Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

danced paw in hand around the fire and were content, knowing the truth about themselves at last. And Halloweenie, the Li'l Skeleton Boy, sat on Harker's throne, drumming his bony heels against the wood, and dreamed of what it would be like to be more than just a boy.

Chapter 3
    TO BE A DEATHSTALKER
    It was another perfect day in paradise. On the planet Virimonde, great green fields stretched lazily under a vast blue sky, marked here and there by low stone walls, spiky hedge boundaries, and ancient beaten paths. Beyond the fields
    lay dark, sprawling woodlands, with tall trees and drooping foliage, cool calm refuges from the heat of the summer sun. Sparkling rivers and streams splashed around water-polished stones, tumbling over sudden dips and hollows, where the fishing was always excellent. Food animals of all kinds grazed peacefully in the fields, and what passed for birds on Virimonde were singing their little hearts out under a cloudless sky and a beaming sun. A marvelous open, peaceful world of bounty and tranquility. And David Deathstalker owned it all.
    The Deathstalker and his friend Kit SummerIsle, called by some Kid Death, raced their modified flyers in and out of the trees, sweeping this way and that at breathtaking speed, and whooping wildly as they went. The flyers were really little more than gravity sleds, a board to stand on and a vertical yoke for the controls, stripped down to the bare essentials for extra speed and better maneuvering. David and Kit had shut the force shields down, so they could feel the wind buffeting their faces and driving tears from their narrowed eyes. If something were to go wrong; if they misjudged speed or distance or reflexes, and ended up crashing or in collision with some unyielding object, without the force shields' protection they would be instantly killed, but neither of them gave a damn. They were young and fit and rich, with warriors' lightning reflexes and instincts, and, therefore, they were immortal. Accidents were things that happened to other people. And so they went, whipping in and out of the trees, slamming through the gloom of the forest so fast it was nothing but a blur of browns and greens around them. The lead went back and forth between them as they tried seeing how close they could get to the trees without crashing, testing their skill and courage and luck to the breaking point, and laughing breathlessly all the while.
    The Deathstalker and the SummerIsle, firm friends and heads of their respective
    Clans, young and daring and still searching for some definition of who they really were. David; tall and handsome and always immaculately dressed. Dark of hair and eye and wild of heart, a warrior as yet untested in war. A fairly minor cousin of an ancient Family, until Owen's outlawing made him suddenly head of the Clan and Lord of Virimonde. An occasional secret supporter of the rebellion, mostly just for the fun of intrigue.
    And Kit, Kid Death, the smiling killer, a slender figure in black and silver, pale and more than fashionably thin, with icy blue eyes and pale blond flyaway hair. Who became head of his Family by killing his father, his mother, and all his brothers and sisters in a series of more or less legal duels. Kit SummerIsle, sometime favorite of the Empress Lionstone, sometime supporter of the underground—a dangerous and isolated man who went where the killing was.
    Until he met David Deathstalker.
    After a while, the adrenaline pounding through their systems began to make them feel giddy in the head, so they called the race a draw and burst up out of the forest canopy, shredding leaves and branches as they went, emerging into the clear blue skies above. They eased back on their speed till they were just coasting along, and leaned heavily on their control yokes, grinning till their cheeks ached as they waited for their breathing to settle. David was glad to see Kit smiling. The SummerIsle was a somber man by nature, usually only enjoying himself in the heat of battle or murder. But away from the pressures of Court and politics, and in the company of a good friend, the notorious killer was finally blooming into an amiable, personable young man. Here on Virimonde, David and Kit could be just two more aristos, secure in power and position, idling away the days as it pleased them.

    They drifted with the wind, letting it take them where it would. David looked down at the world moving beneath him, and found it good. The stock stretched away in