Deathstalker War (73 page)

Owen and Silence stamped and lunged and recovered, both of them cold and calculating, testing their strength and skills to the limits, both trained in harsh and unforgiving schools. Their blades crashed together, sparks flying on the air, neither man prepared to give an inch or retreat a step. Their swords flew so fast the eye could barely keep up, driven by skills and reflexes almost too quick for human thought. Owen didn’t boost. It never occurred to him. He wanted to win this one fairly. He was fighting for a set of ideals, his own as well as the rebellion’s, and either he won fairly, or his whole life had no meaning. Silence put all his strength into every blow, all his speed into every cut and parry, and still had to struggle to match the Deathstalker’s attacks. The young rebel fought as though his life no longer mattered, only the winning. Silence tried to feel that way, too. The whole Empire depended on him now. Everything he’d ever believed in and fought for. Everything that had given his life shape and meaning. But in the end, his surety wasn’t as certain as Owen’s, and perhaps that was why his sword was finally just that fraction slower, and Owen beat his blade aside, stepped forward, and set the point of his sword at Silence’s throat. For a long moment the two men just stood there, face-to-face, breathing hard from their exertions. They looked into each other’s eyes, and recognized what they saw there.

“I can’t kill you,” Owen said finally. “It would be like killing myself. Surrender, Captain. Put down your sword, and I guarantee your safety. The rebellion’s going to need someone like you to help us rebuild.”

“My loyalty. . .”

“Is to the people of the Empire. Help us preserve the best, so we don’t throw it out along with the bad.”

Captain John Silence looked back at his Empress, then around at the Hell she’d made of her Court, and slowly opened his hand and let his sword drop to the floor. It made hardly any sound. Owen lowered his blade. They nodded respectfully to each other, then turned to look at Hazel d’Ark and Investigator Frost. They’d dueled each other to a standstill, standing face-to-face, breathing hard and harsh, swords shaking in their exhausted hands. Their eyes were as fierce as ever, but they had driven themselves beyond strength or stamina, and they were both too proud to draw on their unnatural strength and skills.

“Give it up, Hazel,” said Owen. “You’re never going to win, either of you. And neither of you is ever going to yield. You’re too alike. Call it a day, and let’s get on with what we came here for.”

Hazel considered it, frowning thoughtfully as sweat dripped off her face. “What the hell,” she said finally. “We can always try this again later, when we’ve got more time. What do you say, Investigator? I’ll step back if you will.”

“Never,” said Frost. “I’m an Investigator. The Empire made me what I am. I’ll never give up, never give in. Kill me if you can, rebel.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” said Owen.

“Yes it does,” said Frost. “This is my life. My meaning. My purpose. I’ll never back down. It’s not in me. Kill me if you can.”

Hazel lowered her sword. “I can’t. Not like this.”

“I can,” said Kit SummerIsle. And in a movement so fast no one recognized it till it was too late, he drew a hidden dagger and threw it at Frost with all his strength behind it. She turned slightly as he spoke, and the knife took her in the throat. Blood spurted thickly, running down her chest in streams. She dropped her sword and clutched at her throat with both hands. Blood welled between her fingers. She started to pull the knife free, and then sat down suddenly as the strength went out of her. Silence was quickly there at her side, holding her in his arms. She shuddered uncontrollably, and he held her tighter. She looked shocked, confused, as though she couldn’t believe this was happening to her.

“Stupid way to die,” she said, her voice thick and labored. Blood sprayed from her mouth in a fine red mist. “I feel cold. So cold.”

“I’ve got you, Frost,” said Silence. “I’m right here.”

“Never thought . . . it would end like this.”

“Hush,” said Silence. “Save your strength till we can get a medic in here.”

“No,” said Frost. “We never lied to each other, Captain. Don’t start now.”

“Then heal yourself! I did!”

“Too late, Captain. Too late.”

“You were a good soldier,” said Silence, his voice breaking. “The best, right to the end.”

“Of course. I’m an Investigator. John . . .”

“Yes?” said Silence, but the breath just went out of her in a long bloody sigh, and she was gone. Silence hugged her to him. “Good soldier. Good soldier.” Eventually he let her go and got to his feet. His uniform was soaked with her blood. He looked at the SummerIsle, who smiled back at him.

