Deathstalker 04 - Deathstalker Honor

legend, and as some poor bastard touched by God, and didn’t recognize himself in either vision. As a historian, he’d always known such revision and reinvention of his life was inevitable, but it came hard to see himself already disappearing behind the old masks of myth and folk hero. They’d be saying he was born in a manger next, with three wise Lords come to visit him.
    His feet took him to the infirmary, where Hazel was. When in doubt, he always went to Hazel. She was perhaps the only person who’d known him from the beginning, who’d been through all the changes with him. Perhaps the only person left who knew the real him. He found her sitting on the steps outside the infirmary, her head hanging tiredly down. He sat down beside her, and she grunted an acknowledgment.
    “You should get some sleep,” said Owen gently. “It’s been a long day.” “You’re the one who should be sleeping,” said Hazel. “Hell, you nearly died today.”
    Owen shrugged. “Business as usual. Saint Bea still working in there?” “Yeah. Nearly finished, though.
    Those who were going to die have done so, and the rest have all been attended to. She’s just mopping the place out now. Getting ready for tomorrow. How many do you think we’ll lose tomorrow, Owen?”
    “Too many. They fight well, and they’re brave enough, but most of them belong in sick beds. And even if they were fit, they’d be no match for an army of Hadenmen. I don’t think anything is, under these conditions. Maybe not even us. The real army will be here tomorrow, and maybe even somewhen tonight, and then the walls to this place will come down like matchsticks, and the real butchery will begin.
    What the hell do they want here? Moon said there’s something out there in the jungle, something he could sense but not describe. Called it the Red Brain. Maybe that’s what the Hadenmen want.” “What we need is a miracle,” said Hazel. “Maybe if we asked Saint Bea very nicely…” “I don’t think God’s listening to us right now,” Owen said tiredly. “We’re on our own.”
    “Nonsense,” said Mother Beatrice briskly, coming out of the infirmary, freshly starched and spotlessly clean. “God is always with us. He just won’t fight our battles for us.”
    “I don’t believe in God anymore,” said Hazel. “Not after everything I’ve seen.
    All the evil, all the suffering, all the death.” “People were responsible for that evil,” said Mother Beatrice.
    “Not God. And you have lived to see much of that evil come to an end. Be content with that.” She sat down beside Owen on the steps, rubbing her hands with a damp cloth. There were still specks of dried blood around her fingernails. “Why did you come here?” said Hazel. “Didn’t you have enough of seeing people die after Technos III?”
    “I came here because I was needed,” said Mother Beatrice calmly. “Why do you and Owen keep throwing yourselves into danger?”
    “Same reason, I suppose,” said Owen. “Because people need us, because no one else can do what we do. I still believe in the old virtues of duty and honor, even though they seem to have gone out of fashion in today’s new order of deals and compromises.”
    Mother Beatrice smiled. “And that part of you is the part that hears God’s voice. You can’t ignore it any more than I can.” “I fight because I’m good at it,” Hazel said stubbornly. “My life’s revolved around violence and killing for as long as I can remember. Everywhere I’ve been, it was always kill or be killed.
    Where’s God’s voice in that?” “It isn’t what you do that matters,” said Mother Beatrice patiently. “It’s why you do it. It is the cause we fight for that defines us. God gave you the warrior’s gift, Hazel, but left it up to you what to do with it.” “I never wanted to be a warrior,” said Owen. “It was thrust upon me by circumstances.”
    “Maybe in the beginning,” said Mother Beatrice. “Nobody sane wants to be a hero. Few tales of real heroes have happy endings. But you became what you are because of who you are, because you couldn’t look aside and do nothing while evil flourished. You are the best kind of warrior, Owen—the man who never wanted to be one. I never wanted to be a Saint. I still wince inside whenever anyone uses the word. Hell, I only joined the Church originally to get out of marrying Valentine Wolfe. But I found my faith, or it found me, and I can no more turn aside from