Deathstalker War by Simon R. Green

lip-curling sneer in his direction whenever they thought he wasn’t looking. Chance ignored them all magnificently. They finally came to a dead end, personified by a grim, entirely unsmiling secretary behind a desk in an outer office, set there to protect her boss from unwanted visitors. She was slim and prematurely elderly, and looked tough enough to eat glass. The guards probably sharpened their swords on her between shifts. Her clothes successfully erased any sign of femininity, and her gaze was firm enough to shrivel weeds.
    “If you don’t have an appointment, there is nothing I can do for you,” she said, in a tone cold enough to make penguins shiver. “You may make an appointment if you wish, but I can tell you now that Mr. Neeson has no openings in his calendar for the next several weeks.”
    Chance looked at Owen. “This is as far as I can get you. Some obstacles are simply too great. Please don’t hit her.”
    “Wouldn’t think of it,” said Owen. “I’d probably break my hand.” He leaned over the desk to stare into the secretary’s flinty eyes. “I am Owen Deathstalker. My father’s money paid for this business. I’ve come to call in the IOU. Right now.”
    The secretary didn’t flinch, though one eyebrow twitched briefly at the name Deathstalker. “I see. I’m sure that normally Mr. Neeson would be only too happy to see you, but as things are, my desk is completely full . . .”
    Owen stepped back, drew his sword, raised it above his head and brought it hammering down with all his boosted strength behind it. The heavy blade sheared clean through the wooden desk, cleaving it into two jagged halves that fell away to either side of the secretary. Chance shook his head slowly. Owen put his sword away. The secretary cleared her throat.
    “I think you should go right in, Lord Deathstalker. I’m sure Mr. Neeson can find a few minutes to see you. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed. Would either of you care for tea or coffee?”
    “Make it a brandy,” said Owen. “A large one. Mr. Neeson’s going to need it.” He grinned at Chance. “You just have to know how to talk to these people. My Family has been practicing for centuries. Personally, I’ve always thought I’d make a great diplomat.”
    “You’re not in yet,” said Chance. “This is just the outer office. Beyond that door is the antechamber. The real watchdogs will be waiting there.”
    “Well, if they get a bit snappy, I’ll throw them a bone. Which one would you miss least?”
    They passed through the connecting door and found themselves in a small, bare chamber. Between them and the far door were three large, muscular men. Each one had a heavy ax in his hands. The men looked calm and very professional. The axes looked as if they’d seen a lot of use. Chance looked at Owen.
    “An interesting problem in tactics. No room to maneuver, and absolutely no point in trying to talk to them. You might take out one with your disrupter, but the other two would be on you before you could even raise your sword. And a sword is no use against axes. I am, of course, unable to assist you. I have to maintain my position of strict impartiality. You understand.”
    “Of course. Normally if I was facing three Neanderthals like these, I’d be impartial as hell, too. But unfortunately for them, I am in something of a hurry, not to mention a really bad mood, and I can just use someone to take it out on. Watch and learn.”
    He stepped forward, empty-handed, and the three guards came to meet him, axes raised. It was all over in a few seconds. Owen punched out the first guard, swiveled on one foot and kicked the second in the groin. And while the third was still raising his ax, Owen stepped forward, grabbed two handfuls of the man’s shirtfront, and headbutted him in the face. Chance’s jaw dropped. Owen stood there, not even breathing hard, looking around him with quiet satisfaction. The three guards sat or lay moaning on the floor, all