Deathstalker 07 - Deathstalker Return

was everything I could have hoped for. Someday, he might even have gone face-to-face with the Terror… But he died, saving Humanity from the wrath of the Recreated."
    "So he is definitely dead?" said Lewis. "You're sure?"
    "Oh, yes. I saw it happen. But you're going to bring him back."
    "Where's Jesamine?" Lewis said suddenly. "I just realized she isn't with me. We came in together. Why isn't she here? She's the practical one."
    "Not everyone gets this far, boy. Most don't even survive the opening gambits. Ten thousand eager volunteers came traipsing in here, wanting to be heroes like Owen, and most of them died. The few that crawled out alive probably wished they hadn't. You see, the Maze can't help people, can't change them, work its magic on them, unless they're ready and willing to embrace the change. The ones that died, or mutated, were so desperate to hang on to their precious limited humanity, or their provincial ideas about how the universe really works, that they couldn't, wouldn't, transcend. Evolution can be a frightening thing when it's thrust upon you. Essentially, they chose madness or death rather than face the scary unknown of post-human existence. It's not the Maze's fault. The monsters you saw outside did it to themselves; their fears made manifest in their flesh. They became the personifications of their own guilts and preoccupations."
    "That's horrible," said Lewis. "Will I…"
    "No," said Roland. "You adapted surprisingly quickly, but then, you're a Deathstalker. Your changes are already complete, even if you haven't learned to access them yet."
    "How did you ever get to meet my father?" said Lewis. "You look and sound just like him."
    "Oh, I get around. Really. You'd be surprised. I am a shape-shifting alien, after all. But mostly I'm filling in your father's details from what I see in your mind."
    "Wait a minute, you can read my mind?"
    "Trust me, Lewis, I have no desire to go rummaging. It's a wonder to me you can find anything in that mess. Now, enough of the small talk. The time has come to restore Owen Deathstalker to the Empire that needs him. And only you can do that."
    "What really did happen to Owen?" said Lewis. "I've heard so many stories, so many versions… did he really die on Mistworld, saving us all through his own sacrifice?"
    "Yes," said Roland. "He really did. Owen never was one to shrink from what was necessary. No matter what it cost him. The Maze, together with that incredibly powerful baby there, sent Owen back through time, past the Pale Horizon, and the Recreated followed him. They fought one last battle, in the past, in the grimy back streets of Mistport, and Owen won. But he'd used up all his power, and he was stranded there, years away from his own time. And then… Well. See for yourself."

    Lewis and Roland were suddenly standing in a dead-end square in Mistport. There was snow and dirty trampled slush everywhere, along with filth and grime. A thick pervasive fog pearled the air. It should have been bitter cold, but Lewis couldn't feel anything. He slowly realized that he and Roland were pale misty things themselves, like ghosts from the future. I haven't even been born yet, Lewis thought slowly.
    "Remember, we can't interfere," Roland said quietly. "We can only observe. We're not really here.
    Look—it begins."
    Owen Deathstalker staggered into the dead-end square, breathing hard. His clothes were torn and bloodied, topped with a ragged fur cloak. His face was gaunt and tired, as though he'd been running forever. He looked like death. He stopped and bent over, his lungs heaving for air, and he leaned on his sword to steady himself. He looked like a lion that had been pursued and harried by jackals. There was the sound of many approaching footsteps, pounding in the snow and slush. Owen's head snapped round, and he straightened up, his sword and gun at the ready. And worn out and exhausted as he was, at that moment Owen Deathstalker looked every inch the warrior Lewis had heard about his whole life.
    The animals came spilling into the square. Ragged, stunted people, with drugged fires in their eyes and the anticipation of blood in their mouths. They howled like beasts, and threw themselves at Owen. And he went forward to meet them, swinging his sword like the hero he was. The odds were overwhelming, dozens to one, and Owen was almost totally burned out from everything he'd already been through.
    Anyone could see that. But Owen fought anyway, refusing to be beaten,