Deathstalker Legacy (10 page)

The holoscreen showed a recent confrontation in the Parade of the Endless, with Douglas standing calmly between two angry armed camps, and steadily cooling everyone’s temper with reasonable words and a personal authority. When he spoke, people listened. Even furious crowds and fanatical Neumen. It probably helped that Lewis was standing right beside Douglas, his hands on his weapons, glowering fiercely at absolutely everybody, and clearly ready to crack heads if anyone was stupid enough not to listen to reason.

In his time, Brett Random had sold weapons and the like to both sides of the conflict. He had no interest in politics, except how best to take advantage of the people involved. Fanatics always made the best suckers; you could sell them practically anything, as long as you could convince them that someone else didn’t want them to have it.

And then the holoscreen switched to a more recent exploit, and suddenly the Court was quiet. Everyone was watching. Three weeks earlier, the Hellfire Club had attacked a Church right in the heart of the Parade of the Endless. It wasn’t a big Church. Not very old, or particularly impressive. No one important went there. It was just a Church, where ordinary everyday people went to pray and worship; and that was enough for the Hellfire Club.

The Club itself had been around for some time; a bunch of self-proclaimed freethinkers who disapproved of the Empire having an official religion. According to these radical philosophers with far too much free time on their hands, organized religion was a Bad Thing. It stopped people from thinking for themselves, and thus prevented them from being all that they might be. Religion got in the way of human evolution. There should be only Science, the creation of human minds. Anything else was a waste of time, and distracted people from doing something productive with their lives.

No one paid the Club a lot of attention. It was briefly fashionable, but fashion moved on, as fashion does, and most of the radical philosophers found something else to pontificate about. Something more likely to get them invited back on the chat show circuit again.

But the Hellfire Club didn’t die. It went underground, its few surviving members becoming even more radical, more extreme. They became decadents, glorying in excess of all kinds, opposed to all restraints on human nature. They made Sin their religion, and the Church their hated Enemy. Just for the fun of it. They set fire to Churches. Committed blasphemies in graveyards. Assassinated a few priests. And finally decided they weren’t getting enough publicity. Something new was needed. Something big. Something awful.

Douglas and Lewis had answered a routine emergency call from a Church in the Parade of the Endless. When a news crew with nothing better to cover asked if they could send a camera along, Douglas had shrugged, and said
Sure. Why not?

On the holoscreen, the camera recording showed Douglas and Lewis standing outside the main door of the Church. It was hanging open, supported by a single brass hinge. Blood was spattered across the pale wood, in runs and splashes, and in the bright red shape of a handprint, clear as day. Douglas and Lewis looked at each other, and drew their guns. Their faces were stern, but calm. They thought they’d seen it all before. Lewis pushed the door open and Douglas darted inside, gun at the ready. Lewis followed him in, and the camera went after them.

Inside, there was blood everywhere. Bodies lay slumped and scattered among the overturned pews. Men, women, and children in their Sunday best, hacked apart. Arms lying outstretched in the aisles, as though still begging for mercy, or help that never came. Hands piled up like offerings. Heads impaled on the wooden railings, silently screaming. Douglas and Lewis walked slowly down the center aisle, checking the shadows for ambush. Everyone in the Court watched in silence. They knew what was coming. Even Brett was holding his breath now.

Douglas’s face was full of a cold fury. He had his disrupter in one hand and his sword in the other now, and he stalked down the center aisle like a wolf on the trail of its prey. His whole body radiated an outrage and an anger almost beyond control. Lewis stopped and knelt beside a dead child, cut in half at the waist. He slowly put out a hand to close the child’s staring eyes. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of Lewis’s familiar, ugly face. He looked . . . tired. So much evil, his face seemed to say. How could people do such things? And as they watched, as everyone in the Court watched, the tiredness went out of his face, replaced by stern, uncompromising resolve. Lewis was going to kill someone, and everyone knew it.

At the far end of the Church, they came to a heavy hanging curtain. Douglas pulled it down and threw it aside, with one violent movement, and saw a sight out of Hell itself. The altar had been used for sacrifice. Lots of it. The whole marble edifice was running with fresh blood. Behind the altar, the Church’s priest had been crucified to the wall, upside down. His throat had been cut, afterwards. And half a dozen members of the Hellfire Club, shaped by illegal body shops into the nearest they could get to devils (red skin, curled horns on their brows, hoofs instead of feet), were taking turns to drink the blood they’d collected from the slashed throat in the priest’s own silver chalice.

