Deathstalker War (70 page)

And for the first time it occurred to Owen that just maybe this was as far as he was going to get. He’d come so far, fought his way through so many obstacles, but even he had his limitations. Even a boosted man couldn’t stand off a whole army. He remembered how it had all started, so long ago now, with him standing alone against a crowd of his own turncoat guards on Virimonde, outnumbered and about to die. Maybe he’d come full circle; only this time Hazel wasn’t going to be able to save him. She was as deep in trouble as he was. It seemed crazy to Owen that after all he’d been through, he was finally going to fall to a bunch of armed guards, just because there were so many of them. He reached inside himself, trying to find the power he’d used on Mistworld to bring a whole building down, but there was nothing there. Nothing came to answer his call, no matter how desperately he tried. And he had no idea why.

He was soaked in sweat now, and he had to keep blinking it out of his eyes as it ran down his face. He was breathing hard, and it seemed to him that he wasn’t quite as fast as he had been. Some of the guards’ blows were beginning to get through. Just a minor cut here and there, barely felt in his boosted condition, but a wound was a wound and blood was blood. Enough blood loss would slow him down, despite the boost. And the boost wouldn’t last forever. Beyond a certain point, the flame that burned so brightly would start to consume him. Just as it had on Mistworld. He cut and hacked and blocked blows from every direction. He was a Deathstalker, and guards fell dead and dying all around him. He could hear Hazel grunting and bumping against his back as she fought, so he knew she was still with him. But over on the other side of the antechamber, he saw another Hazel with dark skin and dreadlocks go down suddenly under a dozen hacking swords, and though he watched as long as he could, she didn’t rise again. Giles was backed up against a wall, cut in a dozen places, blood streaming down his face from a long cut on his temple. There was no sign of Jenny Psycho anywhere.

And then he heard Hazel cry out in shock and pain behind him, and her back slammed against his for a moment before she fell to her knees. Owen spun around, swinging his sword with all his strength, forcing the guards back. Hazel sat slumped at his feet, bent over a gut wound. She’d dropped her sword. She was trying to hold the great ragged wound together by wrapping her arms tightly around her, but blood was pouring out of her. There was already a great pool of it forming around her. Owen knew a death wound when he saw it. He tried to say her name, but couldn’t seem to get his breath. He dropped out of boost, and his sword arm fell. The guards rushed in. And all the rage and horror rose up in Owen, igniting his power once again, filling him with a blazing energy that would not be denied. He gave himself up to it, and it roared out of him like an unstoppable tide. The guards nearest him were consumed in a moment, like moths in a flame, and then more died screaming as the energy rushed on. The guards tried to turn and run, but it was upon them in seconds, destroying them all without quarter or mercy. In the space of a few seconds, every guard in the antechamber was dead, and only Giles and Jenny, Toby and Flynn and a handful of Hazels were left standing. Owen shut the power down, looked at all the dead, and didn’t give a damn.

He sank down beside Hazel, and took her gently in his arms. She laid her head against his chest, and he cradled her to him. She felt very light in his arms, as though she was already drifting away from him. He was quickly soaked in the blood leaking out of her, but he didn’t notice. He tried reaching for the power again, but there was no response. Whatever the Madness Maze had given him, it was a thing of death and destruction, and not healing. He could slay an army, but he couldn’t save the one person who mattered to him most. His chest was tight, and he couldn’t get his breath. Hazel lifted her head slowly, and tried to smile up at him. Her teeth were red with blood. Owen started to cry, great rasping sobs that shook his whole body. Hazel tried to say something to him, and then her breath went out of her in a series of shudders, and she lay dead in his arms. Owen held her close and rocked her like a sleeping child.

“I did it for you,” he tried to say past his tears. “I did it all for you, Hazel.”

He heard footsteps approaching, but he didn’t look up. He had nothing to say to anyone. And then someone with Hazel’s voice said his name. He stopped crying, a wild hope jumping in his heart, but it was only when the dead Hazel disappeared from his arms that he finally believed it. He made himself look up, and there was Hazel d’Ark standing over him. The real original, this time. He scrambled to his feet, and then just stood there and stared at her, afraid to touch her in case she disappeared, too. Finally she reached out and took him in her arms, and he hugged her fiercely to him, like a drowning man clinging to the only thing that could save him. They stood that way for a long time, both of them breathing hard.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Owen said finally. “I really thought I’d lost you.”

