steady on their feet, but their eyes were wild and unsettling. A general shudder went through most of the people at the table, as they studied the insane children in their ill-fitting, grubby dressing gowns.

  “All right,” said Magnus, in his cold grey voice. “Who the hell are you, woman, and why have you brought these . . . people here?”

  “I’m Jenny Psycho, last manifestation of the Mater Mundi. So watch your mouth or I’ll turn you into a small hopping thing. These children are possibly the only espers left in Mistport who aren’t bothered by the new Empire weapon. Possibly because they’re so far out of it even under normal conditions. The rest of the children are taking up positions all over the city. They’re a bit strange to work with, but once you get the hang of it you should have a working communications system again. And I am here to protect you in case the Empire works out where you are. With the Mater Mundi’s power flowing through me, I’m more than a match for anything the Empire can throw at you. Now, don’t you all feel so much safer?”

  “You know, I’d probably feel a lot happier about all this if it wasn’t coming from a woman called Jenny Psycho,” said Donald Royal.

  “Well done, Jenny,” said Random. “I knew you’d come through for us. Now let’s get these children settled, before anything else. The poor lambs look like they’ve come a long, hard way.”

  People bustled around getting the children hot drinks and blankets to lie on, while Chance hovered protectively over them, getting in the way. Jenny Psycho busied herself ordering some strange but potent cocktail at the bar. She seemed to feel that having got the children safely here, they were no longer her responsibility. As always, Jenny had her own sense of priorities, with herself at the top of the list. The children were barely settled when they all suddenly stiffened on their makeshift beds, their eyes rolled up in their heads.

  “Do they often do that?” asked Lois Barron.

  “Shut up,” said Chance. “They’re seeing something.”

  “They’re here,” said one of the children, in a calm, dreamy voice. “The wall has gone down at the southwest boundary. Imperial foot troops are streaming through. The wolves are in the fold.”

  “Shit!” said Steel. “I thought we had more time. Chance, how reliable are these charges of yours?”

  “When it comes to seeing the present, one hundred percent. As to the future . . .”

  “I know, I know.” Steel thought furiously. “Get the runners on their feet again. I don’t care how tired they are. I need them to gather reinforcements for whatever’s left of the wall.”

  “No need to bother the runners,” said Random. “Let them rest. They’re exhausted. Give me some men, and I’ll lead a force down to the boundary to stop the invaders.”

  And as quickly as that the meeting broke up into shouted plans and orders. Albert Magnus volunteered to take Random to the nearest groups of militia and city Watch, and lead them to the southwest boundary. Random clapped him on the shoulder and called him a Good Man, and the grey man almost blushed. They hurried out the door, and Owen and Hazel hurried after them. Jenny Psycho grudgingly worked with Chance to stabilize the children, and interpret what they were seeing. She seemed to feel this was somewhat beneath her, but did it anyway to show she was a good sport.

  Cyder led Cat off into a quiet corner, wrote out several messages, then sent him off to deliver them. If Empire troops were already in the city, she wanted to be sure her various properties were being well protected. Just because there was a war on, there was no need to lose track of one’s priorities. Cat frowned, and then shrugged. He could never say no where Cyder was concerned. And as one of the finest burglars and roof runners in Mistport, the chances of his being detected and sto
pped were less than most people’s. Mistport’s sea of connected roofs and gables were familiar territory to him. So he smiled reassuringly at Cyder, kissed her good-bye, then again for luck, and again because he enjoyed it, and disappeared out the nearest window, up the wall, and onto the roofs, his white thermal suit blending seamlessly into the snow and fog. He had no way of knowing he would never return to the Blackthorn Inn again.

  High above the world, floating in its massive tank, Legion grew stronger and flexed its mental muscles. Its powers stretched across the city of Mistport, dark and potent, messing with men’s minds. Men and women fell to the ground, frothing at the mouth, driven into madness to escape the awful presence that peered out at them from within their own minds. Espers went catatonic, or mute, or writhed helplessly on their beds as their power discharged on the air around them, out of their control. Legion was abroad in the night, walking up and down in human minds and spreading horror. It was vast and powerful, and nothing could stand against it. It was Legion, and it was many in one.