They were laughing when the heavy curtain suddenly disappeared, revealing them. They spun around, and their crimson faces fell as they saw Douglas and Lewis. Arrogance and devilish glee were gone in a moment, and there was only fear. They went for their guns. Douglas and Lewis shot the two whose hands were closest to their weapons, killing them instantly, and then they charged forward, swords in hands. Douglas was shouting something, his voice thick and incoherent with rage. Lewis was silent. They fell upon the remaining devils. One of them tried to put up a fight, and Douglas gutted him with one swift sideways cut from his blade. The devil fell screaming to the blood-soaked floor, dropping his sword to try and push his guts back into the wide hole in his belly they were spilling out from. Douglas stamped on his head to shut him up. The other devils looked at Lewis and Douglas and dropped their swords, surrendering.

Douglas glared at them, breathing harshly, gripping his sword so hard his knuckles showed white. He was ready to kill them. Everyone could see it in his face. He took a step forward, and the devils flinched back. Lewis watched Douglas carefully but did nothing, said nothing. And in the end, Douglas lowered his sword. The two Paragons put the devils in restraints, and the three prisoners were careful to do nothing to antagonize them. Lewis called a medic for the unconscious devil bleeding on the floor, and then he and Douglas bustled the others up the main aisle towards the door. And then one of the devils saw the news camera floating on the air before them, getting it all, and he laughed.

“Hail and salutations, viewing millions! Did you enjoy the show? We did it all for you!”

“Shut the hell up,” said Douglas, pushing the devil forward so hard he stumbled and almost fell.

“You needn’t think this means anything,” said the devil, snarling back at Douglas as he regained his balance. “Nothing that happens now matters worth a damn. You can’t undo what we did here! You can try us and imprison us and hate us, but everyone here will still be dead, and we’ll still be right, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

“Wrong,” said Lewis Deathstalker. “We can make an example of you.”

Something in his voice interrupted the devil’s composure, but only for a moment. He lurched to a halt and glared at Lewis, refusing to move.

“Why not kill us now, Paragon?” he said, grinning widely. “Why wait for the courts to judge us? Why not do it yourself? You know you want to!”

“Because we’re better than you,” said the Deathstalker. “Because we have to be.”

The image froze on Lewis’s face, stern and resolute, and then the holoscreen shut down. The Court slowly began talking again. Brett felt like applauding. A better piece of stage management he hadn’t seen in a long time. The whole devils piece had been carefully chosen, a setup; a direct answer to Finn’s actions in the Arena. Someone wanted to send a very specific message about what kind of a King Douglas was going to be. And what Paragons were supposed to be.

Brett would have liked to have been a Paragon; worshiped and adored and always right. But he was a Random, bastard son of a long line of bastards, outlaws, and thieves; so he became a con man. And, it had to be said; he was
very
good at it. He stole a politician’s wallet in passing, just because he could, and carried on passing out long cool flutes of champagne to anyone who looked like they could use a drink after what they’d just seen.

And then suddenly the whole Court seemed to be cheering at once. The Paragons Lewis Deathstalker and Finn Durandal had just arrived. People shouted and applauded, and stamped their feet. They surged forward to shake Lewis and Finn by the hand, and clap them on the back. And perhaps only Brett noticed the Members of Parliament hanging back, watching carefully to see how many in the crowd went to Lewis, and how many to Finn. Lewis was very popular, but it was Finn Durandal the crowd surged around.
Because we’re better than that
might be inspiring, but it was still revenge that warmed the cockles of most people’s hearts.

Douglas came striding through the packed crowd, and it opened up before him, bowing and curtseying. He embraced Lewis, and then Finn. The crowd applauded, and then drew back a little and turned away at Douglas’s gesture, so that the three men could talk in private. Finn looked at Douglas, and cocked an eyebrow.

“Come to rap my knuckles, have you, Douglas?”

“You’re supposed to be a Paragon, Finn; not an executioner.”

“Do you doubt the ELFs’ guilt?”

“Not in the least. I shed no tears at their passing. But we’re supposed to be the law.”

