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"The Brazen Skull"
"The Brazen Skull"
10/10-10/13/2024
I.
"Now is when I'm going to turn all my diplomas to the wall and go total crackpot," announced Professor Emeritus Alan T. Sherrinford.
Seated at that openwork wrought iron table outside the bistro, his two colleagues did not visibly react. Sherrinford had always been given to flamboyant figures of speech. The oldest of the group at seventy-three, he was a solid bulk whose face and body had relaxed into a comfortable sagging shape. The old-fashioned Irish tweed suit with a herringbone pattern was conservative enough, but his tie was so loosely knotted that both his friends had to fight an urge to reach over and fix it. Thin white fluffy hair refused to stay in place if there was the slightest breeze.
To his right sat Dr Helen Fletcher, poised at a handsome middle age of fifty where her cherubic good looks had become more dignified and imposing. The still-thick black hair was pulled back into a bun and the dark thoughtful eyes were countered by a wry smile growing more pronounced. At the third post of their triangle was the youngest, Ben 'Snark' Millet, still under thirty but quite well off from his simpified YouTube essays on prehistory which were helpful to students desperate to finish their own papers. Snark was a small, energetic young man distinguished by wild stiff black hair that never remained tame for too long. A pointed nose and zealous expression added to the impression he made.
"Ah, it wouldn't be the first time you went off at a wild angle," Fletcher said. "I rather enjoy these digressions. They are always colorful and refreshing."
"Yes, yes, what is it this time?" demanded Snark.
Sherrinford tapped his long dead pipe with evident disappointment and pocketed it. "Damned briar won't stay lit. Anyway my friends, I think I'm on to something big but at the moment, it's all terribly tenuous. You know about the thin layer of iridium found all over the planet?"
"Yes, certainly, it was left by the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs."
"What I seem to have found is something rather similar. I've been noting incidents and collecting examples for more than twenty years now," Sherrinford said. "Let me phrase this carefully. All over the world, I have found a paper-thin line through archaeological digs every kind. No one seems to have even noticed it. The earth and rocks above and below this line are very nearly identical... but not quite!"
"Well, that's interesting," Helen Fletcher said diplomatically, smiling and leaning forward. "Just
how long ago was this line created?"
"Thirty thousand years. Give or take a few thousand, I use that date for convenience. During the Neolithic. Samples above and below the line are chemically and structurally almost identical but," and here he repeated himself with emphasis, "Not quite!"
They had all ordered mixed drinks and Snark had finished his promptly. He had been examining the empty glass with evident disappointment but now he glanced up. "I'll admit it, I have no idea what you're getting at. Was there some sort of worldwide disaster? Volcanos? A global flood or something?"
"No." Sherrinford took a minute to gather his thoughts. "All my hypotheses are completely ridiculous. The explanations I come up with are so wild I laugh at them myself."
"Alan, we know you too well," Fletcher said. "You're agitated. You're still fiddling with your pipe and you keep watching everyone walking by as if they're going to hit you. What's the matter?"
Sherrinford sighed. "I can't hide anything from you two. Yes. Let me get to it. I've spent way too much time on this but basically, since the early 1800s, there have been hundreds of anomalous finds discovered exactly at this thirty thousand year mark. Steel tools where there should be no steel, unidentifiable coins, buckles and brooches, even a few curved swords... way before even the earliest proposed Bronze Age limits."
"That IS odd," Fletcher put in.
"The archaeological community simply shrugs and overlooks all this. There's not even any effort to cover it up, all the journals and seminars just act like there's nothing worth discussing. And even that's not the worst." Sherrinford's rather fair-skinned features had gone even paler. "I've been concentrating on a dozen instances of artifacts discovered which are made of a strange reddish-colored metal which seems to be an iron alloy. These particular artifacts go missing soon after discovery.. and violence is involved!"
Between his long pointed nose and swept-back porcupine hair, Snark always seemed inquisitive but now he actually leaned forward and stared fixedly at his long-time friend. "Are you telling us a campfire story or what? You're giving me the chills."
"I'm all too serious," Sherrinford said. "At least four murders, three more suspicious deaths or disappearances and several burglaries. Everything made of this ruddy-colored metal seems to be sought with great determination by someone. That's why I'm so uneasy about going to this report in North Dakota."
"What, where that rancher wrote you about the metal crate he found while excavating? He said it was the size of a steamer trunk, right?"
"Yes," Sherrinford said. "He actually called my Museum and the Director handed the assignment to me without much interest. The rancher's waiting to open it until a few experts show up. Fellow says he hopes to sell it for a good sum. I'm supposed to fly out there tomorrow."
"Don't tell me," Fletcher said. "This crate he found, is it made of the red steel?"
"That's how he describes it," Sherrinford confirmed as if delivering grim news.
II.
Sunset was dimming the wide skies as the rented Jeep rolled up the dirt road outside Fairmount, North Dakota. The town itself was no more than four small houses spaced out on a side road accessing the highway. Coming to a stop at a ridge two hundred feet above the plains, snapping off the headlights, Alan Sherrinford lifted his mirrored sunglasses and he and his friends saw what was left of the Church of St Elmer the Repentent.
Little more than four walls and a roof propping each other up like a house of cards, the church had long ago lost all its paint and window glass. The belfry had fallen years ago and lay on its side, blocking raised steps to the front door. Nearby stood a tool shed in slightly better condition. Yards away, a few dozen well-worn stones still jutted up through saw-edged grass which would eventually consume what had been the town graveyard.
A tall weather-beaten man in bib overalls loped over from the church to meet them. Tom McGillicuddy shook hands with enthusiasm and launched into an impromptu history lesson about the nearly extinct town of Fairmount. It had started as simple trading post for trappers, boomed when cattle ranching became established and then started a long decline after WW II. McGillicudy's family had once been local barons but now he was last of his line and planned on moving to a comfortable retirement in Fargo, having been prudent with his money.