  John Silver fought with the others at the break in the southwest boundary wall, under Legion’s continuing scream. He’d fought in so many campaigns in his previous life as a pirate, against odds of all kinds, but never anything like this. There seemed no end to the Imperial troopers as they came streaming through the huge gaps in the wall opened up by the Empire war wagons. Time had blurred into a rush of blood and pain and clashing steel, and though he stood his ground amidst the rubble of the wall and would not yield, he knew he didn’t stand a chance.

  After the Hob hounds’ invasion of the city during the Typhoid Mary disaster, the city Council had given orders for the twenty-foot stone walls to be raised to thirty feet. Thirty feet of solid stone, four feet thick. It hadn’t slowed the Empire forces down for a moment. The huge battle wagons, fifty feet tall and twenty wide, had smashed through the wall as though it was made of paper. Their toughened steel hulls could withstand anything short of a disrupter, and what few energy guns the defenders had weren’t enough to stop them.

  And so the war wagons crashed through the wall in a dozen places, and the Imperial troops came swarming in over the rubble, firing as they came. The city’s defenders went to meet them with bare steel and grim determination, leaping over their fallen fellows to meet the invaders head-to-head, and there the invasion slowed and stopped, as fighting clogged the entrances. It was vicious fighting, with no quarter asked or given. There was no room in any of them for anything but hatred and murder, a blood madness fueled by the rebels’ outrage, the troops’ battle drugs, and the never-ending scream above.

  The battle wagons were largely useless once they’d broached the boundary walls. They were too big and too clumsy to operate in the narrow streets and alleyways of Mistport, and they couldn’t use their disrupter cannon on the city defenders for fear of taking out their own troops, too. So as always it came down to man against man, and the flash of cold steel. Men fell dead and dying on all sides, but though the tides of battle surged this way and that, somehow still the defenders held.

  John Silver had taken a deep cut across his forehead somewhen early in the proceedings, and had to keep jerking his head to keep the blood out of his eyes. Typical Silver luck. All bad. He’d taken other wounds, and there was more blood on his clothes, but he tried not to think about that. It would only depress him. The buzz from his last shot of Blood had worn off long ago, and now all that kept him going was duty and adrenaline. His sword rose and fell, most often crashing uselessly back from parrying steel or force shield, and his sword arm ached mercilessly. There was no room in the crush of bodies for fancy swordplay or footwork. You stood toe-to-toe with your opponent and hammered it out, with victory going to the strongest or the quickest. And when one man fell, there was always another to take his place.

  Silver would have liked to cut and run, but there was nowhere to run to. If Mistport fell and the Empire took over, they’d hang him anyway, on general principles. And besides, as so many times before, duty held him where courage would not. He owed a lot to Mistport, and Silver believed in paying his debts. His side surged suddenly forward a few feet, seizing some momentary advantage, and Silver had to watch his footing. There were bodies everywhere, underfoot. He recognized some of the faces, but couldn’t let himself think about that. There was only the struggle, blade on blade, and the knowledge that they were bound to drag him down eventually.

  And then suddenly reinforcements were there, slamming into battle beside him like the answer to a prayer. War cries from a dozen worlds and cultures filled the air as the new defenders forced the invading troops back, step by step. The Deathstalker was there, already covered in blood and looking like death on legs. Hazel d’Ark fought beside him, wielding her sword with devastating strength and speed. Albert Magnus from the city Council was there, too, right in the front of things—a dusty grey man with a sword in each hand, unstoppable as a force of nature. And leading the attack, Jack Random himself, the professional rebel. He was tall and imposing in silver battle armor, his face familiar from a hundred wanted posters, driving the invaders back by the sheer fury of his attack. His swordplay was swift and deadly, and no one could stand against him.

  Silver laughed breathlessly and fought on, new strength in his arms. Maybe he wasn’t going to die this day after all. He pulled a thin vial from his sleeve and swallowed the remaining dark liquid down in one draught. It was the last of his Blood, but the odds were the battle would be over by the time he needed another shot, one way or the other, so what the hell.

