"Strangled By a Puppet's Strings"
May. 28th, 2022 08:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Strangled By a Puppet's Strings"
3/22/1945
I.
In a guest room of Drum's house on Bleecker Street, Chen Lee-Sun stretched out on the bed, took deep slow breaths and was fast asleep at once. Leaving the door open a crack, Mark Drum smiled at his young guest and went down the long hallway to his den. Here, still in an overstuffed easy chair, sat the Sting.
"That's a neat trick your partner picked up," Drum said as he crossed over to sit down facing the masked man. "No matter what the situation, he can drop off to dreamland in a few seconds."
The Sting grunted. "Yes. I've often envied him that. Chen has mostly studied his peoples' fighting styles, what he calls 'gung fu,' but he's also dabbled in some yoga and Tai Chi. We often go for days without sleeping, so he grabs a nap whenever he can."
Loosening his tie and unfastening the top button of his light blue dress shirt, Drum sighed wearily and closed his eyes. "It still bothers me to see you like this, Robert. I've tried all my Blue Guide techniques but nothing heals your legs. There's not even any physical damage I can find."
"Don't take it too hard," said the Sting. "I've been to dozens of doctors. Also to some old white-bearded sifus that Chen knows. It's Dim Mak, the Death Touch. No one has a way to restore use of my legs. Of course I'm not happy about it but at least it doesn't hurt."
Drum was a tall, sturdily built man in his thirties. Unruly black hair contrasted with deep pale grey eyes in a craggy face that was more stern than goodlooking. Faint echoes of his childhood in the Highlands had never left his voice entirely. "Even so, you've continued your work. You have quite a record cleaning up this town, Robert. Racketeers, black marketers, Axis spies, Fifth Columnists... you've been busy."
Lifting his head, the Sting revealed a full-face black cotton mask with only eyeholes showing any expression. Even here with one of the few men who knew his secret, Robert Hawk concealed his face. He was starting to feel as if the mask WAS his face. He certainly found he could think more quickly and decisively when masked, for whatever reason. "I like to think I've made a difference. It's certainly been nerve-wracking!"
"Posing as a free-lance criminal yourself so you can infiltrate mobs and turn them against each other. Damn. How do you keep all the double-crosses and lies and turnarounds straight?"
"Oh, I've screwed up a few times, believe me. It's like dancing on quicksand. Mark, we've been sitting here for what feels like forever. How much longer do we have to wait before we head out?"
"The third member of our team should come roaring in any minute now," the Blue Guide responded. "We'll need his good right arm. Up against the spymaster Puppeteer! What a devil that man is. Manhattan tonight is crowded with G-Men and men from Army Intelligence and every New York cop that could be called in. And none of them are making any more progress than we are, sad to say."
On a cabinet top near at hand sat two identical telephones. Concealed until needed, a powerful shortwave receiver could be slid out from within the cabinet to receive orders from the War Department. One of the phones rang shrill and Drum stretched out an arm to snatch up the instrument. He listened briefly, then spoke only "I understand, sir."
The Sting did not have to prompt his colleague for explanation. Drum hung up the phone, frowning with his eyebrows lowered. "That was Lieutenant-Colonel Collins of the OSS again. Overseas, he's been working under the alias 'Colonel Savage,' which I find a bit too melodramatic. He had no new information, he only wants to nag us to catch the Puppeteer for him so he can run back to occupied territory."
"Lucky him. Maybe he'll be in Berlin when our boys come marching in."
"Nothing would make him happier..." Drum broke off, swinging around in his chair. "That lifeforce at the door. It's like a bonfire. Sulak is here at last."
As he finished the last word, a massive form loomed up in the doorway. "I let myself in, Mark. Thanks for the key. Tonight's the night!"
Taller than even Drum and much brawnier, Sulak was intimidating merely filling the doorway. The huge Melgar was wrapped in a white trenchcoat which could not conceal how broad his shoulders were. Setting down a valise, he took off a fedora which badly needed blocking. A shaggy head of jet-black hair left long by contemporary standard framed a face marked with bright blue eyes and a lantern jaw. "Try to tell me you two have not been impatiently waiting for me."
"Like you would believe that," Drum responded as he rose. "I take it our informant came through? What's in that briefcase?"
"Hopefully what we need, and hopefully it's worth the cost!" Sulak said. "That little weasel won't have to get a job for a year with what he was paid."
"It's the War Department money, not ours. Our tax dollars at work!" scoffed Drm.
Still seated, leaning back, the Sting did not try to match their positive attitude. "Against this Puppeteer... I don't know. I'd be happier if we had more definite information. Reconnaisance. A "B" plan if things go south."
Sulak waved a dismissing hand. "Look at the four of us, Robert. Great strength, fighting skill, Tel Shai magic and shrewd craftiness. When we bring all these together, how can anything survive our attack?"
"Let's have a look at the papers before we hurt our arms patting ourselves on the back," grumbled the masked man.
Bringing the valise over to the cabinet between their chairs, the Melgar champion tapped the keyhole in its lid. "Locked," he smiled as he ripped the tough leather side of the case apart without any seeming effort. They had seen him peel apart steel plate as easily.
"If I ever need a jar of pickles opened, I know who to call..." Mark Drum scoffed.
Inside was a single thick manila envelope, its flap sealed with red wax. The Blue Guide lifted it appraisingly, then handed it over to the Sting. "Robert, this is definitely your area of expertise."
"Oh, yes, codes and cryptology are my meat," said the masked man. With gloved hands, he opened the envelope and slid out a sheaf of stiff yellow-tinged paper. "German manufacture, see the watermark? Up in the right hand corner, 'Page One of Fourteen Pages, initialed by two different people. Definitely classified, I might even say High Command material."
"My German is not what it should been even after four years of this war," admitted Sulak. "Read it to me."
"Ah, it's in code of course. This might take a while, old fellow. We're not supposed to have access to the Enigma findings but, you know, generals tend to give us some privileges." The Sting riffled through the parchment-like pages. "Mark, we will need some pencils and lots of paper. Black coffee wouldn't hurt either."
Peering over the Sting's shoulder, Sulak grumbled, "I don't suppose I can be of any use?"
"Afraid not," said the masked man. "This is where Mark and I have put in years of hard study. When it's time to shrug off bullets on your chest or bend machine gun barrels into pretzels, that's when you will be more valuable than a squad of Marines. Look here, Mark, I think this word in bigger numbers stands for 'Berlin,' it appears five times on the first page. Now, if that gives us the number 12 for the letter E, we can start to make some progress."
