Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

are the three of you going to do, gang up on me? Look, I am really not in the mood for this. Why don't you just start running now, and I'll give you a five-minute start."
    The man in the middle just smiled, and shook his head. "Time to die, Deathstalker."
    The ground rocked suddenly under Owen's feet, throwing him off-balance. He grabbed for his sword, and the street before him split apart, a wide vent
    opening up as jagged cracks spread in all directions. A bloody light blazed up out of the fissure, and the air was suddenly full of the stench of brimstone and burning flesh. Screams of innumerable people in horrible agony rose up out of the vent far far below. The ground shuddered again, and even as Owen fought for balance he was thrown forward, toward the great crack and all it contained. He could feel an impossible heat now, radiating up from the crevice, as sweat burst out on his face. His furs began to blacken and steam in the heat, and the bare skin of his face and hands began to redden and smart as he stumbled ever closer to the great vent in the street. He fought for control on the edge of the abyss, the crimson air boiling around him. The screams and the stench of sulfur were almost overpowering. Lengths of steel chain shot up out of the crack, ending in great metal barbs that tore through his clothes and sank deep into his flesh.
    Owen cried out as the chains snapped taut, and began to drag him slowly and remorselessly into the abyss and down to Hell, where he belonged.
    But even at the very edge of damnation, Owen still wouldn't give in. He braced himself, and the chains snapped, the broken ends whipping back into the great vent. The heat blazed up, hot enough to burn him down to blackened bone, and he withstood it. Slowly the thought formed in Owen's mind, I don't believe this. I don't believe in any of this. And in that moment the crevice and the hellfire were gone, and the street was back to normal, everything as it had been. Owen breathed deeply of the cold, bracing air and glared at the three men on the other side of the street.
    "Projective telepaths," he said flatly. "Strong enough to place an illusion in another man's mind, and convince him it's so real that when his image dies, so does he. Pretty rare in the Empire, but presumably not on a planet of espers.
    Well, gentlemen, you gave it your best shot. Now let me show you mine."

    Storm clouds rumbled suddenly overhead, and lightning stabbed down to strike the telepath in the middle. The force of the blast killed him in a moment, and threw the other two off their feet. Lightning struck again, and the second man died.
    The sole survivor scrambled frantically backwards through the slush and snow, staring at Owen with wild, desperate eyes.
    "The lightning isn't real! I don't believe in it!"
    "Suit yourself," said Owen. "But it's perfectly real. And storms don't care whether you believe in them or not. I deal strictly in reality."
    The esper swallowed hard. "If you'll spare my life, I'll tell you who hired me."
    "I know who hired you," said Owen. "Guess I didn't teach those businessmen a strong enough lesson. Maybe your death will convince them."
    "But… I'm surrendering! I give up!"
    "I have no pity for hired killers."
    The esper struck out with his illusions again, but they merely whirled around Owen for a moment like pale ghosts before dispersing, unable to pierce his mental shields. The esper stared desperately at Owen.
    "You held off three of us. That's not possible. You're not human!"
    "No," said Owen. "Not anymore. Now shut up and die."
    The lightning stabbed down one more time, and the esper died. And that was when a small army of heavily armed men came spilling into the street from all directions. They moved quickly to surround him, cutting off all avenues of escape. They looked grim and determined and very proficient. Owen was impressed.
    There had to be easily a hundred of them. Neeson and his businessmen friends must have scoured every dive in the city to put together a force this big.
    He was trapped, and he knew it. He'd had to strain his new mental abilities to
    the limit to produce the three lightning bolts, after all his exertions earlier, and he didn't have it in him to call down any more. He'd had a hard day; his sword was heavy in his hand, he was deathly tired, and even his bones ached. And none of it mattered a damn. He was Owen Deathstalker, and he was mad as hell, and he could just use someone to work it off on.
    The young