Deathstalker 05 - Deathstalker Destiny

and rebuild his energies. So he turned and ran down the grimy alleyway, boots slipping and sliding in the snow, and the plasma babies ran after him.
    And all Owen could think was The prophecy. The prophecy…
    Owen forced himself on, the freezing cold air searing his lungs as he gasped it in. Behind him, the Blood addicts let out a cry that was partly anger and need, partly the hungry savage cry of a dog pack. Owen fought back a red mist of exhaustion that was already beginning to cloak his vision. He hit the wall at the end of the alley with his shoulder, bounced off without slowing and kept running, following another alleyway he hoped would lead to a main street. Even Mistworlders would help against plasma babies, the lowest of the low. But the alley only led to more alleys, a dirty labyrinth of soot-stained and churned-up snow.
    He noticed at last that it was night, the full moon filling the drifting mists with a silver opalescent glow. Red and amber lights glowed briefly from the occasional overhead lamp, but no one was about at this hour, and the few windows were firmly shuttered. Owen knew better than to bang on them for help. He was on his own. He ran on, skidding and sliding now in the snow as his legs grew tired and his balance became uncertain. Die alone, overwhelming odds, far from friends and succor… in Mistport. Owen showed his teeth in a smile that was at least partly snarl. He hadn't come this far, achieved so much, to die here, in some anonymous back street.
    He ran on, his legs so numb now he could barely feel the impact of his boots thudding on the snow-covered cobbles. His thoughts became vague and uncertain.
    Sometimes it seemed to him that old friends and enemies, dead and alive, ran with him, to keep him company. There were many things he'd meant to say to them, but never had. He'd always thought there'd be enough time, to say and do all the things that needed saying and doing, but time has a way of running out when you least expect it.
    Sometimes he thought he was still running back through Time, and the enemy behind him was the Recreated, and he wondered if he'd ever be allowed to stop and rest.
    And then he staggered out of the last alleyway, and found himself in a deadend square, and there was nowhere left to run. He bent over for a moment, lungs heaving for air, and leaned on his sword to steady himself. At least he didn't have to run anymore. He straightened up slowly, and looked about him, and then he laughed, painfully, as he realized why the square looked so familiar. He'd been here before. This was the deadend square where he'd fought a small army of Blood addicts with Hazel d'Ark at his side. The place where he'd unwittingly crippled and then had to kill a young girl; perhaps the one thing he'd never forgiven himself for. For all his running, for all his long, eventful life, he'd finally come full circle.
    They came spilling into the square, angry and vicious, even more than he remembered. The plasma babies saw him standing at bay, and hesitated for a moment, seeing the warrior in the way he stood, in the way he held his sword.
    But pain and need drove them on, and they threw themselves at him, howling wordlessly. The odds were appalling, but Owen went to meet them anyway, because he was a Deathstalker, and if he had to fall, at least he'd go down fighting.
    He blew a hole in the crowd with his disrupter, the energy blast blowing away half a dozen ragged figures, and setting fire to the furs of as many more. Owen
    holstered the gun, doubting he'd get a chance to use it again. One way or another, the fight would probably be over before the gun's energy crystal could recharge for another shot. He should have invested in a projectile weapon, like Hazel's. He reached for his powers, but they were still gone. So he went to meet the enemy with his sword, howling the old battle cry of his Clan.
    "Shandrakor! Shandrakor!"
    They surrounded him in a moment, knives rising and falling. He barely felt the blows. He cut about him with his sword, and blood spurted steaming on the cold air, and pooled in the slush about their stamping feet. Many fell beneath the Deathstalker's blade and did not rise again, but the sheer force of numbers pushed Owen back and back. Eventually his back slammed up against a brick wall, and there was nowhere left to go. He cut down three figures with one sweep of his blade, but before he could bring the sword back, a dozen long knives stabbed into him, pinning him to