"Maybe. See, there's a few examples of two 12s next to each other, very likely a vowel in any case if not E. Could be O. We're starting with the premise that this is a basic transposition of course..."
After a few minutes of Drum and the Sting ignoring him while they scribbled and mumbled, Sulak turned away. The giant warrior swung on one heel and strode sullenly out of the den. Drum's modernistic kitchen was down the hall, all Art Deco chromium and aluminum tubing. Even the four-burner gas stove was sleek and streamlined. Drum had already taken the coffee pot with a few mugs on a tray back to the den.
Drum had long ago given the three members of their informal team full use of the icebox. Sulak began hauling out a stack of sliced roast beef, Swiss cheese, mustard, some lettuce. A fresh loaf of pumpernickel bread sat on a sideboard with a knife alongside. Fine. He might as well enjoy himself while he waited. The superhuman Melgar constructed a pair of bulging sandwiches that would put most people into a gorged stupor after eating, popped open three bottles of beer and sat down at the round table in the corner. His time to shine would come, he reassured himself. While he ate, just down the hall two of the sharpest minds in the Midnight War tackled a code that was constructed to not be broken.
II.
At two-fifteen that morning, Chen snapped back awake. He felt refreshed and eager. Still wearing his black chaffeur uniform with its front-flap jacket, he had only to grab his billed cap and short leather gloves from the end table on his way out the door. What had he missed? What was going on?
Still a year under thirty, Chen was actually a fairly big man for Chinese of his era. He stood five feet nine and weighed one hundred and sixty highly-toned pounds. That was not much below the average for white Americans. His face was unremarkable except perhaps for a pair of thick eyebrows which gave him a sardonic expression. His rapid footsteps made no noise on the hardwood. Even in his driver's rig, he wore handcrafted shoes with steel capped toes and thick rubber soles.
When he burst in through the open door of the study, his partner the Sting glanced up and raised a hand in greeting. Mark Drum was chewing on a pencil as he nodded at Chen. Sulak put down a newspaper and rose from his chair, saying, "I believe you are right on time, Dragon."
"We're ready to strike," agreed the Sting. He straightened up the loose papers on the cabinet into a semblance of a stack, put down a pencil that had been worn down to half its length and stretched.
Mark Drum rose, stifled a yawn and studied his teammates. "These papers are unexpectedly valuable. Several Nazi sympathizers in high places are named. Industrialists and publishers. Even the Mayor of Albany is listed as being on Hitler's payroll. There are addresses where the underground Bund meets. Phone numbers, workplaces of undercover spies. And these papers give us the real name of the Puppeteer!"
The Dragon of Midnight did not react with glee but suspicion. "Exactly what we needed to find. Isn't that a little too convenient?"
"Exactly!" snapped the Sting. "Breaking that code was far too easy. I expected it take days if not weeks but Mark and I figured it out in a few hours."
Standing slightly back from the others, Sulak folded thick arms across his massive chest and frowned. "You think it's a trap, then?"
"All the deceit and deception of my crusade against the rackets has made me more paranoid every day," the Sting went on. "But even if this is a trap, we can't afford to pass it up."
"I am going to change into my fighting clothes," Chen announced, picking up a soft travel bag from where he had left it inside the doorway and stepping out into the hall.
"Before we leave, I should put these papers away." Mark Drum swung open an oil portrait of a grim-faced Puritan holding a dueling sword. This exposed a wall safe, into which he secured the documents. "Not only will I have to return these to the War Department, but I can see wasting a full day signing paperwork and answering the same questions a dozen times while the military tries to trip me up over some detail. Sometimes I miss the days of being a secret Tel Shai knight acting as I pleased!"
When Chen returned, he was wearing snug black cotton tights and long-sleeved tunic, with a cowl that could pulled up over his head. The polished dress shoes had been replaced by low slippers. And he was tying on a full-face black mask identical to the one worn by the Sting except Chen's mask had an emblem of a rearing four-toed dragon in silver outline.
"Whenever I see that outfit, I know we're in for a wild night," Drum said. He went over to grab the long topcoat he had folded over the back of a chair. His Navy blue suit with the lighter blue shirt and red tie was colorful within acceptable limits. Unlike many of the mystery men of that era, he had steadfastly resisted changing to a more flamboyant costume. Let the Green Devil or the Victory Eagle dress up in bright masquerade garb, he thought, that was not for him. "I assume we're going to take your Dragonwing?"
"That's our best choice," the Sting said. "Chen, would you go start it and come back in while the engine warms up? It's below freezing out there."
"On my way." The dark figure stalked off toward the rear of the house with no attempt to conceal his eagerness to get started.
With considerable effort, Robert Hawk hauled himself up out of the soft chair. He had strong arms and shoulders, and although he could not stand unsupported for long, his legs could still bear much of his weight for a few seconds. The Sting grasped the handles of his steel walking sticks and leaned on them while he slid his forearms into the round inner braces. That was better. His friends did not look away, but of course they did not offer to help either. Hawk was a proud man.
"I assume you are packing your dart gun?" asked Drum.
"Oh, I never go into the night without it. Maybe I can't jitterbug but I'm still in this game."
Watching his colleague maneuver across the room on his metal sticks, Sulak felt guilty without being sure why. He himself was as close to being indestructible as living flesh and blood could be. Sulak was the one Melgar of each generation born with the Legacy of Malberon. His body was reinforced with the transcendental gralic force to the extent that his superhuman strength was matched by skin and muscles which could not harmed by swords or bullets or flame. He had survived being run over by trucks and having boulders fall upon him, feeling nothing more than annoyance.
But Humans, normal Humans, were so fragile. A slip on an icy sidewalk and hitting one's head could be fatal, being out in the desert sun would kill them, they were vulnerable to disease and poisoning. And yet they continued to show courage in dangerous situations despite all that. Even a normal Melgar was much tougher than any Human, but he sometimes reflected that Humans actually had more true fighting spirit because they could be hurt so easily. It was on his mind lately.
"Ready, Sulak?" asked Drum, seeing the faraway look in the Melgar champion's eyes.
"Hm? Yes, of course." Following Drum, Hawk and Chen toward the back of the house where the Dragonwing sat waiting, Sulak felt an unexplained sense of unease. Hints of death were in the air tonight and he fretted. Not for himself, but for these Humans.
III.
From the back seat of the DRAGONWING, Robert Hawk grumbled, "And I am supposed to wait here safely, while you three do all the work?"
