Deathstalker Legacy (36 page)

After a while they tired of direct assault, and circled each other slowly, swords darting out to test each other’s defenses, probing for weaknesses in defense or attack, studying the opponent’s strengths and style, looking always for the opening or blind spot that would allow a killing stroke. Rose was grinning widely now, her eyes sparkling. She’d discovered a new thrill; fighting someone who might actually be her equal. It had been a long, long time since Rose had considered herself in any real danger in a fight, and she delighted in the new sensation, glorying in a real challenge at last. Lewis’s ugly face was cold and focused, studying Rose like a new species of insect, that might bite or sting him to death, given a chance. He moved smoothly onto the defensive, parrying Rose’s increasingly frenzied attacks, watching and learning, until he decided he knew all he needed to know. He moved swiftly from defense to attack, his blade moving so fast now that Brett couldn’t even follow it, and step by step Lewis drove Rose back.

And it was his blade that drew first blood; a long thin cut just above Rose’s right cheekbone. Blood ran down her pale skin, and her tongue darted out of the corner of her mouth to catch it. She laughed softly, and looked at Lewis with sick, loving eyes. Her scarlet smile was terribly wide now, her heart leaping in her chest as she stamped and thrust and parried. Rose Constantine knew she was very close to death now. And she couldn’t have been happier. She fought back, calling on all her strength and speed and years of experience, and she dueled the Deathstalker to a standstill. They went head to head, grunting with the effort. The trained warrior and the gifted psychopath. The Champion and the Wild Rose. Masters of their art. Equally matched, equally skilled. One driven by a lust for murder, the other by a need for justice and revenge. They both stood their ground and would not be moved, their blades slamming together again and again, sparks flying on the air. And there was no way of telling which way it might have gone when Brett Random drew a concealed disrupter and shot Lewis in the side at point-blank range.

Even in the middle of the greatest swordfight of his life, Lewis’s instincts were still good. He sensed as much as saw Brett draw his disrupter, and was already turning when the gun fired. The energy beam punched clean through his right side, and out his back, boring a burning hole right through ribs and stomach and kidney. The impact threw Lewis to the ground, his sword flying from suddenly weak fingers. He lay there, shaking and twitching, breathing hard, trying to draw his own gun from its holster, but his arm wouldn’t obey him. He gritted his teeth against the awful pain, and forced his hand slowly towards his side, expecting Rose’s death blow at any moment. But when he glanced across through pain-filled eyes, it was to see Rose send Brett sprawling with a vicious blow to the head. She stooped over him with her sword at his throat, screaming with rage.

“Mine! He was mine! Mine to kill!”

“It was orders, Rose! His orders!” Brett’s voice was so high with fear it was almost hysterical. “He would have killed you! You were losing! I had my orders. Now cut his throat, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Rose looked back at Lewis, who’d got his hand to his gun at last, and was trying to find the strength to draw it. She scowled. “I can’t kill him. Not like this. He’s the Deathstalker. I’m . . . I’m not a butcher.”

Brett scrambled to his feet, keeping a safe distance between himself and the Wild Rose. “You have to do it, Rose. It’s orders.
His
orders.”

But still she hesitated, her eyes doubtful, considering a matter that was new and strange to her. When it was right to kill, and when it was not. In her own troubled way, Rose had always considered herself to be an honorable person. Not just a fighter, but a warrior. And for all her joy in the act of slaughter, there were still some things that were right, and some that were not. She couldn’t kill the Deathstalker while he was helpless. If only because it wouldn’t be fun anymore.

And while she was still hesitating, a huge dark figure loomed suddenly out of the shadows of a side alley. Brett called out sharply, and Rose’s hand went immediately to the gun on her hip, but Saturday the reptiloid was upon her before she could draw it. He loomed over her, eight feet of gleaming green scales and muscles, showing all his pointed teeth in a wide terrible smile. He slapped her aside with one of his deceptively small forearms, and the force of the blow sent her flying a dozen feet down the street. She hit the ground hard, all the breath knocked out of her, but still she hung on to her sword. Brett was there beside her in a moment, dragging her to her feet and yelling in her ear.

“We have to get out of here, Rose! Now! We don’t stand a chance against something like that, and we can’t afford to be captured!”

Rose stumbled along beside him, too stunned even to argue. She’d never encountered anything so big and strong and fast before. Not even the Grendel. She was smiling again as she and Brett ran down the street. Next time, she’d be prepared, and the reptiloid would get what was coming to him. She could use some luggage of that particular shade of green. It was good to know there were still some real challenges in the world. She and Brett ran down the street, leaning on each other, and it was hard to tell who was supporting whom.

Saturday stared after them, and then bent over Lewis. He grabbed the Deathstalker by the shoulder and lifted him half off the ground so he could study the extent of his injuries. Lewis cried out, almost fainting from the pain. Saturday sniffed, and let him fall back again.

“I know you; King’s Champion. Deathstalker. Yes. Is this a mortal wound for your kind? Should I avenge you, or go for help? Advise me, King’s Champion. What should I do?”

“Stop the riot,” Lewis said, or thought he said. His head was full of sound and light, and it was hard to make his mouth work. The world seemed very far away. He was cold, his whole body shuddering. Shock. He gritted his teeth. This was going to hurt. “Get me on my feet, sir reptiloid.”

Saturday hauled him up easily, and supported Lewis’s weight with one forearm while the Deathstalker leaned gasping against the reptiloid’s armored hide. He realized vaguely that the sound of the mob had changed. There was still shouting and screaming, but it was more fear than rage now, already dying away, and the slogan shouters were conspicuously silent. Lewis pushed himself away from the reptiloid, the effort bringing beads of sweat to his face. He looked back at the crowd, and saw that they were standing still, staring up into the sky. Lewis looked up too, and smiled shakily as he saw the sky was full of gravity barges. The troops had finally arrived. Broadcast voices were calling for the mob to surrender and throw down their weapons, and ranks of energy guns on the barges moved ostentatiously to follow those who didn’t respond quickly enough. Everywhere the fighting was stopped. The riot was over. Lewis closed his eyes for a moment in relief, and then looked up at the reptiloid.

“Saturday. Get me . . . into the House. Regeneration . . . machine.”

“As you wish,” said the reptiloid. He looked wistfully at what had once been a mob, but was now just a crowd with its hands in the air. “I came here specially to show Pure Humanity just what an alien can do, when it got annoyed enough, but I seem to have missed my chance. Pity. I was really hoping to find out what a Neuman tasted like . . . Never mind. Bound to be a next time.”

He looked down, and realized Lewis was no longer listening to him, and was in fact barely conscious. Saturday shrugged his broad green shoulders, and whistled an old tribal song as he draped Lewis casually over one shoulder and strode swiftly towards the House. People hurried to get out of his way.

 

In the House, still sitting stiffly on his Throne, King Douglas cried out in shock and horror as he saw Lewis fall to the unexpected disrupter shot. A single media camera had followed Lewis, its operator curious as to why the Deathstalker had chosen to leave the fray, and when the Deathstalker went head to head with the Wild Rose, the camera operator realized he’d stumbled onto one hell of an exclusive. The whole Empire watched the duel, live; and saw Lewis struck down by treachery.

The King was on his feet in a moment, Jesamine weeping and clinging to his arm. The House was silent, watching the King uncertainly. Anne was yelling in his ear, but he wasn’t listening. Douglas stepped down from the raised dais, and onto the floor of the House, almost dragging Jesamine along with him. He looked at the exit, and the House was very still as everyone waited to see what he would do.

“You can’t go!” said Anne, so loudly she hurt her throat. “Douglas, listen to me! You’re the King. Your place is here.”

“He’s my friend,” Douglas said, not bothering to subvocalize. “They’ve killed my friend. I have to go to him.”

