Douglas Hill - The Last Legionary 01 - Galactic Warlord.pdf - Douglas Hill - margozap

The Last Legionary 1: Galactic Warlord

By Douglas Hill

BOOK ONE OF THE LAST LEGIONARY SERIES

HE STANDS ALONE...

HIS PLANET, MOROS, DESTROYED

BY UNKNOWN FORCES.

HIS ONE VOW — TO WREAK

A TERRIBLE VENGEANCE ON

THE SINISTER ENEMY.

But Keill Randor, the LAST LEGIONARY, cannot

conceive the evil force he will unleash in his

crusade against the WARLORD, the master of

destruction, and his murderous army, the

DEATHWING.

CHAPTER ONE

He had been walking the dirty streets since twilight first began to gather. The pain streamed like liquid

fire through every cell of his body – but he locked it away in a corner of his mind, ignored it, and walked.

There was little to please the eye in his surroundings, and he paid scant attention to them. He was on a

small poor unimportant planet whose very name, Coranex, meant nothing to him. But around the

spaceport clustered a drab, seedy town, which was a well-known stopover on the main space lanes. It

attracted freightermen, traders, wandering technicians, space drifters of every sort. Those were the

people he was looking for. Those were the people most likely to pick up the kind of information he

desperately sought.

He threaded his way through the clatter and glitter of the streets, thronged with people idling past the

tawdry attractions offered to space-weary visitors – everything from ordinary holoscreens to shadowy,

semi-illicit drug dives. Methodically he worked his way from place to place, concentrating mainly on the

attendants, doorkeepers, bartenders – those in a position to collect and distil the talk, the gossip, of their

hundreds of customers.

But he also watched faces in the crowds. Many people turned towards him with a flicker of curiosity –

their interest caught for a moment by his tall leanness, the controlled litheness of his movements, most of

all by the grey-black uniform with the brilliant, sky-blue circlet on shoulder and upper chest. Sometimes a

person would glance at him curiously and then look again, with a flicker of recognition in their eyes. And

then the uniformed man would pause, and intercept, and ask his questions.

Always the answers were the same. A shrug, a shake of the head, a negative. Sometimes a shadow of

sympathy – most often the blankness of indifference. The Inhabited Galaxy was a big place; everybody

had problems of their own.

Undeterred, he kept moving, as he had on a dozen planets or more before Coranex – while the pain

clamoured for his full attention, while twilight darkened into deep night. His head remained high and his

shoulders square, for a lifetime of military training cannot be erased in a few months – not by pain, not by

weariness, not by loneliness, not even by despair.

Despair was near enough, though, ready to overwhelm him. He knew how much time he had left to go

on searching. It was a good deal less than the time he had already spent. Yet in those months he had

picked up nothing except scattered hints, all of them vague, fragmentary. They were enough to keep him

going – but they were never enough to give his search some point, some clear direction.

But he kept on. He had nothing else to do. And the fiery pain in his body was nothing compared to the

grim, vengeful determination that fuelled his search.

He was Keill Randor, once the youngest and, some said, the finest Strike Group Leader in the 41st

Legion of the planet Moros.

But now he was a soldier without an army, a wanderer without a home, a man without a people.

And he was dying.

The bar was dim, half-empty, squalid, stinking of stale spilled drink and unwashed bodies. The bartender

was an off-worlder, from one of the ’altered worlds’ – where, over the centuries, local conditions had

caused changes, mutations, in the humans who inhabited them. He was dwarfish and stocky,

orange-skinned and hairless. But his shrug, when Keill asked his question, was an exact replica of all the

others Keill had met in his searching.

‘Legionaries? I heard what happened to ’em. Nothin’ else. Anyway, got no time to stand around jawin’,

pickin’ up rumours. Got a business t’ run.’

The orange-skinned dwarf moved as if to turn away, but glanced up at Keill and changed his mind.

Keill’s expression had not altered, but something in his eyes told the bartender that, if he moved, he might

not enjoy what would happen next.

Keill took out a handful of the plastic wafers that were galactic credits, selected one, and laid it on the

bar. ‘Is there anyone,’ he said evenly, ’who might have had time to listen to rumours?’

The bartender’s hand covered the credit, and pondered for a long moment. ‘Maybe,’ he said at last.

‘Freighter pilot named Crask, gets around a lot, has big ears and a big mouth. Might know somethin’.’

‘Where do I find him?’

The orange dwarf sneered. ‘Blind drunk in an alley somewhere. Unless he’s got back to the port. That’s

where he sleeps – in his ship.’

Keill nodded and left the bar. He did not seem to see the bartender gesture quickly towards a group of

heavy-set men slouching over drinks at a nearby table.

A yawning security guard pointed out the freighter owned by the man called Crask. It was a battered

hulk of a ship, bulbous and ungainly like all freighters – and it was deserted. Keill settled down to wait.

He did not allow himself to hope; he did not allow himself to think about the possibility that Crask might

know something, or the stronger possibility that he might be just another dead end. He merely leaned

against the ship – relaxed, controlled, infinitely patient – and waited.

The men came soon, as he had half-expected. Four bulky Shadows in the dim lighting, which focused

mainly on the low buildings across the spaceport’s flat plasticrete surface.

They ranged themselves in front of Keill, looking him up and down slowly. Keill had taken in the details

of the four in a glance. All of a type – heavy muscle running to fat, soiled one-piece coveralls, hard,

empty eyes. Small-time space drifters, who would be more willing to operate on the criminal fringe of

interworld trade than off it.

