Deathstalker Return (54 page)

Finn smiled, and put his feet up, and thought he’d take the afternoon off.

 

 

Douglas Campbell, still officially the King of a disintegrating Empire, was held under close arrest in an old storeroom at the back of the House. The bare walls had no windows, there was only one door, and no furniture at all unless you counted the bucket in the corner. Douglas sat on the cold stone floor with his back against the bare stone wall, and passed the time planning his revenges. So far, the guards outside his door were treating him with extreme caution. They wouldn’t talk to him, and his food and water was passed through a flap in the door. No one had entered the cell since Douglas had been thrown into it, and the bucket was getting rather full.

Douglas didn’t know what was happening in the Empire. No one was allowed to talk to him. Most people didn’t even know where he was. He’d thought at least Anne would come and talk to him, or at least shout at him, but the long, slow hours passed in silence, and Douglas wasn’t even sure what day it was, or whether it was day or night—until James came, and ordered the guards to open the door and let him in. They didn’t want to, but they couldn’t ignore a direct order from James Campbell—the man who was going to be King, and probably a whole lot sooner than anyone had expected.

James stood in the open doorway, watching Douglas carefully until he was sure all the fight had gone out of him, and then he stepped inside the room and gestured airily for the guards to lock the door behind him. Once that was done, James used his own security codes through his comm implant to shut down the security camera in the ceiling. He didn’t want any witnesses to this conversation. James had been quietly picking up all sorts of useful security codes when no one was looking. He never knew when he might need to do something he couldn’t afford Finn to find out about. It made him feel disloyal, but he had to look out for his own survival—because no one else would. And right now, there were things he needed to say to his putative brother Douglas.

“I saw Treasure’s body,” James said conversationally. “You really did a job on her, Brother. Can’t say I’m terribly upset. She was always too loud and too obvious—and frankly, she scared the crap out of me. But even so, that was rather over the top. What is the matter, Douglas, can’t you get on with any of the wives we choose for you?”

“What do you want, James?”

“I want you to behave, Douglas. I want you to be a good little boy. Happy as I am to see you once and for all removed from the public eye and favor, your continuing bad behavior has a nasty habit of rubbing off on me. And I can’t allow that. I’m going to be King, Douglas, and I won’t have you spoiling it for me. In fact, if you do anything further to embarrass me, like pleading not guilty at your trial, for example, I will personally see to it that those you care for are made to suffer. Your father William is still under arrest at House Campbell. He can always be made to pay for your disobedience.”

“Your father,” said Douglas. “Interesting. You didn’t say our father. Just one more indication that you’re not really my brother. And this pathetic attempt at blackmail and intimidation only confirms it. The real James had far too much style, and pride in himself, to stoop to such tactics. So what are you, some actor Finn hired, and coached to play the part? I don’t suppose it matters, really. I’ve had my fill of you, James. Or whoever the hell you really are.”

He surged up from the floor impossibly quickly, catching James off guard. Douglas hit him once, with professional skill and personal venom, and James was unconscious before he even knew what was going on. Douglas caught the body before it could hit the floor, and stood very still for a moment, listening. But either the guards hadn’t heard anything, or James had bribed them to ignore any suspicious sounds of violence. Douglas smiled fleetingly, and then lowered James carefully to the stone floor. He then stripped James of his clothes, and exchanged them for his. With the cloak’s hood pulled well forwards, he should look more than enough like his supposed brother. He propped James up against the wall, with his head turned away from the door. Good enough to fool a quick glance.

Douglas took a few deep breaths to calm himself, and then knocked imperiously on the door. It opened immediately, and Douglas swept out, head down, hood well forwards. He growled something at the guards, and kept going. His back tensed, his muscles crawling in anticipation of a shout or a blow, but all he heard was the sound of the lock turning in the door behind him. Douglas allowed himself a smile. He’d been waiting for someone to make a slip, and knew his moment had come when James boasted about turning off the security camera in the cell. Amateur night . . .

