Deathstalker War

by Simon R. Green

  Owen lay there for what seemed like ages. His whole left side was numb. He rolled slowly onto one side and tried to get his feet under him. His head hurt, and there was blood in his mouth. The world seemed very quiet around him, the sounds of battle far away, as though everything was hesitating, to see what would happen next. He rose to one knee, swayed sickly, and then forced himself to his feet by leaning against the cracked stone wall. Parts of dead marines, torn and burnt and fused together, lay scattered across the square, marking the edges of the beam. Some marines and an officer stood behind the disrupter cannon facing him, which hummed loudly as it powered up for another shot. They seemed to be looking at something behind him. Owen turned slowly to look. He saw the hole in the wall where Hazel had been standing and knew at once what it meant. He tilted back his head, and something that was partly a scream and partly a howl of rage echoed back from the walls of the square.

  A camera hovered high above him, getting it all. Toby Shreck and Flynn had been swept along with Chevron’s force, and since they were heading for the center of the city and certain victory, the two newsmen had stuck with them. Unfortunately, Chevron had proved as insufferable as their official minder, Lieutenant Ffolkes. But as long as they were getting good footage of Imperial victories, he was content to let them get on with their job. Like covering the final bringing to heel and execution of that most notable traitor and outlaw, Owen Deathstalker.

  Toby couldn’t believe his luck. One of the great turning points of history, and he was right there on the spot. He’d recognized the Deathstalker the moment he set eyes on him. He’d become the face of the rebellion for many people in the Empire, almost as famous as the legendary professional rebel, Jack Random. He looked . . . different in person. Not as tall or as big as expected, but still there was something about him—an air, a feeling of greatness. Somehow you just knew you were looking at a man touched by destiny. And now here he was, brought low at last, even if the Empire did have to use a whole army to do it. The last echoes of his despairing cry were dying away, a terrible, awful sound that had raised the hairs on the back of Toby’s neck. It was the cry of some great beast, the last of its kind, driven and harried till it had nowhere else to run. It was also a savage promise of blood and devastation, the cry of a man with nothing left to lose. He lowered his head to stare steadily at the forces arrayed against him, and Toby’s blood ran cold. The Deathstalker, one man soaked in his own blood, was suddenly the most dangerous and frightening thing he’d ever seen. It was like standing in the path of an oncoming hurricane, a great force of nature, grim and implacable. It was like looking into the eyes of a god, or a devil. Toby swallowed hard, but didn’t budge. He was here to see a legend go down. Flynn stirred uncertainly at his side.

  “What is it?” said Toby, not looking away from the scene before him. “Don’t tell me we’re not getting this.”

  “We’re getting something,” said Flynn quietly. “There’s some kind of energy source present, interfering with my camera’s systems. Damned if I know what it is. I’ve never seen anything like it before. But it appears to be centered around the Deathstalker.”

  “Stuff your energy surges. Is the picture coming though clearly?”

  “Well yes, but. . .”

  “Then switch to live broadcast. The whole Empire’s going to want to see this. Damn, we’ve hit it lucky. They’ll be showing this footage for years.”

  “I’ve got him,” said Flynn. “The poor bastard.”

  Trapped in a filthy back alley, surrounded by the dead and the dying, and facing an army of Imperial marines and a disrupter cannon, Owen Deathstalker looked unhurriedly about him. There was no way out, but he already knew that. It seemed Chance’s espers had been right after all. They’d predicted he would die alone, in Mistport, far from friends and succor, with everything he believed in lost and destroyed. He just hadn’t thought it would be so soon. Or that it would mean Hazel’s death, too. He never had got round to telling her he loved her, and now he never would. He studied the men before him and hefted his sword. Blood dripped thickly from the blade. He had no intention of waiting for the cannon to finish recharging. One last act of defiance, one last swing of the sword, and at least he’d go out fighting, as a Deathstalker should. A few last seconds to get his breath, and savor the many strange ways his life had taken. It felt so good to be alive. But Hazel was dead, his cause was lost, and all that remained was to die well, and take as many of the bastards with him as he could. He smiled slowly at his enemies, a nasty, humorless, death’s-head grin, and his sword seemed very light in his hand.

  And that was when he heard something moving behind him. He spun around, sword lifting, furious that they wouldn’t at least do him the courtesy of facing him as they killed him, and then his jaw dropped as he saw Hazel d’Ark pull herself painfully through the hole in the rear wall. Her face was deathly white, and she was awash in her own blood, but her sword was still in her hand, and she had enough spark left in her to grin mockingly at Owen.

  “What’s the matter, Deathstalker? You should know by now—I don’t die that easily.”

  She sat down with her back against the wall, trembling violently. Owen crouched beside her and took her hand in his. It was deathly cold. Blood had run thickly from her nose and mouth, and was still dripping from her chin. He could feel her presence in his mind, but it was dim and fading, like a guttering candle in a darkened room. Hazel leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes dropping half-shut, like a runner after a long race.

  “Hold my hand, Owen. I’m afraid of the dark.”

  “I am holding it.”

  “Then hold it up where I can see it. I can’t feel it.”

  Owen lifted their joined hands up before her face, and she smiled crookedly. “Never say die, Owen. There’s always a way out, if you look for it hard enough.”

  Owen smiled at her, pressing his lips tightly together so she wouldn’t see them tremble. “I’m open for suggestions.”

  Kast turned to Major Chevron. “Disrupter cannon recharged, sir.”

  “Then what the hell are you waiting for, you idiot? Kill them! Kill them both!”

  Morgan hit the firing stud, and the ravening beam of energy tore into the square before it. Hazel’s hand clamped down on Owen’s painfully hard, and in that split second before the energy beam hit them, their minds slammed together through their mental link, and joined, becoming a whole far greater than the sum of its parts. In that moment of despair and desperation, necessity drove them deeper into their minds than ever before, down past the conscious, past the back brain, and into the undermind. Time seemed to slow and stop. Energy built within them, tapped from some unknown source both within and outside them, fueled by love and rage and a refusal to be beaten while they were still needed. The energy blazed up and roared out of them, fast and deadly and quite unstoppable.

  It met the energy beam from the disrupter cannon, swallowed it whole, and roared on. It hit the cannon and blew it apart. Kast and Morgan died screaming as the energy tore them to shreds. They vanished in splashes of blood and splintered bone. Major Chevron died next, his dreams of conquest and victory shattered like his body. And still the energy tore on, slamming into the massed ranks of the Imperial marines. They all died, hundreds of men helplessly lifting their swords and guns against a force that could not be stopped or denied. Their bodies exploded, blood and bone tumbling on the air. And then it was all over, and a horrid quiet peace fell across the square.

  Toby Shreck and Flynn looked at each other. Blood and death and carnage lay ail around them, but they had not been touched. Even Flynn’s camera was still in place, hovering above the square, staring down at Owen and Hazel, still sitting together with their backs against the wall. Flynn shook his head slowly.

  “How come we’re not dead?”

  “Beats the bell out of me,” said Toby. “Either they didn’t see us as enemies, or we just weren’t important enough to bother with.”

  Owen and Hazel sat togeth
er, looking slowly about them, their breathing gradually easing as they realized the danger was past. The power that had passed briefly though them was gone, leaving no trace of its passage save a bone-deep weariness. They’d given all they had to give, and more, and there was nothing left in them now but a terrible tiredness of the mind, as well as the body. Owen’s gaze fell upon Toby and Flynn, standing alone in the sea of carnage and broken bodies. He rose painfully to his feet, and beckoned for them to approach him. Flynn looked like he’d very much rather not, but Toby dragged him forward, until they were standing before the Deathstalker. He looked less like a legend up close, and more human. In fact, he looked mostly like a man who’d had to carry too many burdens in his time, but did it anyway, because there was no one else. He gestured at the camera hovering above him.

  “Bring that thing down here. I have something to say.”

  Flynn brought it down through his comm link, till it was hovering before Owen’s face. He nodded to Flynn and Toby and then addressed the camera.

  “Greetings, Lionstone, if you’re looking in. This is the rightful Lord Deathstalker, coming to you live from the rebel city of Mistport. Just thought I’d let you know your invasion is a bust. It never stood a chance. Your army of professional killers was never going to be a match for a city of free men and women. And as soon as we’ve finished clearing up the mess you’ve made here, we’ll be coming to see you. Remember my face, Lionstone. You’ll live to see your forces scattered and your Empire fall, and then I will walk into Court, rip the crown off your head, and kick your nasty ass right off the Iron Throne. You should never have happened. You were an unfortunate mistake, an error in history, that I will put right at the first possible moment. Be seeing you, Empress.” He looked at Flynn. “That’s it. You can go now.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of an exclusive interview?” said Toby Shreck. Owen looked at him, and Toby fell back a pace. “No, I didn’t really think so. Come on, Flynn, time to go. We don’t want to outstay our welcome.”

  And then they both turned and ran, the camera bobbing along behind them. Owen smiled tiredly. They had no way of knowing his speech had been pure bravado, using up what little strength he had left. He turned unsteadily, and went back to sit down beside Hazel. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was very shallow, but her eyes drifted halfway open as he settled himself at her side.

  “Yeah. What you said, stud. Always knew your propensity for making speeches would come in handy one day.”

  “How do you feel?” said Owen. It wasn’t a casual question.

  “Tired. At peace. What the hell did we tap into just then? Some power the Maze gave us?”

  “I don’t think so. It felt more like something we’d always had, something the Maze just put us in touch with. Maybe someday all Humanity could learn to do what we did.”

  “Yeah,” said Hazel. “Maybe. But I doubt we’ll be around to see it. That energy blast pretty much used us up. There’s nothing left in me anymore.”

  “Same here,” said Owen. “Guess our time’s run out. There are worse ways to go. And at least we got a chance to throw a scare into the Iron Bitch first. Hazel, there’s . . . something I’ve been meaning to tell you . . .”

  “Same here,” said Hazel. “My Blood addiction’s gone. I can feel it. That energy surge scoured it right out of my system. I’m clean, at last.”

  “I’m glad. Hazel, I wanted to say . . .”

  And then his voice was drowned out by the roar of gravity engines overhead. Owen looked up, and then forced himself to his feet again. Six gravity barges were hovering above the square, their disrupter cannon trained on him and Hazel. Owen’s hand clenched around his sword hilt, but knew that this time there wasn’t going to be any last-minute escape. Even at his peak he doubted he’d have been able to stand against the massed disrupter cannon of six gravity barges. He looked up at them and grinned defiantly anyway.

  “You people ever heard of the word overkill?”

  “The fight’s over, Death stalker,” said an amplified voice from above. “But you don’t have to die here. Lionstone has empowered us to make you an offer. Surrender to us, and you will be allowed to live. Our scientists could learn much from studying you.”

  “Tell them to go to hell, Deathstalker,” said Hazel, behind him. “My mother didn’t raise me to be a laboratory rat. Probably vivisect us, first chance they got. Or send their mind techs into our heads, to turn us to their side. We can’t allow that, Owen.”

  “Our sensors indicate that you are gravely wounded, and your companion is dying,” said the amplified voice. “We can save both of you. We have a regeneration machine aboard the Defiant. She doesn’t have to die, Deathstalker. It’s up to you.”

  “Owen . . .” said Hazel.

  “I’m sorry, Hazel,” said Owen. “I’m not ready for both of us to die.” He looked up at the gravity barges and threw down his sword. “I surrender. Come and get us. But hurry it up. I don’t think she’s got much time left.”

  “You bloody fool,” said Hazel.

  He looked back at her, and smiled regretfully. “Always, where you’re concerned.”

  Hazel tried to reach for her gun, but her, fingers wouldn’t work. Owen sat down beside her again and listened to her curse him till the Imperial troops came to take them both into custody.

