Deathstalker 05 - Deathstalker Destiny

you."
    "I'm not here for a wedding," said Owen, in a voice so low and dark it barely sounded like him at all. "I'm here for a funeral. Yours. My father was a good man. You killed him. I'll have your heart's blood for that."
    Kit SummerIsle smiled widely, and drew his sword. "So good to meet an old-fashioned aristocrat. One who hasn't forgotten the old code of honor, of feud and vendetta. I always wondered what it would be like to fight you; the legendary warrior himself. They say you're more than human now, but then, there aren't many who would call me human either. No doubt I'll get into trouble for killing you, but I'll survive. I always do. I'm too useful a weapon to discard.
    This had to happen, really. The last SummerIsle versus the last Deathstalker. Oh happy day."
    "You always did talk too much," said Owen, drawing his sword.
    "Then let us fight, by all means. Because of you, my dear David is dead. Burn in Hell, Deathstalker."
    Their swords slammed together and sprang apart again in a shower of sparks, and they circled each other for a moment before launching themselves at each other's throat. Neither man had the time or patience for an extended duel. All that mattered was the death of the man before him, an end to a long line of bloodshed that stretched back centuries.
    At the back of Owen's mind, an esper precog on Mistworld murmured prophecy. The smiling killer, the shark in shallow waters, the man who will not be stopped save by his own hand. Kid Death…
    They were both master swordsmen, experienced warriors, practiced killers, and their blades flashed through the still air too quickly for the normal eye to follow. Owen had the boost, and Kit had the drive, and they were both a little crazy by now. They stamped and thrust and hacked and cut, lunging and parrying and retreating, killing blows missing by fractions of an inch, or turned aside at the last moment by sheer skill or daring. Both men drew blood here and there, never vital, neither of them able to force an opening long enough to exploit it.
    Their sides heaved, and the breath burned in their straining lungs, and their swords grew heavier as their arms and backs tired. No man could maintain this kind of speed and savagery for long without burning out. The wound the Wolfling made in Owen's side had only recently healed, and already he could feel it weakening.
    Need and desperation put new strength in Owen's swordarm, and he beat aside Kid Death's blade, plunging forward. The tip of his sword gouged across the SummerIsle's face, tearing the eye out of his head. Blood poured down his disfigured face, and he howled in rage as much as pain. Kit plunged forward, anger robbing him of his usual grace. Owen turned aside the blow, and only then realized Kit had been expecting that. The SummerIsle's sword slammed back against Owen's, catching the Deathstalker's wrist at an awkward and painful angle, and Owen's fingers sprang open despite him, releasing his sword. It fell clattering to the floor as Kid Death laughed breathlessly, half his face a bloody mask.
    But even as Kit savored that moment of triumph, Owen plunged forward and grabbed the SummerIsle's wrist in both his hands. It only took a moment to force the swordarm around and back against itself, and drive the SummerIsle's own sword
    into his side.
    The SummerIsle cried out once, and staggered away. Owen let him go. He knew a death wound when he saw it. Duty was done, and his father, that good man, had finally been avenged. Owen would have liked to stay, and watch his enemy die, but he could feel the Recreated approaching, very close now, and he knew he had to go on. He picked up his sword and threw himself back into Time, back into the long chaos, and vanished from the room. Kit SummerIsle dragged himself slowly across the floor, dying by inches, and no one would ever know who killed him.
    Owen no longer felt he could run forever. The fight with the SummerIsle had taken a lot out of him, and he was hurt in many places. He was angry at himself now, for wasting so much time on personal business. Humanity was depending on him. He ran, and the Recreated came howling behind him, very close now. Owen strained to open up a wider gap between them, and couldn't. He ran on, and Time flowed around him like a many-colored river, sparkling with moments and memories.
    Owen stopped briefly, now and again, dropping back into Time for a moment, to get his bearings or say a last goodbye.
    He materialized briefly in a