Sherrinford relied heavily on a sturdy cane as they were shown the ruins of the church. Apparently there had been some scandals there in the late 1970s, rumors of drunken orgies and some sort of blasphemous underground cult called Red Sect. All dusty history now. "I don't think any of it even made the local papers back then," McGillicuddy said rather wistfully.
All three of the research team had changed to practical outfits of sturdy walking shoes, khaki slacks and shirts with deep pockets. The rancher led them through the overgrown cemetery, pointing out a few family names that long ago had been famous. "That Millicent Parkins lady there, she was a poet. Got published lots of times." Then he brought them to a split-plank fence still standing on the edge of a steep decline leading down forty feet. "There 'tis, you see it?"
The archaeologists leaned over and peered down. It was dark enough now that they would have needed flashlights to see with any clarity. Nearly at the bottom of the slope, a triangular wedge of metal protruded. Dark red metal. "I clambered down there myself and nearly took a bad spill. I reckon you might want to tie a rope or two up here for safety if you're planning to be going up and down the hill."
"That's a good suggestion," Sherrinford said. "Thanks."
Hanging a bit too far over the fence for caution, Fletcher scratched his head. "Just a preliminary thought, but I'd bet that thing hasn't been exposed for too long."
"You'd be right. We had monumental floods this spring. A lot of that hill down there was washed away, see the piles of dried mud at the bottom." McGillicuddy shrugged. "I dunno. For all I can tell, this whole darn hill might be full of treasure chests or what not. I don't care. I'm tired, I want to spend my days dozing on the porch. You fellas offer a fair price, you can have that chest AND the church and the bone garden, for all I care."
"Oh, I guarantee you that the Feldmann Museum of Oriental Antiquities will pay a generous amount," Sherrinford promised. "Our Director is known for following his instincts on purchases."
Stepping back from the edge, Dr Helen Fletcher seemed more at ease. "At any rate, we won't be getting decent look until morning. Always better to work by natural light."
McGillicuddy hesitated. "I could put you folks up at my place. It's an old ranch house, nothing fancy but it's warm and dry. Got a mess of pork and beans on the stove."
"Thank you very much, but we're used to camping out. Our bedrolls and gear are in the Jeep." Sherrinford turned to his two teammates. "We've slept under less plesant conditions, eh?"
"Absolutely," Snark laughed. "No camel spiders in our boots and no ice crystals in our eyelashes when we wake up. This is fine."
"All righty then. Let me know when you folks figure things out. Be seeing you." With that, the rancher walked over to his Dodge Ram, cranked it and started down the hard-packed dirt road.
The three friends started hauling their equipment from the Jeep, grateful that nothing had been misplaced by the airline and agreeing on a suitable site. "I tell you what," Snark began enthusiastically, "Look at all the dry branches from that dead cherry tree just lying around. Not to mention plenty of broken boards scattered around the church. I can have a cheerful fire going before it gets chilly."
"Sounds good to me," Helen Fletcher said. "As you gentlemen know, the one item I never leave behind is our battered faithful coffeepot."
They set to work, arranging some flat stones and gathering small twigs and branches at first. The three of them had indeed worked together on archaeological digs with more more hostile conditions, so they were in good spirits.
As the tinder caught and they started building up twigs, all three froze in position and swung their heads to stare straight up. Passing overhead in near-complete silence was a long dark shape against the slightly brighter sky. Not a single light showed. Only a faint rush like a breeze marked its passing before it was gone completely.
Snark spoke as if he had been punched in the chest. "A black helicopter...."
III.
Finishing off the film-wrapped sandwiches they had packed, the three researchers agreed without hesitation that, if they were approached by military or government people of any kind, they would immediately pack up and leave as requested. They had nothing to prove.
"Still not a single bar on my phone," Dr Fletcher complained. "I thought North Dakota was in the United States? We have the satellite phone but that's for real emergencies, like having a broken leg or getting caught in a mudslide."
"I've been thinking of something else," Snark put in. "I don't like it. It gives me creeps big time. But Mr Gillicuddy mentioned a group in connection with that church. Red Sect. I've covered lots of Black Magic cults and whacky stuff on my YouTube channel. They usually turn out to be nothing but some nuts playing dress-up and enjoying drugged-up sex. But Red Sect is different."
"Means nothing to me," Fletcher said.
Professor Sherrinford shifted in an attempt to get comfort on his bedroll. "I've seen the name a few times. A rich man's coven, it's said, claiming to use magic for success in business and politics. They are associated with these drunken drugged-up orgies everyone mentions. Clinton Lundborg went through a scandalous trial in the 1930s."
"And got away with everything," Snark snorted. "What the hell would a group of New York City millionaire degenerates be doing way out here in the wilderness? What could have... Oh, I see. That trunk at the bottom of the hill. I bet they were looking for it!"
"Whoa," Fletcher shushed him. "Settle down. We're jumping so far to conclusions we're going to hurt ourselves."
"I think Helen is right," Sherrinford agreed. "Think how over-tired we are. The plane trip, the long drive out here and now it's getting close to twenty-four hours we've been up. Everything seems clearer in morning light."
"You're usually right, Alan." Snark adjusted the healthy fire and seemed content. He yanked off his shoes, scrambled into his sleeping bag and turned over a few times. "I bet that trunk if full of moldy old clothing and nothing valuable."
After only a few minutes, all three colleagues had settled down into deep steady breathing. Only the crackle of the campfire broke the silence. Emerging from behind the ruined chuch, a gaunt figure all in black moved to get a good look. Nearly invisible in the gloom, he studied the sleeping researchers until he seemed satisfied and faded back into the shadows.
IV.
