Deathstalker

'Kid Death…Kid Death …'

He smiled and nodded to the courtiers, and those nearest him recoiled as though he'd tossed a snake into their midst. They knew who and what he was. Everyone in the court had heard of Kid Death, the smiling killer. He strode slowly forward, and the gentle lapping sounds of the water against his boots were eerily loud in the quiet. He finally came to a halt an arm's length from the Summerlsle, and the two of them stood face to face, the old man and the young. The invincible warrior and the undefeated duelist.

Kid Death drew the sword on his right hip, reversed it, and offered it casually to Summerlsle. The old Lord bowed formally, took it, and then took up a fighter's stance. The younger man drew the sword on his other hip and fell into his own stance. Summerlsle nodded approvingly.

'Glad to see all my training hasn't gone to waste, Kit. You were the best pupil I ever had.'

'Thank you, Grandfather.' The young man's voice was light and breathy.

'Another child who turned out wrong. What the hell was wrong with your generation? Maybe there was something in the water…'

'I'm what you made me, Grandfather: the most skilled swordsman in the Empire. You sharpened the blade; did it never occur to you that someday it might be used against you?'

Summerlsle hefted his sword, his face fixed on his grandson's eyes. 'You killed your father and your mother and both your brothers, and the law couldn't touch you, because you said they were duels, and there was no one to contradict you. I should have killed you myself, but I couldn't. You and I are all that's left of the Summerlsle line, Kit. Don't let it end here, in senseless bloodshed, just to please the Iron Bitch.'

'I'm doing this to please myself, Grandfather. Doesn't the student always want to prove that he's become better than the teacher? As to serving the Empress, I am a killer, so I must go where the killing is. My parents disapproved of the life I led and tried to stop me; so I stopped them. And my brothers too, later, when they came looking for vengeance. They won't be missed, any of them. They dared little and achieved less. But I go on, the best of the best, death on two legs, Her Majesty's executioner in all but name. One day I'll have that, too, and then there'll be a new Warrior Prime.'

'You won't last that long, Kit. She'll see to that. Tell me, boy, did you ever feel anything for your Family? I loved them so much.'

'No, Grandfather, not a thing. Not even when I killed them. Enough talk, old man. Let's dance.'

He stepped forward, the sword moving easily this way and that, searching for an opening. Summerlsle went to meet him, moving only as much as he had to, the tip of his sword pointing always at his grandson's heart, and his eyes were cold and steady. For a moment they circled, each wary of the other, and then they came together in a flash of steel and the crashing of blades. The encounter was over in a moment, then they were circling again. There was a long red slash along Kid Death's left cheek, and blood trickled down his face. Summerlsle had drawn first blood. His grandson smiled widely, then threw himself forward. His sword was everywhere, and the sheer ferocity of his attack forced Summerlsle back, step by step. And then he stood his ground, and would not give up another step, no matter how hard Kid Death pressed him, as though he had said, This far will I go, and no further. Their swords slammed together and they stood face to face, straining with all their strength for the upper hand. Summerlsle's breath was coming fast, and his face was flushed. His grandson wasn't even breathing hard. Kid Death held Summerlsle's eyes with his and surreptitiously drew a dagger from a concealed sheath in his sleeve. Summerlsle smiled suddenly and nodded, and Kid Death thrust his dagger between the old man's ribs.

Summerlsle grunted once, and then coughed. Bright bubbling blood spilled from his mouth, and the strength went out of him. His sword fell, and Kid Death ran him through with a short, brutal motion. Summerlsle sank to his knees, his blood spattering the surface of the water. Kid Death pulled free his sword, sheathed it, and then bent over his grandfather, their faces close together.

'You knew that trick,' the young man said quietly. 'You taught it to me. You knew it was coming, and you did nothing to stop me. Why?'

'Because I have no wish to live on… in the kind of Empire Lionstone is building.' The old man paused to spit out a thick gobbet of blood. 'And because you… are the last of the Summerlsle line. If I'd killed you… the line would have ended with me. Can't have that. You'll be the Summerlsle now, boy. Maybe you'll make a better job of it than I did.'

