Douglas Hill - The Last Legionary 04 - Planet Of The Warlord

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DOUGLAS HILL

PLANET

OF THE

WARLORD

BOOK FOUR OF THE

THE LAST LEGIONARY

Keill Randor, The Last Legionary, seeking the headquarters of the Galactic Warlord, takes his most

desperate risk of all – letting himself be captured by the Deathwing. But the true horror of his enemies is

revealed when Keill's mind is enslaved and he is made a member of the Deathwing.

Every scrap of his martial skill and mental strength is called upon as Keill and Glr fight to save the galaxy

from the Warlord's monstrous power.

THE LAST LEGIONARY QUARTET

No.1 GALACTIC WARLORD

No.2 DEATHWING OVER VEYNAA

No.3 DAY OF THE STARWIND

No.4 PLANET OF THE WARLORD

for Pat Williams

(four is a magic number)

Piper Edition 1989

ISDN 0 330 26713 2

PART ONE

PRISONER OF THE DEATHWING

CHAPTER ONE

The lean, dark-haired young man was the last to enter the arena. The heat of Banthei's giant sun met him

like a wall – made to seem even more solid by the unbelievable noise. More than a hundred thousand

Bantheins, in steeply banked tiers rising high above the oval arena, roared their welcome to the fourteen

combatants.

Within that avalanche of sound, the young man could hear his own name being chanted by a

section of the crowd that was clearly backing him to win.

'Ran-dor! Ran-dor! Ran-dor!'

As the Banthei officials began the opening ceremony, the young man moved into the shade cast

by the three-metre height of the arena's containing wall, and stood relaxed, his arms loosely folded. He

was slightly above average height, well-muscled, with the balanced litheness of the trained athlete. His

dark-grey trousers and boots might have been part of a uniform, but with them he wore only a light,

loose-fitting shirt that left his arms bare from the shoulders. In that arena, among the mostly hulking and

often misshapen forms of the other combatants, he seemed slight, and unimpressive.

He was also the only one of the fourteen who was empty-handed.

Two voices reached him, over the crowd's uproar, from near the edge of the arena.

'I tell y', he's got t' be,' one voice was saying. 'Y' seen him fight. An' somebody seen him dressed,

with th' thing on his tunic – y' know, insignia.'

'Sun's got t' y',' the second voice scoffed. 'They're all dead, ev'body knows it. Planet blew up, or

somethin'.'

The young man in the arena glanced round and saw two flashily dressed Banthein gamblers

staring down at him. He turned away again, his face showing nothing of the grim satisfaction that he felt.

The rumours had been spreading fast. Most of the crowd had quickly learned that Keill Randor

was the name of the young man who, for four days, had been barehandedly sweeping aside some of the

galaxy's finest warriors. Now they were beginning to learn the rest of the story – that Keill Randor was

said to be the last known survivor of the Legions of Moros, the renowned martial race that had been

wiped out when their planet was mysteriously destroyed.

Not many of the crowd were aware that the planet Moros and the Legions had in fact been

murdered, in a monstrous sneak attack by an unknown enemy.

And not one of the crowd would ever know the real reason why Keill Randor, the last legionary,

had abandoned the Legion principles of discretion, of keeping yourself to yourself, and had come to

compete in the individual combat section of the galaxy's most popular and exciting entertainment event –

the annual Battle Rites of Banthei.

The crowd was growing even more feverish as the voices of the officials droned on. Keill let his

eyes stray over a section of the huge throng. He knew it was unlikely that he would spot anything in that

mass of people. But he also knew that someone else was studying the crowd, on his behalf.

As if on cue, a voice spoke to him – not aloud, but in a silent mind-to-mind communication.

I have never known so many humans cling to one state of mind for so long,the voice said,

with a hint of bubbling laughter.

It was the voice of Keill Randor's friend and companion, Glr – an alien being from another

galaxy, small, female, winged, and telepathic. She was high above the arena, riding the thermals on her

broad, membranous wings, invisible against the sun. And from there she was using her telepathic powers

to scan, as best she could, a hundred thousand human minds.

Keill knew that Glr could project with ease, but found most human minds too alien and clouded

to be read clearly or in depth. She could take thoughts from his mind, perhaps because the self-discipline

bred into every legionary made his mind especially clear. But even then, Keill had to form his mental

words with care, as if projecting them on an inner screen for Glr to read.