“Really? I thought we were supposed to be the King’s Justice.”

“Yes,” said Lewis. “The King’s. Not our own.”

Finn looked at him, and his thin smile was almost openly contemptuous. “You never did have much taste for vengeance, did you, Lewis? Or the stomach for it.”

“I prefer law,” said Lewis, entirely unmoved. “No individual should have the right to decide who lives and who dies. Isn’t that why my revered ancestor overthrew Lionstone, all those years ago? We’re supposed to be the King’s Justice; not his hired killers.”

“That’s enough,” Douglas said quickly. “I’ll have no arguments among my friends, not on my Coronation day. You both did a good job, under difficult conditions. Let it go.”

“For now,” said Lewis.

“Yes,” said Finn. “For now.”

“Where’s your father?” said Lewis.

“Backstage, resting,” said Douglas. “He was looking tired and frayed at the edges, so I sent him off to have a bit of a lie down, before the Ceremony proper gets under way.”

“Does he know what Finn did in his name?” said Lewis.

“William hasn’t had an opinion that mattered in years,” Finn said calmly. “You’ll be a different kind of King, won’t you, Douglas? You’ve been a Paragon. You know what things are like at the cutting edge. You’ll make them all sit up and take notice.”

Douglas looked sharply at Finn. “My father is still your King, and you will not speak of him in that manner, Finn Durandal. Not now, not ever. Is that understood?”

Finn bowed his head to Douglas immediately. “Of course. Please accept my apologies. I meant no disrespect. I was just . . . I’m still a little upset after seeing what the ELFs did in the Arena.”

“Of course,” said Douglas. “I understand. We’re all upset.” He looked around him, making sure that the crowd was still keeping a discreet distance, and that the media cameras were pointed somewhere else, and then he gestured for Lewis and Finn to lean closer. “There’s something we need to discuss, before the Ceremony begins. Concerning my naming of a new King’s Champion, after my Coronation.”

Lewis and Finn nodded. The Paragons had been talking about nothing else for weeks, ever since Douglas first made the announcement. There hadn’t been an official Champion for two hundred years. Not since Kit SummerIsle, the last Champion, had died so mysteriously, so soon after taking office. His killer was never caught, or even identified. People had been playing conspiracy theory over his death for centuries. Even more people said the office was jinxed. Maybe even cursed. But it had been two hundred years, and Douglas had never been much of a one for superstitions.

“Naming a Champion is just what I need to mark my ascension to the Throne,” he said. “To show that I intend to be a whole different kind of King. That I will pursue justice for all, even when I’m no longer a Paragon. My Champion won’t just be a bodyguard, or a symbol; he’ll have rank and position and power equal to anyone in Parliament. More than any Paragon ever had. Parliament won’t like it, but they won’t dare defy me on the day of my Coronation. Particularly since I’ve already agreed to do something for them . . . My Champion will lead the fight against Humanity’s enemies. The ELFs, the Shadow Court, the Hellfire Club. He will hunt them down, whoever they try to hide behind. My justice will not only be done, but be seen to be done.”

“I hate it when you try out your speeches on us,” said Lewis.

“Is this why you’re leaving it so late to name your Champion?” said Finn. “So Parliament can’t try to influence your choice?”

“Got it in one,” said Douglas.

“You could be making a rod for your own back,” said Lewis. “Whoever you choose, inevitably you’re going to disappoint a hell of a lot more. God knows Paragons are competitive enough at the best of times, but they’ve been outdoing themselves recently, trying to catch your attention. And isn’t there a very real chance Parliament will see this as an attempt to make the Paragons your own personal power base? Your own private army, to support you in case you decide to go against Parliament’s wishes?”

“How else can I be sure of getting things done?” said Douglas. “Look, Lewis; this isn’t about me. About power for me. I’ve never wanted to be King. You know that. I’d be happy to be a Paragon for the rest of my days. But if I’ve got to be King, I’ll be the best damned King I’m capable of being. Not for myself; for my people. To protect them from scum like the ELFs, and from a Parliament that’s grown too secure in its own power, and too distant from what needs doing. There are times when Parliament can’t or won’t do the right thing, the necessary thing, because MPs have to worry about not being reelected if they make an unpopular decision. I, on the other hand, couldn’t give a rat’s arse whether they sling me off the Throne or not.”