His head dropped slowly forward, as though he was bowing to his grandson, and then he fell forward into the muddy waters and lay still in a widening pool of his own blood. And Kit, Lord Summerlsle, straightened up, shrugged briefly and turned away.

'I have my own name, old man, the name I earned. And I like it better than anything you ever gave me.'

He drew his bloody sword and saluted Lionstone with it, and she bowed regally in return.

'Don't go too far, Lord Summerlsle. I may have need of your services again. There is still another traitor who must be dealt with.'

Kid Death took a relaxed stance beside the throne, pushing the Empress' esper out of the way, and set about cleaning the blood from his blade with a piece of rag. In the forefront of the crowd, the Campbell watched guards drag Summerlsle's body away and said nothing at all. Lionstone nodded to her maid again, and once more she rose up and clapped her hands twice. Two guards appeared from the mists behind the throne, pushing a large transparent sphere ahead of them. It hovered at waist height, kept clear of the foul waters by its antigrav field. Within the sphere, a man sat slumped, his head hanging down from exhaustion. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with a heavyset face and figure. His long golden robes might have been imposing once, but they were tattered and soiled now, mostly with his own blood and vomit. He wore no chains, but the sphere held him as securely as any cage. A quiet murmur, quickly stilled, ran through the court as those at the front recognized the new prisoner and sent his name back through the crowd. The guards brought the sphere to a halt before the throne so that Lionstone could look upon her new victim. Her voice rang sweet and mocking on the quiet.

'My Lords, Ladies and gentle friends, allow us to present to you Judge Nicholas Wesley. Once, he presided over the highest court in our Empire, his name a synonym for law and justice. We thought that, of all our subjects, we could trust him implicitly. We were wrong. He thought his word was law, but there's only one law in the Empire, and that is ours. And having forgotten his duty, he threw away his honor by associating with quite the wrong sort of people. Tell us, Judge; how long have you been a supporter of the clone underground?'

The packed court was deathly silent as it waited for the Judge's answer. If ever a man in the Empire had been trusted and admired, even revered, it was Judge Wesley. His judgments were legends of reason and honesty, his few books required reading. And now he sat slumped in a stasis sphere, bloodied and humbled, and perhaps there was no justice in the Empire anymore. He looked up slowly, as though even as simple a matter as that took much out of him. Somewhere along the line, he'd suffered a severe beating. One swollen eye was entirely closed, and dried blood crusted his split lips. But even though he had fallen so very far, there was still a dignity about him, and when he finally spoke, his voice was calm and measured.

'I served you for thirty-eight years, Lionstone. I gave justice to all who came before me. Or that is what I told myself. It is my shame that it took me so long to see the evil in you and your laws. My life had become a mockery of everything I thought I believed in. But finally I saw the truth, and I will not look away now, even if the light is painfully bright. A simple truth undid me: that clones are people, too.'

'Not unless we say they are,' said the Empress. 'You haven't answered our question, Judge. How long have we nursed a traitor to our bosom?'

The Judge met her gaze unblinkingly and said nothing. The Empress smiled.

'Do you understand the nature of the sphere that imprisons you, traitor? It's a stasis field. Within that sphere, time does as we command. We can speed it up or slow it down. A year can pass in a second, or a second can last a year. You could lose a decade in the blink of an eye, live out your whole life in the time it takes you to answer our questions. Unless you choose to be reasonable. Give us the names of the scum you dealt with, and where they may be found, and you shall go free. We give our word as Empress.'

The Judge smiled suddenly, and fresh blood ran down his chin as his lips split open again. 'Your word is worthless, Lionstone. Truth and honor are not in you. I have nothing to say.'

The Empress sat back in her throne and gestured sharply to one of the guards by the sphere. He made a small adjustment to the control on his wrist, and the Judge grunted loudly as though someone had hit him. His hair grew longer and thick strands of white appeared in it. Heavy lines dug deeply into his face. His frame shrank subtly, and his hands withered into claws. He moaned with pain as arthritis filled his joints. Lionstone raised a hand, and