Deathstalker War

  “Well-done,” said Finlay. “I alwavs knew you had it in you.”

  “I’m half-dead, and he’s cracking jokes,” said Julian. “Someone hit him for me.”

  They all laughed, even Julian, as they all took turns hitting Finlay.

  And that was the end of their mission to Shannon’s World, wrongly renamed Haceldama, the Field of Blood. The humans and the toys celebrated long into the night, singing and dancing in the light of many fires, the occasional stream of moonlight, and the thick clouds of glowing spirits who came swooping in out of the night with their endless song. Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat danced paw in hand around the fire and were content, knowing the truth about themselves at last. And Halloweenie, the Li’l Skeleton Boy, sat on Harker’s throne, drumming his bony heels against the wood, and dreamed of what it would be like to be more than just a boy.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TO BE A Deathstalker

  It was another perfect day in paradise. On the planet Virimonde, great green fields stretched lazily under a vast blue sky, marked here and there by low stone walls, spiky hedge boundaries, and ancient beaten paths. Beyond the fields lay dark, sprawling woodlands, with tall trees and drooping foliage, cool calm refuges from the heat of the summer sun. Sparkling rivers and streams splashed around water-polished stones, tumbling over sudden dips and hollows, where the fishing was always excellent. Food animals of all kinds grazed peacefully in the fields, and what passed for birds on Virimonde were singing their little hearts out under a cloudless sky and a beaming sun. A marvelous open, peaceful world of bounty and tranquility. And David Deathstalker owned it all.

  The Deathstalker and his friend Kit SummerIsle, called by some Kid Death, raced their modified flyers in and out of the trees, sweeping this way and that at breathtaking speed, and whooping wildly as they went. The flyers were really little more than gravity sleds, a board to stand on and a vertical yoke for the controls, stripped down to the bare essentials for extra speed and better maneuvering. David and Kit had shut the force shields down, so they could feel the wind buffeting their faces and driving tears from their narrowed eyes. If something were to go wrong; if they misjudged speed or distance or reflexes, and ended up crashing or in collision with some unyielding object, without the force shields’ protection they would be instantly killed, but neither of them gave a damn. They were young and fit and rich, with warriors lightning reflexes and instincts, and, therefore, they were immortal. Accidents were things that happened to other people. And so they went, whipping in and out of the trees, slamming through the gloom of the forest so fast it was nothing but a blur of browns and greens around them. The lead went back and forth between them as they tried seeing how close they could get to the trees without crashing, testing their skill and courage and luck to the breaking point, and laughing breathlessly all the while.

  The Deathstalker and the SummerIsle, firm friends and heads of their respective Clans, young and daring and still searching for some definition of who they really were. David; tall and handsome and always immaculately dressed. Dark of hair and eye and wild of heart, a warrior as yet untested in war. A fairly minor cousin of an ancient Family, until Owen’s outlawing made him suddenly head of the Clan and Lord of Virimonde. An occasional secret supporter of the rebellion, mostly just for the fun of intrigue.

  And Kit, Kid Death, the smiling killer, a slender figure in black and silver, pale and more than fashionably thin, with icy blue eyes and pale blond flyaway hair. Who became head of his Family by killing his father, his mother, and all his brothers and sisters in a series of more or less legal duels. Kit SummerIsle, sometime favorite of the Empress Lionstone, sometime supporter of the underground—a dangerous and isolated man who went where the killing was. Until he met David Deathstalker.

  After a while, the adrenaline pounding through their systems began to make them feel giddy in the head, so they called the race a draw and burst up out of the forest canopy, shredding leaves and branches as they went, emerging into the clear blue skies above. They eased back on their speed till they were just coasting along, and leaned heavily on their control yokes, grinning till their cheeks ached as they waited for their breathing to settle. David was glad to see Kit smiling. The SummerIsle was a somber man by nature, usually only enjoying himself in the heat of battle or murder. But away from the pressures of Court and politics, and in the company of a good friend, the notorious killer was finally blooming into an amiable, personable young man. Here on Virimonde, David and Kit could be just two more aristos, secure in power and position, idling away the days as it pleased them.

