Deathstalker (5 page)

The Deathstalker, Owen, Lord of Virimonde, last of a famous warrior line, lay naked and exhausted among the crumpled silk sheets of his bed and wondered lazily if he could work up the strength to call for a tall iced drink. It was late in the morning of another perfect day on the best of all possible worlds. The sun was shining, what passed for birds on Virimonde were singing their little hearts out, everyone was busy at their work, and he didn’t have to leave his bed for ages yet if he didn’t feel like it. He sighed and stretched slowly and smiled the slow smug smile of the truly satisfied. He’d just had amazing sex with his long-term mistress, and when she got back from wherever she’d disappeared to, he fully intended to do it all again. Practice makes perfect.

She wasn’t really his mistress, in the sense that he didn’t pay her a retainer or anything, but he liked the ancient word, with its undertones of sin and debauchery. He stretched again unhurriedly, content as a cat in the sun, staring up at the ceiling high above. When he did finally choose to get up, his most recent history was waiting in the computers for him to take up work on it again. It was a good piece, sharp and pointed and full of new insights. The kind of work he’d always known he was capable of, if he could just get away from interfering distractions like having to train with sword and gun every morning and study military tactics every afternoon in order to be the warrior his line demanded of him. No one had ever asked him if he wanted to be another bloody fighter like all this revered ancestors. But that was all behind him now. His father was dead, he’d inherited the
title, and his life was his own at last. In short, he’d got it all. No doubt eventually he’d start getting bored with such perfection in several years or so, but until then he was determined to enjoy every minute of it. And why not? He was a nice guy; he deserved it.

He looked around the huge stone chamber with its hanging tapestries and centuries-old holos. The Deathstalker Standing hadn’t changed outwardly in generations. Every modern convenience was in place, ready to hand or call, but expertly concealed behind the traditional overlay. The Standing had been the home of the Deathstalker Clan for generations beyond counting, serving all their various needs with calm efficiency. When Owen had bought the Lordship of Virimonde, he’d had the entire castle dismantled, stone by stone, and had it and its contents shipped to Virimonde, where it was reassembled surprisingly quickly by a small army of fanatical experts. You can do things like that when you’re a Lord. The Standing was his, wherever he decided to plant his roots; all that was required of him was that he preserve it and hold it in trust for future generations. Assuming he ever got around to marrying and producing a next generation. His mistress was a delightful sort, but not at all the kind of person one married. As head of one of the oldest Families in the Empire, he had a duty to marry someone of his own rank and station. And he would. Eventually.

Owen looked thoughtfully at the giant holo on the wall opposite his bed, showing the original Deathstalker in all his fearsome aspect and martial glory: Warrior Prime of the Empire and founder of the Clan that still bore his name. He looked a bit rough and ready in his thick furs and steelmesh tunic, bristling with weapons, his head shaved in a mercenary’s scalplock, but it didn’t take too much imagination to transform his warrior’s arrogance into a lord’s nobility. According to Family history, he’d been the greatest fighting man of his day, unanimously elected Warrior Prime and elevated to the Peerage by popular acclaim. Hard man by all accounts, and a bit of a bastard, but the public liked that in their heroes. Bloodied his sword on a hundred worlds, and never backed away from an insult or a war.

He was also the creator and wielder of the Darkvoid Device, which put out a thousand suns in a moment and left their planets to sail silently through an endless night. The
Darkvoid. But no one talks about that anymore outside the Family.

Pity about what happened to him in the end, but that’s politics for you. His son had taken over as Warrior Prime to the Empire, and things went on as they should. Owen wondered vaguely what the old man would have made of his most recent descendant. Probably would have had him put down the moment he showed any sign of intellectual tendencies. Owen couldn’t bring himself to really give a damn. He’d always known he was a writer, not a fighter. He’d had a proper training in weaponry and all the martial arts, as befitted his station and inheritance, but it had never interested him. His interest lay in researching and piecing together the Empire’s somewhat tangled history. Nothing excited him like reaching into the morass of legend and myth that made up so much of the past and producing one indisputable new fact, clear and sharp as a diamond in a coal mine. And if he’d learned one thing from all the histories he’d read and the tales he’d investigated, it was that most of the time there was no glory and damn all honor to be found on the battlefield. Only blood and mud and the endless bitterness of lost hopes.