'We're a bloodthirsty species, I suppose,'he replied, grinning inwardly at Glr's oft-repeated,

mocking disdain for humankind.

Children,Glr agreed.Primitive children. But at least no one in that mob seems to be planning

to spill any blood. Just to watch it being spilled.

'Keep scanning,'Keill said.

I will.Glr's mental voice took on a tinge of severity.I will expect a great deal of gratitude from

you when this is over. Studying human minds in the mass is very like flying at speed into a

mountain of mud.

Keill laughed to himself as Glr's voice withdrew. But laughter faded as he caught the words of the

official oration, and knew that the opening ceremony was about to end. He began to ready himself –

gathering his balance, deepening his breathing, building his concentration and alertness.

Anyone watching would have seen no change in his easy, relaxed stance. But inside, Keill was

marshalling and focusing all the power, the speed, the supremely controlled combat readiness of a

legionary of Moros.

The other thirteen combatants were also readying themselves in their own way, which in most

cases meant paying attention to their weaponry. Keill surveyed them carefully, for they were winners like

himself, whose strength and skills had got them through the eliminating rounds of the first four days.

Today would be the two final eliminations – and by the end there would be only two combatants left, to

meet in the climactic fight of the sixth day of the Battle Rites.

The Rites had a long history, reaching back to a time soon after the planet Banthei had been

colonised, during the centuries of mankind's Scattering throughout the galaxy. The Bantheins had turned

out to be an unusually violent, aggressive group, much given to duelling, feuding and, as the colony grew

and developed, localised warring. Some wise ruler had decided that it would be better to turn that

tendency into a ritual, before the colonists could wipe themselves out.

Over the centuries the Battle Rites had developed into a gigantic, highly commercialised

entertainment, drawing visitors and contestants from all over the Inhabited Worlds. At this very moment,

Keill knew, elsewhere on Banthei armies of men were marching against one another, guided by intricate

battle plans, where victory would be won by the most skilful strategist, without a single shot being fired.

On another battlefield, huge high-technology war machines, robot-controlled, were fighting thunderous,

earth-shaking battles on land and at sea. Above them, fleets of robot aircraft wove intricate patterns in

the skies and blew each other to bits. And even above them, squadrons of robot spaceships clashed at

terrifying speeds and with more terrifying weapons.

All these battles would be watched by millions of avid spectators, on giant viewscreens around

the planet – and by many millions more throughout the Inhabited Worlds, on vid-tapes. But for all those

hundreds of millions of viewers, the main attraction was the individual combat section, when for five days

groups of fighting men and women, fourteen at a time, entered the oval arena and fought with bloody fury

until only one from each group remained standing.

The winner of the final combat would be, for a while, one of the most famous and admired

people in the galaxy. Even the names of the runners-up – those who survived till the fifth day – would be

on the lips of humans on nearly every Inhabited World. So already there would be few people in

mankind's galaxy who had not heard that one of those survivors was Keill Randor, the last legionary of

Moros.

But for Keill himself, it mattered only thatone person, out of all the billions, knew of his presence

on Banthei.

The official oration wound down, the ceremony came to an end. And the crowd screamed

expectantly as the combatants began to move, seeking favourable positions, sizing up their opponents.

Keill stood as quietly relaxed as ever, lowering his hands to his sides. In front of him, a bulky

figure wearing a light kilt of metallic cloth turned and glared towards him.

Many of the best fighters in the Rites came from the Altered Worlds – planets where the

environment, over generations, had wreaked changes on the basic human form. The man now sidling

towards Keill was one such – squat and inhumanly broad, with leathery reddish skin, his small hairless

head set low in the midst of massive, humped shoulder muscles. In one huge paw he held a weapon that

was both a bludgeon and a short sword – a heavy, gnarled club with a razor-sharp blade set edgeways

along its length.

There were only two rules governing the individual combat of the Battle Rites. First, quite simply,

there was to be no killing. A combatant could wound, maim and disable opponents as much as he liked.

But if anyone was killed, even accidentally, the killer would at once be disqualified, fined, and forbidden

ever to compete again. Which, it had seemed to Keill, would not be much comfort to the victim... But it

was the rule.

The second rule banned all high-technology weapons. Competitors could use only primitive,

traditional weapons, and a team of inspectors made sure that this rule was strictly observed.

