Kit SummerIsle smiled widely, and drew his sword. "So good to meet an old-fashioned aristocrat. One who hasn't forgotten the old code of honor, of feud and vendetta. I always wondered what it would be like to fight you; the legendary warrior himself. They say you're more than human now, but then, there aren't many who would call me human either. No doubt I'll get into trouble for killing you, but I'll survive. I always do. I'm too useful a weapon to discard. This had to happen, really. The last SummerIsle versus the last Deathstalker. Oh happy day."
"You always did talk too much," said Owen, drawing his sword.
"Then let us fight, by all means. Because of you, my dear David is dead. Burn in Hell, Deathstalker."
Their swords slammed together and sprang apart again in a shower of sparks, and they circled each other for a moment before launching themselves at each other's throat. Neither man had the time or patience for an extended duel. All that mattered was the death of the man before him, an end to a long line of bloodshed that stretched back centuries.
At the back of Owen's mind, an esper precog on Mistworld murmured prophecy. The smiling killer, the shark in shallow waters, the man who will not be stopped save by his own hand. Kid Death…
They were both master swordsmen, experienced warriors, practiced killers, and their blades flashed through the still air too quickly for the normal eye to follow. Owen had the boost, and Kit had the drive, and they were both a little crazy by now. They stamped and thrust and hacked and cut, lunging and parrying and retreating, killing blows missing by fractions of an inch, or turned aside at the last moment by sheer skill or daring. Both men drew blood here and there, never vital, neither of them able to force an opening long enough to exploit it. Their sides heaved, and the breath burned in their straining lungs, and their swords grew heavier as their arms and backs tired. No man could maintain this kind of speed and savagery for long without burning out. The wound the Wolfling made in Owen's side had only recently healed, and already he could feel it weakening.
Need and desperation put new strength in Owen's swordarm, and he beat aside Kid Death's blade, plunging forward. The tip of his sword gouged across the SummerIsle's face, tearing the eye out of his head. Blood poured down his disfigured face, and he howled in rage as much as pain. Kit plunged forward, anger robbing him of his usual grace. Owen turned aside the blow, and only then realized Kit had been expecting that. The SummerIsle's sword slammed back against Owen's, catching the Deathstalker's wrist at an awkward and painful angle, and Owen's fingers sprang open despite him, releasing his sword. It fell clattering to the floor as Kid Death laughed breathlessly, half his face a bloody mask.
But even as Kit savored that moment of triumph, Owen plunged forward and grabbed the SummerIsle's wrist in both his hands. It only took a moment to force the swordarm around and back against itself, and drive the SummerIsle's own sword into his side.
The SummerIsle cried out once, and staggered away. Owen let him go. He knew a death wound when he saw it. Duty was done, and his father, that good man, had finally been avenged. Owen would have liked to stay, and watch his enemy die, but he could feel the Recreated approaching, very close now, and he knew he had to go on. He picked up his sword and threw himself back into Time, back into the long chaos, and vanished from the room. Kit SummerIsle dragged himself slowly across the floor, dying by inches, and no one would ever know who killed him.
Owen no longer felt he could run forever. The fight with the SummerIsle had taken a lot out of him, and he was hurt in many places. He was angry at himself now, for wasting so much time on personal business. Humanity was depending on him. He ran, and the Recreated came howling behind him, very close now. Owen strained to open up a wider gap between them, and couldn't. He ran on, and Time flowed around him like a many-colored river, sparkling with moments and memories.
Owen stopped briefly, now and again, dropping back into Time for a moment, to get his bearings or say a last good-bye.
He materialized briefly in a long stone corridor of his Family castle, the Last Standing, and saw Jack Random lurching slowly down the corridor, his face pale as death, clutching his side. He looked sad and tired, and Owen walked with him for a while, to keep him company. He stopped again, a little further back in Time, and saw Jack flickering in and out of Time, somewhere deep under Lionstone's old Palace. Owen ran on, the Recreated close behind. He stopped again, to appear briefly in the courtyard of Saint Bea's Mission on Lachrymae Christi. He called out to Hazel, to warn her about the Blood Runners, but he was too late. He stayed a little longer in the hall of his old Standing on Virimonde, to snatch a thrown knife out of midair, and save Hazel from a sneak attack. He killed the man who threw it, the renegade Lord Kartakis, and smiled tiredly at Hazel, as she stared at him, amazed. There was so much he wanted to say to her, and he reached out a hand to her, but for some reason she wouldn't take it. He smiled anyway, and tried to say he loved her one last time, but the Recreated were pressing very close now, and he had to go.
Owen Deathstalker ran back and back, back through Time and the days and places of his past, drawing on his own energies now to fuel his flight. It seemed to him that he was moving more slowly now, but so were the Recreated. The distance between them remained close, but constant. The rage and hatred of the Enemy burned as fiercely as ever.
