Deathstalker War

by Green, Simon R.

  “You’re really missing the best of it from down here,” he said casually. “I trust you’re getting good coverage?”

  “Oh yes,” said Toby, climbing carefully to his feet. “Right up close and personal, some times.”

  Ffolkes looked at him. “The Empress might have ordered it, Shreck, but I’m still in charge. Follow your instructions. Nothing . . . controversial, or I’ll shut you down.”

  “Got it,” said Toby. “Nothing controversial. Just blood and death and burning buildings.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Ffolkes. “Carry on.”

  And he strode away to upset somebody else. Toby made a rude gesture at the man’s departing back, realized that Flynn was still lying on the deck, and hauled him to his feet. The cameraman was still lost in what his camera was showing him through his comm implant. Toby could have patched it to the frequency through his own comm link, but didn’t. It was all he could do to cope with what he was already seeing.

  In his room on the top floor of the Blackthorn Inn, as yet untouched by the invasion, Owen Deathstalker crawled across the floor on his hands and knees, shivering and shaking. His head hung down, hot and heavy, and sweat dripped from his contorted face. Pain blazed in all his muscles, sharp and piercing, and shuddered in his gut. He was blazing hot, his thoughts slow and muddy as the pain inside him tore him apart. He lurched on, inch by inch, as though trying to run away from the agonies that stretched his mouth in a soundless grimace. He didn’t scream. He wouldn’t let himself. He was a Deathstalker. He couldn’t let anyone see him like this. His shoulder crashed into the leg of a table, and he knocked the obstacle away with one sweep of his arm. He tried again to vomit, but he’d already emptied his stomach. He’d crawled through most of it.

  The trembling had started as he made his way up the narrow stairs behind the bar. At first he’d put it down to reaction at his nearly having died, or the strain of fighting off so many attackers at once. It had been a hard day, after all. But it got worse. His head swam and his sight became blurred. His hands shook violently, and his legs became increasingly unsteady, until he was lurching along like a drunk. Somehow he made it to the top floor, and pressed his shoulder against the wall as he went, to keep him upright. His room seemed a long way away, but he got there, and even managed to shut the door behind him before he collapsed and began to puke up his guts.

  His head crashed into a new obstacle. He hardly felt it, and it took him a while to realize that he’d reached the far wall, and there was nowhere left to go. He got himself turned around, grunting at the horrid pain, and put his back to the wall, sitting more or less upright. The pain was worse if anything, and he felt like he was burning alive. The room was a blur, and he could feel helpless tears trickling down his cheeks.

  “Dear God, what’s happening to me,” he said, and was shocked at how weak he sounded.

  “Side effects from your constant boosting,” said Ozymandius. “I did warn you. Whatever the Madness Maze did to you, you’re still human. You’ve been boosting too often and for too long, and it’s finally caught up with you. The candle that burns twice as brightly burns half as long, remember? You’ve been relying on the Maze’s changes to repair the damage you’ve been doing to yourself, but it seems you still have limits. Human limits. Your body’s been burning itself up, and you’ve nothing left to put out the flames.”

  “There must be something I can do . . .” said Owen, forcing the words out through chattering teeth. He was hot and cold by turns now.

  “I’m afraid your options are rather limited, Owen. You could boost again, but it would only make things worse in the long run. A regeneration machine might be able to repair the damage, but I don’t know of any in Mistport. Or you could throw yourself on the mercies of what passes for medicine on this planet, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Dammit, Oz . . . help me!”

  “I’m sorry, Owen. You did this to yourself. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Oz . . . am I going to die?”

  “I don’t know, Owen. The odds are against you.”

  “Oz . . .”

  “Hush, Owen. It’s all right. I’m here.”

  There was a polite knock at his door. Owen gritted his teeth against the pain, and forced out a single word. “Yes?”

  There was a pause, and then a voice said uncertainly, “Lord Deathstalker, the city Council requests that you join them downstairs. Your advice and support are needed most urgently.”