The biggest of the four, almost bald, stood slightly to the front of the others, as if to underline the fact that

he was their leader. Keill straightened up slowly, away from the ship, still relaxed and calm.

‘I’m Crask,’ said the balding man. ‘You the one lookin’ to hear about legionaries?’

Keill nodded.

‘An’ you’re a legionary yourself?’

‘I am.’

‘Yeah. Too bad about your planet.’

The words were spoken as if Crask were sympathizing over some minor affliction, like a head-cold.

Keill’s expression did not change. ‘I was told that you might be able to give me some information.’

‘I might,’ Crask said. ‘What’d it be worth?’

‘It depends on what you tell me.’

The big man snorted. ‘You want me to tell you what I know – and then you name your price?’

‘You won’t be cheated,’ Keill replied.

‘Ain’t that easy,’ Crask said stubbornly. ‘Name us some kind o’ figure.’

Keill sighed. ‘I’ve got about three thousand galacs. I can pay your price.’ He recalled for an instant the

day that he had ripped out of his one-man fighter every expendable item he could – second space suit,

escape capsule, some of his hand weapons, spare parts – and sold them to help finance his search.

Crask licked his lips. ‘You got that kind of money with you?’

‘Not here. In my ship.’ Keill pointed out into the darkness of the spaceport, towards the central pad

where his ship waited, just as he had left it after landing.

Crask’s grin was unpleasant. ‘Then let’s us walk out there just now, an’ you can get y’r money.’

Keill shook his head. ‘We’ll stay here, you’ll tell me what you know, then I’ll go and get the money.’

Crask’s laughter was even more Unpleasant. ‘You don’t get the idea at all. You’re a drifter, a nothin’.

You don’t know nobody here, nobody knows you. So nobody’s gonna raise trouble if you’re found

face-down in a gutter. Happens all the time t’ drifters. Get drugged up, get into trouble, get dead.

Nobody cares.’

As he spoke, Crask slid a meaty hand into a pocket and dragged out a slim plastic cylinder. A

needle-gun – more likely, Keill knew, to be armed with a killer poison than an anaesthetic.

The other three men also drew out weapons. Two had the knobbly metal clubs favoured by backstreet

thugs on many worlds. The third, unusually, had a glowing therm-knife, its blade superheated so that it

burned, rather than cut, through most materials – including human flesh.

Keill stood calmly, watching, seeming not to move. Yet his body was gathering itself, balanced, ready.

It was almost unfair.

The thugs were grinning. They saw themselves as four tough, well-armed men facing only one man,

empty-handed, helpless.

But they were facing a legionary of Moros. A man whose people were trained – all of them, and from

infancy – to the highest pitch in the arts and skills of battle. And a man who, in his own right, had been a

leading medal-winner for each of the previous two years in his planet’s annual Festival of Martial Games.

Many of those medals had been for unarmed combat.

So Crask was still in the process of raising the needler when Keill moved.

He gave no hint or warning, did not tense or poise his body. He simply dropped, full-length, to one side.

His right hand met the plasticrete, the arm rigid to take his weight. On the pivot of that hand, his body

swung in a horizontal arc, legs scything.

One boot swept the feet out from under a club-wielder. The point of the other boot struck precisely

against the beefy wrist of the hand that held the needier.

The crack of bone breaking was nearly drowned by Crask’s shriek of pain. As the needle-gun sailed

away into darkness, Keill had already flexed his body like a spring and come to his feet.

Crask had staggered and half-fallen, clutching his shattered wrist and moaning. The club-wielder whom

Keill had felled was struggling to his feet; the second one had just begun to bring up his club. Keill moved

again with the same bewildering speed, slipping under the raised weapon. A rib crunched as Keill’s

elbow slammed into the thick chest, and the man screamed and collapsed. In the same motion Keill

lashed out with his left foot, the blow perfectly timed, burying the point of his toe in the first

club-wielder’s bulging paunch, sending him hurtling back to collide with the knife-man, both sprawling.

The knife-man picked himself up, staring wide-eyed at Keill, who stood quietly, waiting. Then the

therm-blade drew a glowing curve in the air as the man’s hand swept back, and threw.

As the white-hot knife spun towards him Keill seemed to sway aside almost lazily. But the other man’s

eye was not quick enough to follow the movement of the legionary’s hand as it flashed up and plucked

the knife from the air by its insulated handle.

In a continuation of the same blurred movement, Keill pressed the stud that deactivated the blade, and

with a snap of wrist and forearm hurled the knife back.

He had thrown to deliver the knife hilt-first, for he had no wish to kill. The heavy handle made a dull

smack as it struck the knife’s owner exactly between the eyes. He toppled backwards and lay still.

Keill stepped past the crumpled forms of the two club-wielders and took hold of the collar of Crask’s

coverall, effortlessly jerking the bulky form to a sitting position.

‘I want what information you have,’ he said quietly, ’and I want it now.’

‘You bust m’ arm!’ Crask groaned, almost sobbing.

Keill tightened his grip, twisting so the collar bit into the thick neck. ‘Your neck will break as easily.’

‘Don’t – wait!’ Crask shouted, half-choking. ‘I’ll tell y’ !’

‘Go on.’ The steely grip eased a fraction.

‘Don’t really know much,’ Crask mumbled.

Keill’s other hand came round, palm under Crask’s heavy jaw, bending the neck back. ‘After all this,

you had better know something,’ he said grimly.

Douglas Hill - The Last Legionary 01 - Galactic Warlord.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: