The Last Legionary Quartet

by Douglas Hill

  They had come upon several battered bodies, pulped beyond recognition, in caves that had been too open, or shallow. And then in the bowels of a deeper cave they found two clones who had managed to stay alive. Even then their stony loyalty to the Deathwing could not be put aside: they resisted, injuring three Jitrellians before the combined laserifles of the rest of the force cut them down.

  Then the Jitrellians thankfully left the desolate destruction on Rilyn and swept back to their home world, bearing Keill and Glr and the delighted Tam to be greeted as conquering heroes. Tam told his story over and over, to the authorities, to the media, to anyone who would listen. But Keill stayed as far out of the limelight as he could, making no mention of the word Deathwing or of a golden, metallic giant.

  During his captivity in the tower Tam had decided that the clones were a new variety of space pirates who had set up a base on Rilyn. And Keill did not contradict the story, which became the official version. Then, as soon as he could without hurting Jitrellian feelings, he had escaped from the ceremonies and the celebrations, and had taken Glr and himself off-planet, into the peaceful anonymity of space.

  As the ship left Jitrell's atmosphere, Keill released control to the computer guidance system and let himself sag back into the slingseat. He and Glr would now drift awhile, resting and recuperating from the injuries and the batterings that they both had suffered. But he knew that this time of peace would not last long. The Warlord had suffered a major setback – but he was far from defeated. There was no telling how soon, or where, the next battlefield would present itself.

  He glanced towards Glr, whose round eyes were staring into space as if she were again reliving that final, hideous day of the Starwind.

  'You must have contacted the Overseers by now,' he said, a wry irony in his voice. 'I suppose they complained that I let The One get away.'

  Not in so many words. They were too delighted about knowing who and what he is. They believe that, with luck, they might be able to locate such a creature, if he comes within reach of their monitors.

  'Maybe they will,’ Keill said. 'Because I have a feeling that The One and I are going to meet again,’ His voice grew steely-cold. 'And next time only one of us will walk away alive.’

  The Last Legionary 4: Planet Of The Warlord

  By Douglas Hill

  BOOK FOUR OF THE LAST LEGIONARY SERIES

  BOOK FOUR OF THE

  THE LAST LEGIONARY

  Keill Randor, The Last Legionary, seeking the headquarters of the Galactic Warlord, takes his most desperate risk of all – letting himself be captured by the Deathwing. But the true horror of his enemies is revealed when Keill's mind is enslaved and he is made a member of the Deathwing.

  Every scrap of his martial skill and mental strength is called upon as Keill and Glr fight to save the galaxy from the Warlord's monstrous power.

  THE LAST LEGIONARY QUARTET

  No.1 GALACTIC WARLORD

  No.2 DEATHWING OVER VEYNAA

  No.3 DAY OF THE STARWIND

  No.4 PLANET OF THE WARLORD

  for Pat Williams

  (four is a magic number)

  Douglas Hill ©1981

  Piper Edition 1989

  ISDN 0 330 26713 2

  PART ONE

  PRISONER OF THE DEATHWING

  CHAPTER ONE

  The lean, dark-haired young man was the last to enter the arena. The heat of Banthei's giant sun met him like a wall – made to seem even more solid by the unbelievable noise. More than a hundred thousand Bantheins, in steeply banked tiers rising high above the oval arena, roared their welcome to the fourteen combatants.

  Within that avalanche of sound, the young man could hear his own name being chanted by a section of the crowd that was clearly backing him to win.

  'Ran-dor! Ran-dor! Ran-dor!'

  As the Banthei officials began the opening ceremony, the young man moved into the shade cast by the three-metre height of the arena's containing wall, and stood relaxed, his arms loosely folded. He was slightly above average height, well-muscled, with the balanced litheness of the trained athlete. His dark-grey trousers and boots might have been part of a uniform, but with them he wore only a light, loose-fitting shirt that left his arms bare from the shoulders. In that arena, among the mostly hulking and often misshapen forms of the other combatants, he seemed slight, and unimpressive.

  He was also the only one of the fourteen who was empty-handed.

