Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker

sword. He moved forward, and the maid jumped him from behind. She concentrated in the way she'd been taught, and the shrapnel bomb set inside her body exploded. Both she and the elf were torn apart by the blast, and blood and shrapnel rained down for long moments.
    Quiet fell slowly across the court, the only sound that of the four surviving maids-in-waiting feeding on the bodies of the fallen elves. Lionstone called to them and they came, clustering around her throne with bloody hands and mouths, like hounds called away from the kill. The Empress looked down from her throne at Stevie Blue, crouching torn and bloodied in the water at the base of the throne. She'd managed to draw her sword, but her hand was trembling violently from the shock and pain of her wounds. She stumbled forward, forcing herself on, her bloody mouth set and determined. Dram stepped in behind her and ran her through with his sword.
    Stevie Blue fell to her knees. She whimpered, and blood ran from her mouth. Dram pulled his sword out and she shook once, as though at a sudden chill. Lionstone stepped down from her throne to kneel before her. She had an ornate silver dagger in her hand. She leaned forward till her face was right before the esper's.
    "Have you nothing left to say to me, elf? About how weak I am, or how clever you
    were? No last declaration for the cause?"
    Stevie shuddered again. Blood poured down her chin. When she spoke, only the Empress could hear her.
    "I'll be back. There are lots like me. One of us will get you. Burn in hell, bitch."
    Lionstone slid the dagger delicately into Stevie's heart and breathed the esper's dying exhalation into her own mouth, savoring it like a connoisseur. She pulled out the dagger, put her fingertips against the esper's breast and pushed.
    Stevie Blue fell back into the dark water and lay still. Lionstone straightened up, made the dagger disappear up her sleeve again, and allowed Dram to help her up onto the throne again.
    "Elves never talk," Dram said casually. "They program their minds to self-destruct, rather than give up any secrets. If anything, you gave her an easy death."
    "You always want to spoil my fun, Dram. She died in despair. That will do for me. For the moment, I'm more interested in how that many elves got past your security defenses."
    "A good question," said Dram. "And one which I will be putting to my staff very forcefully once this audience is over. I can only assume I have a traitor somewhere in my organization."
    "I thought that was supposed to be impossible."
    "So did I. If there is a traitor, I'll find him."
    "I hope so, Dram," said the Empress. "Because if I can't trust you to protect me, what use are you?"
    Dram smiled and carefully dipped a finger into the traces of cream still on her face. He tasted it thoughtfully.

    "Brandy buttersauce. My favorite. If nothing else, the elves do have excellent taste."
    "Of course," said Lionstone, "just ask my maids."

Chapter 4
    Rising to the experience
    The city had another name once, but no one remembers it now. For the past three hundred years it has been known throughout the Empire as the Parade of the Endless, home of the Arena and the Games. It's not a large city, by Golgotha standards, but it grows a little every year as new citizens are drawn to it like flies to rotting meat. There are gambling houses and pleasure domes, reality shunts and psi jaunts, wonders and marvels and spectacles beyond counting, but no one comes to the Parade of the Endless for those. They are the appetizers, the side dishes, something to clear the palate and sharpen the senses before moving on to something stronger.
    In the center of the city, deep in its dark and bloody heart, lies the Arena: a wide open space of carefully raked sands surrounded by tiers of banked seating.
    It is kept safe and separate from the rest of the city by a series of force screens, only ever lowered in sequence. It's hard to get into the Arena. It's even harder to get out. Those that live there never leave. They have their own places in the cells and chambers and twisting passageways deep beneath the Arena. The gladiators live in relative luxury, honing their fighting skills and dreaming of fame and glory. Trainers and service staff live in the plainer chambers, their lives dedicated to the smooth running of the Games. Prisoners await their fate in the darkness of their cells on the lowest level, knowing they will never see light again till they are pushed stumbling out onto