Deathstalker War d-3 Read online

  "I never knew you knew so much about Mistport," Owen subvocalized.

  "Lot about me you don't know. I am large, I contain wonders."

  "Do you have something to say to us, Deathstalker?" said Neeson, the banker, a large fat man with a straining waistcoat. "Or are you just going to stand there and stare at us all day?"

  "Just gathering my thoughts," said Owen. "We have a lot of history between us, gentlemen. My father's money brought you to where you are today. Deathstalker money, originally intended to fund an information network here in Mistport. He put you into positions of power and influence so that you could keep track of things for him. Instead, you used his money to become major economic forces in this city, becoming so rich and powerful you forgot your original purpose. Or perhaps you simply decided that such things were no longer important to people as rich and powerful as yourselves."

  "Got it in one," said Stacey, the lawyer, long and stringy, with broken veins prominent in his cheeks. "And we've absolutely no intention of becoming politicized again. We don't think in such small ways anymore. We've made over our lives, and we like things fine just the way they are. Among us, we run Mistport; we are the economic lifeblood that keeps this society moving. Mess with us, even threaten us, and the whole city's economy would collapse. We'd see to that. People would lose their savings, money would become worthless, and people would starve as food piled up undistributed on the docks. You can't touch us, Deathstalker. All the people in Mistport would rise up and tear you apart if you even tried."

  "They'd get over it," said Owen. "Once they saw the old corrupt system being replaced by a fairer one."

  "Fairness is a relative concept," said Robbins, the landlord, a short fat barrel of a man. "There will always be rich and poor. We provide stability. You don't understand the economic realities of a rebel planet like Mistworld."

  "I understand greed," said Owen. "I understand treachery and self-interest. And I certainly understand bloodsucking scum when I see them."

  "That's good," said Oz. "Win them over with flattery."

  "We know why you're here," said Daley, the fixer, a large hunched man with a brooding face. "You want to take our lives away from us in the name of your rebellion and naive politics. Well, boy, you've come a long way for nothing. These days, our influence extends far beyond Mistworld, with investments on many worlds. Even Golgotha. Elias Gutman has been very helpful in shaping our portfolios. Yes, I thought you'd recognize that name. A man of real power and influence. He told us you were coming."

  "Gutman," said Owen, as though the name was an obscenity. "He's come crawling around the rebellion more than once, but I've always known his vested interests lie with the Empire. His information comes straight from the Empress herself. When you followed his advice, you did Lionstone's bidding, right here on the rebel planet. Can any of you say, 'conflict of interest'?"

  "Money has no loyalties. Or politics," said Neeson. "Gutman has always been a good friend to us."

  "I'll bet he has," said Owen, his voice getting colder all the time. "And when his loans finally come due, you'll find the money by squeezing it out of the people here, who owe you. Whether they can afford it or not. And Mistworld will become just another planet bleeding itself dry to maintain Golgotha's wealth."

  He looked round the table, to be met only with flat stares or indifferent shrugs. "That's business," said Daley.

  "That's injustice," said Owen. "And I have sworn an oath on my blood and on my honor to put an end to it. Which means putting an end to you, and your cosy little setup. Maybe I'll kill you all, and see if your heirs prove more reasonable to work with. Either way, your money will be used to support the rebellion, as it was always intended to be. As my father intended."

  "I don't think so," said Neeson. "Guards! Take him!"

  Doors flew open on every side and a small army of guards came crashing in, armed with swords and axes and even a few disrupters. Owen subvocalized the word boost, and a familiar strength flooded through him. He felt almost supernaturally awake and aware, as though up till now he'd spent this life sleeping. He felt he could do anything, take any risk, and never pay the cost. Owen clamped down hard on that. It was the boost talking, not him. He was boosting too much and too often these days, despite the dangers, and he knew it, but he trusted to the Maze's changes to protect him from what would otherwise be crippling side effects. He had to; there was work to be done. The blood pounded in his head and in his sword arm, calling him on to battle, and he gave in to it with a smile that could just as easily have been a snarl.

