Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

that the good Professor wouldn't distract him while he was working down on Virimonde. Very…
    amusing steps. Valentine smiled happily. He would lead his machines to victory on Virimonde, falling upon cities and razing them to the ground, and Lionstone would love him again. And then let his enemies beware.
    In his cabin, the man who wasn't really the Lord High Dram paced up and down, scowling. This would be his first attempt at commanding troops in the field, and he wasn't looking forward to it. He'd studied up on it as best he could without raising suspicions, but no amount of theoretical knowledge could substitute for hands-on experience. The original Dram had led troops on many occasions, to great success, but the original Dram had been killed on Haden, also known as the Wolfling World. Now his clone had to carry on the role, lest anyone suspect the truth. He had to be Dram, do as he did. He was in charge of the pacification of the peasants, and Lionstone had made it very clear that he had to be successful, whatever the cost. Rather hard on the peasants, but it was their own fault for getting ideas above their station.

    The man now known as Dram sighed deeply and sat down. The day had barely begun, and already he was having to run as fast as he could just to stay in place. He had to stay on top of everything, learning by doing, while giving every appearance of being an experienced man of war. It didn't help that his own men distrusted him anyway. Apparently the original Dram had been something of a monster, hard and unyielding, and always ready to sacrifice his own men if that was what it took to ensure victory. That was how he'd first acquired the whispered nickname Widowmaker. The new Dram wasn't sure he felt that way.
    Certainly he didn't approve of throwing away lives. But if he didn't act that way, or at the very least appear to, people might begin to suspect that he wasn't who he was supposed to be. There were already rumors in Court… And if he was ever revealed as a clone, his short life would come to an abrupt and violent end. A clone replacing a man of influence and power was one of the Lords' worst nightmares.
    However, if he could bring this off—pacify the peasants, regain control of food production, and lead his troops to victory in the sight of all—Lionstone had promised he would be rewarded with the Lordship of Virimonde. David Deathstalker had forfeited that right the moment he allowed the beginnings of local democracy on his world. It wouldn't be much of a Lordship; Lionstone had plans for Virimonde that would make the Lordship little more than an honorary title. But for all Dram's standing at Court as Warrior Prime and official Consort, he'd always known that a Lord without a holding wasn't really a Lord. Virimonde would change all that. And the changes in store would eventually make him one of the richest men in the Empire. So he had a lot to play for.
    He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He wished he could make the rest of his world disappear so easily. Valentine Wolfe's presence was a problem
    he could have done without. The Wolfe and the original Dram had dabbled secretly in the Golgotha underground, and had something of a shared history of which he, the clone, knew very little. Every time he spoke with Valentine he risked giving himself away by not recognizing a veiled reference, or a shared experience, so for the most part he kept a careful distance between himself and the Wolf, and let Valentine suppose what he would. A certain coldness was to be expected, since the original Dram had betrayed the underground to Golgotha Security forces. But what else might Valentine know about the original Dram that his clone didn't? The original Dram had left extensive diaries, but there were naturally many things he'd had the sense or the caution not to put on tape, where they might be found and used against him. Dram sighed, heavily. Life as a clone was complicated enough, without your original being a devious, scheming, two-faced bastard.
    The journalist Toby Shreck, known in happier days as Toby the Troubadour, together with his cameraman Flynn, arrived on the planet Virimonde inside a large wooden crate marked Machine Parts. The ride down from orbit in the dark and very cold hold of a cargo ship was an escalating nightmare of bumps and bruises. Toby sat curled into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest, head hunched down to keep from banging it on the low roof, clung grimly to the