Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker

jutting unnoticed from his ribs.
    Owen lurched up onto one knee and crouched there for a moment, breathing hard.
    And then his good hand brushed against something in the snow, and his heart missed a beat as he recognized what it was. Luck had finally smiled on him, and he was back in with a chance. Abbott loomed over him, grabbed Owen's shirtfront with both hands and lifted him off the ground. His feet kicked helplessly, six
    inches above the snow.
    "It's over, little man," said Abbott.
    "Bet your ass," said Owen. And he brought up the hand holding Hazel's lost gun, thrust it into Abbott's gaping mouth, and pressed the stud. The energy blast blew the Wampyr's head apart like a rotten fruit, and black blood and brains flew across the air. Abbott's hands slowly released Owen, letting him fall back onto the blood-spattered snow. He scrambled quickly away, tucked Hazel's gun into his belt and scooped up his sword with his good hand, beating the other against his thigh to get the feeling back again. And then, finally, Abbott's body fell and lay still.
    The crowd of onlookers surged forward and fell on it like rats on a day-old corpse. They tore the Wampyr's clothes apart, cut the flesh with their weapons and sucked at the black blood like leeches, their mouths working greedily against the pale flesh. Others fought over the blood spilling sluggishly from the severed neck. Owen staggered over to Hazel, who was back on her feet and shaking her head dazedly. She looked up sharply as he approached, then looked across at the feeding frenzy of the mob.
    "I really think we should get out of here. Hazel," said Owen. He flexed his hand, grimacing at the pins and needles, and then gave Hazel her gun back. She nodded quickly and looked about her.
    "I get the feeling it's not going to be that easy, Deathstalker."
    Owen looked around him, and his blood ran cold. The crowd had left the Wampyr's body and reformed itself around them. Most had black stains around their mouths, and all their eyes were fixed on Owen and Hazel. There was a growing tension in the air, and the faces of the crowd slowly filled with the same slow hatred.

    Their master, their god, was dead. There would be no more of the wonderful blood that had made them feel like gods, too, for a time. Owen looked quickly about him, but the odds were equally bad whichever way he looked. He stood back-to-back with Ha/el, and they held their swords ready. And the mob came at them from all sides.
    At first the sheer size of the crowd counted against it; they weren't used to working together and kept getting in each other's way. But the black blood burned within them, and they struggled for a chance to get at the man who had killed their god. Owen cut and thrust with skilled precision, killing coldly and dispassionately, with the minimum necessary movement and strength. The blood junkies died and fell, but there were always more to take their place. Hazel fought at his back, stabbing and cutting. Blades came at Owen and Hazel from all directions: swords and knives and machetes in never-ending numbers. Owen fought on, doggedly refusing to be beaten. The boost still flared within him, bright and powerful, but he wasn't sure how much longer it would last. The candle that burns twice as brightly lasts half as long.
    He gutted a skeletal man wrapped in evil-smelling furs, ducked a wild swing from the man next to him and cut viciously at another face that pressed too close.
    He'd already taken a dozen minor wounds he was too busy to feel, and blood soaked his clothes, some of it his. He grunted and stamped and swung his sword with all his amplified strength, and still the crowd surged around him, desperate to drag him down. Gleaming blades came at him from every side, and he could only evade and parry so many of them. It came to him suddenly and quite calmly that there was no way he and Hazel could survive this. There were just too many of the blood junkies. It only needed one of them to get in a lucky blow, and the fight would be over. A hell of a way for a Deathstalker to die,
    pulled down by nameless dogs in a nameless back alley. He smiled slightly, even as he cut and thrust. He'd felt this way once before, on Virimonde, when his own men had surrounded him, desperate for his head, but then Hazel had come from nowhere to save him. This time she was in just as much trouble as he was. She couldn't save him… but perhaps he could save her. He considered the thought dispassionately and