  Two voices reached him, over the crowd's uproar, from near the edge of the arena.

  'I tell y', he's got t' be,' one voice was saying. 'Y' seen him fight. An' somebody seen him dressed, with th' thing on his tunic – y' know, insignia.'

  'Sun's got t' y',' the second voice scoffed. 'They're all dead, ev'body knows it. Planet blew up, or somethin'.'

  The young man in the arena glanced round and saw two flashily dressed Banthein gamblers staring down at him. He turned away again, his face showing nothing of the grim satisfaction that he felt.

  The rumours had been spreading fast. Most of the crowd had quickly learned that Keill Randor was the name of the young man who, for four days, had been barehandedly sweeping aside some of the galaxy's finest warriors. Now they were beginning to learn the rest of the story – that Keill Randor was said to be the last known survivor of the Legions of Moros, the renowned martial race that had been wiped out when their planet was mysteriously destroyed.

  Not many of the crowd were aware that the planet Moros and the Legions had in fact been murdered, in a monstrous sneak attack by an unknown enemy.

  And not one of the crowd would ever know the real reason why Keill Randor, the last legionary, had abandoned the Legion principles of discretion, of keeping yourself to yourself, and had come to compete in the individual combat section of the galaxy's most popular and exciting entertainment event – the annual Battle Rites of Banthei.

  The crowd was growing even more feverish as the voices of the officials droned on. Keill let his eyes stray over a section of the huge throng. He knew it was unlikely that he would spot anything in that mass of people. But he also knew that someone else was studying the crowd, on his behalf.

  As if on cue, a voice spoke to him – not aloud, but in a silent mind-to-mind communication.

  I have never known so many humans cling to one state of mind for so long, the voice said, with a hint of bubbling laughter.

  It was the voice of Keill Randor's friend and companion, Glr – an alien being from another galaxy, small, female, winged, and telepathic. She was high above the arena, riding the thermals on her broad, membranous wings, invisible against the sun. And from there she was using her telepathic powers to scan, as best she could, a hundred thousand human minds.

  Keill knew that Glr could project with ease, but found most human minds too alien and clouded to be read clearly or in depth. She could take thoughts from his mind, perhaps because the self-discipline bred into every legionary made his mind especially clear. But even then, Keill had to form his mental words with care, as if projecting them on an inner screen for Glr to read.

  'We're a bloodthirsty species, I suppose,'he replied, grinning inwardly at Glr's oft-repeated, mocking disdain for humankind.

  Children,Glr agreed. Primitive children. But at least no one in that mob seems to be planning to spill any blood. Just to watch it being spilled.

  'Keep scanning,'Keill said.

  I will. Glr's mental voice took on a tinge of severity. I will expect a great deal of gratitude from you when this is over. Studying human minds in the mass is very like flying at speed into a mountain of mud.

  Keill laughed to himself as Glr's voice withdrew. But laughter faded as he caught the words of the official oration, and knew that the opening ceremony was about to end. He began to ready himself –

  gathering his balance, deepening his breathing, building his concentration and alertness.

  Anyone watching would have seen no change in his easy, relaxed stance. But inside, Keill was marshalling and focus
ing all the power, the speed, the supremely controlled combat readiness of a legionary of Moros.

  The other thirteen combatants were also readying themselves in their own way, which in most cases meant paying attention to their weaponry. Keill surveyed them carefully, for they were winners like himself, whose strength and skills had got them through the eliminating rounds of the first four days.

  Today would be the two final eliminations – and by the end there would be only two combatants left, to meet in the climactic fight of the sixth day of the Battle Rites.

  The Rites had a long history, reaching back to a time soon after the planet Banthei had been colonised, during the centuries of mankind's Scattering throughout the galaxy. The Bantheins had turned out to be an unusually violent, aggressive group, much given to duelling, feuding and, as the colony grew and developed, localised warring. Some wise ruler had decided that it would be better to turn that tendency into a ritual, before the colonists could wipe themselves out.