  The guards seemed almost to be moving in slow motion as he threw himself into the midst of them, knowing the few with disrupters wouldn't dare use them rashly for fear of hitting their own people. His sword flashed brightly as he swung it with inhuman strength and speed, and blood flew on the air. There were shouts and curses and hysterical orders from the six men around the table, and over it all came the sound of men screaming horribly as Owen's unstoppable blade worked butchery on their bodies. He moved among them like a deadly ghost, too fast to be stopped or even parried, his sword flashing in and out in a second. He seemed to be everywhere at once, hacking and cutting, and men fell howling in pain and horror before him. A man's arm fell to the floor, the hand still clutching desperately at nothing. Bodies fell to litter the blood-soaked carpet, and did not rise again. A disrupter blast scorched the great table from end to end, hitting no one, but leaving a long trail of burning wood behind it.

  Owen was laughing now, though there was little humor in the sound. The battle raged from one end of the room to the other, blood splashing the walls till they all ran crimson. The six most powerful men in Mistport retreated from the burning table and huddled together in one corner of the room, watching with disbelief as one man laid waste to their private army. And then, quite suddenly, it was over, and Owen Deathstalker stood among the dead and the dying, a death's-head grin on his face. He looked slowly around him, blood dripping thickly from his blade. His clothes were splashed and soaked with gore, and none of it was his. He wasn't even breathing hard. He turned his smile on the six movers and shakers of Mistport, and they cringed before him. Owen dropped out of boost, but the expected tiredness didn't hit him. He still felt like he could take on the whole city if he had to. Chance came crawling out from under the burning table, where he'd taken shelter. Owen put out a hand to help him up, and Chance flinched away. He scrambled to his feet, looking at Owen with new eyes.

  "They never stood a chance. You cut them down like cattle. What in God's name are you?"

  "I'm a Deathstalker," said Owen. "And don't you forget it."

  He turned his gaze on the six men huddled together in the far corner of the room. Only a few even tried to meet his gaze. Owen moved unhurriedly toward them, stepping casually over the unmoving bodies. His boots squelched quietly in the blood-soaked carpet. Stacey, the lawyer, glared at Owen with something like defiance.

  "You're a monster; but you still can't beat us. We have the money. We can hire more men. We can hire a whole army of mercenaries, if that's what it takes to bring you down."

  "Bring on your army," said Owen. "Let them all come. They won't save you."

  "You can't kill us," said Neeson. "If we die, all our money will be tied up in probate. Maybe for years. No one would be able to touch it."

  "Nothing's going to stop me," said Owen. "Not you, not the law, not the whole damned Empire. Your day is over, and I'm bringing down the night."

  "You're crazy!" said Daley. "Just like your father was!"

  "My father was worth a hundred of you!" said Owen, and he put away his sword. He was too angry. He wanted to do this with his bare hands. Boosted strength roared within him again, and something else as well. He grabbed the long heavy table, ignoring the flames, lifted it off the floor, and tore it in two. He let the jagged halves fall to the floor and advanced on the six secret masters of Mistport. They ran screaming for the door, Chance right behind them. They ran through the outer chamber, y
elling for help, and Owen came right behind them.

  He was more than human now, an almost elemental force on a rampage. His anger stormed through the rooms and corridors, smashing everything in its path. Walls cracked and collapsed, the bricks crumbling and the mortar exploding into dust. Great vents appeared in the floor and ceilings. Wood burst into flames, burning with a harsh unnatural light. People ran screaming as ceilings collapsed, showering them with falling masonry. The carpeted floors undulated like waves on an ocean, before rising up and splitting apart like a never-ending earthquake. And behind them all came Owen Deathstalker, silent and remorseless, bringing down the great Guild Hall as he would one day bring down the Empire it represented.

  A few brave guards tried to stop him, and were swept aside. Doors were blown off their hinges and exploded out of doorways. Windows shattered, the jagged glass flying like shrapnel. Scattered papers flew on the air like frightened birds. Walls bulged apart and ruptured water pipes sprayed everywhere. Exposed electrical wires sparked and crackled. The whole building seemed to be roaring in pain as it slowly collapsed in upon itself. Owen Deathstalker walked on through the screams and the chaos, and found it good. One brave soul fired a disrupter at him, but the energy beam bounced harmlessly away. Nothing could touch or stop him now.