Most wars turned out to be squalid little affairs, once you dug through the lies and propaganda, fought to protect trade interests or save political face. Owen was damned if he’d fight and die just so someone else could look good. Particularly when he had so much to live for. The only real legacy he had from his bad old, mad old ancestor was the Deathstalker ring; an ugly chunky circle of black gold handed down out of the unimaginable past, the sign and seal of Deathstalker authority. According to the Family tradition, he was forbidden to remove it, save to pass it on to his eldest son. They’d had to cut off his father’s finger to get it after he was dead. But then, Owen and his father had never got on.

They’d always been surprisingly distant and distinct, considering how alike they looked. They were both tall and rangy, with dark hair and darker eyes, moving always with the quiet grace of breeding and long martial training. These days, in his mid-twenties, Owen had lost some of the athlete’s leanness; good living and satisfied appetites had softened the lines of his muscles and padded his stomach. Not excessively so, by any means, but his old weapons master
would have thrown up his hands in despair at how out of condition his pupil had become. It was a thought that never failed to please Owen. The two of them had never got on. He still worked out most days, when he could spare the time, if only so he could keep up with his mistress.

The bedroom door swung open, and Owen’s mood changed in a moment as his mistress came bouncing in, bright and bonny and tanned golden from perfect head to pointed toe. Cathy DeVries was in her early thirties, with a tight compact body of wondrous delights. Average height, but far from average in every other way. Long legs, full body, long blond hair falling around a heart-shaped face with marvelous high cheekbones. Cathy was inordinately proud of her bone structure. Prettiness fades, she was fond of saying, but a good bone structure lasts forever. She had the widest smile Owen had ever seen and dark blue eyes to die for. She’d been his mistress for seven years now, ever since she’d been presented to him as a surprise party favor at the Winter Ball on Golgotha. She’d been physically adapted at the House of Joy: a double-jointed contortionist, trained in all the erotic knowledge of the ages, and full of surprises. Multiple orgasms guaranteed or your money back.

Buying up her contract was the best investment he’d ever made.

Cathy was wearing his battered old dressing gown again, belted at the waist for a change. Usually she just let it hang open, partly for freedom of movement and partly because she knew how much he liked to look at her. This time the gown was belted tight, and the thought disturbed him for some reason. It wasn’t as though she had anything to hide after seven years of enthusiastic exploration. She was probably just teasing him again. She knew how to get him going. He noted with approval that she was carrying a tall frosted glass of white wine. She always could judge his mood to a nicety. On the other hand, the sight of her was more refreshing than any drink could ever be. He took the drink from her and put it firmly to one side on the bedside table. First things first. He reached for Cathy, and she stepped back, just out of reach. He frowned, puzzled, and she looked at him dispassionately.

“Bad move, Owen. You really should have drunk the wine. You would have just drifted off to sleep and never
woken up. So much simpler and more pleasant for both of us. Now we have to do it the hard way.”

She reached inside the dressing gown and brought out a disrupter. Owen blinked stupidly at the energy weapon in her hand, and then old trained reflexes kicked in, and he threw himself out of his bed as Cathy fired. He hit the floor rolling, still wrapped in his sheets. The bed exploded into flames behind him. Cathy cursed briefly, put away the gun and drew a long knife from inside the dressing gown. Owen wondered briefly what the hell else she had hidden in there, and then lurched to his feet, tearing the enveloping sheets away from him. He had two minutes until the gun’s energy crystal recharged. He backed away as she advanced on him with the knife and looked desperately around him for some kind of weapon. Cathy’s face was calm but determined, as though she was working on some minor puzzle whose solution for the moment escaped her.

“Cathy, I really think we need to talk about this.”

“Too late for talk, Owen.”

“If this is some kind of joke, I don’t find it in the least bit funny.”