Finally, the chase came to an end. Owen had burned up all his Maze-given energies, and could run no further. He fell back into Time past, materializing in a cold, foggy back alley in the city of Mistport, some time during his first visit there. He collapsed on the dirty snow, gasping for breath. Blood ran sluggishly from wounds that hadn't had a chance to heal. His heart and his will and his duty urged him on, but he'd gone as far as he could. He was just a man again, with a man's limitations, all his more than human energies gone, burned up in the chase. He rolled slowly over onto his back in the snow, reaching for his sword and gun, as though they could be any use now. He could feel the presence of the Recreated, imminent, on the verge of breaking through into the physical world. A great darkness, howling triumphantly… and then suddenly, they were gone.
Owen sat up slowly. The deserted alleyway was still and silent. And then Cathy DeVries was suddenly standing there before him, smiling.
"Well done, Deathstalker. You did it. You ran the Recreated till their energies ran dry, and they were so weakened they couldn't withstand the baby's power. Even as we speak, he's putting everything right again. Everything."
"You're not really here, are you?" said Owen, getting painfully to his feet.
"Alas no. I'm just a recording, placed in your mind. One last contact, to say thank you. Only you could have done this, Owen. Only you."
"Great," said Owen. "Now how about a lift home?"
Cathy looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry, Owen. It's taking everything the baby has, to do what has to be done. There's nothing left to help you."
"Typical," said Owen. "Guess I'll just have to wait for my power levels to return, and make my own way back. See you in a while, Cathy."
But the figure had already vanished. Owen looked around him. The alleyway looked vaguely familiar, but in the thick mists it was hard to be sure. And then he heard them coming, stumbling through the fog toward him. Owen drew his sword and hefted it. The blade felt very heavy. He was tired and hurting, and a long way from his best. His powers were gone, and he wasn't even sure he could boost. Not a good time to get involved in a fight. He put his back against the alley wall, hoping to hide in the shadows.
They came lurching out of the mists, dark figures wrapped in stained and ill-fitting furs, and Owen only had to see their faces, to see the pain and desperate need in their eyes, to know what they were. Plasma babies. Addicts of that terrible and destructive drug. Blood. They'd kill him and rob him of whatever he had, just to pay for one more fix. Their eyes found him, despite the shadows, and knives and broken glass appeared in their hands. Deathstalker luck, thought Owen, almost angrily. Always bad.
There had to be at least thirty
of them. At his peak, Owen could have taken them all without even breathing hard. But he was just a man now, tired and hurting, and he knew he couldn't face odds like these. He needed time. Time to heal and rebuild his energies. So he turned and ran down the grimy alleyway, boots slipping and sliding in the snow, and the plasma babies ran after him.
And all Owen could think was The prophecy. The prophecy…
Owen forced himself on, the freezing cold air searing his lungs as he gasped it in. Behind him, the Blood addicts let out a cry that was partly anger and need, partly the hungry savage cry of a dog pack. Owen fought back a red mist of exhaustion that was already beginning to cloak his vision. He hit the wall at the end of the alley with his shoulder, bounced off without slowing and kept running, following another alleyway he hoped would lead to a main street. Even Mistworlders would help against plasma babies, the lowest of the low. But the alley only led to more alleys, a dirty labyrinth of soot-stained and churned-up snow.
He noticed at last that it was night, the full moon filling the drifting mists with a silver opalescent glow. Red and amber lights glowed briefly from the occasional overhead lamp, but no one was about at this hour, and the few windows were firmly shuttered. Owen knew better than to bang on them for help. He was on his own. He ran on, skidding and sliding now in the snow as his legs grew tired and his balance became uncertain. Die alone, overwhelming odds, far from friends and succor… in Mistport. Owen showed his teeth in a smile that was at least partly snarl. He hadn't come this far, achieved so much, to die here, in some anonymous back street.
He ran on, his legs so numb now he could barely feel the impact of his boots thudding on the snow-covered cobbles. His thoughts became vague and uncertain. Sometimes it seemed to him that old friends and enemies, dead and alive, ran with him, to keep him company. There were many things he'd meant to say to them, but never had. He'd always thought there'd be enough time, to say and do all the things that needed saying and doing, but time has a way of running out when you least expect it.
Sometimes he thought he was still running back through Time, and the enemy behind him was the Recreated, and he wondered if he'd ever be allowed to stop and rest.
And then he staggered out of the last alleyway, and found himself in a dead-end square, and there was nowhere left to run. He bent over for a moment, lungs heaving for air, and leaned on his sword to steady himself. At least he didn't have to run anymore. He straightened up slowly, and looked about him, and then he laughed, painfully, as he realized why the square looked so familiar. He'd been here before. This was the deadend square where he'd fought a small army of Blood addicts with Hazel d'Ark at his side. The place where he'd unwittingly crippled and then had to kill a young girl; perhaps the one thing he'd never forgiven himself for. For all his running, for all his long, eventful life, he'd finally come full circle.
They came spilling into the square, angry and vicious, even more than he remembered. The plasma babies saw him standing at bay, and hesitated for a moment, seeing the warrior in the way he stood, in the way he held his sword. But pain and need drove them on, and they threw themselves at him, howling wordlessly. The odds were appalling, but Owen went to meet them anyway, because he was a Deathstalker, and if he had to fall, at least he'd go down fighting.