  They drifted with the wind, letting it take them where it would. David looked down at the world moving beneath him, and found it good. The stock stretched away in all directions, cared for by peasants who had done so for countless generations. They knew what they were doing; they didn’t need any help or advice from their most recent Lord, any more than the animals did. They both knew their place and purpose in the Empire. Elsewhere in his demesne, other peasants were harvesting crops, tending to the land, preparing the landing pads at the only starport for the next ships to arrive. The transports brought in supplies for the people, and carried away crops and meat. Virimonde had been a food planet to the Empire for as long as records had been kept, supplying poor and rich alike with the staples of diet, and the occasional luxury. Nine-tenths of the planet was given over to food production of one kind or another, and the people who lived there would have it no other way. Virimonde might not have the upsets and excitements and glittering cities of other, richer planets, but still it was a calm and peaceful world, where a man could know purpose, the comforts of tradition, and joy of service to Humanity.

  They also made the Lord of Virimonde very, very rich. People might argue over territory and war over politics, but both sides still needed to eat, and Virimonde served all impartially. David Deathstalker looked down on his world, and was content. Billions upon billions of credit on the hoof, and all of it his. More money than he could spend in a lifetime. Though that wouldn’t stop him trying.

  Kit moved in close behind him, playfully bumping the side of his flyer against David’s, so that they both wobbled dangerously for a moment. “You’ve got that look on your face again, Deathstalker. That Lord of all I survey look. Soon you’ll be busy all day reading reports and worrying over crop yields and export tariffs, with no time for the likes of me. A man old before his time.”

  “Never!” said David cheerfully. “I employ other people to worry about such things for me. People like the Steward, bless his dour and dutiful heart. The man’s about as much fun as a hailstorm in July, and he gets on my nerves something fierce, but he knows his job. And as long as he does, I don’t have to. I just sign everything he puts in front of me, read every tenth one just to keep him honest, and leave it all to him. If I’d wanted to work hard, I wouldn’t have been born an aristocrat. No, Kit, this place is one big cash cow, making me richer with every day that passes, and all I have to do is sit back and let it happen.”

  “But what use are riches if you’ve nothing to spend them on?” countered Kit. “The few big cities they’ve got here aren’t exactly dens of iniquity and vice, are they? Their idea of excitement is cheating in the horse trials. Just what are you planning to do with all these fields and forests?”

  “Enjoy them,” said David. “Come on, Kit, we tried practically every amusement you could find on Golgotha, and none of them interested us for more than a few weeks at a time. We’ve gambled in illegal casinos with our lives wagered on the throw of a die, fought in the Arenas against all comers, rogered our way through the Houses of Joy till our backs gave out, and still we ended up bored, as often as not. That’s how we got involved in the rebellion. No, we need time off, Kit. Simpler pursuits on a simpler world. I’m tired of civilization. Been there, done that, puked down my shirt and pissed on my boots. I like it here. Nothing to do but eat and drink and grow fat. Booze away the evenings and frolic with lusty peasant girls. Play catch-as-ca
tch-can on flyers for a bit of excitement. I’m having a good time. Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Kit. “Somewhat to my surprise, I am. And I haven’t killed anyone for weeks. Amazing. Mind you, we were supposed to act here as agents for the underground, and we haven’t sent in a report since we got here. Do you think we should?”

  “Certainly not,” said David firmly. “That comes under the heading of work, which I have given up for Lent. Easter, Christmas, and any other holiday you can think of. A pox on the underground and Lionstone both. Here we are safe from all factions, and their impertinent demands. Whatever happens in the rebellion, no one’s going to touch Virimonde. Whoever wins, they’ll still need to eat. Though it must be said I quite liked being a rebel, with secret meetings, hidden agendas, and special passwords.”