  Owen swallowed hard, fighting to control his mouth. His lips were numb and his tongue was swollen. He had to answer the messenger, or the man would come in to see what was wrong. And he couldn’t afford to be seen like this. If he lived, no one would ever have faith in him again. They’d treat him like an invalid, and hustle him off somewhere safe. He was damned if he’d live like a cripple. And if he was going to die, he preferred to do it in private. He realized that the messenger was still waiting for a reply.

  “I’ll be down soon,” he said, as loudly and clearly as he could.

  There was another pause, then the voice said, very respectfully, “Lord Deathstalker, the invasion of Mistport has begun. You must have heard the explosions. I’m supposed to escort you . . .”

  “I said I’ll be down soon!” Owen shouted, not caring how his voice sounded.

  He could hear the messenger shuffling uncertainly outside his door, but finally the man turned and walked away. Owen grinned humorlessly. Thick ropes of saliva hung from his stretched mouth. He’d thought the Maze had made him superhuman, carried him beyond merely human limits. It appeared he’d been wrong. He was only human after all, and he would prove it the way everybody did, by dying from it. He tried to sit up a little straighter and couldn’t. His head grew heavier and heavier, bowing forward until his chin rested on his chest. He could hear his breathing now. It sounded loud and harsh and very labored.

  The pain was beginning to fade. Even a little earlier, he might have founs hope in that, but now he knew what it meant. He was dying, and his body was shutting down, bit by bit. He wished the others could have been with him. They might have linked with him, helped him, or just . . . kept him company. But as always, there was only him. And a voice in his head he didn’t believe in. He supposed dimly that he ought to pray, but he’d never been the praying kind. So many things left undone. So many things he’d meant to do and say, because he’d thought there’d be time later . . . He never even told Hazel that he loved her.

  The door swung open with a crash, and Hazel d’Ark stood framed in the doorway. She stared in shock at Owen for a moment, then hurried forward to kneel beside him. She lifted his hand, grunted at the clammy coolness, and took his pulse with practiced efficiency. She pressed her other hand on his forehead, winced at the heat there, and wiped the sweat off her hand on her leggings. She checked his pulse against her watch, and then set about undoing Owen’s collar so he could breathe more easily.

  “Deathstalker . . . can you hear me? Owen! Do you know what’s wrong with you?”

  “Too much boosting,” he said, or thought he said. It was hard to tell anymore. He wasn’t even sure she was really there. Maybe he only wanted her to be there. And then his head rocked as she slapped him sharply across the face.

  “Stay with me, Owen! Did you say boosting?”

  “Side effects,” he said hoarsely. “Tearing me apart. Burning me up. The Maze can’t help me anymore.”

  “Shit,” she said softly. “Yes, I remember you warning me about the dangers of the boost. An addiction that can kill you. The curse and the temptation of the Deathstalkers. Damn. Stay put, Owen. Hang on while I get you a doctor.”

  “No! Doctors can’t help. Hazel, something I wanted to tell you . . .”

  “It’s all right, Owen; I understand. I know what you’re going through. I’ve been through it myself. You’re not dying. It’s called withdrawal. I’ll stay with you. I remember what it was like, going through withdrawal from Blood. You won’t die. You’ll just wish you
could.”

  She sat down beside Owen, wrapped her arms around him, and rocked him like a child. Her arms were strong and steady. A sense of peace and quiet strength flowed out of her and into him. His shivers and muscle spasms gradually slowed and stopped. The pain went out of him like water draining into a bottomless well. The fever ebbed away, and he began to breathe more easily again. And still the strength flowed out of her and into him. They were linked again, finally. Their minds remained separate, Hazel maintaining a firm barrier between their thoughts, but physically they became more and more in sync, until all the aftereffects of the boostings had burned away, his pain soothed and healed, and Owen was himself again. They sat together for a while, Hazel still holding Owen in her arms.

  “Well,” Owen said finally. “Was it good for you, too?”

  Hazel laughed and pushed him away. “You’re back to normal, stud. Now get on your feet. They’re screaming for you downstairs.”