Keill Randor was the first man for twenty years to fight in the Battle Rites using only his bare

hands.

The arena began to echo with the yells and grunts of furious combat, the clash of weapons, as the

club-wielder edged warily closer to Keill. Still Keill had not moved. Then the other man's eyes glittered,

and he lunged forward, the bladed club slashing with surprising speed towards Keill's legs.

But Keill was no longer there. Without apparently gathering or bracing himself, he had leaped –

not just above the weapon, but high in the air, above the very head of the squat club-wielder.

The man had perhaps only just noticed that his opponent was somehow in the air above him,

when Keill's boot slammed down with measured precision on the top of the hairless pate.

The impact drove the squat man face-down and unconscious on to the artificial turf that was the

arena's floor. By then, using the club-wielder's head as a springboard, Keill had flung himself into a

controlled, headlong dive at two other combatants.

One was a heavily built woman, wearing a decorated helmet and body armour, swinging a long

two-handed sword. She was facing a tall, powerful man whose body was entirely covered with a pelt of

thick white fur, and who was defending himself with a short stabbing spear, a wickedly barbed metal

head on a wooden shaft. Neither of them was aware of Keill until he crashed down upon them, all three

tumbling to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs and weapons.

Few eyes in the crowd could have been quick enough to see the movement of Keill's fist. The

blow travelled only a few centimetres, but Keill had instantly found the balance he needed to put all his

power behind it. As he came to his feet to confront the fur-covered warrior, the woman remained down,

gasping and retching weakly, with a deep, fist-sized dent in her armour directly over the pit of her

stomach.

The crowd whooped as the furred man feinted at Keill, and then stabbed towards him,

lightning-quick, with the short spear. But the point struck only empty air. Keill had spun inside the blow,

close to the furred body, with his back to his opponent. As he did so, the edge of his right hand chopped

down at the thick haft of the spear, slicing through it as cleanly as if lie had used an axe. And in the same

instant his left elbow drove backwards in a precise smash against the edge of the white-furred jaw.

He had carefully weighted the blow, mindful of the rules. So it was only the jaw that broke, and

not the neck, as the furred man crashed to the ground. The crowd screamed with delirious joy. It

screamed again as Keill leaped without pause towards the other competitors.

The untrained observer might have seen them as a tangled and confused mêlée, a wild jumble of

heaving, flailing, surging bodies and weapons. But as Keill plunged among them, the combat computer

that was the mind of a fighting legionary was sorting all the movements within the tangle, and directing his

own movements at incomparable speed. In slow motion it might have looked like a finely controlled and

smoothly flowing ballet, as Keill spun, twisted, swivelled and leaped in the midst of the others.

But ballet dancers do not include, in their repertoire, bone-crushing blows of fist or boot. Every

eye-baffling move of Keill's brought a moment when an opponent collapsed – into glazed

unconsciousness, or with a cracked bone, or with a nerve centre disabled with pain.

Until finally there was only one left, backing warily from the lean figure of the legionary who stood

calmly amid the heap of fallen bodies.

The crowd went berserk with joy.

Then the sound faded to a tense, expectant rumble, as the two men considered each other. And

in the lull Glr's voice reached tentatively into Keill's mind.

Keill, I hare picked up a trace. Some mind down there is very nervous, very on edge. And I

glimpsed the mental image of an energy rifle.

'Can you pinpoint him?'Keill asked.

Yon seek miracles,Glr replied testily.One individual in this ocean of crazy mudheads for

whom you are showing off?

'Try,'Keill said, smiling inwardly.'While I get back to... showing off.'

Glr withdrew, laughing, and Keill turned his full attention back to his last opponent. He was a

broad-shouldered man, a head taller than Keill, wearing a leather tabard of deep blue that might have

seemed black, had it not rested against the pure and total black of the man's skin. The skin gleamed and

shone as if the man were carved in obsidian, and Keill knew that it was nearly as hard – a mutated

substance like the chitin of an insect's carapace.

Keill also knew, from the previous days, about the man's weapon – a long steel staff with a heavy

club-head at each end. From each club-head bristled slender spikes, like thick hairs, which carried a

substance that caused instant, if temporary, paralysis.

Keill stepped forward, his balance precise, his concentration total. The black man also moved

forward, spinning his strange weapon as he did so. The spin grew faster as the weapon moved from one

hand to the other in a bewildering blur, creating an eerie, menacing howl, forming an almost

unchallengeable shield in front of its wielder.

But the skilful spin weaved a pattern, and patterns repeat themselves. It proved to be a serious

mistake. Keill's eye was quick enough to detect the pattern – and to interrupt it.

Moving at a speed that made it invisible, his hand clamped on to the long steel staff, halting its

spin with a grip that was no less steely. And before either the black warrior or the crowd had fully

registered what had happened, Keill struck. Three times, with fist, knee and boot, so swiftly that the

blows seemed to be simultaneous, to elbow, kneecap and solar plexus.

The black man hurtled backwards, an arm and a leg numbed, breath driven from his lungs,

muscles turned to jelly. He struck the ground heavily, landing in a foolish half-seated position – leaving

Keill standing with the two-headed weapon in his grasp.

The crowd shrieked with ecstasy, and then fell silent again as Keill shifted his grip on the weapon.

Careful of the poisoned spikes, he slid his hands along the thick rod so that he was gripping it near each

club-head, holding it before him. For an instant he was still, focusing his power. Then slabs of hard

muscle leaped into corded, sculptured relief on his arms and upper body. Slowly, steadily, as he exerted

pressure, the heavy steel rod bent double, until it was a perfect inverted U.

The crowd's thunderous rapture reached new heights, and then rose even higher when Keill

turned and casually, as if with distaste, tossed the bent weapon aside. But it had been a studied throw –

and the U-shape of metal looped through the air towards the still half-seated form of its owner. The

club-heads missed his head, but the inner curve of the U caught him neatly across the throat, so that he

toppled backwards wearing his own weapon like an ungainly collar.

And a hundred thousand people were on their feet, howling the name of the man standing alone

in the centre of the arena.

'Ran-dor! Ran-dor! RAN-DOR!'

Feeling slightly foolish. Keill did what was called for – raising one hand in a sweeping gesture of

acknowledgement. And the entire stadium seemed in danger of collapse as the crowd stamped and

shrieked its tumultuous applause.

Glr is right about showing off, Keill thought ruefully. But there's no point in making yourself bait, if

the fish doesn't notice you.

If that thought was directed at me, mudhead,Glr's inner voice said sharply,kindly form it

again, more dearly.

'Itwasnothing,' Keill replied, as he began to walk towards the combatants' exit from the arena,

stepping round the medics who were coming out to gather up the losers.'What about that rifleman?

As yet...Glr began. But then her silent voice rose into an urgent shout.Keill – MOVE!

With a legionary's unhesitating reflexes, Keill hurled himself into a shallow sideways dive while

Glr's warning cry was still forming in his mind.

As he did so, the unmistakable crackling hiss of an energy beam sliced through the air above him.

CHAPTER TWO

Keill's swift dive ended in an athletic shoulder roll, that brought him smoothly to his feet. At once he was

up and running, as Glr's voice sounded again in his mind.

I see him! Across the arena from you – near the top! Bright green tunic – and the rifle..!

But the rifle was making its own presence known. Twice more, as Keill sprinted in the direction

Glr had indicated, an energy beam crackled dangerously near to him. Then Keill was at the wall of the

arena, leaping to catch the top of it, pulling himself effortlessly up and over.

He's turning, running!Glr cried.

So were quite a few thousand people. The shots, the attempted killing, had sent the section of the

crowd around the gunman into a screaming panic. Ahead of Keill, the steep ramp that offered passage

between the tiers of seats was thronged with terrified, milling people. And among them, near the upper

end of the ramp, Keill caught a glimpse of bright green, saw the glint of metal as the rifle was used like a

club to clear the gunman's path.

Keill flashed up the ramp, using his reflexes to cleave through the frantic mob; Once again he

glimpsed bright green, disappearing into the surging horde who were all trying to get out of the exit at

once. In a few strides Keill too was at the exit, battling his way through.

He is moving towards the spaceport complex,Glr's voice came again.Towards our pad!

The stadium containing the arena was the centre of a huge, linked complex of buildings, all

devoted to the administration of the Battle Rites. On the tops of some of the buildings special landing

pads for spacecraft had been built, reserved for those off-world combatants who, like Keill, arrived in

their own ships.