“You have to stay here and keep this place from falling apart! You don’t know he’s dead!” Anne made an effort to lower her voice, knowing only reason could reach Douglas now. “You have a duty not to put yourself into danger. Who’s to say Lewis wasn’t shot deliberately, to try and tempt you into leaving the safety of the House? Lewis wouldn’t want to be responsible for your death. Don’t play into their hands, Douglas. There’ll be time for vengeance later. You have to stay here. Keep the MPs from panicking, and agreeing to something stupid. You have to put your feelings aside, for now. You have to set an example, for the House. You’re the King.”

“What kind of King abandons his friend? His . . . dying friend?”

“One who knows his duty. Please, Douglas. You can’t go out there. It’s what they want, and you know it. If they kill you, they win. And Lewis . . . will have died for nothing.”

Douglas turned slowly, and looked back at his golden Throne. And in that moment, it seemed more like a trap than anything else. But because he was the King, and a Campbell, and a man who had always known his duty, King Douglas walked slowly back across the floor of the House, stepped back up onto the dais, and sat down upon his Throne again. He looked out over the silent House with cold, unforgiving eyes, and didn’t even notice Jesamine was gone. He looked at the MPs, and they looked back, waiting to see what he would do. Douglas turned away from them, and looked at the esper representative. The young man who spoke for the oversoul stood up to meet his King’s gaze.

“When I speak,” Douglas said slowly. “The oversoul hears. All of you. Yes?”

“We all hear you,” said the young man. He didn’t look anything special. “What do you wish of the esper gestalt, your majesty?”

“Stop the riot,” Douglas said flatly. “Do whatever you have to. Whatever it takes. But stop the killing.”

“No!” said Meerah Puri, quickly on her feet. Other MPs rose to join her. “Your majesty, I protest! We can’t use espers against humans!”

“Shut up,” said Douglas. “You had your chance, and you did nothing. Nothing but squabble and bicker, while good men and women died. I have done what was necessary, made a decision where you couldn’t. That is what a Speaker and a King is for, isn’t it?”

“You had no right to commit us to this!” said Michel du Bois, and other angry voices joined his. Douglas laughed in their faces. And then the esper representative spoke, his young voice somehow cutting effortlessly across the uproar.

“It’s done,” he said calmly. “The oversoul has teleported troops and gravity barges directly into position outside the House. Telepaths are quieting and controlling the minds of those who still feel like fighting. It’s all over now, your majesty.”

“Damn you, Douglas,” Anne said quietly. “What have you done?”

When Emma Steel became seperated from Lewis Deathstalker by the mob, she was briefly lost, but she quickly spotted another familiar face in Paragon armor and purple cloak. She fought her way through the packed crowd, cutting down men and women with crazed faces and mostly improvised weapons, trying not to let the madness of the mob infect her. It would be only too easy to give in to anger, to kill for revenge instead of justice; but Emma Steel was a Paragon, and Paragons didn’t do that. She was outnumbered, betrayed, surrounded by maddened rioters who would have torn her to pieces with their bare hands if they could; but still she fought with cold calculation, killing only when she had to, to survive. Right now, she was concentrating on getting to someone she could trust to guard her back. The Paragon she’d spotted was just ahead now, fighting with skill and precision, actually smiling slightly in the face of impossible odds. Not that she would have expected anything less from him. Emma didn’t know many Paragons by sight, but everyone knew the classically handsome features of Finn Durandal.

Finn didn’t see her coming, being more preoccupied with looking good. He’d come out into the crowd because it could have looked odd, if not downright suspicious, if he hadn’t. There was no plausible way he could have avoided knowing about the riot, or the assault on his fellow Paragons, and if he hadn’t put in an appearance, people would have asked questions. They might even have begun to doubt him, and he couldn’t have that. He still needed to be seen as the selfless hero they’d always thought he was. So he came roaring in on his gravity sled, jumped down into the thick of the fighting, right next to a hovering media camera, and got stuck in, smiting the ungodly with all his usual vim and vigor.