“Why?” said Silence. “Why her, and not me?”

“You killed my David,” said Kit. “Now you know what I felt. Want to try and kill me now, old man?”

“Not right now,” said Silence. “There’s been enough killing here. And she never would have surrendered. Just stay out of my sight, killer.”

He turned away to face Owen and Hazel, as though he didn’t know what to do next. Stelmach and Frost were dead, and he had repudiated his Empress. It didn’t seem possible that his whole life could have been destroyed in such a short time.

“I’m sorry about the Investigator,” said Owen. “Sometimes, it just isn’t possible for everyone to win.”

“You loved her, didn’t you?” said Hazel. “Did you ever tell her?”

“She wouldn’t have known how to answer me,” said Silence. “She was an Investigator.”

There was nothing more to say, so they all turned to look at Lionstone, alone on her Throne. She glared back at them defiantly. All her champions were dead or defeated, but she still hadn’t given up. It was an almost perfect moment of opposition, and it hung endlessly on the air, as though neither side wanted to break it. Hell had grown very quiet. The angel guards were dead, the maids-in-waiting were human again, and even the hologram illusions were still, as though waiting to see what would happen next. Owen moved slowly forward to stand alone at the foot of the Iron Throne. He’d come a long way to reach this place, this moment. To stand before the woman who’d destroyed his life and taken away everything he’d ever had or cared for. Because of her he’d been sent wandering through the Empire, always running from the hounds on his trail, never to feel safe or secure again. Because of her he’d been forced to become someone he still wasn’t sure he approved of, the kind of man his Family had always wanted him to be—a warrior. Fighting for a cause he wasn’t always sure he really believed in. But every time he wavered, all he had to do was remember a young girl lying bloodied on the Mistport snows, crippled by his sword, crying helplessly till he killed her out of mercy. Time to end it all, now. He nodded almost familiarly to the Empress.

“It’s over, Lionstone. Time to go. Step down.”

“No,” said Giles. “Not yet. It isn’t over till I say it’s over. Step away from the Throne, Owen. This isn’t your moment; it’s mine.”

Everyone turned to look at him. The old warrior in his barbarian’s furs, the legendary hero of centuries past, stood calmly a little distance away from the others, his sword in his hand. He smiled at them, and something in that smile made them all shiver. He lifted his blade and set the edge against his mercenary’s scalplock. He sawed through the thick hair with ease, and then held it thoughtfully in his hand for a moment, before throwing it away.

“That’s it,” he said calmly. “No more a mercenary. No more fighting for other men’s causes. I am my own man again, the Deathstalker, and I will take the crown now, as it was always meant I should. I will be Emperor, and put things right again. I’m the only one who understands what needs to be done to restore the Empire. To make it strong again, before the aliens or the Hadenmen or Shub rise up to destroy Humanity. The people will follow me. They’ve always had a soft spot for heroes and legends. I will remake the old Empire, as it was a thousand years ago, before the rot set in. No more clones or espers or other genetic abominations. It was always meant that the Empire should be a human Empire.”

He smiled at Owen in a fatherly fashion. “It was always meant to be me, Owen. I knew when I went into stasis, 943 years ago, that I would have to plan for the long term. Step outside of time, so I could wait to return till the odds were in my favor again. All during that time, the computers in my Standing monitored events and maintained contact with my Clan. They planned and plotted, shaping events, preparing for my eventual return. Your father was the last contact, Owen. A very adroit agent. He set the final plans in motion—funded the rebels on Mistworld, created the Abraxus Information Center, and was finally planning a trip to Shandrakor to wake me when he made a misstep, drew attention to himself at just the wrong moment, and the Empress sent Kid Death to put an end to his intrigues.

“It was a major blow. Your father had always been meant to be the leader of the coming rebellion, a warrior-politician with the legendary Deathstalker name. The people would have followed him, as he prepared them for my return. But then he was gone, and I had no choice but to replace him with you, a feeble historian who never even wanted to be the warrior his inheritance demanded.