  Over the centuries the Battle Rites had developed into a gigantic, highly commercialised entertainment, drawing visitors and contestants from all over the Inhabited Worlds. At this very moment, Keill knew, elsewhere on Banthei armies of men were marching against one another, guided by intricate battle plans, where victory would be won by the most skilful strategist, without a single shot being fired.

  On another battlefield, huge high-technology war machines, robot-controlled, were fighting thunderous, earth-shaking battles on land and at sea. Above them, fleets of robot aircraft wove intricate patterns in the skies and blew each other to bits. And even above them, squadrons of robot spaceships clashed at terrifying speeds and with more terrifying weapons.

  All these battles would be watched by millions of avid spectators, on giant viewscreens around the planet – and by many millions more throughout the Inhabited Worlds, on vid-tapes. But for all those hundreds of millions of viewers, the main attraction was the individual combat section, when for five days groups of fighting men and women, fourteen at a time, entered the oval arena and fought with bloody fury until only one from each group remained standing.

  The winner of the final combat would be, for a while, one of the most famous and admired people in the galaxy. Even the names of the runners-up – those who survived till the fifth day – would be on the lips of humans on nearly every Inhabited World. So already there would be few people in mankind's galaxy who had not heard that one of those survivors was Keill Randor, the last legionary of Moros.

  But for Keill himself, it mattered only that one person, out of all the billions, knew of his presence on Banthei.

  The official oration wound down, the ceremony came to an end. And the crowd screamed expectantly as the combatants began to move, seeking favourable positions, sizing up their opponents.

  Keill stood as quietly relaxed as ever, lowering his hands to his sides. In front of him, a bulky figure wearing a light kilt of metallic cloth turned and glared towards him.

  Many of the best fighters in the Rites came from the Altered Worlds – planets where the environment, over generations, had wreaked changes on the basic human form. The man now sidling towards Keill was one such – squat and inhumanly broad, with leathery reddish skin, his small hairless head set low in the midst of massive, humped shoulder muscles. In one huge paw he held a weapon that was both a bludgeon and a short sword – a heavy, gnarled club with a razor-sharp blade set edgeways along its length.

  There were only two rules governing the individual combat of the Battle Rites. First, quite simply, there was to be no killing. A combatant could wound, maim and disable opponents as much as he liked.

  But if anyone was killed, even accidentally, the killer would at once be disqualified, fined, and forbidden ever to compete again. Which, it had seemed to Keill, would not be much comfort to the victim... But it was the rule.

  The second rule banned all high-technology weapons. Competitors could use only primitive, traditional weapons, and a team of inspectors made sure that this rule was strictly observed.

  Keill Randor was the first man for twenty years to fight in the Battle Rites using only his bare hands.

  The arena began to echo with the yells and grunts of furious combat, the clash of weapons, as the club-wielder edged warily closer to Keill. Still Keill had not moved. Then the other man's eyes glittered, and he lunged forward, the bladed club slashing with surprising speed towards Keill's legs.

  But Keill was no longer there. Without apparently gathering or bracing himself, he had leaped –

  not just above the weapon, but high in the air, above the very head of the squat club-wielder.

  The man had perhaps only just noticed that his opponent was somehow in the air above him, when Keill's boot slammed down with measured precision on the top of the hairless pate.

  The impact drove the squat man face-down and unconscious on to the artificial turf that was the arena's floor. By then, using the club-wielder's head as a springboard, Keill had flung himself into a controlled, headlong dive at two other combatants.

  One was a heavily built woman, wearing a decorated helmet and body armour, swinging a long two-handed sword. She was facing a tall, powerful man whose body was entirely covered with a pelt of thick white fur, and who was defending himself with a short stabbing spear, a wickedly barbed metal head on a wooden shaft. Neither of them was aware of Keill until he crashed down upon them, all three tumbling to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs and weapons.

  Few eyes in the crowd could have been quick enough to see the movement of Keill's fist. The blow travelled only a few centimetres, but Keill had instantly found the balance he needed to put all his power behind it. As he came to his feet to confront the fur-covered warrior, the woman remained down, gasping and retching weakly, with a deep, fist-sized dent in her armour directly over the pit of her stomach.

