Deathstalker Legacy (35 page)

“Oh Jesus,” said Lewis. “What have I done?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jesamine said quickly. “You couldn’t have known. No one could have known.”

“Animals,” said Douglas. “They’re just animals.”

Lewis turned to him. “Call the barracks. Get the troops in here.”

Douglas looked at him, dazed, almost distracted. “What? Lewis . . . why are they doing this? We always protected them . . .”

“Call the army,” said Lewis. “Shut this down, before it spreads . . .”

“Just a minute,” said Meerah Puri. “We haven’t agreed to calling in the troops yet. We don’t want to make things worse.”

“Right,” said Michel du Bois. “We have to debate this. Are we really going to order troops to open fire on civilians, like in Lionstone’s day?”

“In case you’re not paying attention, Paragons are being butchered out there!” said Lewis. “They’re not civilians anymore, they’re terrorists. No better than ELFs. We’re past the time for debate. Get the troops here fast, or we’ll be watching a massacre.”

All the MPs tried to speak at once, shaken and disturbed by what they’d seen. Everyone had their own ideas on what needed to be done, and since no one would back down for anyone else, soon they were all shouting at each other, calling for everything from conciliation to execution without trial. There was panic in their voices. If the people could turn so viciously on their adored Paragons, no one was safe anymore. The politicians argued, the House became a bedlam, and on the viewscreen people went on dying. Some were Paragons. The Church militants had tasted blood and found it to their liking.

“The hell with this,” said Lewis. “I’m going out there.”

“Lewis, no!” said Jesamine. “You can’t!”

“She’s right,” said Douglas. “You wouldn’t make any difference out there. You’re my Champion. I need you here.”

“To do what? Hold your hand? Those are my friends dying out there.” Lewis’s voice was cold as death. “They used to be your friends too. I’m not doing anything useful here. And I can’t just stand by and watch this happen.”

“Of course you can’t,” said Douglas. “I’ll get the army here as soon as I can. Try and buy us some time, Lewis. Go. Go on; go.”

Tel Markham saw Lewis heading for the exit, and ran out onto the floor of the House. “Stop that man! On behalf of the House and my fellow Members I demand that the Champion not be allowed to involve himself personally in this . . . mess. We can’t let him commit us to a position. I demand that he stay here, to protect us, in case the unthinkable happens, and some terrorist breaks through our defenses . . .”

And then he broke off, as he saw the look on Lewis’s face, and saw the disrupter in the Champion’s hand. The MP was a moment away from death, and he knew it. He swallowed sickly, and was quiet. Lewis nodded once and strode out of the chamber, with cold murder in his eyes. Markham swallowed again, and looked at the King, staring after his departed friend.

“Your majesty, I must protest . . .”

“Oh shut up,” Douglas said tiredly, turning a contemptuous gaze on the MP. “If I wasn’t the King, I’d be going out there with him.”

“Don’t you dare!”
Anne roared in his ear, on his private channel. “I forbid it! Douglas; you’d just give the rioters a target, a focus. They’d tear you apart on sight. Even worse, they might take you as a hostage, and God knows what commitments we’d have to make to get you back safely.”

Douglas growled and shook his head, but stayed where he was. Jesamine put a hand on his arm, but he didn’t even glance at her, all his attention fixed on the terrible things still happening on the viewscreen. He watched as men and women howled like maddened animals, and blood flowed thickly in the gutters of the Empire’s perfect city. While all around him the MPs shouted and argued and wouldn’t listen to each other.

Afterwards, everyone agreed that this was the day the Golden Age died. It wasn’t until much later, after so much more had happened, that they discovered it didn’t just die; it was murdered.

 

Lewis Deathstalker came racing out of the House of Parliament with his sword and his gun in his hands, roaring his ancient Family battle cry:
Shandrakor! Shandrakor!
Certain elements in the crowd recognized him immediately. They’d been waiting for him to appear. Two of them opened fire with disrupters, but Lewis had learned from Veronica Mae’s fate, and had his force shield buzzing on his arm. The energy bolts ricocheted harmlessly away, and then he was in and among the surging crowd, and shielded from further disrupter fire.