He blew a hole in the crowd with his disrupter, the energy blast blowing away half a dozen ragged figures, and setting fire to the furs of as many more. Owen holstered the gun, doubting he'd get a chance to use it again. One way or another, the fight would probably be over before the gun's energy crystal could recharge for another shot. He should have invested in a projectile weapon, like Hazel's. He reached for his powers, but they were still gone. So he went to meet the enemy with his sword, howling the old battle cry of his Clan.
"Shandrakor! Shandrakor!"
They surrounded him in a moment, knives rising and falling. He barely felt the blows. He cut about him with his sword, and blood spurted steaming on the cold air, and pooled in the slush about their stamping feet. Many fell beneath the Deathstalker's blade and did not rise again, but the sheer force of numbers pushed Owen back and back. Eventually his back slammed up against a brick wall, and there was nowhere left to go. He cut down three figures with one sweep of his blade, but before he could bring the sword back, a dozen long knives stabbed into him, pinning him to the wall.
Owen cried out in pain and shock, and there was blood in his mouth. He cried out again as the knives were pulled back out of him, and then the knives were plunging into him again and again, the dark figures jostling each other in their eagerness to get at him. The strength went out of Owen's legs, and he slid down the wall, leaving a thick bloody trail behind him. The knives jerked in and out. Owen sat down suddenly, in the dirty, bloody snow, his back still pressed against the wall. His chin fell forward onto his chest. Some of them were still stabbing him. He couldn't feel it anymore, though his body shuddered under the impact. He watched almost disinterestedly as his arm slowly lowered, still holding his sword. His hand hit the snowy ground, bounced once, and then lay still. The numb fingers slowly opened, releasing the sword.
A fur-clad figure darted forward to grab it. Owen thought he saw a familiar face. His eyelids were slowly closing. He felt cold. He recognized the young girl's face before him. It was the same girl he'd crippled and killed. In a past that was her future. He smiled at her, and thought she smiled at him.
Time. Full circle. And redemption, of a kind.
Hazel?
After he was dead, they stole his boots.
Orbiting above the Wolfling World, the battered remains of what had once been two fine ships: the Dauntless and the Sunstrider. Hazel on her bridge, Silence and Carrion on theirs, talking a little bemusedly via their viewscreens. Silence had just received a message from a relieved but startled Golgotha; the entire Recreated fleet had vanished, between one moment and the next, and showed no signs of reappearing.
"Did we beat them?" said Hazel. "I mean; it sure didn't feel like we were beating them."
"Maybe they just got tired of kicking us around," said Silence. "Stranger things have happened."
"That's for sure," said Carrion.
It is over, said a voice, thundering suddenly in their heads. Owen Deathstalker has saved you all. He kept the Recreated occupied, till all could be put right again. And now it will be.
And everyone on the Dauntless and the Sunstrider cried out in wonder as the baby in the crystal concentrated his thoughts, and relit the thousand suns in the Darkvoid. Their lights blazed again, for the first time in over nine hundred years, and the Darkvoid was dark no longer. The baby concentrated, and revitalized the dead planets around those suns, and made them warm and intact and life-bearing again, just as they had been before. And then he reached out to the Recreated, still hanging lost and helpless in Time, and returned them to their old bodies, back on their own worlds, where they belonged. They would remember nothing of what they had been, and done. None of it had really been their fault.
Humanity's long nightmare was finally over.
The baby reached out further, and Unseeli blossomed again, the metallic forests reaching once again from pole to pole. And then he sent the reborn Ashrai home again, to tend their forests as they always had. Silence and Carrion watched all this, and both of them had tears in their eyes.
And having done all that, the baby decided that enough was enough, and any more would be interfering. He had put right all the things that he had unwittingly destroyed or created, all those years ago, and that would do, for now. He sighed once, put his thumb back in his mouth, and went back to sleep again. To dream, and learn from the Maze, and grow slowly in peace. While he waited for Humanity to catch up with him.
He was looking forward to that.
On board the Dauntless, Silence and Carrion looked at each other in amazement. On the Sunstrider, Hazel was slowly shaking her head.
"What about Owen?" she said. "Where's Owen?"
I'm sorry, said the voice. Owen is dea
d. I've left a record of all we said in your computers, and in Silence's. It explains everything. Be proud of Owen. He made all this possible. But remember my warning. Humanity must prepare. The Terror are coming.
"He died alone," said Hazel. "I wasn't with him."
He died well, a warrior to the end.
"The last Deathstalker," Silence said.
No. That would be the baby. Or perhaps he's a new beginning. All will become clear, in Time.
Hazel let out a howl of grief and rage that almost tore her throat apart. She powered up the Sunstrider's engines, and sped away from the Wolfling World, and all that had happened there.
"Owen; you lied to me. You promised me we'd always be together. Forever and ever. Oh, Owen; I never told you I loved you…"
Tears ran down her cheeks. The Sunstrider dropped into hyperspace, and disappeared.
Captain Silence and Carrion returned home, to the Empire and Golgotha, to glory and honor. None of them ever saw Hazel d'Ark again.
And deep in the heart of the newborn planet that had been the Wolfling World, and lost Haden, the Madness Maze waited for all Humanity.
Simon R. Green, Deathstalker
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