After fried eggs and bacon and far too much black coffee, the three researchers decided the other three sides of the hill were not as steep but were covered with brush that bristled with thorns. Walking down to an accessible point and circling around the hill seemed too time-consuming. So, aftrer some debate, they carefully fastened their nylon climbing robe to a sturdy tree stump not too close to the edge, pulled on tough leather gloves and slid down to the ground fifty yards below. The surface of the hill was not smooth at all but offered a number of small outcroppings and rough patches that made the climb easier.
Six feet above the ground, an object jutted out from the hill. It closely resembled one corner of a box three feet high and four feet across. Its material was intriguing. Not copper or brass, but apparently iron with a warm ruddy sheen as if the metal was being heated in a fire.
"I imagine it's an alloy with some impurities that give it this color," Sherrinford ventured. "I don't find it comforting that it's exactly like the red metal mentioned in all the digs where violence occurred."
"Doesn't help my nerves either," added Snark. "And look at this line! Is this what you were talking about, Alan?"
Running parallel to the ground on the hill, passing right under the strange object was a barely visible striation no thicker than a pencil mark. As they stared at it, all three felt inexplicably uncomfortable.
"That's it, all right," Sherrinford said. "One book by Kenneth Dred mentioned that line was the only sign that there had ever been a Darthan Age, whatever he meant by that. There's the line and there's the anomalous object. It's all being confirmed...."
Standing well back, arms folded across her chest, Ruth Fletcher made an exasperated noise. "The more I look at this, the less sense it makes! That's shale. It's sedimentary rock, it takes millions of years to form. You mentioned thirty thousand years, Alan, this hill is vastly older than that, so how did that metal box get in there in any case? It's impossible."
Sherrinford touched the end of the strange box but could not make a coherent sound in reply.
"Could... could the settlers have carefully chiseled out a hole exactly big enough and wedged the box into it?" asked Snark. "And then covered it up?"
"I don't see how that would even be practical, let alone the years of work needed? And why go to trouble? There's hundreds of barren miles in this State to bury something where it would never be found. I just don't understand."
Professor Sherrinford started taking dozens of photos from different angles and distances, then took a tape measure from his shirt pocket and jotted down precise measurements. "Now I understand why the scientific community pretends like they never hear of these finds. It's too unsettling. And of course, wild conspiracy theories would explode into proliferation."
"I have nothing against wild conspiracy theories," Snark admitted. "Those hits on my channel pay the bills. But I don't know about showing this finding...."
Sherrinford had lowered himself to a seated position, toying with his cane. "In my opinion, apart from the unusual circumstances, this doesn't seem to be a major discovery. We can start with the reasonable assumption the box will be dated to roughly the same age as the Church up there, around 1870. There may be papers or items of some historical value, we'll see."
Unbundling some chisels and hammers from his pack, Snark took a deep breath. "Now comes the actual work..."
As the day crawled by and they stopped to sip from canteens or nibble on high-energy snack bars, the three of them made steady progress. As light began to fail, half of the metal box's apparent length was visible. It looked to be the size and shape of a coffin, which did not improve their moods. Nor did the esoteric swirling symbols etched all over the surface, symbols which suggested a language completely unfamiliar to any of them.
"That's a good day's work, by any standard," Fletcher said, stowing away her tools. "At least it's cool and breezy here. Remember that summer in Iraq? I felt like a strip of beef jerky."
Seeing Professor Sherrinford staring at the climbing cord with misgivings, Snark volunteered, "You know what? Let me go up, I'll bring the Jeep down and around the side of the elevation. It'll take maybe half an hour altogether."
Sherrinford sagged with relief. "Ah me. Ten years ago, I would have raced you up that line. But now, I don't know..."
"Being safe is the most important thing," Snark said. "We're counting on you to write down all the notes and observations." Agile as a circus performer, the wiry YouTuber clambered up the thin corn and scrambled over the top edge to be gone from sight.
"We need to do rubbings of those symbols on the casket," Helen Fletcher reminded her friend. "With computer scanning, microscopic details can be brought out but that process takes time."
"Yes." Sherrinford was staring up where the early stars were beginning to come out. "It seems that stealth helicopter wasn't interested in us, after all."
"Most likely the military testing new advances," Fletcher dismissed the thought. "I'm sure they have tech we have never imagined."
"Before we leave this site, I would like to spend an afternoon checking out that church. Its belfry had a strangely shaped opening. And whenever Red Sect is mentioned, I expect to find some suspicious activities. I can't help but wonder if there's some connection somehow between the church and our casket."
Soon enough, Snark pulled up in their leased Jeep Wrangler and they took the long way back up to their camp by the fallen church. After some heated up pork and beans with biscuits, chat over the day's activities tapered down. They all agreed to turn in early. Their muscles were beginning to ache. Not long after dark, all three were soundly asleep.
And again, a lone dark figure emerged from within the ruined church, moving silently under the starlight. It settled down to keep watch.
IV.
Just after noon the next day, the metal casket lay fully revealed on the ground at the base of the hill. The three researchers had given each other high-fives and then settled down to kneel around the artifact and compare impressions. The ideograms did not seem related to anything any of them had ever seen. Each symbol started as a short vertical stroke which branched off to left or right, or both, in various curlicues. Some of the symbols had two eight-spoked asterixis beneath them.
Two understandable depictions topped the lid of the coffin. One showed a squat stone pyramid over a stylized flame. The other was a short-handled mace with a spiked head.
"My idea is that this was a deliberate hoax made up by some of the settlers," Helen Fletcher ventured "They buried this thing, then they would pretend to discover it and base a new religion on it. I bet we'll find some spurious documents inside proclaiming a new revelation."
Sherrinford made an approving grunt. "Very possible, yes. Nineteenth century frauds often had much labor put into making them seem authentic. Stone giants, mummified angels, all that."
"You know, this thing isn't airtight," said Snark, who was squatting with his beaky nose right up against a seam. "It's been warped visibly. I don't think we'd be risk any damage to the contents by opening it."
"You're right. I agree we are all burning with curiosity. These are simple clasps, let's try to open them." With some effort involving using a screwdriver as a level, the lid was finally dislodged and slid off to one side. All three researchers took a deep intake of breath simultaneously.
Stretched out on a discolored and stiff silk interior was the blindingly white skeleton of a tall, delicately boned man, hands clasped on his breast. Shreds and tatters of green cloth clung to the bleached bones. Lying naked against his left thigh was a wavy-bladed dagger seven inches long, made of the same reddish metal. And, most startling, was a metal object cradled in his right arm that was crafted in the semblance of a human skull made in brass.
"Okay, okay, I'm going to say it," Snark announced. "This was NOT made by North Dakota pioneers, I don't care about any theories."
Professor Alan T Sherrinford caught his breath with evident difficulty. "I can't begin to explain this! And next to the thirty thousand year line, too. What can it possibly mean?"
From the top of the hill behind them, a woman's voice called down, "Allow me to explain."
V.
All three of the researchers gasped and swung around, shielding their eyes with the flat of their hands as they peered up. Standing with feet well apart was a lanky woman in black jeans and an open flannel shirt over a white jersey. Long curly hair of an unnaturally bright crimson whipped in the wind. She had her hands resting at her waist and her right hand was near the butt of a Browning automatic in its holster.
The three archaeologists did not even have time to take in her sudden appearance, because she was immediately flanked by two big men in rough work clothes. Each of them was holding a Savage lever action rifle with the muzzles pointed down in front of them... not too far from aiming right at the researchers.
"I'm coming down to fill you folks in," the woman called. "Please hold still. My colleagues are NOT nice men and they tend to leave dead bodies wherever they go." With that, she seized the climbing cord and slid down to alight just out of reach. Up close, numerous strands of grey could be seen in the red hair and the blue eyes had crow's feet around them but she had climbed down as well as any young athlete could.
"I know who you three are. Don't ask how I knew you were coming out here, I have nosy little friends everywhere. Don't worry about what my real name might be. In the Midnight War, I'm known as Babe Lincoln. My trade is claiming and selling objects with mystic properties. Like this box you guys dug up."
All three of them had gotten to their feet in complete confusion. They kept swinging their eyes from the woman in front of them to the two men with rifles on the cliff edge above them. None of them seemed capable of forming coherent speech just then.
The woman who called herself Babe Lincoln continued, "Get a grip, you guys. There's a good chance you'll come out of this alive. That Darthan coffin is all I want. Listen. I've read a few of the speculative letters you've written about the Line. You're on the right track. Thirty thousand years ago, human beings shared the planet with their Cousins. Trolls, Eldanarin, Darthim, Snake men, Nekrosim. Very close to being Human but not quite. That coffin there holds the bones of a great Darthan sorcerer, a Kje named Chalinor, and two of his talismans. That's what I'm here for."
Sherrinford struggled for a moment and managed to ask, "The Line? What is it?"
"Ha ha, get ready to have your mind blown, old man. That marks the time the entire planet was stopped and remade. It was a Cosmic Reset button being pushed by the gods who steer this world. A few hundred objects somehow slipped through the great change and turn up anywhere in the world. Like this one here."
"I know you," Sherrinford blurted out. "We met at a seminar. Coutant, Ruth Coutant, you're a writer?"
"Oh damn, I'm so sorry you said that. I was seriously debating letting you three survive but not if you can identify me that well. So be it. Joe, Harry...?"
Two dull thumping noises sounded from the top of the hill and before anyone could react, the two thugs thudded hard to the ground on either side of the stunned group. From the way they landed flat and never stirred, they were quite dead.
A second later, Babe Lincoln's hand dropped down to unfasten the flap of her holster but she froze motionless as a cold voice shouted, "Hold it! Don't even try."
All heads turned again. Standing on the edge of the cliff above them was a tall thin man all in black, holding a long-barreled .38 revolver in his left hand. Without hesitation, he jumped over the rim and dropped straight down fifty feet, rolling as he struck the ground and leaping back up again with his gun aimed right at the red-haired woman's face. This was done as casually as a normal person stepping down off a ladder.
"Bane! Why am I not surprised?" she growled.
"By now you should realize a lot of informers work for both of us," Bane replied calmly. "Don't even twitch. You don't want to end up like your employees there." Moving around behind her, the man in black clicked back the hammer of his gun to distract her at the same instant he snatched her Browning from its holster and stepped back. "Got any mystic gadgets on you, Lincoln?"
"No. I'm clean. I've been running low on talismans lately."
"So that's why you're here." Without taking his pale eyes off her, Bane said, "Professor Sherrinford, Dr Fletcher, I'm a licensed PI from New York City. Jeremy Bane. I specialize in these sort of weird and unlikely cases."
"The Dire Wolf!" said Snark. "I've heard some wild stories about you."
"People exaggerate," Bane told them blandly.
"After that entrance? I'm inclined to believe all the tall tales!"
"Never mind that now. Professor Sherrinford, this woman has five warrants out on her for fleeing arrest and failing to show up at court. She has serious felony charges waiting. Now, I'm not going to turn her over to the local police, she's way too slippery for that. The FBI has a special unit, Department 21 Black, they'll be glad to take her away and clean up her two goons as well. They'll ask you to never speak about this to anyone and I'd..."
He was cut off by a dry rasping noise from the red steel coffin. Although everyone swung around, Bane was careful to keep positioned where he could watch Babe Lincoln as well.
The lower jaw of the brazen skull gaped wide and remained open. A shrill falsetto voice rang, "Draldros Darthim et nekrosithul! Margoth eren bluthen rume!"
The air was stinging with a corrosive scent that choked everyone and made their eyes blur, cutting off oxygen. All four Humans fell hard to the ground. From high overhead, a crow plummeted straight down and hit the dry dirt with a fatal thud. A great weight seemed to press down on everyone, flattening them, bending bones to the breaking point.
"Grelok, manikior aff juliorous..." screamed the ancient skull.
Only three feet away from the steel coffin, Jeremy Bane forced himself up on hands and knees, fell flat on his face and made himself rise again. The ringing in his ears drowned out anything else. His eyes blinked vaguely through red haze. Moving on the sheer bone-deep stubbornness that had always been his driving force, he managed to get his hands under one edge of the coffin lid. He couldn't do it. No, he had to. Bane groaned and straightened up, sliding the heavy lid back over the coffin and, as soon as the casket was covered, the shrill voice was cut off. Relief swept him into darkness.
When his head finally cleared, the Dire Wolf found he was propped up against the side of the coffin. He was sticky with sweat. A glance at the Sun told him more than an hour had passed. That had been way too close. He didn't find these ordeals something to shrug off anymore. On trembling legs, he pushed himself up again and kept his balance with both arms windmilling slowly.
What next? Oh, there was Babe Lincoln. Bane spotted her only a few yards away, crawling on hands and knees with her head hanging down. At the rate she was going, it would be days before she got up by the church where her gang had left their SUV. Bane took his time going over to her, feeling a little stronger with every minute as his healing factor finally kicked in. He fell to his knees and shoved her down roughly with a palm between her shoulder blades. She couldn't even summon the energy to curse as Bane wrestled her arms behind her to handcuff them. He made sure she was secure before getting up again. She wouldn't be going anywhere.
Moving almost in slow-motion, he checked on the three researchers. They were breathing normally, not entirely conscious but mumbling as if being roused from a restless sleep. He took their pulses and was satisfied, and as they started to revive, he gave them sips of water from their canteens.
It was late in the afternoon before everyone had stabilized enough for coherent conversation. The three archaeologists kept repeating the same questions over and over, and Bane kept patiently explaining. He knew it took time to get over a Midnight War trauma. As they recovered and started moving around, the team sat down huddled together facing Bane and watching him with a sort of horrified fascination.
"You're all going to be okay," he kept reassuring them. "I don't see any lasting effects from a gralic spell that brief. Maybe you'll have nightmares for a little while, but they'll fade."
"And that horrible woman? She's being arrested?" asked Fletcher.
"Absolutely. I'm going to have the FBI Department 21 Black here in an hour or so," Bane said. "It's too bad her killers fell over the cliff like that but they were trying to get clear shots at you folks.
"Not like someone up there threw them over the edge," mumbled Snark. "But who could blame you?"
"I got there a second too late in any case," Bane lied. "I did see them fall. Very unfortunate. Anyway, I'm feeling better now. I still have some work to do."
"Like what?"
"My transportation is a half mile that way, behind those trees, under a camo tarp. I need to load the Gremthom coffin in it and stow it away. 21 Black has too many gralic talismans already, they don't need that spellbinding skull or the ceremonial dagger I saw. Those are going in the Vault."
"We'll help you," Sherrinford said. "Of course we will. And we'll never speak of this to anyone. We'll tell the rancher some story about the metal box being worthless."
"That's for the best," Bane replied, wearily rising again. Everything hurt. He stretched and turned toward the trees where the stealthcopter was concealed.
"Wait," said Helen Fletcher, getting to one knee. "I have to ask. Why did you come out here? Why did you tackle two men with rifles and then fight whatever was coming out of that coffin? Why do you go through all this?"
The faintest smile touched that expressionless face. "I've been doing this stuff all my life. I guess it's all I know."
11/21/2024
10/10-10/13/2024
I.
"Now is when I'm going to turn all my diplomas to the wall and go total crackpot," announced Professor Emeritus Alan T. Sherrinford.
Seated at that openwork wrought iron table outside the bistro, his two colleagues did not visibly react. Sherrinford had always been given to flamboyant figures of speech. The oldest of the group at seventy-three, he was a solid bulk whose face and body had relaxed into a comfortable sagging shape. The old-fashioned Irish tweed suit with a herringbone pattern was conservative enough, but his tie was so loosely knotted that both his friends had to fight an urge to reach over and fix it. Thin white fluffy hair refused to stay in place if there was the slightest breeze.
To his right sat Dr Helen Fletcher, poised at a handsome middle age of fifty where her cherubic good looks had become more dignified and imposing. The still-thick black hair was pulled back into a bun and the dark thoughtful eyes were countered by a wry smile growing more pronounced. At the third post of their triangle was the youngest, Ben 'Snark' Millet, still under thirty but quite well off from his simpified YouTube essays on prehistory which were helpful to students desperate to finish their own papers. Snark was a small, energetic young man distinguished by wild stiff black hair that never remained tame for too long. A pointed nose and zealous expression added to the impression he made.
"Ah, it wouldn't be the first time you went off at a wild angle," Fletcher said. "I rather enjoy these digressions. They are always colorful and refreshing."
"Yes, yes, what is it this time?" demanded Snark.
Sherrinford tapped his long dead pipe with evident disappointment and pocketed it. "Damned briar won't stay lit. Anyway my friends, I think I'm on to something big but at the moment, it's all terribly tenuous. You know about the thin layer of iridium found all over the planet?"
"Yes, certainly, it was left by the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs."
"What I seem to have found is something rather similar. I've been noting incidents and collecting examples for more than twenty years now," Sherrinford said. "Let me phrase this carefully. All over the world, I have found a paper-thin line through archaeological digs every kind. No one seems to have even noticed it. The earth and rocks above and below this line are very nearly identical... but not quite!"
"Well, that's interesting," Helen Fletcher said diplomatically, smiling and leaning forward. "Just
how long ago was this line created?"
"Thirty thousand years. Give or take a few thousand, I use that date for convenience. During the Neolithic. Samples above and below the line are chemically and structurally almost identical but," and here he repeated himself with emphasis, "Not quite!"
They had all ordered mixed drinks and Snark had finished his promptly. He had been examining the empty glass with evident disappointment but now he glanced up. "I'll admit it, I have no idea what you're getting at. Was there some sort of worldwide disaster? Volcanos? A global flood or something?"
"No." Sherrinford took a minute to gather his thoughts. "All my hypotheses are completely ridiculous. The explanations I come up with are so wild I laugh at them myself."
"Alan, we know you too well," Fletcher said. "You're agitated. You're still fiddling with your pipe and you keep watching everyone walking by as if they're going to hit you. What's the matter?"
Sherrinford sighed. "I can't hide anything from you two. Yes. Let me get to it. I've spent way too much time on this but basically, since the early 1800s, there have been hundreds of anomalous finds discovered exactly at this thirty thousand year mark. Steel tools where there should be no steel, unidentifiable coins, buckles and brooches, even a few curved swords... way before even the earliest proposed Bronze Age limits."
"That IS odd," Fletcher put in.
"The archaeological community simply shrugs and overlooks all this. There's not even any effort to cover it up, all the journals and seminars just act like there's nothing worth discussing. And even that's not the worst." Sherrinford's rather fair-skinned features had gone even paler. "I've been concentrating on a dozen instances of artifacts discovered which are made of a strange reddish-colored metal which seems to be an iron alloy. These particular artifacts go missing soon after discovery.. and violence is involved!"
Between his long pointed nose and swept-back porcupine hair, Snark always seemed inquisitive but now he actually leaned forward and stared fixedly at his long-time friend. "Are you telling us a campfire story or what? You're giving me the chills."
"I'm all too serious," Sherrinford said. "At least four murders, three more suspicious deaths or disappearances and several burglaries. Everything made of this ruddy-colored metal seems to be sought with great determination by someone. That's why I'm so uneasy about going to this report in North Dakota."
"What, where that rancher wrote you about the metal crate he found while excavating? He said it was the size of a steamer trunk, right?"
"Yes," Sherrinford said. "He actually called my Museum and the Director handed the assignment to me without much interest. The rancher's waiting to open it until a few experts show up. Fellow says he hopes to sell it for a good sum. I'm supposed to fly out there tomorrow."
"Don't tell me," Fletcher said. "This crate he found, is it made of the red steel?"
"That's how he describes it," Sherrinford confirmed as if delivering grim news.
II.
Sunset was dimming the wide skies as the rented Jeep rolled up the dirt road outside Fairmount, North Dakota. The town itself was no more than four small houses spaced out on a side road accessing the highway. Coming to a stop at a ridge two hundred feet above the plains, snapping off the headlights, Alan Sherrinford lifted his mirrored sunglasses and he and his friends saw what was left of the Church of St Elmer the Repentent.
Little more than four walls and a roof propping each other up like a house of cards, the church had long ago lost all its paint and window glass. The belfry had fallen years ago and lay on its side, blocking raised steps to the front door. Nearby stood a tool shed in slightly better condition. Yards away, a few dozen well-worn stones still jutted up through saw-edged grass which would eventually consume what had been the town graveyard.
A tall weather-beaten man in bib overalls loped over from the church to meet them. Tom McGillicuddy shook hands with enthusiasm and launched into an impromptu history lesson about the nearly extinct town of Fairmount. It had started as simple trading post for trappers, boomed when cattle ranching became established and then started a long decline after WW II. McGillicudy's family had once been local barons but now he was last of his line and planned on moving to a comfortable retirement in Fargo, having been prudent with his money.
Sherrinford relied heavily on a sturdy cane as they were shown the ruins of the church. Apparently there had been some scandals there in the late 1970s, rumors of drunken orgies and some sort of blasphemous underground cult called Red Sect. All dusty history now. "I don't think any of it even made the local papers back then," McGillicuddy said rather wistfully.
All three of the research team had changed to practical outfits of sturdy walking shoes, khaki slacks and shirts with deep pockets. The rancher led them through the overgrown cemetery, pointing out a few family names that long ago had been famous. "That Millicent Parkins lady there, she was a poet. Got published lots of times." Then he brought them to a split-plank fence still standing on the edge of a steep decline leading down forty feet. "There 'tis, you see it?"
The archaeologists leaned over and peered down. It was dark enough now that they would have needed flashlights to see with any clarity. Nearly at the bottom of the slope, a triangular wedge of metal protruded. Dark red metal. "I clambered down there myself and nearly took a bad spill. I reckon you might want to tie a rope or two up here for safety if you're planning to be going up and down the hill."
"That's a good suggestion," Sherrinford said. "Thanks."
Hanging a bit too far over the fence for caution, Fletcher scratched his head. "Just a preliminary thought, but I'd bet that thing hasn't been exposed for too long."
"You'd be right. We had monumental floods this spring. A lot of that hill down there was washed away, see the piles of dried mud at the bottom." McGillicuddy shrugged. "I dunno. For all I can tell, this whole darn hill might be full of treasure chests or what not. I don't care. I'm tired, I want to spend my days dozing on the porch. You fellas offer a fair price, you can have that chest AND the church and the bone garden, for all I care."
"Oh, I guarantee you that the Feldmann Museum of Oriental Antiquities will pay a generous amount," Sherrinford promised. "Our Director is known for following his instincts on purchases."
Stepping back from the edge, Dr Helen Fletcher seemed more at ease. "At any rate, we won't be getting decent look until morning. Always better to work by natural light."
McGillicuddy hesitated. "I could put you folks up at my place. It's an old ranch house, nothing fancy but it's warm and dry. Got a mess of pork and beans on the stove."
"Thank you very much, but we're used to camping out. Our bedrolls and gear are in the Jeep." Sherrinford turned to his two teammates. "We've slept under less plesant conditions, eh?"
"Absolutely," Snark laughed. "No camel spiders in our boots and no ice crystals in our eyelashes when we wake up. This is fine."
"All righty then. Let me know when you folks figure things out. Be seeing you." With that, the rancher walked over to his Dodge Ram, cranked it and started down the hard-packed dirt road.
