Deathstalker Destiny

  And then he was gone, or Owen let him go, and Arthur Deathstalker plunged back through the years to his own Time; perhaps to remember, perhaps not.

  Owen stood quietly for a long moment, remembering many things, and then let go his hold on Time. He disappeared, carrying the appearance of the baby with him, and high above the world the Recreated screamed in frustrated rage.

  The Sunstrider was barely maintaining its orbit now, the last of its shields barely strong enough to turn aside the never-ending attacks. There were gaping holes in stem and stem, punctures in the outer and inner hulls, and only the invading vacuum kept the fires from raging out of control.

  The control panels were a mess. Most of the guns were gone now, destroyed, shot away, and the few remaining were being controlled through a single isolated weapon control system. Fires burned sullenly on the bridge, adding to the hellish red glow of emergency lighting. Hazel was burned and bleeding from a dozen wounds, her flesh torn over and over again by exploding systems, but she still stood straight, all her thoughts in the remaining guns. She’d always known she’d die alone, striking out at her enemies to the last.

  The Dauntless was being torn apart by repeated inner explosions, its rear assembly shattered and leaking air. Internal seals maintained pressure and life support in some parts of the ship, but they were few and scattered now, and one by one the guns were falling silent as they were destroyed, or ran out of crew to man them. The shields were going down all over the ship.

  On the bridge, Captain Silence could feel his ship dying about him. But still he maintained calm and discipline through his own example, though half the bridge crew were dead, and fires burned in the guts of devastated workstations. Bodies lay everywhere, and no one had the time or the strength to do anything about them. Silence kept his ship heading into the face of the Enemy; drawing their onslaught and defying them to do their worst. Doing his duty. Dying by inches along with his ship. And sometimes thinking, just a little wistfully, that Frost would have loved this.

  Out in space, the Ashrai were dying in their thousands, but the majority still hurled themselves upon the Enemy in wave after wave. Once there had been millions of them, all their great race born again, but though their numbers were savagely lessened, still they fought on, soaring through open space like fallen angels, harsh and unrelenting, undeterred by the scale or the terrible nature of their foe.

  And brightest of them all, the man called Carrion, shining like the sun as he slammed through space, great energies crackling around his power lance as he attacked ships the size of mountains and of moons. He plunged through one side of a ship and out the other, protected by the power running wild within him, awoken by the Ashrai and confirmed by the Maze. He was tired now, in body and in mind, for all the energies he wielded, and only the strength of his will kept them from consuming him. He was mighty and he was powerful, but he was so very small in the face of the Recreated.

  Hazel d‘Ark and Captain Silence and the man called Carrion fought the good fight with all their will and with all their heart, and never once thought of retreating. And if they thought of the time they were buying in minutes now, rather than hours, it did not deter them. They looked death in the eye, and were damned if they’d blink first. So they were all rather surprised when every single member of the Recreated host suddenly vanished, and the battle was over.

  Owen Deathstalker ran back through Time, and behind him came the Recreated.

  Back and back he went, that brave and honourable man, through all the times and places of his past, seeing again all the changes he’d been responsible for. It was like running inside a rainbow, all the colors of his world running together, and outside it a great roar of voices, all speaking together. Owen could hear the Recreated howling behind him in rage and fear, and the sound seemed very small. He ran on, building up his speed, and Time slipped past him, faster and faster.

  He paused briefly on the bridge of the Sunstrider, still in orbit around the Wolfing World. The battle against the Recreated had just begun. He saw Hazel, fighting off uncountable enemies, with limited weapons but unlimited courage, and the sight warmed his heart. He would have liked to stop there for a while, just long enough to say good-bye, but the Recreated were very close, and he didn’t have the time to spare.

  He ran on, faster and faster, the days blurring around him. He felt strong and determined. He felt he could run forever. Let the Recreated chase him. They’d never catch him. He could feel their rage and hatred behind him, like a great fire beating on his back, and he laughed at them, letting his speed level off. He didn’t want the Recreated to become discouraged and break off their chase. He had to hold them to him, keep them focused only on him, for however much time it took for the baby to work out its answer.

  As so many times before, everything depended on him, Owen Deathstalker, the last hero.

  He wondered vaguely if he’d ever be able to stop. If he’d have to keep running back through Time forever, to keep Humanity safe. Maybe run all the way back, down all the millennia, to the Big Bang itself... so that he and the Recreated could die together in that primal moment, and save the future for Humanity. That was a long path, longer than he could imagine, but he felt he could run that far. If he had to.

  No. It wouldn’t come to that. Owen had faith in the baby. However young he was, he was still a Deathstalker, after all.

  On he ran, and familiar faces and places loomed out of the endless rainbow spiraling around him. Wherever he looked, he saw people he knew. Places he had lived or fought in, some vital, some not. It was like trawling back through his memories, able to see everything, but change nothing. Until he saw one face that was too important to let pass by. Owen stopped his race with a jolt, dropping back into present Time, and materialized in a small bare room. And there, in that room: Kit SummerIsle, Kid Death. The man who murdered his father.

  The SummerIsle looked around and saw Owen, and was almost startled out of his usual complacency. “Deathstalker! Now this is a surprise. Everyone assumed you were dead. I’m afraid the Royal Wedding’s gone ahead without you.”

  “I’m not here for a wedding,” said Owen, in a voice so low and dark it barely sounded like him at all. “I’m here for a funeral. Yours. My father was a good man. You killed him. I’ll have your heart’s blood for that.”

  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 Wolfing 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 hm 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 dead-end 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.