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"Hell Must Be Full'
"Hell Must Be Full"
6/26-6/28/2019
I.
"Please excuse my unfortunate appearance," said John Burroughs Delver as Timothy was ushered into an office spacious enough to accommodate a softball game complete with bleachers. Under subdued fluorescent lighting, five staff members were working at separate desks. "I am afflicted with acromegaly. It's a glandular disorder. Modern treatments have slowed its progress and managed to keep my blood pressure stable but I'm still in some discomfort."
Trying not to stare and failing, Timothy Limbo saw that this incredibly wealthy developer was indeed grotesque. Several inches over six feet in height, Delver had thick arms and legs which ended in noticeably oversized hands and feet. Even the skillfully tailored dark blue Brioni suit could not conceal the barrel chest and unnaturally wide shoulders. Delver's misshapen, lumpy face had evidently received some plastic surgery with only middling success. The lantern jaw and protruding brow ridge were still bizarre, and even the excellent dentures and black wig were still dentures and wig when seen at close range.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Timothy said, offering his hand, which Delver engulfed in a rough-skinned paw nearly the size of a boxing glove. Dreading a bone-splintering grip, Timothy was relieved that Delver hardly closed his giant hand at all before disengaging.
Next, Delver demonstrated genuine authority by not having to raise his voice to get immediate obedience. "Everybody, take a ten minute break. Ava, hold any calls but do it from the outside office. Mr Limbo, please make yourself comfortable."
Four associates got up from their work stations at separate desks and briskly followed executive secretary Ava Morales out through the door. Timothy pulled out a chair next to a side table holding pewter trays of Danishes and bowls of fruit as well as a needlessly complex espresso machine. Delver promptly sat down facing him.
Despite his brand new conservative cut black suit with powder blue shirt, despite having shaved twice that morning and having had his normally abandoned mop of yellow hair cut and styled the day before, Timothy Limbo still felt like an oaf from the wilderness in that environment. It wasn't just the scale and layout of the office that unsettled him, it was the unobtrusive way all the furnishings were high quality. That was an original oil painting of a mountain with the Milky Way blazoned behind it and he could make out Simone Latrelle's famous signature in the lower right corner. From what he had read, that painting had been coveted by art fanciers for decades with bidding high into the millions.
"I have to admit I hadn't heard of your Kenneth Dred Foundation before yesterday," Delver began. "When the authorities strongly recommended I meet with you, naturally I had an assistant do some quick research."
Timothy's Kumundu training gave him skill at reading body language, micro-expressions and subvocal tremors. He decided right away that Delver was lying and trying to hide it. Worse, the man was boiling with anger and a barely repressed murderous urge. Why? He didn't know. The feeling of peril was like being in a room with a snarling tiger. But Tim kept his own face bland and his voice politely mild. "We're not a well-known organization."
"There are many wild rumors about your KDF, though. They read like scripts for horror movies or perhaps thrillers. It was two agents of the FBI's Department 21 Black who came here and advised me to meet with you." Delver shook his head in mock disbelief. "To be honest, they are another group whose activities are hard to believe."
"Yeah, our areas overlap," Tim said. "Mr Delver, I'm not going to try to convince you about the truth regarding the supernatural. My guess is the Midnight War is going to do all the convincing necessary. It all ties in with your new concert arena in New Jersey."
"Oh, do go on. Are you going to tell me my three hundred million dollar Stentor Arena has been built over a forgotten Indian burial ground?"
There was no humor in Timothy's voice. He was by nature a rather mild young man, but now the dark blue eyes were intense. "SOMEthing is going on, sir. For the past year, while construction was going on, households in the vicinity have been complaining of strange noises underground."
"Moles, presumably, if not mere imagination. Coffee?"
"No, thanks. These digging noises go on late at night, sounding as if they are coming from a considerable depth. Some people have felt vibrations underfoot when out in their yards. Of course, your project hasn't been shown to have any possible connection."
"Of course not," Delver responded with amusement. "The plumbing and electrical work was completed long ago. All that is being done now is cosmetic touches, paint and windows. Tell me, Mr Limbo, what exactly do you think is the problem?"
"Trolls."
"What? I don't spend much time online but even so I've encountered anonymous comments designed to rile people up. They are annoying but hardly the sort of people to be digging underground for months at a stretch."
"No, sir, I mean real Trolls. The creatures who inspired the legends. They are semi-human brutes with incredible strength and endurance. Most are the Digger type, five feet tall and not much threat. But the warrior Trolls grow up past seven feet tall and are strong enough to tear gorillas apart. It takes a lot of bullets to hurt them and they love to fight with stone axes and hammers."
Jonathan Burroughs Delver sat up straighter and clasped his hands in front of him, obviously flustered. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this short, Mr Limbo, I do have a lot of business to attend to today.."
"I haven't told you the worst yet." Timothy leaned forward and his voice lowered. "Trolls farm mushrooms in their tunnels and they often trap small game or gather fruit and nuts and roots. But their favorite food walks on two legs."
II.
Most casual passers-by on the street thought Galvan looked like a lumberjack. His great size and muscular build, the curly brown hair and beard around a weathered face, and the rough work clothes did give that impression. Only a handful of Humans in the world knew the truth. Former arena Champion of Androval, Galvan was a Melgar. Even children of his Race were stronger and more difficult to harm than Human adults, but Galvan was remarkable even for his Race. A bearer of the Legacy of Malberon, his gralic-charged body was as close to being invincible as flesh and blood can be. He could crack rocks open with his hands and disregard rifle bullets as mere annoyances.
But his feelings were still vulnerable. As he took his time walking along East 38th Street, his downcast face gave away how deeply worried he was. Jin was very close to delivery. Although all the signs pointed to a healthy and uncomplicated delivery, with even the Blue Guide Ted Wright giving reassurance, Galvan fretted and lost sleep. There had never before been a child born of a Gelydra mother like Demrak Jin and a Melgar father like himself. Who knew what could go wrong?
At the ten-story stone building he had come to know so well, Galvan mounted the wide steps in front of the front door with bore a bronze plague "28 - KENNETH DRED FOUNDATION." The locks buzzed and the alarms clicked to disarm mode when he touched the doorknob, so he knew Sable was watching. Even so, he stood motionless in the tiny foyer while Trom sensors scanned him and confirmed his identity. Then the inner door swung toward him and he stepped into the front hall. Some of the weight lifted from his shoulders. Here, his friends and teammates would make good company to distract him.
To his left was Sable's office, and Galvan froze into place seeing who stood in that open doorway. A few inches shorter and lighter in build than Galvan, the other Melgar was still an impressive muscular figure in a dark blue suit without a tie, the dress shirt collar left open. Under shaggy black hair, a rugged but not handsome face watched Galvan enter with warmth in the deepset dark blue eyes.
"Sulak! I did not know you were in the world of Humans," Galvan rumbled.
"Come in, please, old fellow," said the reigning Champion as he stepped aside to leave the doorway open. "Dark deeds are underway. The ancient winds of trouble blow, as our chronicles say."
Behind the massive oaken desk beneath a handpainted map of the world as it had been in 1937, Lauren Sable Reilly rose from her swivel chair and gestured to the two plain straight backed wooden chairs facing her. "Both of you have a seat. I'll get right to the point. Galvan, I am placing you on parental leave effective immediately."
"What? I did not request this, and I am not sure I should accept it."
"I know, I know, you're a Melgar and your sense of duty is very strict. I'm not giving you a choice. This is an order. It's not just to relieve you of the stress, it's for Jin's sake. She has no family in this realm and no friends outside our team. You both need to support each other."
Galvan shook his head stubbornly. "Bad enough Sulak displaced me as Champion, now I should let him bump me off this Tel Shai team?"
"No. Drop that whole line of thought." Sable met the Melgar's angry stare without flinching. "I took it on myself to ask Sulak to fill in on the current case. He is still an Associate Member. If I can reach Valera, I will see if she would lend a hand as needed. You three are the top powerhouses in the Midnight War and I want one available."
Leaning slightly toward his rival, Sulak offered, "I thought you had gotten past all that, old fellow. Our liege ordered you to stand down as Champion because he felt I had fewer responsibilities to distract me..."
"Oh, I know what King Holmir said officially," Galvan snapped. "He claimed it had nothing to do with my refusing his orders when I thought them ill-advised. He knew you would simply go and do as you were told."
Sulak did not rise to the bait, but kept his voice even. "There are matters more urgent calling us than old grudges from decades past, Galvan. Not two hours ride from where we sit, over a thousand of our Race's oldest and most murderous enemies are assembling."
"Trolls...." whispered Galvan. His eyebrows lowered and his entire demeanor changed.
"Yes. The Tunnel-Dwellers. Since the Darthan Age, the hatred between Androval and the Trolls has been bitter indeed. And that is not mere history to you, old friend. Many times have you and I stood watch over new graves and biers and barrows for Melgar victims of those brutes."
Sable spoke up, her quiet voice holding unstressed authority. "Timothy is on the case. Right now, he is working out of a motel room outside Marshland, New Jersey. Despite the name of the town, Marshland has long ago been drained and built up with highways and buildings. It's mostly a residential area now."
"The White Horse as my witness, I am sworn to obey your lawful orders, Sable." Galvan held up a fist harder than a chunk of granite. "But my good right hand is needed against such a threat. Let me fight side by side with Sulak, surely the two of us could pull down Mount Sirion together."
"Your place is with Demrak Jin right now," Sable insisted. "Dr Wright says your child might be born within days. Jocelyn with her Red Spectre will be joining Tim and Sulak. Sheng is on call, also. I know you are torn between two duties, Galvan, so I am taking the burden of choice off you."
"So be it," replied Galvan. "Though I like it little, I suppose a man cannot walk in opposite directions at the same time."
As Galvan rose, Sulak also got to his feet. The current Champion of Androval held out his hand. "For whatever it may mean, I would welcome you beside me in this coming battle. If Valera could join us as well, all the Trolls ever born would flee at the sight."
"Aye, that's true," Galvan laughed with genuine relief. "Valera's adventures are an epic in themselves and, truth be told, the name of Sulak has earned honor enough." He accepted Sulak's gesture and the two Melgarin clasped each other's forearms in the Androval custom. "Whether Jin bears son, daughter or twins, I will be at my loved one's side when new life comes into this world."
III.
A normal Human would have found conditions in that cavern to be intolerable, even life-threatening. The stuffy mildewed air had a low oxygen content, a handful of candle stubs sitting on rocks barely provided enough light to detect movement and it was near enough to freezing that plenty of protective clothing would have been necessary.
But to Grum and his servants, everything was comfortable. More than thirty thousand years ago, the Halarim had modified their formerly Human bodies for a subterranean life. From their larger and more efficient lungs to their thick leathery hides which retained body heat to their lambent irises which saw into the infra-red, Trolls were very much at home in caverns such as these.
Leaning forward on his carven stone throne, Grum rested his chin on the fist of an arm propped up on his knees. Physically, he was a Digger, only a few inches over five feet tall but broad and sturdy. Where the others wore only simple kilts of grimy white cloth, Grum had on a sleeveless tunic of linen marked across the breast with an esoteric Darthan symbol. A simple circlet of beaten gold served him as a crown, and his free hand toyed with a short scepter of the copper-colored Gremthom metal. The only Troll ever known to master gralic sorcery, he had long nursed ambitions that would suit a would-be world conquerer.
Like all his army, Grum was a Tawny Troll, with a hide the yellow-brown hue of a lion. There were only two surviving, less numerous branches of his Race. The Mountain Trolls had slate-grey skin and were much shorter and thinner. Seldom seen and feared extinct were the Swamp Trolls who had sickly greenish-white hide and widely splayed webbed feet and hands.
A dozen of his servants hustled back and forth to bring buckets of water down the tunnels where their brethren labored. Trolls mostly dug by hand, using their immensely powerful spatulate fingers and hardened claws, but Grum had convinced his followers to use tools stolen from Human victims. The work went much faster accordingly. As they dug, Diggers slopped copious amounts of their saliva against the walls, their drool hardening to a concrete consistency. Determined and nearly tireless, Trolls burrowed through rock and soil as fast as Human engineers using modern methods might.
One of his servants offered him a wooden platter holding pieces of meat which had been cleaned but left raw. Grum accepted a leg and gnawed at it with enthusiasm. He liked dog. Troll scouts in the woods above usually brought back nothing larger than squirrels or rabbits, but lately they had been getting bolder and snatching stray dogs and cats.
Still, it had been too long since he had enjoying Human flesh. Soon, that would change and the great feast would begin. Grum wiped his mouth with the back of a leathery hand and grinned. He did not have the boarlike tusks in his lower jaw that Fighters sprouted, but his teeth were still wide and sharp enough to crack bone. His smile was nightmare fuel.
"Skur!" he roared. "Skur, where are you?"
"Here, my lord," rumbled a deep voice from down the leftmost tunnel. Lumbering into view was a Fighting Troll in his boiled leather jerkin and boots, bearing a narrow-headed axe stuck in a strap around his middle. Skur had the conical skull and thick mane of an adult Fighting Troll, the tusks in the lower jaw and the protruding brow ledge that shadowed his eyes. Unless the hairless Diggers, the Fighter had coarse black hair on their limbs, chest and back.
But for some reason, Skur had not reached the full seven feet height of a Fighting Troll. He had stopped growing at just under six feet. His proportions were close enough to Human that, if bundled in loose clothing and wearing a hood up over his head, he had often walked the cities of Men without being noticed. Grum had found him invaluable.
The warrior dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "At your service, my lord."
"Good Skur, now is the hour I must consult with our agent in the world of men. As always, you are in command until I return. All is going well."
"Yes, wise one. Our fellows labor dutifully and do not need the whip. If I may say so, they are as eager for the feast as could be hoped."
From a crude wooden case at his leather-wrapped feet, Grum dug through a loose pile of trinkets and came up with four wristwatches. "See! All have their markers at the same symbols. This is the time Gangrul will be standing by."
Rising, the warlock Troll stepped over to the nearest cavern wall and swung his arm around in a counter-clockwise gesture. The damp rock surface turned clear as glass, then faded to become an opening. Grum stepped boldly through that gateway which spanned hundreds of feet and emerged into the dimly lit office of John Burroughs Delver.
"My Lord," said Delver, bowing deeply.
"I will take your report now, Gangrul," the sorcerer replied.
IV.
"This is better than most of the flea traps we end up in," Timothy said, gesturing at the Holiday Inn with its twin beds, large screen TV and little dining nook in one corner. "We can even order room service."
"Hah," Jocelyn scoffed. "I've survived in abandoned buildings and lean-tos set up in the woods. I used to daydream about hot running water."
Sulak closed the door behind him. "Knowing you, Tim, I am certain you have not been idling here watching anime all day."
"So true. Good to see you again, by the way. I wish you and Princess Valera would turn up more often. So. Anyway, I've been digging through local social media since ten o'clock this morning after I met with Delver. First, the number of missing pets in this area is astonishing. I'm surprised it's not national news. Dogs and cats have been disappearing all over. What wild animals are in an urban area like this that can snatch up a full-grown German Shepherd... and not make enough noise to roust the neighborhood?"
"The kind who live in tunnels beneath our feet," Sulak answered.
Jocelyn Garimara dropped down on the edge of the nearer bed. An Aboriginal from the Northwest, she was far from as harmless as her slender form hinted. Not only was she a Tel Shai knight with years of Kumundu training, one of the dreaded Red Spectres coiled within her body and ached to be released. "So far, this sounds ominous enough. But I bet there's more."
"You bet." Timothy began tapping on his Link, wearing a look of painful concentration. "Let's see if I can figure this out. I wish Megan were here, honestly these gadgets are beyond me most of the time. Wait, there we go."
The device projected a bright sharp image on the blank wall opposite them, showing a street map of the city. More than twenty red blips were arranged to form four lines which converged on a square marked STENTOR ARENA. "Okay, those dots are where someone called in to report strange digging and scratching noises. There were a lot more. I found another dozen complaints on Facebook and Twitter and so forth of the same thing."
"You spent the day searching through Facebook?" laughed Jocelyn. "You poor thing. Sable should give you a bonus."
Standing with arms folded across his chest, Sulak frowned. "Tim, this seems so obvious a pattern. What do the authorities say?"
"That's a laugh," Timothy replied. "They brushed me off. The sergeant taking my call said they had no statement to make. And he wasn't impressed at all by my KDF credentials. Maybe the cops in the metro area know about our work, but the ones down here in savage New Jersey sure don't."
Staring at the image projected on the wall, Jocelyn said, "I was reading about that arena. Its grand opening is tomorrow night, a reunion of Courtney McKenna and Marc Donnegan, tickets cost as much as a used car and only one thousand people will be admitted. What's the connection?"
"Where Trolls are involved, expect the worst," Sulak grumbled. "We Melgarin are warlike folk but at least we do not eat our vanquished foes."
Timothy fiddled with his Link and two images of John Burroughs Delver replaced the map. "Here, I managed to get these. The lens was in my necktie. What do you guys think?"
"Not what I would call handsome," Jocelyn admitted. "Some kind of hormone problem, looks like. The opposite of dwarfism?"
Sulak stepped closer and rubbed his chin. "Very strange. Yes, strange indeed. If I did not know Trolls and Human cannot reproduce together, I might suspect this Delver is a half-breed."
"Do we know for a fact that's impossible?"
"Absolutely. Humans and Trolls are incompatible because of blood types and immune systems and a hundred other factors. If you impregnated a female Human with a Troll embryo, it would kill her. A Human embryo in a female Troll would not survive either."
"Still...there IS something very Trollish about him," Timothy agreed. "He gave me the creeps."
Jocelyn hopped to her feet and faced her teammates. "We all feel it! Something very bad is about to happen and soon. My Spectre is stirring and demanding to be set free. She knows when danger is in the air."
"We're all thinking the same thing," Timothy told his partners. "Tunnels under an arena that will be packed with a thousand people. Why? The Trolls aren't pulling a robbery or some kidnapings. They're planning a feast!"
V.
When the office door clicked shut behind him, Timothy Limbo realized he had been holding his breath and he consciously exhaled. He had no idea how his Link overrode all the alarms to let him into the building, past security cameras and weight sensitive floor plates and motion detectors. Trom technology was so far advanced beyond what was available to Humans that it might as well be thought of as magic.
His teammate Megan Salenger had patiently tried to explain the tech to him, but "neutral decoy charges" and "parallel pulses" still meant nothing to him. Her attempts just made him feel dumb, so he thanked her and simply used the Trom devices without worrying about how they worked.
The austere office was dimly lit by white LED bulbs in the corners down by the floor. His enhanced night vision was beginning to kick in. Time to search. Timothy held up both palms and a whirling tornado six inches high materialized above each hand. Barely visible even in direct sunlight, his caspers were manifestations of gralic force which both responded to his thoughts. Somehow, no one even had a theory, his Friendly Ghosts also picked up sights and sounds which they relayed back to his mind.
Dropping down into the luxurious swivel chair behind Delver's desk, Timothy leaned back and relaxed his conscious mind. The caspers were no more solid than moonlight and could squeak through hairline cracks. For more than a hour, he closed his eyes and 'saw' images they sent back to him as they eagerly searched through every drawer and behind every cabinet and under every carpet.
Then, abruptly he shot to his feet. His pulse rate jumped. Timothy rushed toward the rear of the office where a plain wooden door marked PRIVATE stood ajar. The switch on the wall right at hand made overhead fluorescent lights flicker on. It was a tiny kitchenette with a stainless steel sink, a gas stove and refrigerator, and cabinets at head height. Both of his caspers were whirling about frantically under the sink, he had seldom seen them so agitated and he was getting excited himself. What was going on? Dropping to his knees, he probed with his fingertips where the manifestations were hovering. There, a latch behind the molding clicked and a panel two feet across slid open.
Inside was a nightmarish bundle of rags stiff with dried blood, bundles of finger bones tied together with twine, a carved wooden mug whose inner surface was caked black. Half a dozen stone knives of varying lengths were piled together. Timothy felt dizzy at this revelation. He picked up a knife four inches in length and thumbed its edge to find it was sharp enough to shave with.
A huge hand clamped down on his jacket at the back of his neck and hauled him effortlessly up to be thrown back out into the darkened office. Even taken by surprise like that, Timothy's years of Kumundu training had made him an expert tumbler. He tucked his arms and legs into a ball, spun, and landed standing on his feet as deftly as if he had been practicing it all day.
Filling the bathroom doorway with its light streaming out from behind him, Delver looked both gigantic and menacing. "I smelled you all the way from my bedroom suite down the hall!"
"Hey, I resent that," Timothy retorted. "I showered and changed before coming here."
"Tel Shai knights! You all stink of mint because of your Tagra tea diet. Maybe other Humans can't sniff it out, but to me you reek of wintergreen."
"Other.. Humans..? Of course." Timothy was standing in the open space in the center of the office, hands down by his sides. "Whoa. I get it. You look so much like a Troll because you ARE a Troll. Damnation. How much plastic surgery did you go through?"
"Four years worth and my suffering was great," Delver rumbled, taking one menacing step closer. "All my fangs pulled out! My talons removed! Skin bleaching, contact lenses, my very bones scraped and reshaped. All so I could walk among you."
"Steady there. Let's get some questions settled before you pull me apart. Even if you can pass for Human, where did the money come from? I looked it up, John Burroughs Delver is worth at least eight hundred million. You didn't earn that washing dishes and mopping floors."
"Why should I tell you? I will be cracking your bones for the marrow in a second."
"Say I'm just stalling, you know, to live a minute longer. Why not tell me where the money came from?"
What might have been a laugh rumbled from the cavernous chest. "Why not? It can do no harm. My Race has riches greater than all Human wealth combined. For ages, we have dug deep and amassed gold, silver, diamonds. We have ambushed and looted and pillaged isolated Human outposts and expeditions. The Lord I serve has carefully converted precious metals and gems into your money and invested it well."
"I get it now," Timothy said. "You're working for that Troll we fought a few years ago. What was his name, Ogdu?"
"Ogdu? OGDDU? He was a common bandit. I serve the great Grum, the only Troll to master sorcery, the one Troll who can establish us in a kingdom of our own."
"Grum, huh? That's all I wanted to hear."
"I know you surface crawlers carry those anesthetic dart guns," Delver said. "Against your Race's soft wormlike skin, those darts may work well but they will not even scratch me."With the last word, the reconstructed Troll thundered across the intervening space to clutch at Tim.
VI.
Jocelyn Garimara had not felt so 'dolled up' in years and she was surprised how she rather enjoyed the feeling. Her thick straight black hair had been airdried and brushed out, she was wearing a tan pantsuit with a cream-colored silk blouse and a simple gold chain necklace for emphasis. Applying even minimal make-up had brought back so many memories of her middle teens before she had met the Sphinx and entered the Midnight War. Sadly, deep down Jocelyn thought of herself as homely. All the caustic remarks from white people in her town, as well as seeing what TV and magazine ads presented as standards of beauty, had not given her a good self-image.
Yet, her dark brown skin was rich and flawless, her full lips were well-shaped and her perfect teeth gleamed. Jocelyn had large dark eyes with an underlying hint of sadness. Sitting in the excited crowd at the Stentor Arena, more and more she caught glances from both men and women that were genuinely admiring, even flirtatious.
Maybe I do clean up well, she thought. The seats were brand new, of course, well-padded and comfortable with plenty of leg room. Although the arena could accommodate many more, only a thousand people had been allowed for this premiere show. Getting a ticket at the last moment had involved her captain Sable calling in a favor from the Mandate and that always meant there would be an unpleasant assignment to pay it back. That spy group and her own KDF found each other useful, but they were hardly allies.
On the built-up stage one hundred yards away, the band had been setting up for some time, making last minute sound checks and huddling together in intense consultations. Seated at a steel guitar, a long-haired old man was playing plaintive, sentimental old ballads that had the crowd entranced. From "Loch Lomond" to "Shenandoah" to "You Are My Sunshine," they were songs everyone recognized. Courtney McKenna was a Country singer and many of her fans there that night had started singing along while waiting for the show to get underway.
Yet Jocelyn could not relax and enjoy the music or the atmosphere. Knowing what she did, she would have been tense and watchful in any case, but her Red Spectre was swirling within her body like a restless charge of wild lightning straining to be loosed. The raw gralic energy that manifested as her Spectre was sensitive to threats and Jocelyn needed to exert will power to keep the being within her. There was a danger nearby worse than she had expected.
Everyone shot to their feet and applauded furiously as the star strode on stage with a pink spotlight on her. Now hitting fifty, Courtney McKenna had filled out slightly from her early days, but the trademark mane of strawberry blonde hair down to her waist was immediately recognizable. She adjusted the stand-up mike, waved to the crowd and waited for them to sit down again before saying simply, "Thank you."
As the show started with a brisk, cheerful version of McKenna's first hit "Only Last Night," Jocelyn pressed a palm to her chest. The energy within her was straining to emerge to a painful degree. She hated to do it but in a minute, she would have no choice but to stand and run up the aisle beside her to the restrooms before her Red Spectre emerged in full sight of one thousand people. It was getting unbearable. Jocelyn edged out past three people, murmuring, "Excuse me, excuse me," and stood up in the aisle at the last minute.