"For the moment, yes!" snapped Drum. He made no effort to soften his tone. "Sting, be reasonable. We don't have time for debate."
Sulak and Drum emerged from the gleaming black Lincoln and stood side by side on East 9th Street. Behind the wheel, Chen Lee-Sun hesitated. He swung his head around toward Hawk and spoke quietly, "This is more important than our individual egos, boss. Remember you broke the code while Sulak had to stand by. Now it's his turn for what he can bring to the team. "
"I get it, already!" the Sting said. "I don't have to like it, but I'll keep out of the way." Left alone in the massive car, Hawk fumed until his three friends had circled the building and were out of sight. He reached beneath the left side of his coat, pulled out the needle-barreled dart gun and checked its mechanism before returning it to its molded holster. "Like Hell I will..."
All of the windows had been boarded up, not a glint of light escaped from between them. At the rear of the building sat two battered metal garbage cans, a few broken crates and some general debris. The single bulb over the back door was dark.
"I'm having trouble locating lifeforce inside," Mark Drum admitted. "There's some loose gralic force in the air. Not like anything I've ever encountered. But I don't think there's more than one living being in there and his energies are burning low. He's either asleep or sick."
Chen stalked up to the door, whispering to his teammates, "Let the Dragon of Midnight handle our entrance." Smoothly as a moonbeam through a window, he passed through the solid wood and was gone from sight. A click sounded. Chen opened the door from within and beckoned to Sulak and Drum.
"What a useful trick," the big Melgar rumbled. "Are you sure there aren't any more of those Pendants to be had?"
"It looks like a big open artist's workshop," Chen said, disregarding the question. "I think I will stay in the shadows while you two investigate. Always better to have an ace up your sleeve."
"Fair enough," the Blue Guide agreed. He raised his right hand as a nimbus of beautiful azure light shone from it, faint but enough to illuminate their immediate surroundings. With Sulak right behind him, Drum moved through an open space with high ceilings, Sealed crates, benches and chairs were spaced widely apart. Scraps of wood and cloth littered the bare cement floor. The musty smell of a long absence of fresh air hung heavy over them.
Feeling tense and apprehensive despite the silence, Drum and Sulak reached the rear wall. To one side was a curtained alcove. In front of them stood a framework of open shelves from which a dozen marionettes hung on their strings, while more hand puppets were strewn atop each other. A darkened workbench held many carving tools, small paint jars and brushes soaking in tumblers of terpentine. But it was the display case that alarmed them most.
Lined up in three rows were thirty dolls, each standing eight inches. In the light from Drum's gralic force, the meticulous detail that had gone into each showed clearly. The clothing had been sewn and the tiny leather shoes crafted with care. The more they stared, the more impressed they were. Each doll's wooden hand has been carved and sanded and painted until their likenesses were as recognizable as any photograph. It was strangely unsettling.
One puppet, larger than the others, stood by its under a glass bell. It resembled a very short man, no more than five foot three, wearing an artist's smock over a brown suit. The round toadlike face did not make a good impression, nor did the bloodshot protuberant eyes help. Thinning black hair parted in the middle was greased down like a skullcap.
Moving closer to the shelves, Drum and Sulak were fascinated despite their need to stay sharp by the rows of puppets. Crafted in minute detail, half of them were notorious enough. Skull-Face, Hitler's Hangman, Wu Lung, Karl Eldritch, Samhain... But the others were also familiar. They were the mystery men and women who fought anonymously against both criminal and supernatural threats. Dr Vitarius, the Sceptre, Archangel, the Monk.
There was one made to resemble Sulk, and the Melgar champion picked it up to regard with wry amusement. "Well, Mark," he whispered, "Don't you think I should ask for royalties?" He tossed it carelessly aside where it landed on a wheeled office chair.
"This is more serious than you know," replied the Blue Guide in similar hushed voice. "It's Black Magic of the worst kind. You've heard of Voodoo with its fetish dolls that pins are stuck into?"
Sobered by Drum's tone, Sulak replied, "Yes, and..?"
"Behind the facade of Voodoo are secrets more than thirty thousand years old. I think this Puppeteer is not commanding his spies with the usual money and threats, he's literally controlling their minds."
He was interrupted by a dim light clicking on in a corner of the room. Waddling toward them was a small man who had obviously been the model for the homely doll with the popeyes. "Heh. I can't say I wasn't expecting visitors tonight. After all, you were sent an invitation."
IV.
Drum slightly raised his open palms but he did not draw on the gralic force yet. "Stefan Arneric, formerly of Warsaw? The bait for your trap wasn't exactly subtle."
"Perhaps I underestimated you. Typical Americans need to be struck over the head with a brick just to get their attention. The famous Mark Drum, and his equally renowned ally, Sulak of Androval. Shouldn't there be more of you?"
"You'll find we are more than enough," Sulak snorted. "There is nothing but bad news for you tonight, Arneric. One of your sneaks have betrayed the others to avoid military prison and probably firing squad. G-Men have already rounded up the rest of your little sabotage club."
The Puppeteer went over to the office chair and plopped down, using his body to block that he was picking up the Sulak puppet as he did so. When he pulled his smock out for comfort, he kept the doll tucked inconspicuously next to him. "So it goes. They are only one of many cells I am running from here. Everyone is expendable in the desperate game."
"Get your coat and hat," Drum told him. "We're taking you to meet some guys in khaki."
"You think so? Heh. Actually, tonight is when I begin to move up to using more powerful and more capable slaves. Why settle for pawns when I can obtain a bishop and a rook?" He laughed unpleasantly, "Or more accurately, a knight or two? I see many opportunities for you."
"Save your big plans for the next war," Drum retorted. "I don't think Army Intelligence will be letting you free any time soon."
"The confidence of ignorance. You have not captured me, quite the reverse, son." Arneric toyed with the stuffed toy in his long-fingered hands. "I have been thinking over my setbacks and I blame myself for not dreaming large enough dreams. I should be recruiting you. Your apelike Melgar friend. Others of your peculiar brotherhood such as the Sceptre and Dr Vitarius and the Monk. Imagine them all poisoning reservoirs, blowing up munitions plants, derailing troop trains. I can turn the tide, even at this late stage of the war."
"You're dreaming, all right," Drum spat. "Tell your sick fantasies to your interrogators. Come on, Sulak, throw him over one shoulder and let's hit the road."
"There is much you need to hear first," said Arneric. "I am not called the Puppeteer merely because I run a network of spies. Not at all. For decades, I have located ancient texts, studied under a Dartha and an Nekrosan, mastered many obscure Arts. You know the history of the Midnight War, Drum. You are familiar with the Corruption, when the Sulla Chun appeared on Ulgor."
Slowly, reluctantly, Drum managed to say, "Go on."
"Those brave seekers of knowledge who dared face the Sulla Chun mostly died from the shock. But! Those few who survived escaped when the island sank had won the most potent secrets of gralic magick. One of these was the skill of controlling the minds of others, whether they resisted or not. Puppetry. Look here!"
The tiny man held up a cloth doll stuffed with straw and sawdust, eight inches high. It was dressed in a blue uniform that had white gloves and boots, its handcarved wooden head had been painted to have a semblance of black hair and the face had been filled in with such detail that a jeweler's loupe must have been used.
Sulak grunted. "Am I supposed to be flattered, puppet master?"
"No. You should be terrified." Arneric lifted the doll and a red nimbus of energy sizzled around it for a second, filling the air with a foul burning stench. "Hear me and obey!" the little man shrieked. "Subdue Drum! Capture him but do not kill him."
V.
Even as Drum's Kumundu training warned him of his sudden danger, he was seized by the back of his suit jacket and an irresistable hand hoisted him overhead to then fling him end over end. Mark Drum slid across a display table, scattering everything off its top, crashing clumsily to the floor beneath. Dazed as he was, the Blue Guide kept his awareness. It was Puppetry, the forbidden Art that was making his longtime partner attack. He locked his mind onto Sulak's lifeforce and tried to siphon it away. His intention was to weaken the Melgar warrior enough to render him harmless without doing permanent harm.
To his cold horror, though, the technique failed him as it never had before. Sulak's body was simply too saturated with gralic force to be affected. Even after all their exploits together, Drum had never really grasped just how strong the Champion of Androval was. The most powerful creature of flesh and blood was moving directly at him with fists clenched.
Drum began to draw upon the Veil, the technique which blocked others from sensing his presence. It was not true invisibility but rather a sort of instant ongoing amnesia. Before he could start the Veil, though, Sulak was bodyslammed by a lithe figure all in black which took him offguard and sent him sprawling.
It was Chen Lee-Sun, who had until then been so silent that the Puppeteer had not been aware of his presence in the shadows of that room. Now Arneric sputtered but recovered immediately. "Who..? Kill him, Sulak, rip him apart!"
VI.
The Dragon of Midnight vaulted back onto his feet, back against the wall behind him and he instantly dropped into a low crouch to let a straight punch from Sulak pass overhead. The Melgar's fist went right through plaster and left a round hole in the brickwork beneath. Unharmed in the slightest, Sulak wheeled around and flashed out a wide hooking blow that Chen backpedaled to avoid. He dared not let any of the punches land.
Still moving in one unbroken arc, Sulak blasted out a straight punch that would haved in Chen's upper chest if it had connected. The Dragon seized that wrist and swept Sulak's feet out from under him. The giant Melgar hit the floor full length but it was too much to hope that the breath had been knocked out of him. He rolled over and tried to grab the Dragon's ankle, barely missing as Chen hopped back out of the way.
As a senior student of a Fu Jow Pai school in Hong Kong, Chen Lee-Sun had trained with dedication. Since acquiring the Dragon Pendant four years earlier and after tangling with Brumal, he had refining a style incorporating his new experiences. He called it Fang Lung. But now, against an opponent who could not be feel pain or be harmed, none of his skill was doing anything but keeping him alive a few seconds.
His best attacks would only break his own fists or feet against that impervious body. He had to accept he could neither harm nor restrain the giant Melgar. He had seen Sulak casually disregard Tommygun fire to the chest and hurl a motorcycle across a city street. Chen had no delusions about being able to hurt the Champion by himself. Instantly, the Melgar was up again and rushing in at him.
Chen knew only precise teaming could save him now. Sulak whipped around a savage right roundhouse that would broken Chen's skull apart if it had connected. The Dragon of Midnight went unsolid at exactly the second that fist would have connected. Meeting no resistance, Sulak's punch continued full force and whirled the Melgar around so he stumbled off balance. Chen crouched, seized his friend's right ankle with both hands and immediately straightened up to yank Sulak's leg up off the ground. Not expecting this, the Melgar warrior fell heavily onto his back.
Hopping back out of reach, the Dragon admitted grimly he could not keep this up for long. Any blow from Sulak that even grazed him would create crippling injury. And Chen knew he would start to tire and slow down long before the superhuman Melgar would. At best, he could stall a few more seconds.
Ten feet away, the battered Mark Drum had scrambled back up onto his feet. He held up his open hands, the blue light of gralic force crackling around them as he readied to strike. "Stand down, Sulak!" he warned. "I don't want to blast you."
No flicker of recognition showed in those deepset blue eyes. The Melgar hero knotted steel-hard fists and whirled away from the defiant smaller man in black toward this other enemy who had lighting swirling around each hand. He crouched to leap across the room.
Behind Arneric, a cold voice commanded, "SLEEP."
Instantly, the Puppeteer slumped bonelessly to the wooden floor. He stretched out his full length, grotesque face to one side and actually snored. The Sulak doll slipped out of a limp hand and in response, the real Sulak blinked in complete confusion. He lowered his fists and gazed wildly around the dimly lit room with its broken furniture.
"What? Where am I? What happened?" he rumbled, beginning to take in his surroundings.
"You were trying to break every bone in our bodies!" shouted Chen. Then he adjusted to seeing the desperate fight was over. "But you didn't know what you were doing. I guess it wasn't your fault."
"The Puppeteer? Are you saying I was being controlled by the Puppeteer?" There was offended outrage in that deep voice. "By the White Horse, I will kill him!"
Mark Drum had gone over to kneel by the sleeping form of Stefan Arneric. "No. He's harmless now. As long as we keep him away from his dolls, there's nothing he can do. There is so much information he can give us, maybe we can break up all espionage activity on the East Coast. We'll question him and he WILL talk." The Blue Guide smiled up at where the Sting was leaning on one metal stick.
In the other hand, Robert Hawk flourished the eight inch cloth and strawdust figure crafted to resemble the Pupeteer himself, the same doll that had fascinated Sulak only a few minutes earlier.
Drum rose and gave a sharp barking laugh. "Oh my God, Robert. You could have taken Arneric down with your dart gun. You could have cracked him over the head with one of your canes. But no. You took the time and trouble to grab his own doll and use it against him. Sting, you're some piece of work."
"Hah!" came the reply from under that black mask. "Admit it, Mark, you love a good bit of irony as much as I do."
11/20/200- 10/8/2021
3/22/1945
I.
In a guest room of Drum's house on Bleecker Street, Chen Lee-Sun stretched out on the bed, took deep slow breaths and was fast asleep at once. Leaving the door open a crack, Mark Drum smiled at his young guest and went down the long hallway to his den. Here, still in an overstuffed easy chair, sat the Sting.
"That's a neat trick your partner picked up," Drum said as he crossed over to sit down facing the masked man. "No matter what the situation, he can drop off to dreamland in a few seconds."
The Sting grunted. "Yes. I've often envied him that. Chen has mostly studied his peoples' fighting styles, what he calls 'gung fu,' but he's also dabbled in some yoga and Tai Chi. We often go for days without sleeping, so he grabs a nap whenever he can."
Loosening his tie and unfastening the top button of his light blue dress shirt, Drum sighed wearily and closed his eyes. "It still bothers me to see you like this, Robert. I've tried all my Blue Guide techniques but nothing heals your legs. There's not even any physical damage I can find."
"Don't take it too hard," said the Sting. "I've been to dozens of doctors. Also to some old white-bearded sifus that Chen knows. It's Dim Mak, the Death Touch. No one has a way to restore use of my legs. Of course I'm not happy about it but at least it doesn't hurt."
Drum was a tall, sturdily built man in his thirties. Unruly black hair contrasted with deep pale grey eyes in a craggy face that was more stern than goodlooking. Faint echoes of his childhood in the Highlands had never left his voice entirely. "Even so, you've continued your work. You have quite a record cleaning up this town, Robert. Racketeers, black marketers, Axis spies, Fifth Columnists... you've been busy."
Lifting his head, the Sting revealed a full-face black cotton mask with only eyeholes showing any expression. Even here with one of the few men who knew his secret, Robert Hawk concealed his face. He was starting to feel as if the mask WAS his face. He certainly found he could think more quickly and decisively when masked, for whatever reason. "I like to think I've made a difference. It's certainly been nerve-wracking!"
"Posing as a free-lance criminal yourself so you can infiltrate mobs and turn them against each other. Damn. How do you keep all the double-crosses and lies and turnarounds straight?"
"Oh, I've screwed up a few times, believe me. It's like dancing on quicksand. Mark, we've been sitting here for what feels like forever. How much longer do we have to wait before we head out?"
"The third member of our team should come roaring in any minute now," the Blue Guide responded. "We'll need his good right arm. Up against the spymaster Puppeteer! What a devil that man is. Manhattan tonight is crowded with G-Men and men from Army Intelligence and every New York cop that could be called in. And none of them are making any more progress than we are, sad to say."
On a cabinet top near at hand sat two identical telephones. Concealed until needed, a powerful shortwave receiver could be slid out from within the cabinet to receive orders from the War Department. One of the phones rang shrill and Drum stretched out an arm to snatch up the instrument. He listened briefly, then spoke only "I understand, sir."
The Sting did not have to prompt his colleague for explanation. Drum hung up the phone, frowning with his eyebrows lowered. "That was Lieutenant-Colonel Collins of the OSS again. Overseas, he's been working under the alias 'Colonel Savage,' which I find a bit too melodramatic. He had no new information, he only wants to nag us to catch the Puppeteer for him so he can run back to occupied territory."
"Lucky him. Maybe he'll be in Berlin when our boys come marching in."
"Nothing would make him happier..." Drum broke off, swinging around in his chair. "That lifeforce at the door. It's like a bonfire. Sulak is here at last."
As he finished the last word, a massive form loomed up in the doorway. "I let myself in, Mark. Thanks for the key. Tonight's the night!"
Taller than even Drum and much brawnier, Sulak was intimidating merely filling the doorway. The huge Melgar was wrapped in a white trenchcoat which could not conceal how broad his shoulders were. Setting down a valise, he took off a fedora which badly needed blocking. A shaggy head of jet-black hair left long by contemporary standard framed a face marked with bright blue eyes and a lantern jaw. "Try to tell me you two have not been impatiently waiting for me."
"Like you would believe that," Drum responded as he rose. "I take it our informant came through? What's in that briefcase?"
"Hopefully what we need, and hopefully it's worth the cost!" Sulak said. "That little weasel won't have to get a job for a year with what he was paid."
"It's the War Department money, not ours. Our tax dollars at work!" scoffed Drm.
Still seated, leaning back, the Sting did not try to match their positive attitude. "Against this Puppeteer... I don't know. I'd be happier if we had more definite information. Reconnaisance. A "B" plan if things go south."
Sulak waved a dismissing hand. "Look at the four of us, Robert. Great strength, fighting skill, Tel Shai magic and shrewd craftiness. When we bring all these together, how can anything survive our attack?"
"Let's have a look at the papers before we hurt our arms patting ourselves on the back," grumbled the masked man.
Bringing the valise over to the cabinet between their chairs, the Melgar champion tapped the keyhole in its lid. "Locked," he smiled as he ripped the tough leather side of the case apart without any seeming effort. They had seen him peel apart steel plate as easily.
"If I ever need a jar of pickles opened, I know who to call..." Mark Drum scoffed.
Inside was a single thick manila envelope, its flap sealed with red wax. The Blue Guide lifted it appraisingly, then handed it over to the Sting. "Robert, this is definitely your area of expertise."
"Oh, yes, codes and cryptology are my meat," said the masked man. With gloved hands, he opened the envelope and slid out a sheaf of stiff yellow-tinged paper. "German manufacture, see the watermark? Up in the right hand corner, 'Page One of Fourteen Pages, initialed by two different people. Definitely classified, I might even say High Command material."
"My German is not what it should been even after four years of this war," admitted Sulak. "Read it to me."
"Ah, it's in code of course. This might take a while, old fellow. We're not supposed to have access to the Enigma findings but, you know, generals tend to give us some privileges." The Sting riffled through the parchment-like pages. "Mark, we will need some pencils and lots of paper. Black coffee wouldn't hurt either."
Peering over the Sting's shoulder, Sulak grumbled, "I don't suppose I can be of any use?"
"Afraid not," said the masked man. "This is where Mark and I have put in years of hard study. When it's time to shrug off bullets on your chest or bend machine gun barrels into pretzels, that's when you will be more valuable than a squad of Marines. Look here, Mark, I think this word in bigger numbers stands for 'Berlin,' it appears five times on the first page. Now, if that gives us the number 12 for the letter E, we can start to make some progress."
"Maybe. See, there's a few examples of two 12s next to each other, very likely a vowel in any case if not E. Could be O. We're starting with the premise that this is a basic transposition of course..."
After a few minutes of Drum and the Sting ignoring him while they scribbled and mumbled, Sulak turned away. The giant warrior swung on one heel and strode sullenly out of the den. Drum's modernistic kitchen was down the hall, all Art Deco chromium and aluminum tubing. Even the four-burner gas stove was sleek and streamlined. Drum had already taken the coffee pot with a few mugs on a tray back to the den.
Drum had long ago given the three members of their informal team full use of the icebox. Sulak began hauling out a stack of sliced roast beef, Swiss cheese, mustard, some lettuce. A fresh loaf of pumpernickel bread sat on a sideboard with a knife alongside. Fine. He might as well enjoy himself while he waited. The superhuman Melgar constructed a pair of bulging sandwiches that would put most people into a gorged stupor after eating, popped open three bottles of beer and sat down at the round table in the corner. His time to shine would come, he reassured himself. While he ate, just down the hall two of the sharpest minds in the Midnight War tackled a code that was constructed to not be broken.
II.
At two-fifteen that morning, Chen snapped back awake. He felt refreshed and eager. Still wearing his black chaffeur uniform with its front-flap jacket, he had only to grab his billed cap and short leather gloves from the end table on his way out the door. What had he missed? What was going on?
Still a year under thirty, Chen was actually a fairly big man for Chinese of his era. He stood five feet nine and weighed one hundred and sixty highly-toned pounds. That was not much below the average for white Americans. His face was unremarkable except perhaps for a pair of thick eyebrows which gave him a sardonic expression. His rapid footsteps made no noise on the hardwood. Even in his driver's rig, he wore handcrafted shoes with steel capped toes and thick rubber soles.
When he burst in through the open door of the study, his partner the Sting glanced up and raised a hand in greeting. Mark Drum was chewing on a pencil as he nodded at Chen. Sulak put down a newspaper and rose from his chair, saying, "I believe you are right on time, Dragon."
"We're ready to strike," agreed the Sting. He straightened up the loose papers on the cabinet into a semblance of a stack, put down a pencil that had been worn down to half its length and stretched.
Mark Drum rose, stifled a yawn and studied his teammates. "These papers are unexpectedly valuable. Several Nazi sympathizers in high places are named. Industrialists and publishers. Even the Mayor of Albany is listed as being on Hitler's payroll. There are addresses where the underground Bund meets. Phone numbers, workplaces of undercover spies. And these papers give us the real name of the Puppeteer!"
The Dragon of Midnight did not react with glee but suspicion. "Exactly what we needed to find. Isn't that a little too convenient?"
"Exactly!" snapped the Sting. "Breaking that code was far too easy. I expected it take days if not weeks but Mark and I figured it out in a few hours."
Standing slightly back from the others, Sulak folded thick arms across his massive chest and frowned. "You think it's a trap, then?"
"All the deceit and deception of my crusade against the rackets has made me more paranoid every day," the Sting went on. "But even if this is a trap, we can't afford to pass it up."
"I am going to change into my fighting clothes," Chen announced, picking up a soft travel bag from where he had left it inside the doorway and stepping out into the hall.
"Before we leave, I should put these papers away." Mark Drum swung open an oil portrait of a grim-faced Puritan holding a dueling sword. This exposed a wall safe, into which he secured the documents. "Not only will I have to return these to the War Department, but I can see wasting a full day signing paperwork and answering the same questions a dozen times while the military tries to trip me up over some detail. Sometimes I miss the days of being a secret Tel Shai knight acting as I pleased!"
When Chen returned, he was wearing snug black cotton tights and long-sleeved tunic, with a cowl that could pulled up over his head. The polished dress shoes had been replaced by low slippers. And he was tying on a full-face black mask identical to the one worn by the Sting except Chen's mask had an emblem of a rearing four-toed dragon in silver outline.
"Whenever I see that outfit, I know we're in for a wild night," Drum said. He went over to grab the long topcoat he had folded over the back of a chair. His Navy blue suit with the lighter blue shirt and red tie was colorful within acceptable limits. Unlike many of the mystery men of that era, he had steadfastly resisted changing to a more flamboyant costume. Let the Green Devil or the Victory Eagle dress up in bright masquerade garb, he thought, that was not for him. "I assume we're going to take your Dragonwing?"
"That's our best choice," the Sting said. "Chen, would you go start it and come back in while the engine warms up? It's below freezing out there."
"On my way." The dark figure stalked off toward the rear of the house with no attempt to conceal his eagerness to get started.
With considerable effort, Robert Hawk hauled himself up out of the soft chair. He had strong arms and shoulders, and although he could not stand unsupported for long, his legs could still bear much of his weight for a few seconds. The Sting grasped the handles of his steel walking sticks and leaned on them while he slid his forearms into the round inner braces. That was better. His friends did not look away, but of course they did not offer to help either. Hawk was a proud man.
"I assume you are packing your dart gun?" asked Drum.
"Oh, I never go into the night without it. Maybe I can't jitterbug but I'm still in this game."
Watching his colleague maneuver across the room on his metal sticks, Sulak felt guilty without being sure why. He himself was as close to being indestructible as living flesh and blood could be. Sulak was the one Melgar of each generation born with the Legacy of Malberon. His body was reinforced with the transcendental gralic force to the extent that his superhuman strength was matched by skin and muscles which could not harmed by swords or bullets or flame. He had survived being run over by trucks and having boulders fall upon him, feeling nothing more than annoyance.
But Humans, normal Humans, were so fragile. A slip on an icy sidewalk and hitting one's head could be fatal, being out in the desert sun would kill them, they were vulnerable to disease and poisoning. And yet they continued to show courage in dangerous situations despite all that. Even a normal Melgar was much tougher than any Human, but he sometimes reflected that Humans actually had more true fighting spirit because they could be hurt so easily. It was on his mind lately.
"Ready, Sulak?" asked Drum, seeing the faraway look in the Melgar champion's eyes.
"Hm? Yes, of course." Following Drum, Hawk and Chen toward the back of the house where the Dragonwing sat waiting, Sulak felt an unexplained sense of unease. Hints of death were in the air tonight and he fretted. Not for himself, but for these Humans.
III.
From the back seat of the DRAGONWING, Robert Hawk grumbled, "And I am supposed to wait here safely, while you three do all the work?"
"For the moment, yes!" snapped Drum. He made no effort to soften his tone. "Sting, be reasonable. We don't have time for debate."