“It’s all right, Owen,” said Hazel. “I’m here. I’ll always be here for you.”

After a while they let go and stepped back to look at each other. Owen wiped the last of the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Hazel smiled at him awkwardly. She looked around at the dead bodies heaped on the antechamber floor, and nodded, impressed.

“Way to go, aristo. Remind me never to get you angry at me.”

“Never happen,” said Owen, his voice still just a little unsteady. “Hazel, I . . .”

“I know. But we can talk about that later. Right now, we still have an Empire to overthrow.”

Owen shook his head. “It’s always business first with you, isn’t it, Hazel?”

Jenny and Giles came forward to join them. Jenny had been busy smashing the esp-blockers, and Giles had tied a handkerchief round his head to stop the bleeding. It wasn’t the cleanest of handkerchiefs, but Owen didn’t think he’d say anything. With the blood still drying on his face, the old warrior looked not unlike a pirate of old.

“Nice show, Deathstalker,” said Jenny briskly. “I’m impressed. Are you sure you’re not the Mater Mundi in disguise?”

“Positive,” said Owen. “Whatever I’m becoming, it’s not an esper. It’s . . . more than that.”

“Still, you did well, kinsman,” said Giles. “You were wasted as a scholar, boy.”

Toby and Flynn emerged from the alcove where they’d been hiding, and hurried over to join the others, Flynn’s camera tagging along behind them.

“We’re fine, too, just in case anybody cares,” said Toby, just a little hurt.

“Oh, we never worried about you,” said Hazel. “Everyone knows journalists are harder to kill than cockroaches.”

And then, by some unspoken agreement, they all turned and looked at the great steel double doors that led into Lionstone’s Court. It was very quiet in the antechamber, as though even the dead were waiting to see what would happen next.

“Do we knock?” said Hazel. “Or do we blast our way in?”

“I don’t think we need to knock,” said Giles. “Lionstone knows we’re here. She also knows she can’t keep us out.”

As if on cue, the doors swung slowly open, silent for all their massive size and weight. Bloodred light spilled out into the antechamber, along with the stench of blood and brimstone. Owen and Hazel started forward, sword and gun in hand, and they all walked forward into Hell.

In Court, before the Iron Throne, Alexander Storm gave in to his need to strut a bit. His existence as an Imperial agent deep within the rebel structure had of necessity involved hiding who and what he really was, so now he took the opportunity to show off a little. The Empress was smiling down at him approvingly, and Dram and Valentine looked quite jealous. Razor and the SummerIsle stared coldly at him from their positions just behind the Throne, but Storm didn’t care about their opinions. Razor was an Investigator, the Kid was a psychopath. Silence and Frost and Stelmach didn’t matter either. They were renowned for failing the Empress, whereas he had succeeded brilliantly.

“I’ve been an Imperial agent ever since the rebels got their heads handed to them on Cold Rock,” he said proudly to his audience. “I saw Jack fall and be taken, and knew that was the end of any real hopes for the rebellion. And I’d fought for so very long, with nothing to show for it. So I surrendered and struck a deal. It wasn’t difficult. They were glad to have me. They recognized my worth. And all these years I’ve wormed my way deeper and deeper into the heart of the underground, trusted by one damn fool after another, sabotaging and undermining their operations pretty much at will. No one every suspected me. I was Alexander Storm, the great rebel hero, friend and companion to the legendary Jack Random.

“I was a bit worried when Jack turned up again, but the mind techs had done a good job on him. They saw to it he never remembered much of his time on Cold Rock, let alone my desertion and turning. He never even remembered how I helped the mind techs torture and condition him, to prove my loyalty to my new masters. So when he reappeared, and I finally had to meet him because putting it off any longer might have seemed suspicious. Well, it was all old friends together again, and he never saw past my smile to see the contempt in my eyes. After that, it was just a case of waiting for the best time to use the control words the mind techs had planted in Jack’s subconscious. And here he is now, standing before Your Majesty, harmless as a newborn kitten.”

“What about the bounty hunter?” said Razor. “There have been reports of her developing psi powers . . .”

“Don’t worry about her,” said Storm. “She’s drugged to the eyeballs and loaded down with so many chains and restraints it’s a wonder she can still stand.” He wandered over to her and kicked her behind the knee. She fell heavily to her knees, her chains clanking loudly. Storm laughed, and moved back before the Throne.

