Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

her high collar. Her skin was deathly pale, her bobbed hair was black as night, her eyes were even darker, and her rosebud mouth was a savage crimson. Fully seven feet tall, lithely muscular, full-breasted . . . Brett thought he'd never seen anyone sexier, or scarier, in his life. And he'd been around. He watched open-mouthed as Rose Constantine stalked across the sands with a predator's deadly grace. She carried her sword casually in her hand, as though it belonged there, as natural as any other part of her body.
    The crowd cheered her, but there was none of the warmth or appreciation that Brett would have expected for such a long-standing victor of the bloody sands. The Wild Rose had come to the Arenas at a mere fifteen years of age, a vicious little poppet with an insatiable appetite for combat in all its forms.
    She'd fight with sword and ax, energy weapons and force shields, in full armor or buck naked, and never once looked like losing. Now, ten years later, she was still undefeated. She'd take on any opponent, no matter how experienced, and once fought in an exhibition match against odds of fifteen to one. She killed them all in under ten minutes. The audience had seen her bleed, but they'd never seen her flinch. Rose was admired, but not adored. As her fame grew, it got harder and harder to find anyone who'd go up against the Wild Rose, no matter how big the prize money. The crowd liked to see expertise, skill matched against skill, or at the very least courage in the face of adversity. All Rose offered was the certainty of a kill. But still they came to see her, the Wild Rose of the Arenas, darkly glamorous, endlessly fascinating. The relentless bloodred angel of death, who appealed to the crowd's darker, more savage needs.
    These days, she fought only in special matches, arranged and advertised well in advance, usually against deadly killer aliens imported by the Arena's Board from the outlying worlds. All nonsentient, of course, but guaranteed vicious as all hell. And the crowds always came to watch, waiting for the inevitable day when the Wild Rose would finally meet something even nastier than she was. They wanted, needed, to be in at the death. To see the nightmare fighter of the Arena finally brought down. The crowd might have its favorites, but it didn't like any individual to become more important than it was.
    "Any idea who she's fighting today?" said Brett. "There's nothing in the program, which I can't believe they tried to charge me five credits for. It just says; the Wild Rose, in a Special Event."
    "Where have you been hiding yourself?" said Finn. "No, of course; silly question. The Board has been
    advertising this fight for months. Ticket scalpers have pushed the seat prices through the roof. The greatest match in the history of the Arena, according to the Board, and for once they might just be right.
    Pay attention, Brett; even the legendary Masked Gladiator never fought anything like this."
    The crowd was chanting impatiently now, but Rose stood cool and calm and utterly collected in the very center of the Arena. She was smiling slightly, looking at nothing in particular. And then the main gates crashed open, and Rose turned unhurriedly to face them, and Rose's very special opponent strode jerkily out onto the sands. And the crowd went quiet. Brett could practically hear them breathing in unison. The creature stalked slowly forward, orientated solely on Rose Constantine, and she stood there, holding her sword casually, waiting for it to come to her. The vile thing was ten feet tall, wrapped in spiked scarlet armor that was somehow a part of it, almost the same color as Rose's leathers. Vaguely humanoid, its wide heart-shaped head lacked anything even remotely resembling a human expression. It had steel teeth and claws, and it moved like a killing machine, a nightmare given shape and form and bloody intent in the waking world. And everyone there knew exactly what it was, what it had to be.
    "Oh sweet Jesus," said Brett, leaning forward in his chair despite himself. "Oh Jesus God, it's a Grendel.
    Get her out of there. Get her out of there! She'll be butchered!"
    "Control yourself," said Finn. "This is the Wild Rose. If there's anyone left in this weak and complacent Empire that could take a Grendel, it's probably her. The odds are only seven to one against."
    "Where the hell did the Board get their hands on a bloody Grendel?" said Brett, barely listening. "I've never seen one outside of the