Douglas pulled James’s hood a little further forwards, and strode swiftly through the palace corridors, doing his best to radiate
Back off and don’t talk to me
through his body language. It seemed to work. People bowed and curtseyed to him as he passed, and no one tried to talk to him. Physically, Douglas and James were very similar, and everyone just reacted to the familiar clothes and attitude, and not the man within. Douglas made his way unchallenged through the palace and out onto the private landing pad at the back of the building. He chose the fastest pleasure craft on the pad, opened the locks with his voice override (Finn apparently hadn’t got around to deleting it—very lax), and then he took off without bothering to file a flight plan. No one challenged him. Royalty had its privileges.

He pushed the craft as fast as its engines would allow. He needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and Finn. He knew where he was going; he’d had a lot of time to think about what he was going to do once he broke out of the palace, and James’s threats had only furthered his resolve. He was going home, to House Campbell, to free his father. It was a pretty predictable plan, as plans went, but Douglas didn’t give a damn. He’d had enough of playing the beaten man, playing for time; it was time for action. He’d hoped he’d have won some allies by now, but events hadn’t worked out that way. He was alone. So he was going to rescue his father, and to hell with the consequences. Let Finn and all his people try to stop him; Douglas was in the mood to kill a whole lot of people. It wasn’t like he had anything left to lose. He couldn’t save the Empire, he couldn’t save Humanity from its own follies, but he could still save his father.

He shot across the Parade of the Endless, the city glowing bright and cheerful below him in the gathering gloom of evening. Douglas was careful to follow all the traffic codes and regulations. He couldn’t afford to be noticed and stopped. There wasn’t a lot of traffic in the high air lanes at this hour, mostly just freight. Occasionally he had to fall to a lower lane, to make way for the really big rigs, and then he saw signs of unrest and even open fighting in the streets below. Douglas didn’t even slow to look. The people’s problems would have to wait.

The city quickly fell away behind him, and he headed out across the open countryside. It all seemed very calm and very peaceful, as though what happened in the cities was of no concern. The craft flew on, and no one called or challenged him. He checked the gun and sword he’d taken from James. Good enough for rough work. No doubt there would be new guards at House Campbell, answering only to Finn Durandal. Douglas had to assume they had orders to keep out everyone who didn’t have evidence of safe conduct from Finn. Douglas also had to assume that they had been given sufficient weaponry to enforce those orders. He hadn’t come this far just to be shot out of the sky because he didn’t have the right code words. So even though his spirit ached for the comforts of open confrontation, Douglas decided not to take any chances. He swung wide around the borders of Campbell territory, and brought his craft down in a narrow valley some distance behind House Campbell. According to all the maps and documentations, the valley had nothing to do with the Campbells, but secretly the family had owned the land for generations, through several intermediaries.

Douglas locked the ship behind him, and set off up the valley. It was getting dark. He kept a watchful eye out, but no one appeared to challenge him. It took him a while to locate a certain opening in the cliff face behind House Campbell, marked by a large and distinctly colored boulder. He’d never had to use the secret entrance before. No one had, since before Lionstone’s time—bad cess to the woman’s memory—but the secret had been handed down through generations of Campbells, from father to son, just in case it might be needed.
Put not your faith in Kings and governments,
the Campbells always said.
Only Family can be trusted.

What looked like a crumbling cave mouth actually led into a narrow tunnel, carved out of the earth long and long ago, and reinforced with concrete and steel. After a while, overhead lights came on, activated by Douglas’s presence. The air was cold and stale. Douglas hurried along the tunnel, gun and sword in hand, ready for any sign of new guards or booby traps. If Finn knew about the tunnel, it might even be sealed off. But only William could have told him, and the old man would rather have died than betray family secrets.