The crowd turned on Lewis, striking out with knives and clubs and even broken bottles, and Lewis howled with almost incandescent rage as he struck out with his sword, cutting down anyone who came at him with a weapon in hand. His every blow was a killing stroke, and there was no mercy or compassion in him as he forced a bloody path through the press of bodies to reach those who had opened fire on him. They knew what was really going on here, and Lewis was determined to get answers out of them. Before he killed them, for what they had done to his friends. Many of the militants turned and ran rather than face him, but some stood their ground, and smiled calm professional smiles as they hefted their weapons. Killing Paragons proved easier than they had anticipated. Killing a Deathstalker was nothing to them.

Lewis hit them like God’s own thunderbolt. He tore into the waiting assassins like an executioner, like death incarnate, pitiless and unforgiving, and they could not stand against him. He fired his disrupter at point-blank range, and the energy bolt seared through two assassins’ bodies before it was soaked up by the milling crowd behind them. Lewis beat aside the sword of the first man to reach him, and opened up his belly with a sideways sweep of his blade. The assassin cried out in shock as much as pain, and fell to his knees, dropping his sword as he tried to stuff his guts back into the gaping wound. Lewis swept past him, thrusting and cutting with terrible speed, parrying the blades that came at him from all sides on his buzzing force shield.

All too soon there was no one left prepared to face him, despite their wages and their orders, and the few assassins still alive turned to flee. Lewis cut them down from behind, until only one was left. He kicked that man’s feet out from under him, and stamped on his hand till he let go of his sword. The assassin tried to crawl away. Lewis leaned over him, and the man turned suddenly and cut at Lewis’s exposed side with a hidden dagger. Lewis slapped the knife out of his hand with almost contemptuous ease, turned off his force shield to save the power left in the energy crystal, grabbed a handful of the assassin’s bloodred Church tunic, and hauled him to his feet. The man struggled and tried to pull away. Lewis pulled him close and head-butted him in the face. All the fight went out of the assassin as his nose broke, and blood flowed down his face. He would have collapsed if Lewis hadn’t held him up. Lewis pushed his face into the shattered visage of his enemy.

“You’re a pro. What are you doing here? Who paid you to be here? Who organized all this?”

A disrupter beam hit the assassin’s head, fired from somewhere else in the crowd, and the head exploded in a red spray of vaporized brains and bone, spraying blood across Lewis’s face. He didn’t flinch or cry out, only dropped the headless body and looked quickly about for whomever had fired the shot. But whoever silenced the assassin was long gone, lost in the roiling crowd. Lewis glared about him, and everyone fell back, or tried to. Maddened as they were by bloodlust and the shouted slogans of the agents provocateurs, there wasn’t a man or woman there crazy enough to take on the Deathstalker. Lewis’s ugly face was uglier than ever now, and it had nothing to do with the dead man’s blood and brains spattering his face.

He strode through the crowd, calling out in a harsh and deadly voice for everyone to drop their weapons and surrender. Most did. Those who didn’t, or didn’t do it fast enough, he cut down without a moment’s thought. He had gone beyond peacekeeping or even Paragon’s work; this was revenge now, this was simple butchery, designed to intimidate and terrify those around him. Wherever the Deathstalker walked, the riot was over.

But he was only one man, and he couldn’t be everywhere. Hundreds, thousands of maddened militants still stamped back and forth, attacking anyone that represented authority.

Emma Steel emerged from the fray to guard Lewis’s back. Her armor was battered and splashed with blood, some of it her own, and what was left of her proud purple cloak hung in tatters from her shoulders. A near miss from a disrupter bolt had burned away all the hair on one side of her head, but her face was still cool and controlled, and her sword rose and fell with calm efficiency as she cut her way through the baying crowd to reach the Deathstalker. She was frowning just a little, as though considering some straightforward but distasteful problem. She moved in behind Lewis to guard his back, and he didn’t even notice she was there.