  “Right,” said Kit. “I liked the passwords. I liked knowing things other people didn’t. But even that got boring after a while. They would take it all so seriously.”

  “And we have had enough of seriousness,” said David. “I think we’ve earned the right to be entirely frivolous for a while. Nothing to do, no demands, no duties. Just get up when we want, do what we wish, and play to our hearts’ content. Like being a kid again.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Kit. “I never had a childhood. I was raised to be a fighter and a warrior practically from the moment I could walk. I had a dirk instead of a rattle. Dueling partners instead of friends. I had to be as good a swordsman as my famous father and illustrious grandfather, whether I wanted to or not. As it turned out, I was better than either of them. And weren’t they surprised when I proved it by killing them both. I enjoyed that. Making them suffer as they’d made me suffer all my life. I was never allowed a childhood, you see. There was no time for frivolous things like play or fun or laughter. Only the endless training and discipline, to shape me for a destiny I never wanted.”

  “You’re starting to sound like my cousin Owen,” said David, keeping his voice carefully light. Kit had never opened up so much to him before, and he didn’t want to discourage Kit by letting him see how much he was moved.

  “Hardly,” said Kit. “I used their training to make something of myself. And if I don’t always like what I’ve made, well, that’s life for you.

  “I’m glad you brought me here, David. I feel . . . free, here. Free from everyone else’s expectations of who and what I have to be. It’s not easy being Kid Death all the time, you know. There are no pressures here, to do the only thing I’ve ever been any good at. I suppose that’s what childhood is, for other people. I’d like a chance to be a child, at last.”

  “You got it,” said David. “To hell with Lionstone and the underground; it’s party time! We can be ourselves here, Kit. No Deathstalker and SummerIsle, no scions of an ancient line, no boosted man or Kid Death; just two friends, free at last.”

  “It won’t last,” said Kit. “You know it can’t.”

  “It can if we want it to,” said David. “We don’t ever have to leave here, if we don’t want to. Do you really miss anything from Golgotha?”

  “I still kind of miss the Arenas,” said Kit. “The roar of the crowd, the smell of fresh blood on the sands. The clash of steel on steel, and the joy in your heart as an enemy dies at your hand. The sheer seductiveness of testing your skill in the only way that really matters, when your very life is on the line.”

  “They never liked us,” said David. “The crowds. They didn’t like the idea that we might be fighting for our own amusement, rather than theirs. And anyway, we’d done all there was to be done in the Arenas.”

  “Not quite everything,” said Kit. “I never did get a chance to face the Masked Gladiator.”

  “File it under unfinished business,” said David.

  “I could have beaten him.”

  “Yeah, you probably could, if his managers had ever let you get anywhere near him, which I doubt. There’s got to be a lot of money, not to mention honor, tied up in being the undefeated champion of the Arenas. He was getting very cautious about who he went up against, at the end.”

  Kit shrugged. David hoped he’d let the matter drop. Though he’d never admitted it to Kit, David had been glad to leave the Arenas. He hadn’t liked what they were doing to him. He’d always been good in a fight, and taken an honest pride in it, but out on the bloody sands before a roaring crowd, he’d discovered in himself a dark joy and satisfaction in the act of slaughter that disturbed him greatly. It didn’t fit in with the image he’d always had of himself, of the kind of man he wanted to be, and it frightened him. Much as he cared for Kit, he didn’t want to become another Kid Death. So he ran away to Virimonde, first chance he got, to try being another kind of man, steeped in peace and the quieter pleasures. And maybe Kit could find a kind of peace here, too, away from the dark needs that drove him.

  “Thank you,” Kit said suddenly. “For bringing me here. For being my friend. I know it’s not easy. I don’t always know what to do with a friend. I don’t have the experience. For as long as I can remember, there’s only ever been me. All I knew was how to kill. No one ever liked me, or trusted me, even when they used me to get them what they couldn’t get themselves. I never had a friend before you, David. I was never really alive, until you taught me how to live.”

