Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

railings, and nodded calmly at the burning city as though quietly satisfied.

    "You're really missing the best of it from down here," he said casually. "I trust you're getting good coverage?"
    "Oh yes," said Toby, climbing carefully to his feet. "Right up close and personal, some times."
    Ffolkes looked at him. "The Empress might have ordered it, Shreck, but I'm still in charge. Follow your instructions. Nothing… controversial, or I'll shut you down."
    "Got it," said Toby. "Nothing controversial. Just blood and death and burning buildings."
    "Glad to hear it," said Ffolkes. "Carry on."
    And he strode away to upset somebody else. Toby made a rude gesture at the man's departing back, realized that Flynn was still lying on the deck, and hauled him to his feet. The cameraman was still lost in what his camera was showing him through his comm implant. Toby could have patched it to the frequency through his own comm link, but didn't. It was all he could do to cope with what he was already seeing.
    In his room on the top floor of the Blackthorn Inn, as yet untouched by the invasion, Owen Deathstalker crawled across the floor on his hands and knees, shivering and shaking. His head hung down, hot and heavy, and sweat dripped from his contorted face. Pain blazed in all his muscles, sharp and piercing, and shuddered in his gut. He was blazing hot, his thoughts slow and muddy as the pain inside him tore him apart. He lurched on, inch by inch, as though trying to run away from the agonies that stretched his mouth in a soundless grimace. He didn't scream. He wouldn't let himself. He was a Deathstalker. He couldn't let anyone see him like this. His shoulder crashed into the leg of a table, and he
    knocked the obstacle away with one sweep of his arm. He tried again to vomit, but he'd already emptied his stomach. He'd crawled through most of it.
    The trembling had started as he made his way up the narrow stairs behind the bar. At first he'd put it down to reaction at his nearly having died, or the strain of fighting off so many attackers at once. It had been a hard day, after all. But it got worse. His head swam and his sight became blurred. His hands shook violently, and his legs became increasingly unsteady, until he was lurching along like a drunk. Somehow he made it to the top floor, and pressed his shoulder against the wall as he went, to keep him upright. His room seemed a long way away, but he got there, and even managed to shut the door behind him before he collapsed and began to puke up his guts.
    His head crashed into a new obstacle. He hardly felt it, and it took him a while to realize that he'd reached the far wall, and there was nowhere left to go. He got himself turned around, grunting at the horrid pain, and put his back to the wall, sitting more or less upright. The pain was worse if anything, and he felt like he was burning alive. The room was a blur, and he could feel helpless tears trickling down his cheeks.
    "Dear God, what's happening to me," he said, and was shocked at how weak he sounded.
    "Side effects from your constant boosting," said Ozymandius. "I did warn you.
    Whatever the Madness Maze did to you, you're still human. You've been boosting too often and for too long, and it's finally caught up with you. The candle that burns twice as brightly burns half as long, remember? You've been relying on the Maze's changes to repair the damage you've been doing to yourself, but it seems you still have limits. Human limits. Your body's been burning itself up, and you've nothing left to put out the flames."

    "There must be something I can do…" said Owen, forcing the words out through chattering teeth. He was hot and cold by turns now.
    "I'm afraid your options are rather limited, Owen. You could boost again, but it would only make things worse in the long run. A regeneration machine might be able to repair the damage, but I don't know of any in Mistport. Or you could throw yourself on the mercies of what passes for medicine on this planet, but I wouldn't recommend it."
    "Dammit, Oz… help me!"
    "I'm sorry, Owen. You did this to yourself. There's nothing I can do."
    "Oz… am I going to die?"
    "I don't know, Owen. The odds are against you."
    "Oz…"
    "Hush, Owen. It's all right. I'm here."
    There was a polite knock at his door. Owen gritted his teeth against the pain, and forced out a single word. "Yes?"
    There was a pause, and then a voice said uncertainly, "Lord Deathstalker, the city Council requests that you