  They stood up and smiled at each other. Neither of them knew quite what to say next. “Thanks,” said Owen. “You saved me. I could have died in here, but you brought me back. I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “Lots of things you don’t know about me, Deathstalker.”

  “That’s true. Where’s Silver?”

  “Out in the streets somewhere. Fighting for his city. I’d never have pegged him for a hero, but it just goes to show how you can be wrong about people.”

  “Well,” said Owen. “None of us are perfect.”

  It was as close to an apology and a reconciliation as they were going to get, and they both knew it, so they moved on to other things.

  “You know,” said Hazel, as they headed for the door, “this could happen again, if you use the boost too much.”

  Owen shrugged. “I’ve been doing what’s needed. The boost makes it possible for me to do what I have to.”

  “I know how that feels,” said Hazel. “Blood does the same thing for me.”

  They stepped out into the hallway and looked at each other. Finally Owen smiled slightly. “Guess it takes one addict to recognize another. Now let’s go down and play the hero one more time, and pray the poor bastards depending on us never find out about our feet of clay. You’re a good friend, Hazel. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Don’t push it, aristo,” said Hazel d’Ark, smiling despite herself. And they went down the stairs together, leaning on each other just a little.

  Down in the bar they found the whole room cleared of customers, not to mention furniture. The chairs had all been pushed up against the walls, so that the city Councillors could crowd round a large circular table in the middle of the room. They were studying a map of the city and arguing loudly, with much gesturing of the hands. People were darting in and out the front door all the time, bringing in computer terminals, monitor screens and other useful equipment from Tech Quarter. Runners came and went with up-to-date information, pausing only briefly before rushing out into the night again. With the comm systems down, they had to be the Council’s eyes and ears in the city. Luckily, people in Mistport were used to improvising.

  The proprietor of the Blackthorn Inn watched the chaos from behind the safety of the long wooden bar at the end of the room. Cyder had a quick smile that didn’t always reach her cold blue eyes, and thin scars crossed one side of her face like worry lines. She used to be the hardest-working and hardest-hearted fence in all Mistport, but was now a highly respectable citizen, owner of a popular and thriving tavern, and according to her old friend Silver, just possibly in line for Council membership. Only in Mistport, Owen had said. Don’t you believe it, said Hazel.

  Beside Cyder, nursing a mulled ale, stood the young man called Cat—Cyder’s sidekick, lover, and occasional fall guy. Cyder wasn’t known for being sentimental. Cat had pale youthful features, dominated by dark watchful eyes and pockmarks that tattooed both cheeks. He wore a white thermal outfit that enabled him to hide in the snow and the mists with equal dexterity. Tall and slender, Cat was a deaf mute, and quite possibly the best burglar in the city. He was supposedly retired, now that Cyder had the means to keep him, but roof runners of his quality were always in demand, and he liked to keep busy.

  Owen and Hazel moved over to the bar, and Cyder scowled at them both. “I don’t know why I let you in here. Every time you barge into my life, everything goes to hell in a handcart and my tavern gets trashed. I’d take out insurance against you, if I could find anyone dumb enough to underwrite the policy. Just look what’s happening now! I’ma spectator in my own tavern! I was making good money till the Council threw my customers out, and they’re too busy to drink much themselves. Who’s going to pay for my loss of custom?”

  “Relax,” said Owen. “I have some associates in the city who’ll be only too pleased to make good your losses. Well, actually they won’t be too pleased at all, but they’ll still do it. Because they know I’ll cut them off at the knees if they don’t. Possibly quite literally.”

  “So, what’s happening here?” said Hazel, after she and Cyder had embraced briefly across the bar and kissed the air near each other’s cheeks.

  “We happy few are organizing the resistance,” said Cyder, pouring herself a very large drink. “Until the Empire finds us. That should take a while. Officially, only the Council members themselves were supposed to know about this. But they’re having to call in more and more people to help them, and someone will talk eventually. Someone always does. In the meantime, the Council is doing its best to coordinate resistance, and minimize the damage and loss of life.”