“No joke, Owen. I’m canceling our contract. The escape clause is a bit of a bastard, but that’s life for you. Or rather, death. Don’t struggle and I’ll make it quick.”

“Whatever they’re paying, I’ll double it.”

“You can’t buy yourself out of trouble this time, dear. Now stand still and let me do what I have to. At least have the decency to die with dignity.”

Owen realized he’d ended up back by the burning bed and winced away from the leaping flames. He drew himself up to his full height and glared at his mistress. His nakedness rather distracted from the effect. “Cathy, you don’t really think you can beat me in a fight, do you? I am the Deathstalker, after all.”

“And I was trained in the House of Joy. They teach us all kinds of things there. You’d be surprised. We’re both a little out of shape, but you’ve really let yourself go, Owen. If the knife doesn’t get you, the gun will, once it’s recharged. Say goodbye, dear. It’s been fun; let’s not spoil it.”

She lunged forward gracefully while she was still talking, the long knife reaching for his heart. Owen side-stepped at the last moment, and the edge of the knife grated across his ribs as Cathy sailed past him. She recovered her balance in
a moment and turned to face him again. Owen noted disgustedly that she wasn’t even breathing hard. The long cut burned across his ribs, and he could feel blood coursing down his side. Much as he hated to admit it, Cathy clearly was in much better shape than he.

The thought sparked a sudden anger in him, and as she came forward again, Owen fell easily into the defensive stance he should have been using all along. His weapon master had spent enough time hammering it into him. Cathy lunged again, and he stepped gracefully aside, seized her arm in one simple movement and twisted it up behind her back. Her own speed and impetus slammed the hold into place, and she gasped in pain as he applied a steady pressure. Her fingers opened reluctantly, releasing the knife. It fell to the floor, but Cathy kicked it out of reach before Owen could even think about going after it. And then she twisted strangely, pulled free of his grasp and sent Owen flying before he knew what was happening. He scrambled hurriedly to his feet, looking about him for the knife. Cathy pirouetted once, her long leg flying up, and her foot hit Owen expertly just above the ear. He managed to roll with some of the blow, but he still hit the floor hard again, his head ringing.

Great
, thought Owen, as he struggled to get his feet under him.
All the assassins that could have come after me, and I had to get a double-jointed contortionist kick-boxer. Well, when in doubt, improvise. And if that fails, cheat
.

Cathy came at him again, moving almost too fast for the eye to follow. Owen grabbed his clothes from the chair they’d been laid out on and threw them into Cathy’s face. For a second she was blind and off balance, and that was all it took for Owen to snatch up the knife and thrust it between her ribs. For a long moment they remained as they were, Cathy on her feet, him on one knee, both breathing hard. Blood poured from Cathy’s heaving side. The clothes fell away from her face. She gripped his shoulders fiercely, as though to hold herself up, but all her strength went out of her, and she sank to the floor, still holding onto him. He eased her down and sat with her, holding her tenderly in his arms. She coughed painfully, and blood ran from her mouth.

“Damn,” she said thickly. “You’ve killed me, Owen.”

“Yes, I think I have. Why, Cathy? Why did you do it?”

“You’ve been outlawed. The news came through while I
was getting your drink. All your titles, lands, properties, and monies have been seized. It’s death to shelter or aid you. Anyone who brings your head, preferably unattached to the body, to the Imperial Court on Golgotha will be rewarded with the Lordship of Virimonde and half your monies. Somebody really wants you dead, Owen.”

She cleared her throat and spat, and there was more blood. Owen held her tightly.
Outlawed?
He tried to make sense of it and couldn’t. In the space of a few moments, his whole world had gone mad. Cathy coughed painfully and gritted her teeth against the blood. Her hands tightened on his arms, and he held her until the spasm passed. He didn’t know what else to do.

“Something else you should know, Owen.” Her voice was low and blurred now, and he had to concentrate to make it out. “I’m a spy. From the Imperial Court. They planted me on you, all those years ago. I’ve been feeding them information ever since.”

“Hush, love. Don’t tire yourself. I know. I’ve always known. It doesn’t matter.”

Cathy looked at him. “You knew? And you never said anything?”