Deathstalker 04 - Deathstalker Honor

could dodge an arrow. Hell, he could probably shoot the bowman’s head off before he’d even finished pulling back his bowstring, but he thought he’d better not. Definitely not the best way to make a good first impression with Saint Bea. Mother Beatrice, he thought firmly. She hates being called Saint Bea. His party made it all the way to the front gate without anyone on either side developing a twitchy finger, and Owen looked up at the left-hand watchtower, blinking through the rain.
    “Owen Deathstalker and party, here at the request of Mother Superior Beatrice Christiana. How about letting us in before we all drown out here?” “Stay where you are,” said a hoarse voice from the watchtower. “We’ve sent a runner to the Mother Superior. She’ll have to identify you.” “Don’t be a pratt all your life, son,” said another voice from the tower. “That’s the Deathstalker, all right. Seen his face on a dozen holo documentaries before I came here. He’s a hero of the rebellion. And that’s Hazel d’Ark beside him.”
    “That’s Hazel d’Ark?” said the first voice. “Oh, bloody hell. Isn’t it bad enough being a leper without having her here too?” Owen looked at Hazel. “Your reputation is spreading.” “Good,” she said. “Now tell them to get a move on, or I’ll kick their gate in and make them eat the hinges.”
    “I heard that,” said the second voice. “Please leave our gate alone. It’s the only one we’ve got. Give us a minute to draw back the bolts, and we’ll let you in. The Mother Superior will be here soon, and there’ll be hot food and dry clothes for all of you.”
    “And a leash for Hazel d’Ark,” said the first voice.
    “I heard that!” said Hazel.
    There was a pause. “Do you know who I am?” said the first voice.
    “No.”
    “Then I think I’ll keep it that way.”
    The gate creaked open while Hazel was still trying to come up with a suitably devastating reply, and all animosity was forgotten as Owen and his party hurried inside, glad to get out of the rain at last. The gate opened into a wide square or compound, already half full of cloaked and hooded figures, with more arriving all the time. They all had their hoods pulled well forward to hide their faces, making the crowd eerily alike and anonymous, like a convention of somewhat tattered gray ghosts. Owen stood dripping before them, listening to the very pleasant and reassuring sound of the rain drumming on the roof overhead. He looked slowly around him, trying to judge his reception, and then the crowd raised their voices in a ragged cheer. Owen let the cheering go on for a while. He rather felt he’d earned it. But finally he raised a hand to get their attention, and the cheer was cut off as suddenly as it had begun. All the hoods turned to face him, eerily expectant. Damn, thought Owen. They want a speech. “It’s good to be here at last,” he said very seriously. “The good news is that the Empire got Mother Beatrice’s call for help. The bad news is, we’re all you’re getting. The Empire’s fighting a war for survival on a half dozen fronts at once, and we’re all they can spare. But Hazel and I have been known to turn around even the most dire of situations, so as soon as we’ve had a word with Mother Beatrice, and brought ourselves up to speed—“ “I’m here,” said a warm but still subtly commanding voice, and the crowd parted silently to allow the Mother Superior to pass, bowing their heads deeply as she went by. Mother Beatrice wore a simple nun’s outfit, with a plain wimple, rather than the much more impressive robes her rank entitled her to. A simple silver crucifix hung around her neck, and a wooden rosary hung from one hip like an undrawn gun. Her face was pale and drawn, with dark, steady eyes and a determined mouth. “Thank the good Lord you’re here at last, sir Deathstalker. We’ve been expecting you for some time.”
    “There was mention of hot food and dry clothes…” Owen said.
    “Of course,” said Mother Beatrice. “Please follow me.” She led them through the crowd, who bowed again as Owen and his party passed, though nowhere near as deeply as they’d bowed to Saint Bea. The compound led on to a series of low buildings with narrow alleys running between them. In the center was a ramshackle wooden building the size of a barn, built like everything else from the local black trees. The interior rooms turned out to be surprisingly civilized, with