At the right front corner of the stage, the gleaming tile floor shimmered with light from below. A circular area ten feet across turned clear as glass. Those in the audience close enough to see the strange phenomena froze in terror when they spotted ferocious apelike faces scowling up at them. Then, as the floor melted away to become an opening, Jocelyn Garimara dropped to one knee. Crackling up from her body, a dark red Human outline flashed headlong through the air and dove down into the opening with a sharp boom like thunder too close at hand.
VII.
Gazing back with pride, Grum smiled at exactly one hundred Fighting Trolls. Some brandished stone headed hammers or axes, many carried only stout cords for binding prisoners. They were breathing heavily with excitement, eager to begin. The massive brutish bodies swayed from side to side. They stamped their flat naked feet on the hard packed dirt of the tunnel and grunted like wild boars smelling blood.
Grum waved his scepter and cried out, "Brethren, our hour has come at last. Tonight will be the first time many of you relish the taste of Man-flesh but I promise it will not be the last!"
Delighted roars burst from a hundred deep chests and a chant of "Grum!Grum!" echoed through the tunnels.
"Remember the plan," the sorcerer Troll shouted. "These dozen Brethren by me will climb up through the portal and throw Humans down. All of you will pass them down the line, hand over hand, until I give the word. Then I will close the portal and we will haul our captives to the main chamber one thousand paces deeper."
Beside Grum, the Human-sized Skur clapped his rough paws together. "AH hah nah ha..! Our Diggers have the fire pits hot with white coals. The butcher knives and flaying tools are ready. We will fill our bellies as not even our Kings ever have."
From the far end of the tunnel behind the last Troll, a deep voice boomed in mockery, "Hell must be full!"
Every head snapped around, every fanged jaw gaped open. The worst nightmare of their Race was standing in plain view, in his Royal blue arena uniform, white-gloved fists on his fists. For more than a century, Sulak had led the Melgarin on their pitiless wars against the Trollls. He was a legend of terror among the Tunnel-Dwellers and now here he was in the flesh, alive and defiant.
Before any could react, the Champion of Androval shouted, "Hell will have to make room for you animals somehow!" and he plunged forward with both fists blurring left and right.
As soon as he recognized Sulak, Grum clapped his lieutenant on the shoulder. "Slay him, Skur, and I will make you a chieftain in your own right."
"I would kill that Melgar in any case," was the reply. As Skur began forcing his way through the tightly packed horde, the sorcerer Troll raised his scepter to the ceiling above and began tracing the circle that would open a portal.
The violence was too one-sided to properly be called a fight. Every blow that SUlak struck caved in a chest or ruined a muzzle, but the Troll axes broke against him without doing harm. He seemed not to notice the brutes clinging to his arms and legs except to occasionally fling them away. Within seconds, most of his cotton uniform had been ripped away from his upper body. His hands and arms were sticky with black blood too thick to be Human.
Providing a surreal counterpoint, music could be heard in the background. Not that far overhead, the Courtney McKenna concert was underway. Behind the thumping and groaning and roaring came a sweet clear voice singing about how she missed her home.
Less than a minute had passed and the Trolls were not as eager to come near those deadly fists as they had been buy had begun throwing their weapons at Sulak with no visible effect. The Melgar lunged forward to seize a Troll with each hand and then smash them together with a crackle of bones breaking.
"Make way!" bellowed a coarse voice from the other end of the mob. "Let me have him!"
As the horde gladly parted, Skur rushed forward. The sight of a Fighter no taller than a Human man amused Sulak. "Well, what happened to YOU?" he laughed, "Does every litter have its runt?"
For the first time in decades, Sulak underestimated an opponent. The Human-sized Troll lunged in close and blasted a wide looping roundhouse right that connected solididly.. and pain jolted Sulak senseless for an instant. Skur exploded a follow-up left to the jaw. Sulak fell to his hands and knees, shocked beyond words that an adversary had hurt him. It was impossible. The Melgar champion was up again at once into a crouch with his fists defensively guarding his head and not an instant too soon.
Skur pressed his attack. Every punch that Sulak blocked sent hot agony up his forearms. What was going on? Seeing an opening, the Melgar lashed out a jab that glanced off his opponent's chin but even a light brush from Sulak was devastating. The Troll whirled completely around and fell face down with a thud,
Glaring down, Sulak saw that Skur was wearing molded metal guards over his knuckles. That lurid coppery sheen meant they were made of Gremthom, the Darthan metal that held and intensified malicious gralic force. Of course. That explained how Skur's punches had hurt so much. What a cheat, Sulak thought.
During the intensity of the duel, even a veteran like Sulak had to concentrate entirely on his opponent. As soon as Skur fell, though, the Melgar Champion snapped his attention back to the other Trolls just in time to be overrun by their stampede. Screaming like terrified children, the huge brutes ran right over both Sulak and the dazed Skur in their panic.
Flashing after them was the hissing form of the Red Spectre. Wild lightning incarnate, the Spectre swooped and circled to burn entirely through every Troll it could catch. The tunnel was dazzling with the scarlet force blazing from that manifestation.
Struggling to his feet as the last of the hysterical Trolls stomped past, Sulak caught his breath. Everywhere, severed arms and legs and halved torsos were scattered. Their ends had been cauterized so there was little blood but the stench of burnt flesh was atrocious.
The aching in his chest and arms where he had been struck by the cursed knuckle guards was easing. With a distracted air, Sulak tore off the strip of cloth still clinging to his upper body and went back up the tunnel wearing little more than ragged trunks and his blood-spattered white boots. Grum was gone. In the circular space where the tunnel ended, no trace of the portal up to the arena overhead remained either.
Whirling about, Sulak raced down the tunnel in the direction where the Trolls had fled. Dozens of burned limbs and blasted corpses did not trouble. He had survived too many epic battles in his long career to dwell on such sights. The Melgar champion did pause long enough to yank the Gremthom dusters from Skur's limp hands, although they stung him to touch. Not for the first time, he regretted that the ethics of Androval forbade slaying a helpless enemy. It would be prudent to simply kill Skur then and there, but Sulak would be haunted by his dishonorable deed the rest of his life.
The best he could do was to take the Troll prisoner. Maybe King Holmir would exact a ransom, maybe sentence the Tunnel-Dweller to hard labor and get some use from him. Sulak picked up Skur by the leather harness and carried the brute with one hand as he continued on his way. When it became clear that no Trolls survived, Sulak slowed his pace. He had never realized what a terrible force of nature a Red Spectre was. He was not at all certain he could survive the attack of one. That petite Australian woman hosted one of the most powerful manifestations in the Midnight War.
A full mile later, he saw the steep ramp leading up to the surface. He had left the trap door open when he had entered the Troll tunnels and sent the location to the Links carried by his teammates. In the dim starlight reached down, he could make out the forms of Timothy and Jocelyn sitting huddled together.
VIII.
Dropping Skur negligently, Sulak knelt beside his friends. "Are you two all right?"
"Yeah, we're not hurt," Timothy said. "You look like you've been in a fight, though."
"Understatement is your gift," the big Melgar replied with relief. "Grum escaped. Again! It is difficult to capture a sorcerer who can open portals at will. But at least, we have his stooge Skur to question."
"I'm tuckered and no mistake," Jocelyn muttered. "The longer my Red Spectre is out of body, the more tired I get. I made it out of the arena, saying I didn't feel well, but I kept having to sit down and rest on my way here."
"Many innocent lives have been spared tonight. Grum was within seconds of sending his brutes up to haul down as many victims as they could." Sulak noticed the cuff of one of his gloves still remained around his wrist and he tugged it off. "Of all the honors I have won, being a knight of Tel Shai is the one I am most proud of."
Jocelyn sighed. "It bothers me a little how completely merciless my Spectre is. She would have burned through a city of Trolls if they have been here. I need to keep a tighter leash on her."
"Well, I suggest we get out of here," Timothy said. "It's a long ride back to Manhattan. We can keep Skur there covered with a blanket in the back seat for now. Do you guys feel like a hot shower and twelve hours of sleep?"
"I swear to God, you read my mind, Tim. I feel like I've been up for days."
Sulak stood up again. "You haven't told me what happened with Delver?"
"Oh, yeah." Timothy grunted as he got to his feet again, helping Jocelyn up. "He's rather dead. I can't imagine what the autopsy is going to show. Did I mention he was a Troll who had surgery to pass for Human?"
"What? I have never heard of such a thing. White Horse is my witness, I am gobsmacked." Sulak looked down at the slightly built Timothy. "And you killed him yourself?"
"Oh, sure. To tell you the truth, he jumped right onto the knife I was holding and drove it into his heart. It was one of the stone blades he used for his victims, so it's kinda justice he died on it." Timothy shrugged in the gloom. "I love a little irony."