  He finally came to the last door, the door through which he'd originally entered the Guild Hall. The door exploded from its frame, flying out into the street before the crowds who'd come to see what was happening. They were babbling and shouting as the Hall collapsed, but when Owen stepped out into the street they fell suddenly silent and backed away. They could feel the power in and around him, beating on the air like a giant heartbeat. Owen let his mind drift back through what was left of the building, making sure no one was trapped inside, and then he brought it all down in one giant upheaval. The roar of crashing masonry filled the street, and smoke billowed out of the empty doorways and window frames. In only moments what had been one of the greatest Guild Halls in Mistport was reduced to nothing but a pile of rubble. Silence slowly fell, broken only by the muffled sounds of debris settling. The buildings on either side stood completely unaffected. And the one man responsible for it all looked upon what his anger had done and found it good. He slowly brought his power back inside him and shut it down, and was just a man again.

  That was when the Watch turned up. All ten of them. They stopped some distance away and studied the scene carefully. Owen smiled at them.

  "Private business. Hostile takeover. Nothing for you to worry about, gentlemen."

  The Watch looked at him, then at what was left of the building, and finally at each other, before deciding firmly to go and Watch somewhere else. The six men who used to run Mistport called plaintively after the Watch as they left, but they were ignored. The Watch didn't interfere in private quarrels. This was Mistport, after all. The six men turned slowly to look at Owen, who stood before them, smiling unpleasantly.

  "You poor bastards wouldn't last five minutes on Golgotha," Owen said calmly. "They'd eat you alive and still have room for dessert. Now do as you're told, and you might get out of this alive and still attached to most of your major organs. Kneel down." They did so. They had no fight left in them. "You've got a new boss, gentlemen. A Deathstalker is back in charge. From this moment on, you are going to dig into your no doubt cavernous pockets and rebuild the information network as my father originally envisaged it. A means of collecting and compiling information to protect and serve the people of Mistworld, and keep it safe from outside attack and influences. You will also pay for the conceiving and setting up of new defenses to protect this planet. With the psionic screen weakened by the esper plague, you're going to need a strong high-tech system to back it up. Get on it. And finally, my father's money was always intended to make possible a fairer and easier life for the people of this city. I expect a series of wide-ranging but practical schemes from all of you, in writing, within the week. If anybody's late, I'll have him nailed to a wall to motivate the others. And I am not being metaphorical."

  "But… we have shareholders," said Neeson. "People we have to answer to. They'd never let us do all that…"

  "Send them to me," said Owen Deathstalker. "I'll convince them. Anybody else have something to say? No? Good. You're learning. Now you six assholes are going to obey my instructions, to the letter, or I'll turn you inside out. Slowly. Is that perfectly clear?"

  They all nodded vigorously, and Owen turned his back on them and strode off down the street. He could still feel the power the Maze had given him, wrapped around him like a comforting cloak. The Maze had changed him, in ways he didn't understand yet, but the power was real and it was his, and he reveled in it. He felt like he could do anything, if he just put his mind to it. And it felt so good, to be able to put things right in such a simple and direct manner.

  "You do realize," said Oz, "that you're walking in the wrong direction if you want to head back to the center of town?"

  "Shut up, Oz. I'm making a dramatic exit."

  He decided he would go to the rooms they had booked and see how Hazel and John Silver were getting on. He couldn't wait to see the Security man's face when he told him what he'd done to the Guild Hall. Who knew; it might even impress Hazel, just a little. He was worried about her. Despite the new power within him, he still couldn't feel her presence through their mental link. Besides, he wanted to talk to Hazel about this new power, and what it felt like. Maybe she had it, too. They had so much to discuss. Owen Deathstalker strode on through the streets of Mistport, and the mists themselves curled back to get out of his way.