The three friends started hauling their equipment from the Jeep, grateful that nothing had been misplaced by the airline and agreeing on a suitable site. "I tell you what," Snark began enthusiastically, "Look at all the dry branches from that dead cherry tree just lying around. Not to mention plenty of broken boards scattered around the church. I can have a cheerful fire going before it gets chilly."
"Sounds good to me," Helen Fletcher said. "As you gentlemen know, the one item I never leave behind is our battered faithful coffeepot."
They set to work, arranging some flat stones and gathering small twigs and branches at first. The three of them had indeed worked together on archaeological digs with more more hostile conditions, so they were in good spirits.
As the tinder caught and they started building up twigs, all three froze in position and swung their heads to stare straight up. Passing overhead in near-complete silence was a long dark shape against the slightly brighter sky. Not a single light showed. Only a faint rush like a breeze marked its passing before it was gone completely.
Snark spoke as if he had been punched in the chest. "A black helicopter...."
III.
Finishing off the film-wrapped sandwiches they had packed, the three researchers agreed without hesitation that, if they were approached by military or government people of any kind, they would immediately pack up and leave as requested. They had nothing to prove.
"Still not a single bar on my phone," Dr Fletcher complained. "I thought North Dakota was in the United States? We have the satellite phone but that's for real emergencies, like having a broken leg or getting caught in a mudslide."
"I've been thinking of something else," Snark put in. "I don't like it. It gives me creeps big time. But Mr Gillicuddy mentioned a group in connection with that church. Red Sect. I've covered lots of Black Magic cults and whacky stuff on my YouTube channel. They usually turn out to be nothing but some nuts playing dress-up and enjoying drugged-up sex. But Red Sect is different."
"Means nothing to me," Fletcher said.
Professor Sherrinford shifted in an attempt to get comfort on his bedroll. "I've seen the name a few times. A rich man's coven, it's said, claiming to use magic for success in business and politics. They are associated with these drunken drugged-up orgies everyone mentions. Clinton Lundborg went through a scandalous trial in the 1930s."
"And got away with everything," Snark snorted. "What the hell would a group of New York City millionaire degenerates be doing way out here in the wilderness? What could have... Oh, I see. That trunk at the bottom of the hill. I bet they were looking for it!"
"Whoa," Fletcher shushed him. "Settle down. We're jumping so far to conclusions we're going to hurt ourselves."
"I think Helen is right," Sherrinford agreed. "Think how over-tired we are. The plane trip, the long drive out here and now it's getting close to twenty-four hours we've been up. Everything seems clearer in morning light."
"You're usually right, Alan." Snark adjusted the healthy fire and seemed content. He yanked off his shoes, scrambled into his sleeping bag and turned over a few times. "I bet that trunk if full of moldy old clothing and nothing valuable."
After only a few minutes, all three colleagues had settled down into deep steady breathing. Only the crackle of the campfire broke the silence. Emerging from behind the ruined chuch, a gaunt figure all in black moved to get a good look. Nearly invisible in the gloom, he studied the sleeping researchers until he seemed satisfied and faded back into the shadows.
IV.
After fried eggs and bacon and far too much black coffee, the three researchers decided the other three sides of the hill were not as steep but were covered with brush that bristled with thorns. Walking down to an accessible point and circling around the hill seemed too time-consuming. So, aftrer some debate, they carefully fastened their nylon climbing robe to a sturdy tree stump not too close to the edge, pulled on tough leather gloves and slid down to the ground fifty yards below. The surface of the hill was not smooth at all but offered a number of small outcroppings and rough patches that made the climb easier.
Six feet above the ground, an object jutted out from the hill. It closely resembled one corner of a box three feet high and four feet across. Its material was intriguing. Not copper or brass, but apparently iron with a warm ruddy sheen as if the metal was being heated in a fire.
"I imagine it's an alloy with some impurities that give it this color," Sherrinford ventured. "I don't find it comforting that it's exactly like the red metal mentioned in all the digs where violence occurred."
"Doesn't help my nerves either," added Snark. "And look at this line! Is this what you were talking about, Alan?"
Running parallel to the ground on the hill, passing right under the strange object was a barely visible striation no thicker than a pencil mark. As they stared at it, all three felt inexplicably uncomfortable.
"That's it, all right," Sherrinford said. "One book by Kenneth Dred mentioned that line was the only sign that there had ever been a Darthan Age, whatever he meant by that. There's the line and there's the anomalous object. It's all being confirmed...."
Standing well back, arms folded across her chest, Ruth Fletcher made an exasperated noise. "The more I look at this, the less sense it makes! That's shale. It's sedimentary rock, it takes millions of years to form. You mentioned thirty thousand years, Alan, this hill is vastly older than that, so how did that metal box get in there in any case? It's impossible."
Sherrinford touched the end of the strange box but could not make a coherent sound in reply.
"Could... could the settlers have carefully chiseled out a hole exactly big enough and wedged the box into it?" asked Snark. "And then covered it up?"
"I don't see how that would even be practical, let alone the years of work needed? And why go to trouble? There's hundreds of barren miles in this State to bury something where it would never be found. I just don't understand."
Professor Sherrinford started taking dozens of photos from different angles and distances, then took a tape measure from his shirt pocket and jotted down precise measurements. "Now I understand why the scientific community pretends like they never hear of these finds. It's too unsettling. And of course, wild conspiracy theories would explode into proliferation."
"I have nothing against wild conspiracy theories," Snark admitted. "Those hits on my channel pay the bills. But I don't know about showing this finding...."
Sherrinford had lowered himself to a seated position, toying with his cane. "In my opinion, apart from the unusual circumstances, this doesn't seem to be a major discovery. We can start with the reasonable assumption the box will be dated to roughly the same age as the Church up there, around 1870. There may be papers or items of some historical value, we'll see."