“To temper the steel that will become a sword blade, you beat the hell out of it and test it almost to the point of destruction. So I tempered you. It wasn’t difficult for some of my agents to convince Lionstone to outlaw you, and thus set you on the path that would eventually bring you to me. The Maze . . . confused things. It was only ever intended that I should pass through the Maze and gain the powers it promised but under the pressure of events I had no choice but to allow you and your companions to pass through, too. You were never meant to become superhuman, like me. Still, you haven’t turned out too badly, Owen. I’ve made you a warrior in spite of yourself. A credit to your Family name. But now it’s time for you to step aside.

“It was never meant to be you, boy. This is my moment, my destiny. I will be Emperor, as it was always meant I should.”

Owen stared at Giles for a long moment, and then shook his head. “To hell with that. I didn’t come this far, spill this much blood, just to replace one tyrant with another. Even if he is Family. Put down your sword, Giles. You left it too late. Your time is over; we do things differently now. The rebellion grew from the clone and esper undergrounds, not your meddling. We’ve had enough of Families and Emperors. It’s time for . . . something new.”

Giles slowly advanced on Owen, who raised his sword warningly. Giles stopped. “Don’t do this, boy. Don’t make me kill you.”

“You wouldn’t really kill me,” said Owen. “Not your own Family. The last of your descendants. The last Deathstalker.”

“I can always start a new line,” said Giles calmly. “I never promised you wealth or fame or an easy death, Owen. Just a chance to be a legend. Whether that’s a living legend is up to you. I am . . . fond of you, in my way. The last of my original line. My child, in every way that matters. Don’t get in my way, boy. I’ve done . . . awful things, terrible things. I created the Darkvoid Device and put out a thousand suns. This is my chance to atone, to put things right. To make things the way they should be. Don’t take that away from me. You’ve come a long way, fought well, tried hard to do the right thing, uphold the Family name. I love you, Owen.”

“
I don’t care!
” said Owen, and swung his sword double-handed at Giles’s neck. Giles’s sword swept up to meet Owen’s, and sparks flew as the blades crashed together. In a moment they were circling each other, eyes narrowed, searching for a weakness to exploit. Everyone else stayed back. They understood this was personal. Still, Hazel held her disrupter down by her side. She knew Owen would never forgive her if she interfered in the fight, but she’d already decided that if Giles won and Owen died, she was going to shoot Giles in the back of the head, and to hell with the consequences.

Owen and Giles could have used their Maze-given powers, but they didn’t. This was a Family matter. They stamped and lunged and parried, swords flashing in and out, surprisingly evenly matched. Giles was the first Warrior Prime, a legendary swordsman, but as he said, Owen had come a long way. The once insular historian and scholar had been plunged into battle after battle, refining and expanding his skills all the time, until he was every bit the legendary swordsman, too. It was, after all, his inheritance. The two men fought to their limits, pushing their strength and speed into the inhuman levels of boost and beyond without even noticing.

And so they went on, hacking and cutting at each other, drawing blood after blood, neither able to slam home a blow serious enough to cause a mortal hurt. They both grew tired and measurably slower as even their immense strength began to run out. And for the first time it occurred to Giles that just possibly he might not win this battle. No one had tested him like this since the days of his prime. He could lose. But that was an intolerable thought, and not to be allowed. He hadn’t waited 943 years to be denied his destiny by an upstart descendant. He scowled, and reached inwardly for his Maze-given powers. All he had to do was teleport behind Owen and run him through, and the fight would be over. Honor had become irrelevant, in the scheme of things. But reach as hard as he might, he couldn’t find his power. It was blocked, canceled out by Owen’s powers. On some basic level, Giles slowly realized that neither of them could use his powers against another altered by the Maze. It was a safety guard, installed by the Maze, the knowledge only to be revealed when necessary.

Giles was shaken. He’d grown used to depending on his powers, to having an unbeatable ace up his sleeve. He quickly brought himself back under control. If he couldn’t win that way, there were other ways. Giles hadn’t become a legendary warrior without learning a few dirty tricks along the way. The SummerIsle had had the right idea. Like Kit, Giles had a hidden dagger. He’d never told Owen about it. Never saw the need. All he had to do was lure Owen in close and stick the dagger in while the boy was distracted. Simple. Owen would never expect him to use a dirty trick like Kid Death’s. Giles smiled.