  Owen Deathstalker took a position at the head of the battle and defied the Imperial troopers to get past him. He was boosting again, and felt stronger than ever now that he was linking with Hazel. Somehow he knew side effects wouldn’t be a problem this time. Together, he and Hazel were far greater than the sum of their parts, more than merely human. He hacked and cut about him with unstoppable strength, slapping aside defensive parries with contemptuous ease. Men fell screaming to either side of him, and did not rise again. Droplets of blood flew from his blade as it scythed through the air, and Owen grinned like a wolf, the scent of blood heavy in his nostrils, every inch the warrior he’d never wanted to be.

  Hazel d’Ark fought at his side, her sword flashing in short, brutal arcs, cutting through flesh and bone like a butcher’s cleaver. Blood, none of it hers, splashed her clothes, soaking her sword arm to the elbow, and the screams of the wounded and the dying were music to her. She’d always had a soft spot for Mistport. She’d always liked to think that wherever she went and whatever she did, she could always go back to Mistworld, and they would take her in. It was the closest thing to a home she’d ever known. And now the Empire wanted to take that away from her, just like all the other things they’d taken, down the years. She was damned if she’d allow the Iron Bitch that final victory. Not as long as there was breath in her body and steel in her hand.

  Her link with Owen was strong now. She could feel his presence at her side, strong and dependable as always. Another presence impinged on her mind, and a familiar smell was suddenly strong and thick in her nostrils. She glanced to her left, and there was John Silver, not far away, stamping and fencing like a man possessed, eyes wide and grinning like a madman. He was flying on Blood. She could see it in him, smell it on his panting breath, even at this distance. A part of her wanted Blood, too. Just a drop or two. It would make her feel so good, comfort her fears, help her forget the helplessness of the fight she was involved in. Hazel fought the need down, burying it deep. She didn’t need Blood to do what had to be done here. Perhaps because her situation had now become so simple—fight or die, fight or lose everything she ever cared for. And perhaps because she was linking with Owen again, and in his presence and strength she found all the comfort she needed.

  Disrupters on the battle wagons began to target rebel fighters on the outskirts of the struggling mob, blowing them apart in dark clouds of vaporized flesh and blood. Gravity barges drifted overhead in vast formations,
surrounded by darting gravity sleds, hundreds of them, like a storm of dark metal leaves blowing into the city. No espers flew up to meet them as they pressed slowly on into the city, disrupter beams stabbing down to blow buildings apart. The air was filled with the roar of powerful engines and collapsing masonry, almost drowning out the shrieks and howls and war cries drifting up from the struggling forces below.

  And above it all, the endless scream of the awful thing called Legion.

  Albert Magnus, that grey and bitter man, fought hard and well with his two swords, and felt really alive for the first time in years.

  He swung his two swords in wide, coordinated arcs, forcing his opponents back. But there were so many of them, and he couldn’t look in all directions at once. A sword stabbed at him from an unexpected angle, and slammed between his ribs. He shouted in pain and disbelief, and blood sprayed from his mouth. He dropped his swords. Someone jerked the sword out of his side, and that hurt him again. And then there were more swords, and axes, hewing at him like a block of wood. He fell, hurting too badly now even to scream, and was trampled on, just another body on the ground. The fight moved back and forth over him till he died.

  Jack Random seemed to be everywhere at once, his sword a silver blur, a dashing death-defying hero, laughing in the face of impossible odds. Just his presence was enough to spark greatness in the men and women around him, and they fought, using his name as a battle cry. He took impossible risks and always pulled them off, and no one could stand against him. He never seemed to tire, and he never took a wound, a giant of a man who spread terror through the Imperial ranks.

  Owen, bloodied and exhausted, was quietly disgusted. It wasn’t fair that anyone should be that fast, that amazing, and that good-looking—not to mention that lucky. The Empire forces hadn’t even been able to draw the great man’s blood yet. Owen felt he was doing pretty well, but he’d already taken a dozen lesser wounds. It was inevitable in a crush like this. The Maze’s changes were already healing him, and the boost kept him from feeling much pain, but it was the principle of the thing.