Deathstalker 08 - Deathstalker Coda

buildings. Owen thought the man looked far too handsome for his own good, and a great deal too self-satisfied. Owen also thought it would probably feel really good to slap that smile right off the Emperor’s face.
    He would have been quite happy to continue his wanderings unobserved, but of course he had to get involved. A somewhat aged Sister of Mercy, wearing a flapping black nun’s habit that Owen was pleased to see hadn’t changed at all in the last two centuries, was stumbling along with her arms wrapped around a large and blocky package. So of course Owen stepped forward and offered to carry it for her. She stopped, and studied him warily for a long moment, as though she’d grown unused to offers of kindness, and then either she saw something in his face she liked, or she was just too tired to object, so she handed him the heavy parcel and they walked along together. He told her his name was Owen, and she smiled for the first time.
    “Ah, now that’s a fine name. I meet a lot of people named after the blessed Owen. It’s still the second most popular name in the Empire—after Beatrice, of course.”
    “Of course,” said Owen. “But then, he was only a hero. She was a saint. At least, I always thought so.”
    “I am Sister Margot. Is this your first trip to the big city, Owen?”
    “No, but I’ve been away for a long time. Many things have changed, in my absence.”
    “Yes,” said the nun, with a sigh. “And not for the better, I fear. This used to be such a happy place, once. A city of light, indeed. And now it’s crawling with shadows and evil thoughts, and sometimes I hardly recognize it at all.”
    “Can’t someone do something?” said Owen. “A city reflects the mood of its people. Is no one speaking out against this?”
    “No!” Sister Margot said sharply. “And you’re not to either. You can die for such words, since the Emperor came to power. This is not the city you knew, Owen. Take my advice, and tread carefully while you’re here.”
    Owen grinned. “I’ve never been any good at taking advice, Sister. Not even from Beatrice.”
    And that was when two Paragons stepped suddenly out from a shadowed doorway to block their path. Two big men in sloppy armor and dirty cloaks, their muscles already going to fat, but still dangerous. They took in the nun’s habit, and sniggered and elbowed each other. They paid no attention to Owen, half hidden behind his parcel. The nun clasped her hands together before her, and bowed over them to the two Paragons.
    “Please, Sir Paragons, let us pass. These medicines are urgently needed at St. Clare’s Hospital. It’s not far now.”
    “Nuns,” said one of the Paragons in a thick, ugly voice. “We like nuns, don’t we, Henry?”
    “Oh, we just love nuns, Lawrence. We just love them to death. Sometimes literally.”
    The Paragon called Henry nodded to Owen without looking at him. “Drop the box and run. And be grateful we’re going to be too busy to come after you.”
    “Leave the nun alone,” said Owen, and something in his voice made the two Paragons turn sharply to look at him. Owen put the box down, and straightened up with his hands on his hips, where his sword and his gun used to be. Both long gone now, on Mistworld. The two Paragons looked at Owen’s face, and sheer horror filled their eyes as they recognized him. The minds behind the Paragons’ faces knew him of old. The faces went white with shock, and their hands fumbled at their guns.
    “It’s Owen! It’s the Deathstalker! The Deathstalker has returned!”
    Owen surged forward. He lashed out sharply, and his fist caught the Paragon Henry on the jaw. The force of the blow snapped the head right round, breaking the neck instantly. His body was still crumpling to the street, and the other Paragon was still drawing his disrupter, when Owen spun round and punched the Paragon Lawrence in the chest. The sternum cracked and broke under the impact, and Owen’s hand continued on to crush the man’s heart. The fight was over in a few seconds, both men were dead, and Owen wasn’t even breathing hard. He scooped up a gun and chose one of the Paragons’ swords for himself. The holster and scabbard fitted comfortably around his waist. For a man who’d always thought of himself as a scholar, he still always felt better with weapons at his hips. He still had it in him to feel sorry for the two Paragons he’d killed, for the real men underneath the ELFs’ influence. Except these