Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

way there. Stay low, and try and keep out of sight. The locals won't know who you are. You might end up getting shot at by both sides. Good luck, boys."
    The outer door burst open and Diana came rushing in, her eyes wide. She gestured urgently with the comm unit in her hand. "I can't raise the boys! The channel's open, but none of them are answering!"
    From far away in the distance came the sound of an explosion, followed almost immediately by another. They all hurried outside, Adrian grabbing a gun from the table. Outside in the farmyard, twilight was falling. The sound of energy guns discharging was clear and plain in the quiet. Out on the heathered moor, the
    animals were running confusedly this way and that. Far away, someone was screaming. Diana Daker moved to stand close beside her husband, who was hugging his gun to his chest like a talisman.
    "My boys," said Adrian Daker. "My poor boys…"
    David Deathstalker and Kit SummerIsle, those two most dangerous men, lay sleeping on the floor of the Heart's Ease tavern. Some kind souls had draped their cloaks over them like blankets, but they hadn't stirred enough to notice.
    The Deathstalker was murmuring quietly and grinding his teeth in his sleep, perhaps disturbed by some dream. The SummerIsle slept peacefully, his face as unconcerned as an innocent child's. Which would no doubt have amused him greatly, had he known. Sitting not far away at a long wooden table, nursing almost empty mugs of ale, two good-looking young women studied the sleeping men with good-natured tolerance. They were Alice Daker and Jenny Marsh, girlfriends of the slumbering swains.
    Alice was a tall and slender redhead with a magnificent bosom. Or, as David liked to say, a balcony you could do Shakespeare from. She had a wide smile, dancing eyes, and enough patience to put up with the Deathstalker's sense of humor, which could be somewhat basic on occasion. She was wearing the very best silks, enough jewelry to open her own shop, and the very latest in fashion and makeup, all courtesy of the Deathstalker. She was a good listener, an indefatigable dancer, and knew all the words to the best drinking songs, especially the dirty ones.
    Her friend Jenny was tall, ghostly pale, and raven-haired, with sharp features and a sharper tongue. She had a slender, almost boyish figure, and enough nervous energy to run a small city. She also wore the very best in fashion and its expensive accessories, courtesy of the SummerIsle. She smiled often, laughed
    rarely, and was forever alert and watchful for the main chance. Which for the moment seemed to be Kit SummerIsle.
    It was early in the morning, almost three a.m. The end of another long evening of drinking, carousing, and generally having as much fun as a body can stand.
    Since the Deathstalker was paying, they hadn't lacked for friends to join them in their festivities, but one by one drink or exhuastion had claimed the revelers, and they staggered out of the tavern doors in the general direction of home. The tavern owner finally gave up about two a.m., locked the place up, and went to his bed, leaving the remaining revelers to take care of themselves. It wasn't the first time this had happened, and also, it wasn't as if he had to worry about them cleaning out the till. Eventually even David's and Kit's hardened constitutions had given up the ghost and demanded sleep. So rather than make the long journey home, puking over the side of the flyer and arguing over directions, they just crashed out on the floor and went to sleep. Alice and Jenny, having paced their drinking through long experience, were now in that happy and contemplative stage of drunkenness where lying down and going to sleep involved too much effort. And so they sat and talked quietly together over the last of the booze, perhaps a little more openly than they otherwise might have.
    "God, I'm hungry," said Alice. "Do you suppose there's any food left behind the bar?"
    "If there is, I wouldn't touch it," said Jenny. "I don't know what he puts in his meat pies, but you never see any rats around here. His bread rolls bounce, his soup has things floating in it, and his bar snacks are the kind of things that start wars. I think he breeds them in dark corners, when no one's looking."
    "His ale's good. And his wine. And his brandy."

    "Should be, for the prices he charges."
    "What do you care?" said Alice, grinning. "None of this is coming out of our pockets."
    "True," said Jenny. "Very true. I