6/26-6/28/2019
I.
"Please excuse my unfortunate appearance," said John Burroughs Delver as Timothy was ushered into an office spacious enough to accommodate a softball game complete with bleachers. Under subdued fluorescent lighting, five staff members were working at separate desks. "I am afflicted with acromegaly. It's a glandular disorder. Modern treatments have slowed its progress and managed to keep my blood pressure stable but I'm still in some discomfort."
Trying not to stare and failing, Timothy Limbo saw that this incredibly wealthy developer was indeed grotesque. Several inches over six feet in height, Delver had thick arms and legs which ended in noticeably oversized hands and feet. Even the skillfully tailored dark blue Brioni suit could not conceal the barrel chest and unnaturally wide shoulders. Delver's misshapen, lumpy face had evidently received some plastic surgery with only middling success. The lantern jaw and protruding brow ridge were still bizarre, and even the excellent dentures and black wig were still dentures and wig when seen at close range.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Timothy said, offering his hand, which Delver engulfed in a rough-skinned paw nearly the size of a boxing glove. Dreading a bone-splintering grip, Timothy was relieved that Delver hardly closed his giant hand at all before disengaging.
Next, Delver demonstrated genuine authority by not having to raise his voice to get immediate obedience. "Everybody, take a ten minute break. Ava, hold any calls but do it from the outside office. Mr Limbo, please make yourself comfortable."
Four associates got up from their work stations at separate desks and briskly followed executive secretary Ava Morales out through the door. Timothy pulled out a chair next to a side table holding pewter trays of Danishes and bowls of fruit as well as a needlessly complex espresso machine. Delver promptly sat down facing him.
Despite his brand new conservative cut black suit with powder blue shirt, despite having shaved twice that morning and having had his normally abandoned mop of yellow hair cut and styled the day before, Timothy Limbo still felt like an oaf from the wilderness in that environment. It wasn't just the scale and layout of the office that unsettled him, it was the unobtrusive way all the furnishings were high quality. That was an original oil painting of a mountain with the Milky Way blazoned behind it and he could make out Simone Latrelle's famous signature in the lower right corner. From what he had read, that painting had been coveted by art fanciers for decades with bidding high into the millions.
"I have to admit I hadn't heard of your Kenneth Dred Foundation before yesterday," Delver began. "When the authorities strongly recommended I meet with you, naturally I had an assistant do some quick research."
Timothy's Kumundu training gave him skill at reading body language, micro-expressions and subvocal tremors. He decided right away that Delver was lying and trying to hide it. Worse, the man was boiling with anger and a barely repressed murderous urge. Why? He didn't know. The feeling of peril was like being in a room with a snarling tiger. But Tim kept his own face bland and his voice politely mild. "We're not a well-known organization."
"There are many wild rumors about your KDF, though. They read like scripts for horror movies or perhaps thrillers. It was two agents of the FBI's Department 21 Black who came here and advised me to meet with you." Delver shook his head in mock disbelief. "To be honest, they are another group whose activities are hard to believe."
"Yeah, our areas overlap," Tim said. "Mr Delver, I'm not going to try to convince you about the truth regarding the supernatural. My guess is the Midnight War is going to do all the convincing necessary. It all ties in with your new concert arena in New Jersey."
"Oh, do go on. Are you going to tell me my three hundred million dollar Stentor Arena has been built over a forgotten Indian burial ground?"
There was no humor in Timothy's voice. He was by nature a rather mild young man, but now the dark blue eyes were intense. "SOMEthing is going on, sir. For the past year, while construction was going on, households in the vicinity have been complaining of strange noises underground."
"Moles, presumably, if not mere imagination. Coffee?"
"No, thanks. These digging noises go on late at night, sounding as if they are coming from a considerable depth. Some people have felt vibrations underfoot when out in their yards. Of course, your project hasn't been shown to have any possible connection."
"Of course not," Delver responded with amusement. "The plumbing and electrical work was completed long ago. All that is being done now is cosmetic touches, paint and windows. Tell me, Mr Limbo, what exactly do you think is the problem?"
"Trolls."
"What? I don't spend much time online but even so I've encountered anonymous comments designed to rile people up. They are annoying but hardly the sort of people to be digging underground for months at a stretch."
"No, sir, I mean real Trolls. The creatures who inspired the legends. They are semi-human brutes with incredible strength and endurance. Most are the Digger type, five feet tall and not much threat. But the warrior Trolls grow up past seven feet tall and are strong enough to tear gorillas apart. It takes a lot of bullets to hurt them and they love to fight with stone axes and hammers."
Jonathan Burroughs Delver sat up straighter and clasped his hands in front of him, obviously flustered. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this short, Mr Limbo, I do have a lot of business to attend to today.."
"I haven't told you the worst yet." Timothy leaned forward and his voice lowered. "Trolls farm mushrooms in their tunnels and they often trap small game or gather fruit and nuts and roots. But their favorite food walks on two legs."
II.
Most casual passers-by on the street thought Galvan looked like a lumberjack. His great size and muscular build, the curly brown hair and beard around a weathered face, and the rough work clothes did give that impression. Only a handful of Humans in the world knew the truth. Former arena Champion of Androval, Galvan was a Melgar. Even children of his Race were stronger and more difficult to harm than Human adults, but Galvan was remarkable even for his Race. A bearer of the Legacy of Malberon, his gralic-charged body was as close to being invincible as flesh and blood can be. He could crack rocks open with his hands and disregard rifle bullets as mere annoyances.
But his feelings were still vulnerable. As he took his time walking along East 38th Street, his downcast face gave away how deeply worried he was. Jin was very close to delivery. Although all the signs pointed to a healthy and uncomplicated delivery, with even the Blue Guide Ted Wright giving reassurance, Galvan fretted and lost sleep. There had never before been a child born of a Gelydra mother like Demrak Jin and a Melgar father like himself. Who knew what could go wrong?
At the ten-story stone building he had come to know so well, Galvan mounted the wide steps in front of the front door with bore a bronze plague "28 - KENNETH DRED FOUNDATION." The locks buzzed and the alarms clicked to disarm mode when he touched the doorknob, so he knew Sable was watching. Even so, he stood motionless in the tiny foyer while Trom sensors scanned him and confirmed his identity. Then the inner door swung toward him and he stepped into the front hall. Some of the weight lifted from his shoulders. Here, his friends and teammates would make good company to distract him.
To his left was Sable's office, and Galvan froze into place seeing who stood in that open doorway. A few inches shorter and lighter in build than Galvan, the other Melgar was still an impressive muscular figure in a dark blue suit without a tie, the dress shirt collar left open. Under shaggy black hair, a rugged but not handsome face watched Galvan enter with warmth in the deepset dark blue eyes.
"Sulak! I did not know you were in the world of Humans," Galvan rumbled.
"Come in, please, old fellow," said the reigning Champion as he stepped aside to leave the doorway open. "Dark deeds are underway. The ancient winds of trouble blow, as our chronicles say."
Behind the massive oaken desk beneath a handpainted map of the world as it had been in 1937, Lauren Sable Reilly rose from her swivel chair and gestured to the two plain straight backed wooden chairs facing her. "Both of you have a seat. I'll get right to the point. Galvan, I am placing you on parental leave effective immediately."
"What? I did not request this, and I am not sure I should accept it."
"I know, I know, you're a Melgar and your sense of duty is very strict. I'm not giving you a choice. This is an order. It's not just to relieve you of the stress, it's for Jin's sake. She has no family in this realm and no friends outside our team. You both need to support each other."
Galvan shook his head stubbornly. "Bad enough Sulak displaced me as Champion, now I should let him bump me off this Tel Shai team?"
"No. Drop that whole line of thought." Sable met the Melgar's angry stare without flinching. "I took it on myself to ask Sulak to fill in on the current case. He is still an Associate Member. If I can reach Valera, I will see if she would lend a hand as needed. You three are the top powerhouses in the Midnight War and I want one available."
Leaning slightly toward his rival, Sulak offered, "I thought you had gotten past all that, old fellow. Our liege ordered you to stand down as Champion because he felt I had fewer responsibilities to distract me..."
"Oh, I know what King Holmir said officially," Galvan snapped. "He claimed it had nothing to do with my refusing his orders when I thought them ill-advised. He knew you would simply go and do as you were told."
Sulak did not rise to the bait, but kept his voice even. "There are matters more urgent calling us than old grudges from decades past, Galvan. Not two hours ride from where we sit, over a thousand of our Race's oldest and most murderous enemies are assembling."
"Trolls...." whispered Galvan. His eyebrows lowered and his entire demeanor changed.