In moments Keill, guided by Glr, was bursting in through the door of one of the buildings, and

hurtling up the moving walkway that spiralled through all the levels. There was no doubt that his quarry

was still ahead of him. Most of the people on the walkway had drawn aside to its edges, and were

staring up with expressions of surprise or fear – as people would do if they had just been thrust aside by

a running man carrying an energy rifle.

Keill's headlong rush did not slow. At the topmost level of the building, there was usually a

Banthein guard on duty, to protect the landing pad and the privacy of the off-world competitors. But

again it was clear that the rifleman had passed this way, for the guard lay inert and bleeding by the

entrance.

Keill sprang out on to the open surface of the pad, veering sideways into cover behind the

nearest ship. There he waited, listening. The sun's heat was ferocious, intensified by reflection from the

plasticrete of the pad, and from the gleaming surfaces of the half-dozen spacecraft, dispersed across the

pad's broad expanse.

He came out on to the pad,Glr announced,but he vanished into the ship with green markings.

Near ours, at the centre.

Warily Keill edged forward, towards the blunt wedge-shape of his own ship, its sky-blue Legion

circlet glistening. In the space nearest it was an angular, green-decorated vessel, bulging with exterior

hardware. Keill crouched low as he drew closer. But the landing pad was silent in the sun's furnace blast.

No energy rifle spat its deadliness towards him; no figure in bright green could be seen.

He has gone to ground,Glr said, excitement in her voice. Keill glanced up, smiling, as she

swooped down towards him with a thrum of wings.

Between the broad, delicate membranes of the wings Glr's body was slight, less than half Keill's

height, covered with overlapping plates of thick, soft skin. Her head was high-domed, with a snubbed

muzzle and two perfectly round, clear, bright eyes. Her feet, tucked up beneath her, were in fact hands,

small but sturdy and capable.

'Don't come too close,'Keill warned.'That gunman could pick you off.'

As he could have picked you off,Glr said sharply,while you postured in the arena. And you

assured me that they would not be likely to kill you!

'I don't think he was trying to,'Keill said soothingly. 'No assassin would miss by so much, so

often.'

Then what was he doing?Glr demanded.

'When we find him,'Keill said reasonably,'we'll ask him.'

And how do we find him?

Keill smiled.'I go into his ship, and invite him out.'

Glr was silent for a moment, and then her laughter rose, almost reluctantly.Try not to get shot.

Think of how disappointed all the millions of your admirers would be.

'I wouldn't dream of it.'Keill grinned.'Keep watch a moment while I get a gun. He might have

some friends in there.'

As Glr wafted upwards again, Keill moved to his own ship – which, like many other competitors,

he used as a dwelling while on Banthei. Once inside, he reached for the tunic of his uniform, which also

bore the blue Legion circlet. Despite the heat, he always felt uncomfortable out of uniform for too long.

He did not see the tiny capsule tucked undetectably in the tunic's folds. Not till it burst, with a

sound like a muffled sneeze, and enveloped him in a clinging cloud of grey vapour.

Gas, his mind told him, as his vision began to fade and his legs became unwilling to support him.

He had time to feel a slight surprise, that anyone had had the technological skill to penetrate the locking

devices of a Legion ship. And he even had time, as the greyness drew him down into unconsciousness, to

feel a mild regret that he would not after all be taking part in the climax of the Battle Rites of Banthei.

He awoke as always into full alertness, registering that he was naked but unharmed, save for a distant

headache and a bitter taste in his mouth. When he opened his eyes, a sweeping glance showed him an

empty, indirectly lit room, with totally featureless matt-grey walls, floor and ceiling – the whole room not

more than six metres long, about three metres wide. He was alone, lying on a narrow bed that resembled

a spaceman's bunk, bonded solidly to wall and floor. At the end of the bed lay his clothes – his full

uniform, but without weapons.

He came to his feet, letting his inner control deal with the surge of nausea, and dressed swiftly,

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DOUGLASHILL PLANETOFTHEWARLORD BOOKFOUROFTHETHELASTLEGIONARY KeillRandor,TheLastLegionary,seekingtheheadquartersoftheGalacticWarlord,takeshismostdesperateriskofall–lettinghimselfbecapturedbytheDeathwing.ButthetruehorrorofhisenemiesisrevealedwhenKeill'smindisenslavedandheismadeamemberof...

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