Deathstalker War (10 page)

“Hazel,” said Silver, keeping his voice carefully calm and even. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s different,” Hazel said thickly. “I’m different. I shouldn’t have taken Blood here. Not with so many espers around. They’re . . . affecting me. I can’t tell what’s in my head and what’s outside. The Blood’s . . . awakening something within me. Something I didn’t even know was there. I can see things, John, so many things. Nothing’s hidden from me anymore.”

She stared at the wall before her, and suddenly it was gone. It only took Silver a moment to realize that he was seeing what she was seeing; her mind linking with his to show him what was in the next room. The young burglar named Cat was spilling brightly shining jewels onto a table from a leather pouch, while his fence, the woman called Cyder, laughed and clapped her hands. Hazel turned her head away, and the wall became visible again. She glared at the opposite wall, and it disappeared to reveal a card game deteriorating into muffled shouts and accusations.

Silver tried to shake her, but couldn’t move her an inch. She suddenly turned her stare on him, and in that moment he felt utterly transparent, as though she could see everything within him, good and bad and in between, all captured in a moment. She seemed bigger than Silver, towering over him like some ancient god of judgment with no trace of mercy or compassion. He stepped backwards, jerking his hands away from her arms as though they’d burned him. Hazel’s stare turned inward, and images began to blink in and out around her. Visions came and were gone in seconds, cycling through faces and places, some of which Silver recognized.

An old man sat slumped on a cot, worn and broken down by life, wearing a janitor’s uniform. “They broke me. Go look somewhere else for your savior or leader.” Then he was gone, and Owen took his place, bleeding from a dozen wounds, sword held out to ward off an unseen enemy. “When you see the opening, run, Hazel. I’ll keep them occupied.” A mob of shadows surged forward from all sides, and he disappeared beneath them, still swinging his sword. They blinked out, replaced by a grinning Ruby Journey. “I’m just in it for the loot.” Silver tried to reach out to Hazel again, but couldn’t get near her. Her memories had the force of reality.

Ruby was replaced by a tall, furred, and lupine figure that Silver realized with a jolt had to be a legendary Wolfling. The huge figure looked right at Silver, and said, “It is a sad and bitter honor to be the last of one’s kind.” He disappeared, replaced by a Hadenman with glowing golden eyes. Behind him towered a vast honeycomb of gold and silver, thickly encrusted with ice. The long-lost Tomb of the Hadenmen. The augmented man called Tobias Moon stared at Silver, and said in his buzzing inhuman voice, “All we ever wanted was our freedom.” And then the ice melted, and strange colors came and went on the air, and the Hadenmen emerged from their Tomb, great and glorious and perfect beyond hope. And then there was only Owen again, staring sadly into Hazel’s eyes. “You can’t fight evil by becoming evil.”

Hazel turned away from him, and Owen disappeared as she looked at Silver. Their eyes met, and new visions appeared. Silver, making deals with crooks and scum, to keep the peace in Mistport’s streets. Silver, paying off legbreakers like Marcus Rhine, so they wouldn’t interfere with his Blood distribution network. Silver, looking the other way, as rivals were eased out or shut down the hard way. The visions faded away, and Hazel looked at Silver with new, cold eyes.

“Just a few drops, now and then, for you and a few special friends? Bullshit. You’ve been running your own distribution network for the drug, all over the city. How many new plasma babies are there out there now, John? How many Blood junkies lying stiff and cold in empty rooms because they couldn’t afford your prices?”

“I don’t know,” said Silver. “I try not to think about it. I’m just . . . getting by, like everyone else in Mistport. Inflation’s gone crazy since the esper plague. Money’s not worth half what it was. What savings I had were wiped out. If I wasn’t doing it, someone else would. You know that. I never meant to hurt anybody, but . . .”

“Yes,” said Hazel. “But. There’s always a but, isn’t there?”

Silver stepped forward, one hand reaching out to her. She grabbed it with her own, and he winced at the harsh, unforgiving strength in her. She smiled at him coldly. “The show’s not over yet, John. You’ve seen the past and the present. Now here comes the future. Whether we’re ready or not.”