  Near the center of Mistport, lit bright as day by the burning buildings and out-of-control fires, Young Jack Random, John Silver, and the forces they led battled the invading Imperial forces to a standstill. The air was hot and smoky, with dark smuts floating in it, and the roar of the fires almost drowned out the roar of the gravity barges and Legion’s triumphant howl. The fighting filled the streets from side to side, and spilled over into back alleys and culs-de-sac. The trampled snow turned to blood-soaked slush, and bodies lay everywhere. The Deathstalker’s projectile weapons were proving their worth at close quarters, but even so the battle raged this way and that, neither side able to take the advantage for long. Steel hammered on steel, the fighters held face-to-face by the crush of the crowds. There was no room for strategy or tactics or fancy footwork, just the hard, steady work of human butchery and slaughter.

  Young Jack Random was right there in the thick of it, his great frame standing out in the crowd, larger than life and apparently unbeatable. His war cries rang out above the din, loud and triumphant and unyielding, and every man who fought at his side felt twice the man for being in his presence. Random’s sword rose and fell steadily, cutting a path through the enemy forces toward their commanders, refusing to be slowed or turned aside. His courage and determination inspired the rebels to ever greater efforts, throwing themselves into the fray as though their lives were nothing.

  And right there in the middle of it, too, was John Silver. He was soaked in blood, as much from his own wounds as others’, but still his sword was steady in his hand, as he pushed himself relentlessly forward. He was beyond pain or exhaustion now, driven by a simple refusal to lie down and die while he was still needed.

  And slowly, step by step, foot by foot, the rebels forced the Empire back, denying them the heart of the city. The invasion met an implacable, unbeatable force, and broke against it. War cries from a hundred worlds and cultures rang above the slaughter, combining into a chilling roar of rage and courage and determination, and the invading forces had nothing with which to answer it. Some marines turned and ran, risking being shot by their own officers, who called desperately on their comm links for reinforcements, or orders to withdraw. The word came back to hold their ground. The gravity barges were on their way. All of them.

  The deaf and dumb burglar called Cat sat on a cooling dead body, watching what was left of the Blackthorn Inn burn itself out. A blackened frame showed dimly through the smoke and fog, smoldering here and there. Nothing else remained of the only place Cat had ever thought of as home. There was no sign of Cyder anywhere. Soon he would get up and go into the ruin, and search for bodies, to see if one of them might be
hers, but he hadn’t quite worked up the nerve yet. He didn’t think he could face life without Cyder. She was his love, his only love, who gave his life meaning and purpose. She couldn’t be in there. She of all people would have had the sense to get out while the getting was good. But the thought of turning over a blackened corpse and finding her rings on the charred fingers was still too much to bear for the moment. And so he sat where he was, watching what remained of the Blackthorn steam and smolder, and waited for Investigator Topaz to wake up.

  He’d carried her unconscious body across the roofs, where he knew he wouldn’t be stopped or challenged. No one knew the roofs like he did. The roar of the fighting didn’t call him, and Legion’s howl didn’t deter him, because he couldn’t hear either of them. Instead, he concentrated on the task at hand, getting the Investigator to a place of safety. And for him, safety had always been the Blackthorn Inn. All the way there, with Topaz’s weight growing heavier and heavier on his shoulders, he’d comforted himself with the thought that Cyder would know what to do about Topaz and Mary’s turning. But now the inn was gone, and Cyder wasn’t there, and he didn’t know what to do.

  He felt Topaz stir at his side and turned around to help her sit up. He sat her on the body, too, it was better than sitting in the mud and slush on the road. She held her head for a bit, her mouth moving in shapes that made no sense to him. He could read lips, but things like groans and moans were a mystery to him. Finally she turned and looked at him, and her eyes were dark and steady. She asked where she was, and he told her in fingertalk, but she couldn’t understand it. He pointed to the street sign, and she nodded slowly. He wanted to tell her about leaving Mary, but didn’t know how. Topaz rose to her feet, swaying only a little and only for a moment, nodded her thanks to Cat, and strode off into the mists. Cat watched her go. The body was getting cold and uncomfortable beneath him, so he stood up. Cyder wasn’t dead. He was sure of that. So he’d better go and look for her. And if he could strike the occasional blow against the invading forces while he was doing it, so much the better. Cat turned, scrambled up the wall, and took to the roofs again.