Sulak and Drum emerged from the gleaming black Lincoln and stood side by side on East 9th Street. Behind the wheel, Chen Lee-Sun hesitated. He swung his head around toward Hawk and spoke quietly, "This is more important than our individual egos, boss. Remember you broke the code while Sulak had to stand by. Now it's his turn for what he can bring to the team. "
"I get it, already!" the Sting said. "I don't have to like it, but I'll keep out of the way." Left alone in the massive car, Hawk fumed until his three friends had circled the building and were out of sight. He reached beneath the left side of his coat, pulled out the needle-barreled dart gun and checked its mechanism before returning it to its molded holster. "Like Hell I will..."
All of the windows had been boarded up, not a glint of light escaped from between them. At the rear of the building sat two battered metal garbage cans, a few broken crates and some general debris. The single bulb over the back door was dark.
"I'm having trouble locating lifeforce inside," Mark Drum admitted. "There's some loose gralic force in the air. Not like anything I've ever encountered. But I don't think there's more than one living being in there and his energies are burning low. He's either asleep or sick."
Chen stalked up to the door, whispering to his teammates, "Let the Dragon of Midnight handle our entrance." Smoothly as a moonbeam through a window, he passed through the solid wood and was gone from sight. A click sounded. Chen opened the door from within and beckoned to Sulak and Drum.
"What a useful trick," the big Melgar rumbled. "Are you sure there aren't any more of those Pendants to be had?"
"It looks like a big open artist's workshop," Chen said, disregarding the question. "I think I will stay in the shadows while you two investigate. Always better to have an ace up your sleeve."
"Fair enough," the Blue Guide agreed. He raised his right hand as a nimbus of beautiful azure light shone from it, faint but enough to illuminate their immediate surroundings. With Sulak right behind him, Drum moved through an open space with high ceilings, Sealed crates, benches and chairs were spaced widely apart. Scraps of wood and cloth littered the bare cement floor. The musty smell of a long absence of fresh air hung heavy over them.
Feeling tense and apprehensive despite the silence, Drum and Sulak reached the rear wall. To one side was a curtained alcove. In front of them stood a framework of open shelves from which a dozen marionettes hung on their strings, while more hand puppets were strewn atop each other. A darkened workbench held many carving tools, small paint jars and brushes soaking in tumblers of terpentine. But it was the display case that alarmed them most.
Lined up in three rows were thirty dolls, each standing eight inches. In the light from Drum's gralic force, the meticulous detail that had gone into each showed clearly. The clothing had been sewn and the tiny leather shoes crafted with care. The more they stared, the more impressed they were. Each doll's wooden hand has been carved and sanded and painted until their likenesses were as recognizable as any photograph. It was strangely unsettling.
One puppet, larger than the others, stood by its under a glass bell. It resembled a very short man, no more than five foot three, wearing an artist's smock over a brown suit. The round toadlike face did not make a good impression, nor did the bloodshot protuberant eyes help. Thinning black hair parted in the middle was greased down like a skullcap.
Moving closer to the shelves, Drum and Sulak were fascinated despite their need to stay sharp by the rows of puppets. Crafted in minute detail, half of them were notorious enough. Skull-Face, Hitler's Hangman, Wu Lung, Karl Eldritch, Samhain... But the others were also familiar. They were the mystery men and women who fought anonymously against both criminal and supernatural threats. Dr Vitarius, the Sceptre, Archangel, the Monk.
There was one made to resemble Sulk, and the Melgar champion picked it up to regard with wry amusement. "Well, Mark," he whispered, "Don't you think I should ask for royalties?" He tossed it carelessly aside where it landed on a wheeled office chair.
"This is more serious than you know," replied the Blue Guide in similar hushed voice. "It's Black Magic of the worst kind. You've heard of Voodoo with its fetish dolls that pins are stuck into?"
Sobered by Drum's tone, Sulak replied, "Yes, and..?"
"Behind the facade of Voodoo are secrets more than thirty thousand years old. I think this Puppeteer is not commanding his spies with the usual money and threats, he's literally controlling their minds."
He was interrupted by a dim light clicking on in a corner of the room. Waddling toward them was a small man who had obviously been the model for the homely doll with the popeyes. "Heh. I can't say I wasn't expecting visitors tonight. After all, you were sent an invitation."
IV.
Drum slightly raised his open palms but he did not draw on the gralic force yet. "Stefan Arneric, formerly of Warsaw? The bait for your trap wasn't exactly subtle."
"Perhaps I underestimated you. Typical Americans need to be struck over the head with a brick just to get their attention. The famous Mark Drum, and his equally renowned ally, Sulak of Androval. Shouldn't there be more of you?"
"You'll find we are more than enough," Sulak snorted. "There is nothing but bad news for you tonight, Arneric. One of your sneaks have betrayed the others to avoid military prison and probably firing squad. G-Men have already rounded up the rest of your little sabotage club."
The Puppeteer went over to the office chair and plopped down, using his body to block that he was picking up the Sulak puppet as he did so. When he pulled his smock out for comfort, he kept the doll tucked inconspicuously next to him. "So it goes. They are only one of many cells I am running from here. Everyone is expendable in the desperate game."
"Get your coat and hat," Drum told him. "We're taking you to meet some guys in khaki."
"You think so? Heh. Actually, tonight is when I begin to move up to using more powerful and more capable slaves. Why settle for pawns when I can obtain a bishop and a rook?" He laughed unpleasantly, "Or more accurately, a knight or two? I see many opportunities for you."
"Save your big plans for the next war," Drum retorted. "I don't think Army Intelligence will be letting you free any time soon."
"The confidence of ignorance. You have not captured me, quite the reverse, son." Arneric toyed with the stuffed toy in his long-fingered hands. "I have been thinking over my setbacks and I blame myself for not dreaming large enough dreams. I should be recruiting you. Your apelike Melgar friend. Others of your peculiar brotherhood such as the Sceptre and Dr Vitarius and the Monk. Imagine them all poisoning reservoirs, blowing up munitions plants, derailing troop trains. I can turn the tide, even at this late stage of the war."
"You're dreaming, all right," Drum spat. "Tell your sick fantasies to your interrogators. Come on, Sulak, throw him over one shoulder and let's hit the road."
"There is much you need to hear first," said Arneric. "I am not called the Puppeteer merely because I run a network of spies. Not at all. For decades, I have located ancient texts, studied under a Dartha and an Nekrosan, mastered many obscure Arts. You know the history of the Midnight War, Drum. You are familiar with the Corruption, when the Sulla Chun appeared on Ulgor."
