in.
'Hazel, I've got a plan!'
'Better be a good one, Deathstalker.'
'I'm going to blast a hole through the crowd with my disrupter. When you see the opening, run. I'll keep them occupied.'
'Are you crazy? I'm not leaving you to die! I didn't save your ass last time just to run out on you now.'
'Hazel, I can't save both of us. If you don't run, we'll both die. Please, let me do this. Let me save you.'
There was a pause, and then her voice came back to him. 'You're a brave man, Deathstalker. Wish I'd known you longer. Do it.'
Owen summoned up the last of his boosted strength and threw himself at the crowd. Blood pounded in his head and boiled through his veins, and all his pain and tiredness disappeared like a fleeting thought. His sword swung and hacked like a part of him, driving back the vicious faces before him, his blade moving too fast for the eye to follow. The crowd fell back still further, confused for the moment by the deadly force in their midst, and Owen raised his disrupter and fired. The blood junkies threw themselves out of its way, but still the searing energy beam tore through those who didn't move fast enough, and for a moment there was an opening in the crowd.
'Run!' yelled Owen as he pulled Hazel round so she could see the opening, and she lowered her head and ran. She burst through the crowd and on into the deserted street beyond. She pounded down the street, and only slowly realized no one was following her. She stopped and looked back, and all she could see were the backs of the crowd intent on one struggling figure in their midst. Hazel slowly lowered her sword and felt something burn in her eyes that might have been tears. He'd never liked her much, any more than she'd liked him, but he'd sacrificed himself to save her. For a moment she wanted to run back and fight beside him again, but that would just have thrown away the chance he'd given her. As she watched, the crowd pressed in from every side, hacking and cutting, and Owen fell beneath them to disappear under the crowd of bodies. A sob forced its way past her trembling mouth.
'Don't mourn for him,' said a quiet, distorted voice behind her. 'It's not over yet.'
She spun round, sword at the ready, and found herself facing a tall, stocky man in a dark uniform she didn't recognize. She had a brief glimpse of a subtly inhuman face with blazing golden eyes, and then the figure was past her and running toward the crowd with impossible speed. A few turned to face him, but he was among them in seconds, swinging his sword in long deadly arcs that picked men up and threw them aside like puppets with broken strings. Men and woman fell to every side of him, and the crowd scattered, unable to face the newcomer's incredible strength and speed. From their midst a blood-stained figure rose up again, still savagely swinging his sword. His voice rose above the clamor, strong and strident.
'Shandrakor! Shandrakor!'
Hazel's heart missed a beat as she realized who it was, and she had to blink back fresh tears. She should have known Owen Deathstalker wouldn't die that easily. Together, he and the newcomer moved among the dispersing crowd like unstoppable nightmares, and bloodied figures fell to the stained snow and did not rise again. No one could stand against them, and after a few moments no one tried anymore. The surviving blood junkies turned and ran, and as quickly as that it was all over. Owen and the newcomer lowered their swords and watched them run, and then looked at each other appraisingly. Hazel ran back to join them, then had to put a supporting arm round Owen as his knees buckled. He was trembling like a horse after a race, but he still managed a ghastly grin for her, despite his many wounds.
'You realize,' he said thickly, 'that this is the second bloody time I've had to be rescued by somebody else? Just once I'd like to rescue myself, okay? Is that so much to ask?'
'Oh, shut up and get your breath back,' said Hazel. 'If you were drowning, you'd complain the straw you were clutching at wasn't a good enough quality. What was that you were shouting?'
'My Family's battlecry,' said Owen. His voice seemed a little stronger. 'I never used it before. Never thought I would. Surprising what goes through your mind when you realize you might not be about to die after all. Speaking of which, who's your new friend?'
'Don't ask me,' said Hazel. 'I thought he was a friend of yours.'