  The crowd whooped as the furred man feinted at Keill, and then stabbed towards him, lightning-quick, with the short spear. But the point struck only empty air. Keill had spun inside the blow, close to the furred body, with his back to his opponent. As he did so, the edge of his right hand chopped down at the thick haft of the spear, slicing through it as cleanly as if lie had used an axe. And in the same instant his left elbow drove backwards in a precise smash against the edge of the white-furred jaw.

  He had carefully weighted the blow, mindful of the rules. So it was only the jaw that broke, and not the neck, as the furred man crashed to the ground. The crowd screamed with delirious joy. It screamed again as Keill leaped without pause towards the other competitors.

  The untrained observer might have seen them as a tangled and confused mêlée, a wild jumble of heaving, flailing, surging bodies and weapons. But as Keill plunged among them, the combat computer that was the mind of a fighting legionary was sorting all the movements within the tangle, and directing his own movements at incomparable speed. In slow motion it might have looked like a finely controlled and smoothly flowing ballet, as Keill spun, twisted, swivelled and leaped in the midst of the others.

  But ballet dancers do not include, in their repertoire, bone-crushing blows of fist or boot. Every eye-baffling move of Keill's brought a moment when an opponent collapsed – into glazed unconsciousness, or with a cracked bone, or with a nerve centre disabled with pain.

  Until finally there was only one left, backing warily from the lean figure of the legionary who stood calmly amid the heap of fallen bodies.

  The crowd went berserk with joy.

  Then the sound faded to a tense, expectant rumble, as the two men considered each other. And in the lull Glr's voice reached tentatively into Keill's mind.

  Keill, I hare picked up a trace. Some mind down there is very nervous, very on edge. And I glimpsed the mental image of an energy rifle.

  'Can you pinpoint him?'Keill asked.

  Yon seek miracles,Glr replied testily. One individual in this ocean of crazy mudheads for whom you are showing off?

  'Try,'Keill said, smiling inwar
dly. 'While I get back to... showing off.'

  Glr withdrew, laughing, and Keill turned his full attention back to his last opponent. He was a broad-shouldered man, a head taller than Keill, wearing a leather tabard of deep blue that might have seemed black, had it not rested against the pure and total black of the man's skin. The skin gleamed and shone as if the man were carved in obsidian, and Keill knew that it was nearly as hard – a mutated substance like the chitin of an insect's carapace.

  Keill also knew, from the previous days, about the man's weapon – a long steel staff with a heavy club-head at each end. From each club-head bristled slender spikes, like thick hairs, which carried a substance that caused instant, if temporary, paralysis.

  Keill stepped forward, his balance precise, his concentration total. The black man also moved forward, spinning his strange weapon as he did so. The spin grew faster as the weapon moved from one hand to the other in a bewildering blur, creating an eerie, menacing howl, forming an almost unchallengeable shield in front of its wielder.

  But the skilful spin weaved a pattern, and patterns repeat themselves. It proved to be a serious mistake. Keill's eye was quick enough to detect the pattern – and to interrupt it.

  Moving at a speed that made it invisible, his hand clamped on to the long steel staff, halting its spin with a grip that was no less steely. And before either the black warrior or the crowd had fully registered what had happened, Keill struck. Three times, with fist, knee and boot, so swiftly that the blows seemed to be simultaneous, to elbow, kneecap and solar plexus.

  The black man hurtled backwards, an arm and a leg numbed, breath driven from his lungs, muscles turned to jelly. He struck the ground heavily, landing in a foolish half-seated position – leaving Keill standing with the two-headed weapon in his grasp.

  The crowd shrieked with ecstasy, and then fell silent again as Keill shifted his grip on the weapon.

  Careful of the poisoned spikes, he slid his hands along the thick rod so that he was gripping it near each club-head, holding it before him. For an instant he was still, focusing his power. Then slabs of hard muscle leaped into corded, sculptured relief on his arms and upper body. Slowly, steadily, as he exerted pressure, the heavy steel rod bent double, until it was a perfect inverted U.