Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

faces, but couldn't let himself think about that. There was only the struggle, blade on blade, and the knowledge that they were bound to drag him down eventually.
    And then suddenly reinforcements were there, slamming into battle beside him like the answer to a prayer. War cries from a dozen worlds and cultures filled the air as the new defenders forced the invading troops back, step by step. The Deathstalker was there, already covered in blood and looking like death on legs.
    Hazel d'Ark fought beside him, wielding her sword with devastating strength and speed. Albert Magnus from the city Council was there, too, right in the front of things—a dusty grey man with a sword in each hand, unstoppable as a force of nature. And leading the attack, Jack Random himself, the professional rebel. He was tall and imposing in silver battle armor, his face familiar from a hundred
    wanted posters, driving the invaders back by the sheer fury of his attack. His swordplay was swift and deadly, and no one could stand against him.
    Silver laughed breathlessly and fought on, new strength in his arms. Maybe he wasn't going to die this day after all. He pulled a thin vial from his sleeve and swallowed the remaining dark liquid down in one draught. It was the last of his Blood, but the odds were the battle would be over by the time he needed another shot, one way or the other, so what the hell.
    Owen Deathstalker took a position at the head of the battle and defied the Imperial troopers to get past him. He was boosting again, and felt stronger than ever now that he was linking with Hazel. Somehow he knew side effects wouldn't be a problem this time. Together, he and Hazel were far greater than the sum of their parts, more than merely human. He hacked and cut about him with unstoppable strength, slapping aside defensive parries with contemptuous ease.
    Men fell screaming to either side of him, and did not rise again. Droplets of blood flew from his blade as it scythed through the air, and Owen grinned like a wolf, the scent of blood heavy in his nostrils, every inch the warrior he'd never wanted to be.
    Hazel d'Ark fought at his side, her sword flashing in short, brutal arcs, cutting through flesh and bone like a butcher's cleaver. Blood, none of it hers, splashed her clothes, soaking her sword arm to the elbow, and the screams of the wounded and the dying were music to her. She'd always had a soft spot for Mistport. She'd always liked to think that wherever she went and whatever she did, she could always go back to Mistworld, and they would take her in. It was the closest thing to a home she'd ever known. And now the Empire wanted to take that away from her, just like all the other things they'd taken, down the years.

    She was damned if she'd allow the Iron Bitch that final victory. Not as long as there was breath in her body and steel in her hand.
    Her link with Owen was strong now. She could feel his presence at her side, strong and dependable as always. Another presence impinged on her mind, and a familiar smell was suddenly strong and thick in her nostrils. She glanced to her left, and there was John Silver, not far away, stamping and fencing like a man possessed, eyes wide and grinning like a madman. He was flying on Blood. She could see it in him, smell it on his panting breath, even at this distance. A part of her wanted Blood, too. Just a drop or two. It would make her feel so good, comfort her fears, help her forget the helplessness of the fight she was involved in. Hazel fought the need down, burying it deep. She didn't need Blood to do what had to be done here. Perhaps because her situation had now become so simple—fight or die, fight or lose everything she ever cared for. And perhaps because she was linking with Owen again, and in his presence and strength she found all the comfort she needed.
    Disrupters on the battle wagons began to target rebel fighters on the outskirts of the struggling mob, blowing them apart in dark clouds of vaporized flesh and blood. Gravity barges drifted overhead in vast formations, surrounded by darting gravity sleds, hundreds of them, like a storm of dark metal leaves blowing into the city. No espers flew up to meet them as they pressed slowly on into the city, disrupter beams stabbing down to blow buildings apart. The air was filled with the roar of powerful engines and collapsing masonry, almost drowning out the shrieks and howls and war cries drifting up from the struggling forces below.
    And