Her hand clamped down hard, and Silver cried out as the room disappeared around them and chaos took its place. People were running screaming in the streets of Mistport. Buildings were burning. Attack sleds filled the skies above. Energy beams stabbed down through billowing clouds of black smoke. The dead lay everywhere. War machines smashed through the city walls. Burning barges floated down a River Autumn thick with blood and choked with corpses. And above it all, a never ending scream that had nothing of Humanity in it. Hazel released Silver’s hand and reality crashed back as the small cramped room reappeared around them. Silver fell back a step, shaking and shuddering, his head still full of the stench of spilled blood and burning bodies, the hideous unending scream still ringing his ears. Hazel stood and looked at him, cold and unforgiving as any oracle.

“That’s the future, John. Your future and mine. And you helped bring it about. Something Bad is coming to Mistworld, Something Very Bad. And it will be here soon.”

And then suddenly she was just Hazel again, her cloak of power and majesty gone in a moment, and she sank back down into her chair by the fire again, looking small and tired and very, very vulnerable. Silver slowly moved forward and sat down in the chair facing her. Part of him wanted to run screaming from the room, but he couldn’t do that. Part of him was frightened almost to panicking by the hideous thing he’d seen his old friend become, but he couldn’t let her see that. She needed him, needed her old friend and comrade, and though he had done many awful things in his time, a few of which even he was ashamed of, John Silver was damned if he’d let her down. They sat in silence for a long while, the only sound in the room the quiet crackling as logs shifted in the heat of the fire. The room seemed very cold.

“What happened to you, Hazel?” Silver said finally. “You never had those powers before.”

Hazel smiled wearily. “What happened to you, John? What happened to the people we used to be?”

“Things were simpler, when we were young,” said Silver, looking into the fire because he found it easier than looking at her. “You were a merc, and I was a pirate, both of us convinced we were destined for greater things. We made a great team as confidence artists. We ran the Angel of Night swindle for three years straight, remember? Though my favorite was always the lost Stargate con. I had great fun making up the maps. So impressive, they were practically works of art. We’d still be running those cons if we hadn’t got unlucky.”

“And greedy,” said Hazel.

“That too.”

“Things were simpler then. It was us versus them, and we only took money from those who could afford to lose it. Simple, innocent days. But we changed, moved on. We’re not who we used to be. Our friends and allegiances have changed, and all we have in common now are our memories and Blood. And neither of them comfort me like they used to. Can we trust each other anymore, John?”

“We have to,” said Silver. “No one else would.”

“Owen would,” said Hazel.

Silver made himself look at her. “You know him better than I do. What’s he really like, this Deathstalker?”

“He’s a good man, though he doesn’t realize it. A hero. The real thing. Brave and dedicated and too damn honest for his own good. He’ll end up leading this rebellion completely before he’s through. Not because he wants to, but just because he’s the best man for the job. He’s a nice guy, but there’s so much he doesn’t understand. Like the pressures and responsibilities and insecurities that drive lesser people like you and me to Blood or drink or dumb relationships. He’s never needed a crutch to lean on in his life. He just sees the right thing and goes for it, complaining all the while, fooling nobody. A good man, in bad times.”

“You love him, don’t you?” said Silver.

“I never said that,” said Hazel.

Silver knew what was needed. He made himself lean forward till their faces were only inches apart, and then he kissed her, and both of them knew it was good-bye. And that was when Owen Deathstalker entered the room and saw them together. He stopped just inside the doorway, saying nothing as Hazel and Silver broke apart and rose quickly to their feet. For a long moment, no one said anything. Hazel was breathing deeply, but her face wasn’t flushed. Silver saw Owen’s hand drop to the sword at his side, saw the coldness in Owen’s eyes, and knew he was very close to death. Not because Owen was jealous, but because this was one too many secrets, one too many betrayals that had been kept from him. And then Owen’s eyes went to the phial of Blood on the table, and everything changed. He knew what it was, and what it meant, and anger and a great weariness fought for space inside him.

“So that’s it,” he said flatly. “No wonder our mental link’s been so screwed up, with all that junk in your head. How long have you been taking it, Hazel?”

“Long enough.”

“Where did you get it?”

“From the Hadenmen city. Moon was very understanding.” Hazel’s voice wavered between defiance and a need for him to understand. “I need it, Owen.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because I knew you’d react like this! You don’t understand the pressures I’ve been under!”

“We’ve been together from the beginning. What have you been through that I haven’t? Dammit, Hazel, I was depending on you to hold up your end in Mistport! I can’t do everything! Our work here is important!”

