Deathstalker 05 - Deathstalker Destiny

long stone corridor of his Family castle, the Last Standing, and saw Jack Random lurching slowly down the corridor, his face pale as death, clutching his side. He looked sad and tired, and Owen walked with him for a while, to keep him company. He stopped again, a little further back in Time, and saw Jack flickering in and out of Time, somewhere deep under Lionstone's old Palace. Owen ran on, the Recreated close behind. He stopped again, to appear briefly in the courtyard of Saint Bea's Mission on Lachrymae Christi. He called out to Hazel, to warn her about the Blood Runners, but he was too late. He stayed a little longer in the hall of his old Standing on
    Virimonde, to snatch a thrown knife out of midair, and save Hazel from a sneak attack. He killed the man who threw it, the renegade Lord Kartakis, and smiled tiredly at Hazel, as she stared at him, amazed. There was so much he wanted to say to her, and he reached out a hand to her, but for some reason she wouldn't take it. He smiled anyway, and tried to say he loved her one last time, but the Recreated were pressing very close now, and he had to go.
    Owen Deathstalker ran back and back, back through Time and the days and places of his past, drawing on his own energies now to fuel his flight. It seemed to him that he was moving more slowly now, but so were the Recreated. The distance between them remained close, but constant. The rage and hatred of the Enemy burned as fiercely as ever.
    Finally, the chase came to an end. Owen had burned up all his Maze-given energies, and could run no further. He fell back into Time past, materializing in a cold, foggy back alley in the city of Mistport, some time during his first visit there. He collapsed on the dirty snow, gasping for breath. Blood ran sluggishly from wounds that hadn't had a chance to heal. His heart and his will and his duty urged him on, but he'd gone as far as he could. He was just a man again, with a man's limitations, all his more than human energies gone, burned up in the chase. He rolled slowly over onto his back in the snow, reaching for his sword and gun, as though they could be any use now. He could feel the presence of the Recreated, imminent, on the verge of breaking through into the physical world. A great darkness, howling triumphantly… and then suddenly, they were gone.
    Owen sat up slowly. The deserted alleyway was still and silent. And then Cathy DeVries was suddenly standing there before him, smiling.
    "Well done, Deathstalker. You did it. You ran the Recreated till their energies ran dry, and they were so weakened they couldn't withstand the baby's power.
    Even as we speak, he's putting everything right again. Everything."
    "You're not really here, are you?" said Owen, getting painfully to his feet.
    "Alas no. I'm just a recording, placed in your mind. One last contact, to say thank you. Only you could have done this, Owen. Only you."
    "Great," said Owen. "Now how about a lift home?"
    Cathy looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry, Owen. It's taking everything the baby has, to do what has to be done. There's nothing left to help you."
    "Typical," said Owen. "Guess I'll just have to wait for my power levels to return, and make my own way back. See you in a while, Cathy."
    But the figure had already vanished. Owen looked around him. The alleyway looked vaguely familiar, but in the thick mists it was hard to be sure. And then he heard them coming, stumbling through the fog toward him. Owen drew his sword and hefted it. The blade felt very heavy. He was tired and hurting, and a long way from his best. His powers were gone, and he wasn't even sure he could boost. Not a good time to get involved in a fight. He put his back against the alley wall, hoping to hide in the shadows.
    They came lurching out of the mists, dark figures wrapped in stained and ill-fitting furs, and Owen only had to see their faces, to see the pain and desperate need in their eyes, to know what they were. Plasma babies. Addicts of that terrible and destructive drug. Blood. They'd kill him and rob him of whatever he had, just to pay for one more fix. Their eyes found him, despite the shadows, and knives and broken glass appeared in their hands. Deathstalker luck, thought Owen, almost angrily. Always bad.
    There had to be at least thirty of them. At his peak, Owen could have taken them
    all without even breathing hard. But he was just a man now, tired and hurting, and he knew he couldn't face odds like these. He needed time. Time to heal