“I thought Jack Random was your friend,” said Captain Silence.

Storm shrugged. “He was. And then he let me down, by being only human. Legends shouldn’t get old and tired and slow, and lose more often than they win. I was tired of being a loser. I wanted to be on the winning side to, have wealth and luxuries and an easy life, to make up for all my years of nothing. No one was ever grateful to me for all the times I risked my life on their behalf, the bastards. No one ever said thanks, you’ve done enough, let someone else take over now. No, they just wanted more. Even Jack. Into battle one more time, on some godforsaken rock I’d never even heard of, leading dumb peasants against trained Imperial troops, and all of it for nothing. All the blood and the fear and the death of friends. I just got tired of it all. So when Jack fell and was taken, I had a moment of very clear insight, and saw the futility of rebellion. Even if we were to win, and overthrow the Empress, she’d only be replaced by someone just like her. It’s the nature of the job, and the way things are. So I gave up poverty and hopelessness for wealth and security. And a chance to strike back at the rebels and make them pay for all the years of my life they had wasted.”

“He was still your friend,” said Silence.

Storm glared at him. “Is he? I don’t know who this is anymore. He should be my age, but he’s young, and I’m not. He’s a man of power and destiny again, and I’m not. All my life has been unfair, and he’s always been the most unfair thing in it.”

“Kill you,” said Ruby Journey thickly. They all turned to look at her, kneeling and weighed down with chains, fighting to hold her head up. She glared at Storm. “He trusted you. Loved you like a brother. Fought beside you. I’ll kill you slowly, you treacherous bastard. Rip your heart out and make you eat it before you die. Chains won’t hold me. Drugs wear off. I’ll see you dead before I am.”

“Oh shut up,” said Storm. He swaggered over to her, and punched her in the mouth. She fell backwards. “I never liked you, bitch.” He started kicking her.

“That’s quite enough of that,” said Owen Deathstalker.

His voice rang across the Court, sharp and commanding, and Storm fell back in spite of himself. Everyone turned to see Owen leading his companions through the inferno, toward the Iron Throne. Two Deathstalkers, both legends and men of destiny. Hazel d’Ark, the pirate turned hero. Psycho Jenny, the sacred madwoman of the esper underground. And, like two crows with great experience of battlefields, Toby and Flynn brought up the rear, there for the end of the story, whatever it might be.

Investigator Razor and Kit SummerIsle moved quickly to stand between the Throne and the newcomers. Storm hurried back to join Dram and Valentine Wolfe. Silence and Frost drew their swords. Stelmach drew his gun. The maids-in-waiting stirred angrily, and hissed at the new arrivals as Owen led them toward the Throne. They stopped beside Ruby Journey, who looked up at them and spit out a mouthful of blood.

“Took you long enough to get here.”

“Sorry,” said Owen. “We got distracted. Need a hand?”

“In your dreams, aristo.” Ruby stood up and flexed her arms, and the enveloping chains shattered and fell away from her. Ruby smiled nastily at the stunned Storm. “You didn’t really think drugs and chains would hold someone like me, did you?”

Owen looked around him, taking in the smoldering ash pits, the burning angels, the great vents in the floor from which arose the screams of the damned. The crimson light, the rows of the impaled dead, and the tortured sinners hanging on their barbed chains. When he finally looked back at Lionstone, his voice was as flat and cold as his gaze. “Nice place you’ve got here, Lionstone. It’s you. Your taste always tended to the extreme, but I think you’ve really outdone yourself this time. You’ve progressed from the disturbed to the actually psychotic. You’ve become a sick person, Lionstone, a mad dog, a rabid animal; and it’s our job to shut you down.”

Lionstone leaned back in her Throne, apparently unmoved. “Welcome to our Court, outlaw. We’ve been expecting you. We even have a few guests here to greet you, specially invited with you in mind. For instance . . .”

She snapped her fingers, and a masking holoillusion dropped away, revealing the huge wooden cross set up behind the Iron Throne. And nailed to that cross, Mother Superior Beatrice Christiana, the saint of Technos III. Her nun’s robes were torn and bloodied, and her wimple was gone, replaced by a crown of thorns. Dried blood encrusted thickly around her pierced wrists and ankles, and more had run down her face from where the crown had been jammed forcefully onto her head. She was still alive and still conscious enough to feel the awful pain that wracked her. Her face was twisted away from its usual serenity, dragged beyond humanity into pure animal suffering.