Eventually the tunnel came to an end, curving sharply upwards to a simple trapdoor, leading to one of the cellars in House Campbell. The whole system was a relic of the bad old days, the time of Family feuds and vendettas, when one never knew when he might have to leave in a hurry. No one had used the trapdoor in centuries, but it still swung open smoothly at Douglas’s touch. He pulled himself up and into the cellar, and looked quickly around. He was alone, at the back of the old wine cellar, surrounded by stacks of ancient vintages lying at their rest in dusty bottles. Again, the lights had come on automatically, reacting to the presence of a Campbell. Douglas padded quietly across the cellar, scowling at the signs of recent damage. There were broken bottles everywhere, and splashes of spilled wine on the stone flaggings; precious vintages wasted and destroyed, just for the sake of it.

Douglas came to the cellar door, listened for a moment, and then eased it open. He peered around the door, but no one was about. Presumably Finn’s people were busy guarding the more obvious ways into House Campbell. Douglas shut the door quietly behind him, and then set off through the familiar halls and corridors. Everywhere was a mess. Broken furniture, slashed portraits on the walls, along with crude graffiti. Food and drink had been ground into the carpets, along with urine, and everywhere there were scattered pieces of treasured heirlooms—broken just because they could be. The guards, marking their territory. Douglas seethed with silent anger. Another score to settle with Finn and his people.

He drifted through the old House like a silent ghost, easily avoiding the few guards that showed themselves. They didn’t look like they were expecting trouble. Douglas finally found his father in what had been an abandoned storeroom. He almost missed him, but was alerted by a door that was locked when there was no obvious reason why it should be. Douglas used his old Paragon’s skeleton key to open the door, and found his father William lying on a bare mattress on the floor. His clothes were a mess, his face was emaciated and unnaturally pale, and he wasn’t moving. He wasn’t manacled or chained, and Douglas’s heart thudded painfully fast as he thought for a moment his father was dead. But then he saw William’s chest move ever so slightly, and he hurried forwards to kneel at his father’s side. Up close, he could see bruises and dried blood on the old man’s face. Douglas swore under his breath as he checked for a pulse in his father’s neck. It was there, but only just. A small bottle of pills on a tray next to the mattress provided the answer to William’s condition. The old King had been drugged to the gills, to keep him from making any trouble.

Douglas shook William’s shoulder hard, and called his name as loudly as he dared. There was no response, and Douglas tried again. He should have anticipated this. He should have brought . . . something, to help. William’s eyes flickered slowly open, and focused on Douglas. He smiled slowly, tried to lift his hand, and couldn’t. Douglas took the withered hand in both of his and clasped it firmly.

“Hold on, Dad. I’ll get you out of here.”

“Took you long enough, son.” William’s voice was little more than a whisper. “The food’s terrible here. And the service is appalling.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been busy. Come on, time to go. Let’s try not to attract anyone’s attention; I didn’t bring any money for a tip.”

He hauled William to his feet by main strength. The old man hardly weighed anything. Douglas half led and half carried his father out the door, looked out, and then set off back through the House to the trapdoor in the cellar. His father was so weak he could hardly help at all, but right then Douglas was so angry he felt he could have carried his father forever. He was only halfway there when a guard stepped unexpectedly out of a doorway. He opened his mouth to yell, and Douglas shot him. The guard fell dead to the floor, but the sound of a disrupter firing brought more guards running. Douglas cursed briefly. He’d had to put his sword away to carry his father. He set off for the wine cellar again, but he could hear running footsteps behind him. Douglas set his father down with his back against a wall, drew his sword, and turned to face his enemies.

A whole crowd of guards came charging round the corner, only to slow and stumble to a halt as they saw Douglas waiting for them. Something in his face and in his eyes gave them pause, for all their superior numbers. This was King Douglas, once Paragon of Logres, one of the most famous fighting men of his time. Douglas laughed harshly—a brief, dangerous sound—and then he threw himself at the guards. Up close energy guns were useless, so it all came down to steel. The rage that burned in Douglas drove him like a whip, his sword flashing in short, bloody arcs. He cut his way through the guards as though they were unarmed, and the few cuts he took he didn’t feel at all. A dozen men fell screaming before him, before the remainder just turned and fled. They weren’t being paid enough to take on Douglas Campbell.