He strode through the crowd, cutting down anyone stupid enough to get in his way, glaring about him with cold predator’s eyes as he tried to spot the people still whipping up the mob’s passions with just the right inflammatory words. When he could get a clear line, he shot them cleanly with his disrupter, but most of them saw him coming and hurried to hide themselves in the body of the crowd. And then, when there was no clear shot, Lewis would shoot through other people to be sure of hitting his target. He wasn’t a Paragon or even a Champion now; he was a Deathstalker, avenging his fallen friends and comrades; and he would consider all the terrible things he had done later, when he could allow himself to feel again.

And yet all the time he was fighting and killing, one part of him was still thinking fiercely, racking his brains for some other alternative; searching desperately for some other way to stop the violence, the madness. Some way to bring the mob under control without having to kill so many of them.

But there was no other way. No tanglefields here, no sleepgas. Nothing but blood and slaughter. And his duty. His duty as a Paragon, as a Champion, as a Deathstalker; to defend Parliament. To try and keep the mob occupied, until the army could arrive. Even if it meant his life.

And then a voice called out his name, urgent and racked with pain, somehow cutting through the din of the riot. Lewis looked around sharply, and there on the edge of the crowd, a man had fallen on his knees, one hand extended pleadingly. He called out again, begging for help, and Lewis went to him. Because for Lewis rescuing the victims had always been more important than punishing the guilty. The crowd seemed to scatter before him, and no one blocked his way as he left the riot behind him. Emma Steel tried to follow him, but the crowd closed between her and Lewis, and would not part for her, and soon she was fighting for her life against attacks that came from every direction. Lewis never knew, intent on reaching the man before him. He holstered his gun and put out a hand to the kneeling man, hauling him to his feet. Up close, he didn’t seem to be injured.

“Who are you?” Lewis said harshly.

“I’m Brett,” said Brett Random. “And you need to get me away from here. I got caught up in the riot and couldn’t get away. You need to get me to safety.”

“Yes,” said Lewis. “I need to get you out of here.”

Brett gritted his teeth against the headache that was all but blinding him, as he concentrated his limited esp on influencing the Deathstalker. It was hard, keeping a grip on the Champion’s mind. It threatened constantly to pull out of his grasp, fighting fiercely against something it didn’t even know was there. Brett persevered, knowing what Finn Durandal would do to him if he failed. He took Lewis by the arm, and guided him away down the side street, leaving the riot behind. The Deathstalker went, scowling as he tried to figure out why, and neither he nor Brett noticed the single camera that floated curiously after them.

Brett stumbled as his headache increased, and almost fell. He could feel the Deathstalker pulling free of his control. And then Rose Constantine stepped smiling out of the shadows with her sword in her hand, and Brett groaned with relief and relaxed his mental hold. Lewis shook his head and looked quickly about him, suddenly himself again. He ignored the man collapsed at his side, bleeding freely from his nostrils. He knew Rose Constantine. And he knew now why he’d been brought here. To face the one assassin who might actually give him a run for his money.

“So,” he said lightly, “the Wild Rose of the Arenas. Can’t say I’m a fan. I suppose I should be flattered that they thought they needed someone like you to stop me. But to be honest, I don’t have the time right now. I have more important things I need to be doing. So let’s get this over with, so I can get back to work.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Deathstalker.” Rose’s voice was sweet and breathy, an almost sexual excitement gleaming in her eyes. “I’m here to kill you. You’re my special treat. I was promised a chance at you, for being such a good girl. Come to me, my Deathstalker. I’m going to cut your heart out and eat it.”

“I always said you were crazy,” said Lewis. “I don’t have time for this.”

He turned away from her, heading back towards the riot, and the roiling mob. Rose lunged after him, her face darkening with rage. “Don’t you dare turn your back on me, Deathstalker!”

And Lewis turned back, his energy gun in his hand. He had no intention of dueling with a psychopath. He aimed and fired in a single moment, but somehow Rose darted to one side at the very last moment, and the energy beam barely clipped her side, burning away the red leathers over her ribs. She plunged on, sword in hand, ignoring the pain. Lewis brought up his blade just in time to parry a vicious blow that would have sheared his head from his shoulders, and his whole arm shuddered with the impact. The Champion and the Wild Rose went blade-to-blade, face-to-face, neither of them giving an inch. Brett Random scuttled away on all fours, watching wide-eyed as two killing machines crashed together, and would not yield.