"Yes. The Tunnel-Dwellers. Since the Darthan Age, the hatred between Androval and the Trolls has been bitter indeed. And that is not mere history to you, old friend. Many times have you and I stood watch over new graves and biers and barrows for Melgar victims of those brutes."
Sable spoke up, her quiet voice holding unstressed authority. "Timothy is on the case. Right now, he is working out of a motel room outside Marshland, New Jersey. Despite the name of the town, Marshland has long ago been drained and built up with highways and buildings. It's mostly a residential area now."
"The White Horse as my witness, I am sworn to obey your lawful orders, Sable." Galvan held up a fist harder than a chunk of granite. "But my good right hand is needed against such a threat. Let me fight side by side with Sulak, surely the two of us could pull down Mount Sirion together."
"Your place is with Demrak Jin right now," Sable insisted. "Dr Wright says your child might be born within days. Jocelyn with her Red Spectre will be joining Tim and Sulak. Sheng is on call, also. I know you are torn between two duties, Galvan, so I am taking the burden of choice off you."
"So be it," replied Galvan. "Though I like it little, I suppose a man cannot walk in opposite directions at the same time."
As Galvan rose, Sulak also got to his feet. The current Champion of Androval held out his hand. "For whatever it may mean, I would welcome you beside me in this coming battle. If Valera could join us as well, all the Trolls ever born would flee at the sight."
"Aye, that's true," Galvan laughed with genuine relief. "Valera's adventures are an epic in themselves and, truth be told, the name of Sulak has earned honor enough." He accepted Sulak's gesture and the two Melgarin clasped each other's forearms in the Androval custom. "Whether Jin bears son, daughter or twins, I will be at my loved one's side when new life comes into this world."
III.
A normal Human would have found conditions in that cavern to be intolerable, even life-threatening. The stuffy mildewed air had a low oxygen content, a handful of candle stubs sitting on rocks barely provided enough light to detect movement and it was near enough to freezing that plenty of protective clothing would have been necessary.
But to Grum and his servants, everything was comfortable. More than thirty thousand years ago, the Halarim had modified their formerly Human bodies for a subterranean life. From their larger and more efficient lungs to their thick leathery hides which retained body heat to their lambent irises which saw into the infra-red, Trolls were very much at home in caverns such as these.
Leaning forward on his carven stone throne, Grum rested his chin on the fist of an arm propped up on his knees. Physically, he was a Digger, only a few inches over five feet tall but broad and sturdy. Where the others wore only simple kilts of grimy white cloth, Grum had on a sleeveless tunic of linen marked across the breast with an esoteric Darthan symbol. A simple circlet of beaten gold served him as a crown, and his free hand toyed with a short scepter of the copper-colored Gremthom metal. The only Troll ever known to master gralic sorcery, he had long nursed ambitions that would suit a would-be world conquerer.
Like all his army, Grum was a Tawny Troll, with a hide the yellow-brown hue of a lion. There were only two surviving, less numerous branches of his Race. The Mountain Trolls had slate-grey skin and were much shorter and thinner. Seldom seen and feared extinct were the Swamp Trolls who had sickly greenish-white hide and widely splayed webbed feet and hands.
A dozen of his servants hustled back and forth to bring buckets of water down the tunnels where their brethren labored. Trolls mostly dug by hand, using their immensely powerful spatulate fingers and hardened claws, but Grum had convinced his followers to use tools stolen from Human victims. The work went much faster accordingly. As they dug, Diggers slopped copious amounts of their saliva against the walls, their drool hardening to a concrete consistency. Determined and nearly tireless, Trolls burrowed through rock and soil as fast as Human engineers using modern methods might.
One of his servants offered him a wooden platter holding pieces of meat which had been cleaned but left raw. Grum accepted a leg and gnawed at it with enthusiasm. He liked dog. Troll scouts in the woods above usually brought back nothing larger than squirrels or rabbits, but lately they had been getting bolder and snatching stray dogs and cats.
Still, it had been too long since he had enjoying Human flesh. Soon, that would change and the great feast would begin. Grum wiped his mouth with the back of a leathery hand and grinned. He did not have the boarlike tusks in his lower jaw that Fighters sprouted, but his teeth were still wide and sharp enough to crack bone. His smile was nightmare fuel.
"Skur!" he roared. "Skur, where are you?"
"Here, my lord," rumbled a deep voice from down the leftmost tunnel. Lumbering into view was a Fighting Troll in his boiled leather jerkin and boots, bearing a narrow-headed axe stuck in a strap around his middle. Skur had the conical skull and thick mane of an adult Fighting Troll, the tusks in the lower jaw and the protruding brow ledge that shadowed his eyes. Unless the hairless Diggers, the Fighter had coarse black hair on their limbs, chest and back.
But for some reason, Skur had not reached the full seven feet height of a Fighting Troll. He had stopped growing at just under six feet. His proportions were close enough to Human that, if bundled in loose clothing and wearing a hood up over his head, he had often walked the cities of Men without being noticed. Grum had found him invaluable.
The warrior dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "At your service, my lord."
"Good Skur, now is the hour I must consult with our agent in the world of men. As always, you are in command until I return. All is going well."
"Yes, wise one. Our fellows labor dutifully and do not need the whip. If I may say so, they are as eager for the feast as could be hoped."
From a crude wooden case at his leather-wrapped feet, Grum dug through a loose pile of trinkets and came up with four wristwatches. "See! All have their markers at the same symbols. This is the time Gangrul will be standing by."
Rising, the warlock Troll stepped over to the nearest cavern wall and swung his arm around in a counter-clockwise gesture. The damp rock surface turned clear as glass, then faded to become an opening. Grum stepped boldly through that gateway which spanned hundreds of feet and emerged into the dimly lit office of John Burroughs Delver.
"My Lord," said Delver, bowing deeply.
"I will take your report now, Gangrul," the sorcerer replied.
IV.
"This is better than most of the flea traps we end up in," Timothy said, gesturing at the Holiday Inn with its twin beds, large screen TV and little dining nook in one corner. "We can even order room service."
"Hah," Jocelyn scoffed. "I've survived in abandoned buildings and lean-tos set up in the woods. I used to daydream about hot running water."
Sulak closed the door behind him. "Knowing you, Tim, I am certain you have not been idling here watching anime all day."
"So true. Good to see you again, by the way. I wish you and Princess Valera would turn up more often. So. Anyway, I've been digging through local social media since ten o'clock this morning after I met with Delver. First, the number of missing pets in this area is astonishing. I'm surprised it's not national news. Dogs and cats have been disappearing all over. What wild animals are in an urban area like this that can snatch up a full-grown German Shepherd... and not make enough noise to roust the neighborhood?"
"The kind who live in tunnels beneath our feet," Sulak answered.
Jocelyn Garimara dropped down on the edge of the nearer bed. An Aboriginal from the Northwest, she was far from as harmless as her slender form hinted. Not only was she a Tel Shai knight with years of Kumundu training, one of the dreaded Red Spectres coiled within her body and ached to be released. "So far, this sounds ominous enough. But I bet there's more."
"You bet." Timothy began tapping on his Link, wearing a look of painful concentration. "Let's see if I can figure this out. I wish Megan were here, honestly these gadgets are beyond me most of the time. Wait, there we go."
The device projected a bright sharp image on the blank wall opposite them, showing a street map of the city. More than twenty red blips were arranged to form four lines which converged on a square marked STENTOR ARENA. "Okay, those dots are where someone called in to report strange digging and scratching noises. There were a lot more. I found another dozen complaints on Facebook and Twitter and so forth of the same thing."
"You spent the day searching through Facebook?" laughed Jocelyn. "You poor thing. Sable should give you a bonus."
Standing with arms folded across his chest, Sulak frowned. "Tim, this seems so obvious a pattern. What do the authorities say?"
"That's a laugh," Timothy replied. "They brushed me off. The sergeant taking my call said they had no statement to make. And he wasn't impressed at all by my KDF credentials. Maybe the cops in the metro area know about our work, but the ones down here in savage New Jersey sure don't."
Staring at the image projected on the wall, Jocelyn said, "I was reading about that arena. Its grand opening is tomorrow night, a reunion of Courtney McKenna and Marc Donnegan, tickets cost as much as a used car and only one thousand people will be admitted. What's the connection?"
"Where Trolls are involved, expect the worst," Sulak grumbled. "We Melgarin are warlike folk but at least we do not eat our vanquished foes."
Timothy fiddled with his Link and two images of John Burroughs Delver replaced the map. "Here, I managed to get these. The lens was in my necktie. What do you guys think?"