Slowly, reluctantly, Drum managed to say, "Go on."
"Those brave seekers of knowledge who dared face the Sulla Chun mostly died from the shock. But! Those few who survived escaped when the island sank had won the most potent secrets of gralic magick. One of these was the skill of controlling the minds of others, whether they resisted or not. Puppetry. Look here!"
The tiny man held up a cloth doll stuffed with straw and sawdust, eight inches high. It was dressed in a blue uniform that had white gloves and boots, its handcarved wooden head had been painted to have a semblance of black hair and the face had been filled in with such detail that a jeweler's loupe must have been used.
Sulak grunted. "Am I supposed to be flattered, puppet master?"
"No. You should be terrified." Arneric lifted the doll and a red nimbus of energy sizzled around it for a second, filling the air with a foul burning stench. "Hear me and obey!" the little man shrieked. "Subdue Drum! Capture him but do not kill him."
V.
Even as Drum's Kumundu training warned him of his sudden danger, he was seized by the back of his suit jacket and an irresistable hand hoisted him overhead to then fling him end over end. Mark Drum slid across a display table, scattering everything off its top, crashing clumsily to the floor beneath. Dazed as he was, the Blue Guide kept his awareness. It was Puppetry, the forbidden Art that was making his longtime partner attack. He locked his mind onto Sulak's lifeforce and tried to siphon it away. His intention was to weaken the Melgar warrior enough to render him harmless without doing permanent harm.
To his cold horror, though, the technique failed him as it never had before. Sulak's body was simply too saturated with gralic force to be affected. Even after all their exploits together, Drum had never really grasped just how strong the Champion of Androval was. The most powerful creature of flesh and blood was moving directly at him with fists clenched.
Drum began to draw upon the Veil, the technique which blocked others from sensing his presence. It was not true invisibility but rather a sort of instant ongoing amnesia. Before he could start the Veil, though, Sulak was bodyslammed by a lithe figure all in black which took him offguard and sent him sprawling.
It was Chen Lee-Sun, who had until then been so silent that the Puppeteer had not been aware of his presence in the shadows of that room. Now Arneric sputtered but recovered immediately. "Who..? Kill him, Sulak, rip him apart!"
VI.
The Dragon of Midnight vaulted back onto his feet, back against the wall behind him and he instantly dropped into a low crouch to let a straight punch from Sulak pass overhead. The Melgar's fist went right through plaster and left a round hole in the brickwork beneath. Unharmed in the slightest, Sulak wheeled around and flashed out a wide hooking blow that Chen backpedaled to avoid. He dared not let any of the punches land.
Still moving in one unbroken arc, Sulak blasted out a straight punch that would haved in Chen's upper chest if it had connected. The Dragon seized that wrist and swept Sulak's feet out from under him. The giant Melgar hit the floor full length but it was too much to hope that the breath had been knocked out of him. He rolled over and tried to grab the Dragon's ankle, barely missing as Chen hopped back out of the way.
As a senior student of a Fu Jow Pai school in Hong Kong, Chen Lee-Sun had trained with dedication. Since acquiring the Dragon Pendant four years earlier and after tangling with Brumal, he had refining a style incorporating his new experiences. He called it Fang Lung. But now, against an opponent who could not be feel pain or be harmed, none of his skill was doing anything but keeping him alive a few seconds.
His best attacks would only break his own fists or feet against that impervious body. He had to accept he could neither harm nor restrain the giant Melgar. He had seen Sulak casually disregard Tommygun fire to the chest and hurl a motorcycle across a city street. Chen had no delusions about being able to hurt the Champion by himself. Instantly, the Melgar was up again and rushing in at him.
Chen knew only precise teaming could save him now. Sulak whipped around a savage right roundhouse that would broken Chen's skull apart if it had connected. The Dragon of Midnight went unsolid at exactly the second that fist would have connected. Meeting no resistance, Sulak's punch continued full force and whirled the Melgar around so he stumbled off balance. Chen crouched, seized his friend's right ankle with both hands and immediately straightened up to yank Sulak's leg up off the ground. Not expecting this, the Melgar warrior fell heavily onto his back.
Hopping back out of reach, the Dragon admitted grimly he could not keep this up for long. Any blow from Sulak that even grazed him would create crippling injury. And Chen knew he would start to tire and slow down long before the superhuman Melgar would. At best, he could stall a few more seconds.
Ten feet away, the battered Mark Drum had scrambled back up onto his feet. He held up his open hands, the blue light of gralic force crackling around them as he readied to strike. "Stand down, Sulak!" he warned. "I don't want to blast you."
No flicker of recognition showed in those deepset blue eyes. The Melgar hero knotted steel-hard fists and whirled away from the defiant smaller man in black toward this other enemy who had lighting swirling around each hand. He crouched to leap across the room.
Behind Arneric, a cold voice commanded, "SLEEP."
Instantly, the Puppeteer slumped bonelessly to the wooden floor. He stretched out his full length, grotesque face to one side and actually snored. The Sulak doll slipped out of a limp hand and in response, the real Sulak blinked in complete confusion. He lowered his fists and gazed wildly around the dimly lit room with its broken furniture.
"What? Where am I? What happened?" he rumbled, beginning to take in his surroundings.
"You were trying to break every bone in our bodies!" shouted Chen. Then he adjusted to seeing the desperate fight was over. "But you didn't know what you were doing. I guess it wasn't your fault."
"The Puppeteer? Are you saying I was being controlled by the Puppeteer?" There was offended outrage in that deep voice. "By the White Horse, I will kill him!"
Mark Drum had gone over to kneel by the sleeping form of Stefan Arneric. "No. He's harmless now. As long as we keep him away from his dolls, there's nothing he can do. There is so much information he can give us, maybe we can break up all espionage activity on the East Coast. We'll question him and he WILL talk." The Blue Guide smiled up at where the Sting was leaning on one metal stick.
In the other hand, Robert Hawk flourished the eight inch cloth and strawdust figure crafted to resemble the Pupeteer himself, the same doll that had fascinated Sulak only a few minutes earlier.
Drum rose and gave a sharp barking laugh. "Oh my God, Robert. You could have taken Arneric down with your dart gun. You could have cracked him over the head with one of your canes. But no. You took the time and trouble to grab his own doll and use it against him. Sting, you're some piece of work."
"Hah!" came the reply from under that black mask. "Admit it, Mark, you love a good bit of irony as much as I do."
11/20/200- 10/8/2021