  Hazel d'Ark and John Silver, old rogues and older friends, sat in their comfortable chairs on either side of the open fire, sipping hot chocolate from lumpy porcelain mugs, and staring at the small phial of black Blood standing on the table beside them. It didn't look like much, but then the really dangerous things never do. They both knew what it could do, both to and for them, and it was a sign of their strength of will that they hesitated. Blood came from the Wampyr, the synthetic plasma of the adjusted men. Just a few drops could make a normal human strong and fast and confident. For as long as you kept taking it. Blood could make you feel wonderfully alive and aware, as though the normal world was just a grim and grey depressing nightmare from which you had finally awakened. Of course, the effect never lasted, and gradually you needed larger and larger doses to achieve the same effects. And slowly, drop by drop, the Blood burned you up from within. It had been designed to bring Wampyr back from the dead and make them superhuman. It had never been meant to coexist with the merely human system.

  But people wanted it, needed it, would fight and kill for it; so there were always those ready to synthesize and market it, for the right price. Especially on a planet like Mistworld.

  "It's really very simple," said Silver. "As head of starport Security, I have access to all Blood confiscated on the streets. And as I control all the computer records, no one's going to notice if I liberate a few drops now and then, for myself and a few special friends. You can't try and run a hellhole like Mistport without some crutch or other to lean on. And we don't all have it in us to be incorruptible heroes, like Investigator Topaz. I'm not an addict. I can control it. I'm not so sure about you, Hazel. You always were the greedy kind. Coming off it the last time nearly killed you. You really want to go through that again?"

  Hazel stared down into her mug, not looking at him. "You don't know the pressure I'm under, John. So much has happened in such a short time. One minute I'm just a small-time outlaw, of no interest or importance to anyone but myself, and the next I'm a rebel, and everyone's after my head. Including some of those supposed to be on my side. As long as I was fighting and running for my life and didn't have time to think, I was fine, but now… Everything I do matters, everything I say has consequences, not just for me but for the whole damned rebellion. They've made me a bloody hero and a leader, and expect me to be perfect.

  "And that's not all. Something happened to me
on the Wolfling World, John. Something… changed me. I'm more than I used to be, and I'm scared all the time. I don't think I'm me anymore. I have bad dreams, and I can't tell if I'm remembering the past or the future. I can do things now that I never could before. Strange and terrible things. The Blood is the only thing that helps. It… stabilizes me, calms me… helps me believe I'm still human."

  She put down her mug and reached out with her hand, and the glass phial of Blood leaped up from the table and shot into her waiting hand. Silver looked at her, startled.

  "I didn't know you were an esper, Hazel."

  "I'm not. I'm something else. Something… more." She unscrewed the top of the phial and sniffed delicately at the black liquid inside. Her nostrils flared as the familiar scent filled her head, dark and smoky. She breathed deeply, sucking it into her lungs, and sparks flared and fluttered in her veins. She tilted the phial carefully, and allowed a single drop of Blood to fall onto her tongue. She swallowed quickly, to avoid as much of the bitter wormwood taste as she could, and then refastened the phial's cap and put it back on the table, so not to be tempted to take a second drop. She leaned back in her chair, and groaned aloud as the familiar heat rushed through her, burning along her nerves, making her strong and powerful and confident again. The pressures and the duties and the doubts that plagued her were swept away, and, for the first time in days, her face relaxed. She smiled slowly. It felt so good. So good not to have to care anymore.

  Silver watched her from his chair, keeping his own counsel till he was sure she was well under. He had intended to join her, but memories of what Hazel had been like in the worst throes of addiction had changed his mind. He wasn't an addict. He could control himself. So he stayed straight and sober, because he had a strong feeling that Hazel needed him to be there, watching over her. Even as he thought that, her half-shut drowsing eyes snapped suddenly open, and she sprang to her feet, looking wildly about her. Silver was quickly on his feet, too, putting his mug on the table so he could take Hazel by the arms. She didn't seem to notice him, and her arms were rigid as steel bars. Silver watched her carefully. You had to be careful with Blood users, when you weren't cranked yourself. With their new strength they could kill a normal human in a moment and not give a damn till after the Blood had worn off. Hazel stared about her, her head twisting violently from side to side, her eyes huge in her suddenly gaunt face.