"Not what I would call handsome," Jocelyn admitted. "Some kind of hormone problem, looks like. The opposite of dwarfism?"
Sulak stepped closer and rubbed his chin. "Very strange. Yes, strange indeed. If I did not know Trolls and Human cannot reproduce together, I might suspect this Delver is a half-breed."
"Do we know for a fact that's impossible?"
"Absolutely. Humans and Trolls are incompatible because of blood types and immune systems and a hundred other factors. If you impregnated a female Human with a Troll embryo, it would kill her. A Human embryo in a female Troll would not survive either."
"Still...there IS something very Trollish about him," Timothy agreed. "He gave me the creeps."
Jocelyn hopped to her feet and faced her teammates. "We all feel it! Something very bad is about to happen and soon. My Spectre is stirring and demanding to be set free. She knows when danger is in the air."
"We're all thinking the same thing," Timothy told his partners. "Tunnels under an arena that will be packed with a thousand people. Why? The Trolls aren't pulling a robbery or some kidnapings. They're planning a feast!"
V.
When the office door clicked shut behind him, Timothy Limbo realized he had been holding his breath and he consciously exhaled. He had no idea how his Link overrode all the alarms to let him into the building, past security cameras and weight sensitive floor plates and motion detectors. Trom technology was so far advanced beyond what was available to Humans that it might as well be thought of as magic.
His teammate Megan Salenger had patiently tried to explain the tech to him, but "neutral decoy charges" and "parallel pulses" still meant nothing to him. Her attempts just made him feel dumb, so he thanked her and simply used the Trom devices without worrying about how they worked.
The austere office was dimly lit by white LED bulbs in the corners down by the floor. His enhanced night vision was beginning to kick in. Time to search. Timothy held up both palms and a whirling tornado six inches high materialized above each hand. Barely visible even in direct sunlight, his caspers were manifestations of gralic force which both responded to his thoughts. Somehow, no one even had a theory, his Friendly Ghosts also picked up sights and sounds which they relayed back to his mind.
Dropping down into the luxurious swivel chair behind Delver's desk, Timothy leaned back and relaxed his conscious mind. The caspers were no more solid than moonlight and could squeak through hairline cracks. For more than a hour, he closed his eyes and 'saw' images they sent back to him as they eagerly searched through every drawer and behind every cabinet and under every carpet.
Then, abruptly he shot to his feet. His pulse rate jumped. Timothy rushed toward the rear of the office where a plain wooden door marked PRIVATE stood ajar. The switch on the wall right at hand made overhead fluorescent lights flicker on. It was a tiny kitchenette with a stainless steel sink, a gas stove and refrigerator, and cabinets at head height. Both of his caspers were whirling about frantically under the sink, he had seldom seen them so agitated and he was getting excited himself. What was going on? Dropping to his knees, he probed with his fingertips where the manifestations were hovering. There, a latch behind the molding clicked and a panel two feet across slid open.
Inside was a nightmarish bundle of rags stiff with dried blood, bundles of finger bones tied together with twine, a carved wooden mug whose inner surface was caked black. Half a dozen stone knives of varying lengths were piled together. Timothy felt dizzy at this revelation. He picked up a knife four inches in length and thumbed its edge to find it was sharp enough to shave with.
A huge hand clamped down on his jacket at the back of his neck and hauled him effortlessly up to be thrown back out into the darkened office. Even taken by surprise like that, Timothy's years of Kumundu training had made him an expert tumbler. He tucked his arms and legs into a ball, spun, and landed standing on his feet as deftly as if he had been practicing it all day.
Filling the bathroom doorway with its light streaming out from behind him, Delver looked both gigantic and menacing. "I smelled you all the way from my bedroom suite down the hall!"
"Hey, I resent that," Timothy retorted. "I showered and changed before coming here."
"Tel Shai knights! You all stink of mint because of your Tagra tea diet. Maybe other Humans can't sniff it out, but to me you reek of wintergreen."
"Other.. Humans..? Of course." Timothy was standing in the open space in the center of the office, hands down by his sides. "Whoa. I get it. You look so much like a Troll because you ARE a Troll. Damnation. How much plastic surgery did you go through?"
"Four years worth and my suffering was great," Delver rumbled, taking one menacing step closer. "All my fangs pulled out! My talons removed! Skin bleaching, contact lenses, my very bones scraped and reshaped. All so I could walk among you."
"Steady there. Let's get some questions settled before you pull me apart. Even if you can pass for Human, where did the money come from? I looked it up, John Burroughs Delver is worth at least eight hundred million. You didn't earn that washing dishes and mopping floors."
"Why should I tell you? I will be cracking your bones for the marrow in a second."
"Say I'm just stalling, you know, to live a minute longer. Why not tell me where the money came from?"
What might have been a laugh rumbled from the cavernous chest. "Why not? It can do no harm. My Race has riches greater than all Human wealth combined. For ages, we have dug deep and amassed gold, silver, diamonds. We have ambushed and looted and pillaged isolated Human outposts and expeditions. The Lord I serve has carefully converted precious metals and gems into your money and invested it well."
"I get it now," Timothy said. "You're working for that Troll we fought a few years ago. What was his name, Ogdu?"
"Ogdu? OGDDU? He was a common bandit. I serve the great Grum, the only Troll to master sorcery, the one Troll who can establish us in a kingdom of our own."
"Grum, huh? That's all I wanted to hear."
"I know you surface crawlers carry those anesthetic dart guns," Delver said. "Against your Race's soft wormlike skin, those darts may work well but they will not even scratch me."With the last word, the reconstructed Troll thundered across the intervening space to clutch at Tim.
VI.
Jocelyn Garimara had not felt so 'dolled up' in years and she was surprised how she rather enjoyed the feeling. Her thick straight black hair had been airdried and brushed out, she was wearing a tan pantsuit with a cream-colored silk blouse and a simple gold chain necklace for emphasis. Applying even minimal make-up had brought back so many memories of her middle teens before she had met the Sphinx and entered the Midnight War. Sadly, deep down Jocelyn thought of herself as homely. All the caustic remarks from white people in her town, as well as seeing what TV and magazine ads presented as standards of beauty, had not given her a good self-image.
Yet, her dark brown skin was rich and flawless, her full lips were well-shaped and her perfect teeth gleamed. Jocelyn had large dark eyes with an underlying hint of sadness. Sitting in the excited crowd at the Stentor Arena, more and more she caught glances from both men and women that were genuinely admiring, even flirtatious.
Maybe I do clean up well, she thought. The seats were brand new, of course, well-padded and comfortable with plenty of leg room. Although the arena could accommodate many more, only a thousand people had been allowed for this premiere show. Getting a ticket at the last moment had involved her captain Sable calling in a favor from the Mandate and that always meant there would be an unpleasant assignment to pay it back. That spy group and her own KDF found each other useful, but they were hardly allies.
On the built-up stage one hundred yards away, the band had been setting up for some time, making last minute sound checks and huddling together in intense consultations. Seated at a steel guitar, a long-haired old man was playing plaintive, sentimental old ballads that had the crowd entranced. From "Loch Lomond" to "Shenandoah" to "You Are My Sunshine," they were songs everyone recognized. Courtney McKenna was a Country singer and many of her fans there that night had started singing along while waiting for the show to get underway.
Yet Jocelyn could not relax and enjoy the music or the atmosphere. Knowing what she did, she would have been tense and watchful in any case, but her Red Spectre was swirling within her body like a restless charge of wild lightning straining to be loosed. The raw gralic energy that manifested as her Spectre was sensitive to threats and Jocelyn needed to exert will power to keep the being within her. There was a danger nearby worse than she had expected.
Everyone shot to their feet and applauded furiously as the star strode on stage with a pink spotlight on her. Now hitting fifty, Courtney McKenna had filled out slightly from her early days, but the trademark mane of strawberry blonde hair down to her waist was immediately recognizable. She adjusted the stand-up mike, waved to the crowd and waited for them to sit down again before saying simply, "Thank you."
As the show started with a brisk, cheerful version of McKenna's first hit "Only Last Night," Jocelyn pressed a palm to her chest. The energy within her was straining to emerge to a painful degree. She hated to do it but in a minute, she would have no choice but to stand and run up the aisle beside her to the restrooms before her Red Spectre emerged in full sight of one thousand people. It was getting unbearable. Jocelyn edged out past three people, murmuring, "Excuse me, excuse me," and stood up in the aisle at the last minute.
