Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

handholds provided, and distracted himself by mentally composing really unpleasant obituary notices for the bastards who'd come up with this brilliant idea for sneaking him onto Virimonde.
    It was his own fault, really. After the trauma, tears, and hard bloody work of covering three war zones in a row, Toby and Flynn had asked plaintively for a story they could cover without getting shot at. The underground council offered
    them a rustic farmworld in the back of beyond, well away from any fighting, and Toby and Flynn had a race to see who could say yes the fastest. The mission seemed straightforward enough, for once. Make a study of the peaceful rustic society of Virimonde, currently menaced by the growing mechanization of farmworlds. Show centuries-old traditions under threat, the livelihoods of helpless people being swept aside by an uncaring Empire administration—that sort of thing. It was the kind of story Toby could have done standing on his head, but he had a few private reservations. In his experience, long-established rural communities tended toward inbreeding, in people and ideas. You ended up with societies that resisted all change, good or bad, and families with less than the usual number of eyes, one thumb among the bunch of them, and room-temperature IQs. Favorite sports: coveting thy neighbour's ox, throwing cats off high buildings to see if they'd land on their feet, and witch burnings. Or journalists, if there wasn't a witch handy. But even with all of that, Virimonde had to be better than Technos III, Mistworld, or Haceldama. So Flynn packed some of his laciest underwear, Toby made plans for extensive relaxation and as little actual work as he could get away with, and they boarded ship for Virimonde. And Toby got his first impression that things were going terribly wrong when the Captain took them down to the cargo hold and showed them the large wooden crate with the words Machine Parts stenciled on the side.
    After an eternity of darkness, muttered curses, and the occasional uncertainty as to which way was up, the cargo ship finally touched down. There was a long, nerve-straining wait, and then the crate was unloaded and dropped onto the ground with what seemed to Toby like entirely unnecessary force, and there was the sound of the ship departing. Toby waited in the dark, sweating nervously. A little light streamed through the cracks in the crate, but there was no telling
    where they'd ended up, or if friendly hands were anywhere near. For all Toby knew they could be surrounded by a crowd of heavily armed customs officers with no sense of humor. The crate shook suddenly as crowbars attacked the lid, and then the top was suddenly prised open and put aside. Bright sunlight poured in.
    Toby raised an arm instinctively to shield his face, eyes streaming under the impact of the new light. A calloused hand grasped his and pulled him to his feet, and Toby found himself looking at a grinning, friendly face. Toby could have kissed him, but didn't. He didn't want to give Flynn ideas.
    It was early evening on Virimonde, with dark shades of red among the darkening clouds above. Twilight was fast approaching, and the cooling air had a hushed, muted feel. Toby and Flynn walked up and down outside the Daker farmhouse, getting the cramps out of their backs and legs. The air smelled wonderfully clear and unpolluted, unless you counted the rich underscent produced by various surrounding animals and their scattered dung. The farmhouse was a large, blocky stone building with primitive guttering and a thatched roof, so old that no one in the present family could remember exactly how old it was. Toby just knew, without having to be told, that this was the kind of place that only had an outside toilet. He smiled at the farmhouse and made polite comments, while privately thinking it looked drafty as hell.
    The surrounding countryside wasn't exactly what he'd been hoping for, either. It was mainly moorland, with white and purple heather; grazing land for the countless animals spread out between the farmhouse and the far horizon. It looked pleasant enough, but decidedly bleak. Not at all the kind of place you could hope to get much sunbathing done. Toby sighed inwardly and paid attention to his hosts. Adrian Daker, the head of the family, was a short, round fellow
    with close-cropped grey hair, knowing blue eyes, and a constant friendly smile wrapped around a clay pipe. His voice had only a trace of a rustic burr, and his