  Steel finally noticed Owen and Hazel’s arrival, and beckoned for them to join him. He introduced them to the other Councillors, who looked decidedly unimpressed, so Owen decided not to be impressed by them either. It wasn’t difficult. Donald Royal was there, looking frail but determined, accompanied by his partner Madelaine Skye and Young Jack Random. Quentin McVey represented the Guilds. He dressed like a color-blind peacock with absolutely no taste, and had the most false-looking false teeth Owen had ever seen. Albert Magnus represented the Merchants. He dressed in dusty grey, a perfect match for his face, and generally looked like he’d died and then been dug up again quite recently. Lois Barron spoke for Thieves Quarter, a short and compact woman who looked tough enough to chew up a tin can and split nails. She had a bone-crushing handshake, too. Owen did his best not to wince. Finally, Iain Castle represented Tech Quarter. He was a dwarf with a crooked shoulder, and looked like he had absolutely no sense of humor about it.

  The Council took it in turns to give Owen funny looks, and after catching sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar, Owen could understand why. He was covered in dried blood and puke, and his clothes looked as though someone had died in them. His face was deathly pale, and his eyes were so deep-set it was a wonder he could see out of them. All in all, Owen decided he looked rather like some homicidal holy man who’d finally discovered the real meaning of life, and was thoroughly pissed off about it. Hazel looked like a barroom brawler, but then, she always did.

  Quentin McVey was the first to speak. He screwed a monocle into his left eye and looked Owen up and down. “Have this boy washed and sent to my room.”

  “Forget it,” Owen said amiably. “You couldn’t afford me.”

  “You always did have a thing for rough trade, Quentin,” said Lois Barron. “But this is slumming, even for you. Dear God, this disreputable-looking pair are supposed to be our contacts with the Golgotha underground? They’re a disgrace. If they turned up at my front door, I’d set the dogs on them.”

  “Right,” said Magnus. “Get them out of here. We’ve got work to do. If Golgotha wants to be taken seriously here, they’ll have to send us better than this.”

  “Kick them out,” said Iain Castle, the dwarf. “We don’t have time for this.”

  Owen and Hazel reached out mentally to each other, and linked. Power shot back and forth between them, building and building. Their presence was suddenly overwhelming, filling
the room from wall to wall, drawing all eyes to them. They were wild and powerful, so wildly potent as to seem almost inhuman, or more than human. Their power hammered on the air like a giant heartbeat, vast and overpowering. The Councillors would have liked to run, or kneel, but they were held where they were, like mice before a snake. New energy flooded through Owen and Hazel, washing away all weaknesses and impurities. Hazel’s Blood use had kept them from linking for so long that they had forgotten how powerful they were when joined.

  “Cut it out,” said Cyder, forcing out the words despite the awe that pressed her back against the far wall. “We’re impressed, honest. Now shut it down, before the Empire espers pick up on it.”

  Owen and Hazel reigned back on their link, internalizing their power, and suddenly they were just a man and a woman again. Owen could hardly believe that just a few minutes ago he’d thought he was close to death. Now, with Hazel at his side, he felt he could take on an army. It seemed there was still a lot about what the Maze had done to them that they didn’t understand.

  “Relax,” Hazel said calmly to the Council. “I don’t think any esper could pick us up. Whatever it is that powers us, I don’t think it’s esp.”

  The Council members looked at each other, and if anything looked even more upset than before, and Owen suddenly realized that for the moment they were just as frightened of him and Hazel as they were of the invaders. At least the Empire was a known threat. He stepped forward, hands raised reassuringly, and tried not to notice when they all flinched and drew back from him.

  “Take it easy, people. We’re here to help. This is your city; you tell us how best we can help you defend it.”

  Donald Royal stepped suddenly forward to stare into Owen’s face. His gaze was firm and steady. “Yes, you’re a Deathstalker, all right. I can see it in your eyes. Damn, it’s good to have a Deathstalker with us again. Your Family always did have a talent for stirring things up. I knew your father and your grandfather, boy. Good men, both of them, in their different ways. When all this is over, I’ll tell you some stories about them that you probably won’t find in your Family records. It’s good to see you here, maintaining your Clan’s traditions.”