They both turned to look at their unexpected savior, and he looked silently back. His face was subtly inhuman, just as Hazel had thought; there was something wrong in its planes and angles, as though strange and unfamiliar emotions had shaped it. But it was the eyes that held the attention, that brought goose-flesh to Owen and Hazel's arms and raised the hairs on their necks. The eyes glowed a bright gold in the dim light of the street, as though lit from within by some strange inner fire. They marked him, like the brand of Cain. He was a Hadenman, one of the legendary augmented men of lost Haden. They were rare now, seen perhaps once in a hundred worlds, the few survivors of the terrible Hadenmen rebellion, when cyborgs created by men sought to wipe out humanity, root and branch. They failed, just, and now the last remnants were scattered far and wide across the Empire, feared and courted wherever they went as the ultimate warriors. They were supposed to be shot on sight, but usually no one was stupid enough to take them on with anything less than an army.
Few and far between now, lost and forsaken; the bitter end of a once brilliant dream.
'I am Tobias Moon,' said the Hadenman in a harsh rasping voice that had no place in a human throat. 'I am a partially functioning augmented man. Most of my implanted energy crystals are exhausted, and I lack the means to recharge them. I am therefore unable to utilize most of my implants, but I am still more than capable of seeing off a few blood junkies.'
'How did you know we needed help?' said Hazel.
'A message from Cyder,' said Moon. 'She thought you could use some assistance, and that we might be able to help each other.'
Up on a roof overlooking the street, Cat sighed with relief. He ached all over from the fall he'd taken, but luckily the snowdrift had been just deep enough to cushion the worst of the impact. Now that the Hadenman had finally put in an appearance, he was free to return to the Blackthorn for some much needed rest. Shadowing Hazel d'Ark and the Deathstalker had turned out to be a full-time job. Still, they should be safe enough now with Moon. There weren't many people stupid enough to annoy a Hadenman. He set off slowly across the rooftops, hoping fervently that he'd never have to see any of them again. They were too dangerous to be around. Even for Mistport.
Down in the street, Owen and Hazel looked round sharply as they heard someone moving in the mess of bodies lying scattered across the bloody snow. A single figure was moving, trying to drag itself away. It's useless legs dragged behind it, leaving a trail of bright red blood. Owen started after it, and Hazel put a staying hand on his arm.
'No need to kill him, Owen. He'll bleed to death before he gets far.'
Owen jerked his arm free. 'I'm not going to kill him. I'm going to see if I can help.'
'Are you crazy? He's a blood junkie. He was quite happy to kill you.'
'The fight's over. I can't just leave someone to die if I can help. If I did, I'd be no better than them. I am still a Deathstalker, whatever the Iron Bitch says, and we are an honorable Clan. Besides, a few years ago, that might have been you. Hazel.'
He quickly caught up with the crawling figure and knelt beside it. He put a gentle hand on its shoulder, and the figure shrank away from him with a weak, desperate cry of fear and pain. The figure wasn't very big, barely five feet tall, wrapped in filthy shapeless furs. Its legs were soaked in blood from the thighs down. Owen murmured comforting words till the figure stopped wailing, as much through weakness as anything else. Owen examined the wounded legs as carefully as he could without touching them and shook his head slowly. Either he or the Hadenman had cut right through the muscles in both legs. Crippling wounds on a world like Mistworld. He shrugged uncomfortably and pulled back the hood to see the face beneath. The breath went out of him, and he felt suddenly sick. She couldn't have been more than fourteen. Half starved, the bones of her face jutted out against the taut skin. She looked up at him with empty eyes, beyond hope or despair, no room in her face for anything but pain.
'Plasma baby,' said Hazel quietly behind him. 'They start them young in Mistport.'
'She's just a child,' said Owen harshly. 'Dear God, what have I done?'
'She would have killed you,' said Hazel, 'and never given it a second thought. Finish it, Owen. We have to go.'
Owen looked back at her almost angrily. 'What do you mean, finish it?'
'You want to leave her like that? If she's lucky, she'll bleed to death. If not, and the gangrene doesn't kill her slowly, she'll be a cripple for what remains of her life. And Mistport's a bad place to be weak and vulnerable. It's
