Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker

and threw him the angel's head.
    "Hi, honey; I'm home."
    And then the strength went out of his legs, and Georg dropped the head and caught him just before he hit the ground. Things got rather confused after that, and the next clear thought came as Georg was helping him out of the regeneration machine. He was still wearing his armor, but the pain in his side and back was gone, along with the injuries. There wouldn't even be any scars. He grunted his approval. Excellent device. Worth every penny of the medium-sized fortune it had
    cost him. He grinned at Georg McCrackin, who was busy fussing over removing the armor, and looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the wall. He looked pretty damn intimidating, if he said so himself. He stood there quietly a moment, winding down, emerging slowly from the persona of the Masked Gladiator, and letting his other self come to the surface again. And then he took off his helm to reveal the calm face of that most notorious fop, Finlay Campbell.
    If his father could have seen him, he'd have had a stroke. The thought never ceased to amuse Finlay. He'd been playing his double role long enough that he took much of it for granted, but that particular wrinkle never failed to raise a smile. He stripped off the last of his armor and let Georg take it away, and then stood nude before the mirror and stretched slowly, as unselfconscious as a cat. Sweat was drying on his chest and arms, and he absently accepted a towel from Georg and mopped at his body while his mind was elsewhere.
    Georg McCrackin had been with him for years, as was his right. He'd been the original Masked Gladiator, before he finally tired of it and bequeathed the helm and the legend to his pupil and successor. No one ever knew. He mopped at Finlay's back with another towel, a dark and brooding figure muttering quietly about the stupidity of taking needless risks.
    "I always feel good after a kill," Finlay said almost dreamily. "It cleans out the system, purging all the dark thoughts and impulses."
    "Just as well," said Georg dryly. "If you couldn't quench your thirst for blood in the Arena, no one would be safe. Probably wipe out half the aristocracy in duels. I knew you were a natural-born killer the first time I saw you fight."
    Finlay looked at him. "Are you telling me you didn't enjoy your time on the sands as the Masked Gladiator?"
    "No. But I fought for the challenge; you do it for the thrill. There's a
    difference. Which is why you'll find it a lot harder to step down than I did.
    But eventually even your appetite will grow cold, and then it will be your turn to pass on the helm and the legend to another fool with blood in his eyes and a devil in his heart."
    "Maybe," said Finlay, in a tone that suggested he rather doubted it but didn't feel like arguing. "It's all my father's fault, you know. I knew I was born to be a warrior, even as a child. I'd fight anyone at the drop of an insult, no matter how much bigger they were. I won a surprising number of tights, too. I'd have been happy in any branch of the Service, fighting the Empress' enemies. But no, I was the eldest, and the heir, and that meant I couldn't be allowed to do anything that might risk my precious skin. I still received excellent training in the use of the sword and the gun, that was part of my heritage and couldn't be denied me, but it was never enough. Not nearly enough. I needed something more to fire my blood, stir my senses, make me feel alive…
    "I fought my first duel when I was fifteen. Cut the poor bastard to ribbons. It felt so good, so right. After that, a bodyguard went everywhere with me and fought my duels on my behalf. You can guess how popular that made me with my peers. I'd never been exactly admired before, but after that I was a pariah.
    I've a lot to thank my father for.
    "It was a long time before I thought of the Arena. I slipped my bodyguard's leash, bribed my way past the Arena staff, and fought my first match under a hologram mask. Nothing fancy, no frills; just sword to sword. And when it was over, and I was alive and he was dead, it was like coming home. I developed my fop persona to keep anyone from finding out about my little secret. After all, if it became public it would be a major scandal: an heir to one of the greatest
    Houses, fighting all comers in the Arena… dear Father would have an aneurism on the spot."
    "You never told me any of this before," said Georg. "I knew most of it, of course. Made it my business