  David reached out and clapped a hand on Kit’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “It’s too bright a day for such dark thoughts. Forget the past, Kit. No one here cares who you used to be, and no one from our past can reach us anymore. We’re free to reinvent ourselves, to be who we want to be. Come on; race you back to the Standing. Loser buys drinks for everyone tonight!”

  “You’re on!” said Kit and gunned his engine. His flyer plunged forward, rapidly gaining speed. David roared with mock rage, and sped off after him. Together they disappeared into the distance, their laughter sounding clear and happy and untroubled on the quiet summer day.

  They parked their flyers in the caves under the Deathstalker Standing, and made their way up through the great old house, arguing amiably about who’d won the race. As always, the result had been so close they finally agreed on a draw. Neither really cared about winning, which was a new experience for both of them. David looked around him approvingly as they strode through the wide stone corridors on their way to the great dining hall. The Standing had been in the Deathstalker Family for generations, on various planets. Owen had had the vast building transferred to Virimonde brick by brick and reassembled there when he bought the planet’s Lordship. It was Family tradition that each new head of the Clan chose a new world for his or her Standing, but David couldn’t be bothered. Virimonde suited him just fine, and it pleased him to rebel against Family tradition, even if only in such a small way. He didn’t want to be just another Deathstalker.

  David had spent a lot of time and effort in removing all traces of Owen’s presence from the Standing. He was Lord now, and he didn’t want anyone being reminded of his predecessor. So he had all of Owen’s remaining belongings thrown out or burned, and did his best to fill the many rooms and halls with his own belongings. If truth be told, his own bits and bobs looked rather small and out of place in the great old house, crowded as it was with treasures and trophies from generations of Deathstalkers, but he wouldn’t admit that to anyone but Kit. In the end, all that mattered to David was that the Standing and the world were his now, and by the time he’d finished, no one would remember that there had ever been any other Lord.

  They’d almost reached the dining hall when the Steward intercepted them. David took one look at the thick sheaf of papers in the Steward’s hand and groaned loudly. He hated paperwork, and made sure the Steward knew it, but still he insisted on dealing with the really important business himself. The Steward could deal with day-to-day things, but David didn’t want the man making decisions that were the rightful province of the Lord of Virimonde. He didn’t trust the Steward. He’d wasted no time in turning against Owen when the Empress outlawed him, and a man who betrayed one Deathstalke
r might well betray another.

  The Steward was a grey man. Tall, stick-thin, and grey-haired, he wore grey clothes and presented a grey, passionless face to the world. His voice was a respectful murmur, his eyes were always respectfully downcast, but David could never quite escape the feeling that the man was silently mocking him. He seemed to care for nothing but the upkeep of the Standing and his precious never-ending paperwork, and sometimes gave the impression that he considered the Standing his, and the various Deathstalkers who passed through merely visitors. Deathstalkers may come and go, his bearing seemed to say, but I and my people remain. He snacked constantly on little pieces of bread without butter, and cracked his knuckles loudly if you kept him waiting. David detested the man, but tried to keep it to himself. He knew he couldn’t run the Standing without him.

  “More papers?” he said resignedly. “Can’t they wait till after dinner?”

  “That’s what you said at breakfast, my lord,” said the Steward in his calm, grey voice. As always, he made the title sound like an insult. “The various matters here have, if anything, only grown more urgent since then. I must respectfully insist. . .”

  “All right, all right,” said David. “There’s an office just off this corridor, isn’t there? We can do it there. And this had better be really important, or I’ll have you inventory all the silverware again. Kit, you stay with me. If I have to suffer, everyone suffers.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Kit calmly. “I love to watch the veins throb in your forehead as you struggle with the longer words. Besides, suffering’s good for the character. Or so they tell me. I wouldn’t know. Anyone who ever tried to make me suffer is dead and buried. Sometimes in several places.”