At the right front corner of the stage, the gleaming tile floor shimmered with light from below. A circular area ten feet across turned clear as glass. Those in the audience close enough to see the strange phenomena froze in terror when they spotted ferocious apelike faces scowling up at them. Then, as the floor melted away to become an opening, Jocelyn Garimara dropped to one knee. Crackling up from her body, a dark red Human outline flashed headlong through the air and dove down into the opening with a sharp boom like thunder too close at hand.
VII.
Gazing back with pride, Grum smiled at exactly one hundred Fighting Trolls. Some brandished stone headed hammers or axes, many carried only stout cords for binding prisoners. They were breathing heavily with excitement, eager to begin. The massive brutish bodies swayed from side to side. They stamped their flat naked feet on the hard packed dirt of the tunnel and grunted like wild boars smelling blood.
Grum waved his scepter and cried out, "Brethren, our hour has come at last. Tonight will be the first time many of you relish the taste of Man-flesh but I promise it will not be the last!"
Delighted roars burst from a hundred deep chests and a chant of "Grum!Grum!" echoed through the tunnels.
"Remember the plan," the sorcerer Troll shouted. "These dozen Brethren by me will climb up through the portal and throw Humans down. All of you will pass them down the line, hand over hand, until I give the word. Then I will close the portal and we will haul our captives to the main chamber one thousand paces deeper."
Beside Grum, the Human-sized Skur clapped his rough paws together. "AH hah nah ha..! Our Diggers have the fire pits hot with white coals. The butcher knives and flaying tools are ready. We will fill our bellies as not even our Kings ever have."
From the far end of the tunnel behind the last Troll, a deep voice boomed in mockery, "Hell must be full!"
Every head snapped around, every fanged jaw gaped open. The worst nightmare of their Race was standing in plain view, in his Royal blue arena uniform, white-gloved fists on his fists. For more than a century, Sulak had led the Melgarin on their pitiless wars against the Trollls. He was a legend of terror among the Tunnel-Dwellers and now here he was in the flesh, alive and defiant.
Before any could react, the Champion of Androval shouted, "Hell will have to make room for you animals somehow!" and he plunged forward with both fists blurring left and right.
As soon as he recognized Sulak, Grum clapped his lieutenant on the shoulder. "Slay him, Skur, and I will make you a chieftain in your own right."
"I would kill that Melgar in any case," was the reply. As Skur began forcing his way through the tightly packed horde, the sorcerer Troll raised his scepter to the ceiling above and began tracing the circle that would open a portal.
The violence was too one-sided to properly be called a fight. Every blow that SUlak struck caved in a chest or ruined a muzzle, but the Troll axes broke against him without doing harm. He seemed not to notice the brutes clinging to his arms and legs except to occasionally fling them away. Within seconds, most of his cotton uniform had been ripped away from his upper body. His hands and arms were sticky with black blood too thick to be Human.
Providing a surreal counterpoint, music could be heard in the background. Not that far overhead, the Courtney McKenna concert was underway. Behind the thumping and groaning and roaring came a sweet clear voice singing about how she missed her home.
Less than a minute had passed and the Trolls were not as eager to come near those deadly fists as they had been buy had begun throwing their weapons at Sulak with no visible effect. The Melgar lunged forward to seize a Troll with each hand and then smash them together with a crackle of bones breaking.
"Make way!" bellowed a coarse voice from the other end of the mob. "Let me have him!"
As the horde gladly parted, Skur rushed forward. The sight of a Fighter no taller than a Human man amused Sulak. "Well, what happened to YOU?" he laughed, "Does every litter have its runt?"
For the first time in decades, Sulak underestimated an opponent. The Human-sized Troll lunged in close and blasted a wide looping roundhouse right that connected solididly.. and pain jolted Sulak senseless for an instant. Skur exploded a follow-up left to the jaw. Sulak fell to his hands and knees, shocked beyond words that an adversary had hurt him. It was impossible. The Melgar champion was up again at once into a crouch with his fists defensively guarding his head and not an instant too soon.
Skur pressed his attack. Every punch that Sulak blocked sent hot agony up his forearms. What was going on? Seeing an opening, the Melgar lashed out a jab that glanced off his opponent's chin but even a light brush from Sulak was devastating. The Troll whirled completely around and fell face down with a thud,
Glaring down, Sulak saw that Skur was wearing molded metal guards over his knuckles. That lurid coppery sheen meant they were made of Gremthom, the Darthan metal that held and intensified malicious gralic force. Of course. That explained how Skur's punches had hurt so much. What a cheat, Sulak thought.
During the intensity of the duel, even a veteran like Sulak had to concentrate entirely on his opponent. As soon as Skur fell, though, the Melgar Champion snapped his attention back to the other Trolls just in time to be overrun by their stampede. Screaming like terrified children, the huge brutes ran right over both Sulak and the dazed Skur in their panic.
Flashing after them was the hissing form of the Red Spectre. Wild lightning incarnate, the Spectre swooped and circled to burn entirely through every Troll it could catch. The tunnel was dazzling with the scarlet force blazing from that manifestation.
Struggling to his feet as the last of the hysterical Trolls stomped past, Sulak caught his breath. Everywhere, severed arms and legs and halved torsos were scattered. Their ends had been cauterized so there was little blood but the stench of burnt flesh was atrocious.
The aching in his chest and arms where he had been struck by the cursed knuckle guards was easing. With a distracted air, Sulak tore off the strip of cloth still clinging to his upper body and went back up the tunnel wearing little more than ragged trunks and his blood-spattered white boots. Grum was gone. In the circular space where the tunnel ended, no trace of the portal up to the arena overhead remained either.
Whirling about, Sulak raced down the tunnel in the direction where the Trolls had fled. Dozens of burned limbs and blasted corpses did not trouble. He had survived too many epic battles in his long career to dwell on such sights. The Melgar champion did pause long enough to yank the Gremthom dusters from Skur's limp hands, although they stung him to touch. Not for the first time, he regretted that the ethics of Androval forbade slaying a helpless enemy. It would be prudent to simply kill Skur then and there, but Sulak would be haunted by his dishonorable deed the rest of his life.
The best he could do was to take the Troll prisoner. Maybe King Holmir would exact a ransom, maybe sentence the Tunnel-Dweller to hard labor and get some use from him. Sulak picked up Skur by the leather harness and carried the brute with one hand as he continued on his way. When it became clear that no Trolls survived, Sulak slowed his pace. He had never realized what a terrible force of nature a Red Spectre was. He was not at all certain he could survive the attack of one. That petite Australian woman hosted one of the most powerful manifestations in the Midnight War.
A full mile later, he saw the steep ramp leading up to the surface. He had left the trap door open when he had entered the Troll tunnels and sent the location to the Links carried by his teammates. In the dim starlight reached down, he could make out the forms of Timothy and Jocelyn sitting huddled together.
VIII.
Dropping Skur negligently, Sulak knelt beside his friends. "Are you two all right?"
"Yeah, we're not hurt," Timothy said. "You look like you've been in a fight, though."
"Understatement is your gift," the big Melgar replied with relief. "Grum escaped. Again! It is difficult to capture a sorcerer who can open portals at will. But at least, we have his stooge Skur to question."
"I'm tuckered and no mistake," Jocelyn muttered. "The longer my Red Spectre is out of body, the more tired I get. I made it out of the arena, saying I didn't feel well, but I kept having to sit down and rest on my way here."
"Many innocent lives have been spared tonight. Grum was within seconds of sending his brutes up to haul down as many victims as they could." Sulak noticed the cuff of one of his gloves still remained around his wrist and he tugged it off. "Of all the honors I have won, being a knight of Tel Shai is the one I am most proud of."
Jocelyn sighed. "It bothers me a little how completely merciless my Spectre is. She would have burned through a city of Trolls if they have been here. I need to keep a tighter leash on her."
"Well, I suggest we get out of here," Timothy said. "It's a long ride back to Manhattan. We can keep Skur there covered with a blanket in the back seat for now. Do you guys feel like a hot shower and twelve hours of sleep?"
"I swear to God, you read my mind, Tim. I feel like I've been up for days."
Sulak stood up again. "You haven't told me what happened with Delver?"
"Oh, yeah." Timothy grunted as he got to his feet again, helping Jocelyn up. "He's rather dead. I can't imagine what the autopsy is going to show. Did I mention he was a Troll who had surgery to pass for Human?"
"What? I have never heard of such a thing. White Horse is my witness, I am gobsmacked." Sulak looked down at the slightly built Timothy. "And you killed him yourself?"
"Oh, sure. To tell you the truth, he jumped right onto the knife I was holding and drove it into his heart. It was one of the stone blades he used for his victims, so it's kinda justice he died on it." Timothy shrugged in the gloom. "I love a little irony."