“I know!” Hazel glared at him, her hands clenched into fists. “You depend on me, the underground depends on me, the whole bloody rebellion depends on me! Did it never occur to anyone that I might get tired of carrying so much weight? We can’t all be superhuman like you, Owen. We can’t all be bloody heroes. You’ve never had a moment’s indecision in your life, have you? You’ve always known the right thing to do, the right thing to say. But we can’t all be perfect!”

“I’m not perfect,” said Owen. “I just do my job. And that’s all I’ve ever expected of you.”

“You’re not listening to me,” said Hazel. “You never listen to me.”

“Why did you never tell me about you and Silver?”

“Because it was none of your business!”

“You never told me about him. You never told about the Blood. What else haven’t you told me about? I thought I could trust you, Hazel. I thought I could trust you, at least.”

“You see? You’re doing it again! Trying to put all the weight on my shoulders so you can be the victim of the piece! Well to hell with that, and to hell with you, Owen Deathstalker, I’m not going to carry it anymore. I’m sick of carrying the weight of your needs and your expectations! And I’m sick of you . . .”

“Yes,” said Owen. “You’d rather have him, and the poison he feeds you. Anything to avoid having to grow up and be a responsible adult. To support those who depend on you. To care about the people who care about you. You want him; he’s all yours. I’m going out to get some fresh air.”

And he turned and stalked out, slamming the door behind him, because there was so much anger burning inside him that the only other thing he could have done was hit her, and they both knew she would never have forgotten or forgiven that. And because he wanted to kill John Silver so badly he could taste it. He’d thought that he and Hazel, that someday the two of them might . . . but he’d thought many things, and none of them ever worked out the way he hoped. He’d already lost so many things he cared for. He shouldn’t be surprised that the only woman he ever loved would be taken away from him, too.

He should never have come back to Mistport. Nothing ever went right here. It wasn’t as though he’d had any hold on Hazel. She went her own way and always would. He’d known that. But he thought she’d chosen to walk with him, for a while at least. She could have come to him about her worries. She could have come to him about the drug. He would have tried to understand, tried to help. He understood about pressure. He’d spent all his life trying to live up to the Deathstalker name.

He strode heavily down the stairs and pushed his way through the packed crowd in the tavern. Some people made as though to object. Then they saw his face, and thought better of it. They knew sudden death walking when they saw it. Owen pushed open the door and stepped out into the street, and the cold air hit him, sobering him like a slap in the face. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off most of the tavern roar, and he leaned back against it, damping down his rage, getting it under control again. It took him a moment to realize that the street was completely empty. Which was unusual, to say the least, in a perpetually busy city like Mistport. Faces watched from darkened windows, as though expecting something to happen. Owen pushed himself away from the door, his hands falling to the sword and disrupter on his hips. There was danger here, close and ready. He’d have noticed it earlier if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in himself. Three men were suddenly standing on the opposite side of the street, staring at him. Either they were teleporters, or more likely they’d hidden their presence behind a telepathic shield. They didn’t look like much. Average height, plain average faces, they wore the same thick furs as everyone else. But there was a power in them. Owen could feel it, even if he didn’t quite understand what it was yet. The man in the middle stepped forward. His eyes were very dark in a pale face.

“You have enemies, Deathstalker. Powerful men require your death.”

“Well hell,” said Owen. “Gosh, I am scared. What are the three of you going to do, gang up on me? Look, I am really not in the mood for this. Why don’t you just start running now, and I’ll give you a five minute start.”

The man in the middle just smiled, and shook his head. “Time to die, Deathstalker.”

The ground rocked suddenly under Owen’s feet, throwing him off-balance. He grabbed for his sword, and the street before him split apart, a wide vent opening up as jagged cracks spread in all directions. A bloody light blazed up out of the fissure, and the air was suddenly full of the stench of brimstone and burning flesh. Screams of innumerable people in horrible agony rose up out of the vent far far below. The ground shuddered again, and even as Owen fought for balance he was thrown forward, toward the great crack and all it contained. He could feel an impossible heat now, radiating up from the crevice, as sweat burst out on his face. His furs began to blacken and steam in the heat, and the bare skin of his face and hands began to redden and smart as he stumbled ever closer to the great vent in the street. He fought for control on the edge of the abyss, the crimson air boiling around him. The screams and the stench of sulfur were almost overpowering. Lengths of steel chain shot up out of the crack, ending in great metal barbs that tore through his clothes and sank deep into his flesh. Owen cried out as the chains snapped taut, and began to drag him slowly and remorselessly into the abyss and down to Hell, where he belonged.