Unbundling some chisels and hammers from his pack, Snark took a deep breath. "Now comes the actual work..."
As the day crawled by and they stopped to sip from canteens or nibble on high-energy snack bars, the three of them made steady progress. As light began to fail, half of the metal box's apparent length was visible. It looked to be the size and shape of a coffin, which did not improve their moods. Nor did the esoteric swirling symbols etched all over the surface, symbols which suggested a language completely unfamiliar to any of them.
"That's a good day's work, by any standard," Fletcher said, stowing away her tools. "At least it's cool and breezy here. Remember that summer in Iraq? I felt like a strip of beef jerky."
Seeing Professor Sherrinford staring at the climbing cord with misgivings, Snark volunteered, "You know what? Let me go up, I'll bring the Jeep down and around the side of the elevation. It'll take maybe half an hour altogether."
Sherrinford sagged with relief. "Ah me. Ten years ago, I would have raced you up that line. But now, I don't know..."
"Being safe is the most important thing," Snark said. "We're counting on you to write down all the notes and observations." Agile as a circus performer, the wiry YouTuber clambered up the thin corn and scrambled over the top edge to be gone from sight.
"We need to do rubbings of those symbols on the casket," Helen Fletcher reminded her friend. "With computer scanning, microscopic details can be brought out but that process takes time."
"Yes." Sherrinford was staring up where the early stars were beginning to come out. "It seems that stealth helicopter wasn't interested in us, after all."
"Most likely the military testing new advances," Fletcher dismissed the thought. "I'm sure they have tech we have never imagined."
"Before we leave this site, I would like to spend an afternoon checking out that church. Its belfry had a strangely shaped opening. And whenever Red Sect is mentioned, I expect to find some suspicious activities. I can't help but wonder if there's some connection somehow between the church and our casket."
Soon enough, Snark pulled up in their leased Jeep Wrangler and they took the long way back up to their camp by the fallen church. After some heated up pork and beans with biscuits, chat over the day's activities tapered down. They all agreed to turn in early. Their muscles were beginning to ache. Not long after dark, all three were soundly asleep.
And again, a lone dark figure emerged from within the ruined church, moving silently under the starlight. It settled down to keep watch.
IV.
Just after noon the next day, the metal casket lay fully revealed on the ground at the base of the hill. The three researchers had given each other high-fives and then settled down to kneel around the artifact and compare impressions. The ideograms did not seem related to anything any of them had ever seen. Each symbol started as a short vertical stroke which branched off to left or right, or both, in various curlicues. Some of the symbols had two eight-spoked asterixis beneath them.
Two understandable depictions topped the lid of the coffin. One showed a squat stone pyramid over a stylized flame. The other was a short-handled mace with a spiked head.
"My idea is that this was a deliberate hoax made up by some of the settlers," Helen Fletcher ventured "They buried this thing, then they would pretend to discover it and base a new religion on it. I bet we'll find some spurious documents inside proclaiming a new revelation."
Sherrinford made an approving grunt. "Very possible, yes. Nineteenth century frauds often had much labor put into making them seem authentic. Stone giants, mummified angels, all that."
"You know, this thing isn't airtight," said Snark, who was squatting with his beaky nose right up against a seam. "It's been warped visibly. I don't think we'd be risk any damage to the contents by opening it."
"You're right. I agree we are all burning with curiosity. These are simple clasps, let's try to open them." With some effort involving using a screwdriver as a level, the lid was finally dislodged and slid off to one side. All three researchers took a deep intake of breath simultaneously.
Stretched out on a discolored and stiff silk interior was the blindingly white skeleton of a tall, delicately boned man, hands clasped on his breast. Shreds and tatters of green cloth clung to the bleached bones. Lying naked against his left thigh was a wavy-bladed dagger seven inches long, made of the same reddish metal. And, most startling, was a metal object cradled in his right arm that was crafted in the semblance of a human skull made in brass.
"Okay, okay, I'm going to say it," Snark announced. "This was NOT made by North Dakota pioneers, I don't care about any theories."
Professor Alan T Sherrinford caught his breath with evident difficulty. "I can't begin to explain this! And next to the thirty thousand year line, too. What can it possibly mean?"
From the top of the hill behind them, a woman's voice called down, "Allow me to explain."
V.
All three of the researchers gasped and swung around, shielding their eyes with the flat of their hands as they peered up. Standing with feet well apart was a lanky woman in black jeans and an open flannel shirt over a white jersey. Long curly hair of an unnaturally bright crimson whipped in the wind. She had her hands resting at her waist and her right hand was near the butt of a Browning automatic in its holster.
The three archaeologists did not even have time to take in her sudden appearance, because she was immediately flanked by two big men in rough work clothes. Each of them was holding a Savage lever action rifle with the muzzles pointed down in front of them... not too far from aiming right at the researchers.
"I'm coming down to fill you folks in," the woman called. "Please hold still. My colleagues are NOT nice men and they tend to leave dead bodies wherever they go." With that, she seized the climbing cord and slid down to alight just out of reach. Up close, numerous strands of grey could be seen in the red hair and the blue eyes had crow's feet around them but she had climbed down as well as any young athlete could.
"I know who you three are. Don't ask how I knew you were coming out here, I have nosy little friends everywhere. Don't worry about what my real name might be. In the Midnight War, I'm known as Babe Lincoln. My trade is claiming and selling objects with mystic properties. Like this box you guys dug up."
All three of them had gotten to their feet in complete confusion. They kept swinging their eyes from the woman in front of them to the two men with rifles on the cliff edge above them. None of them seemed capable of forming coherent speech just then.
The woman who called herself Babe Lincoln continued, "Get a grip, you guys. There's a good chance you'll come out of this alive. That Darthan coffin is all I want. Listen. I've read a few of the speculative letters you've written about the Line. You're on the right track. Thirty thousand years ago, human beings shared the planet with their Cousins. Trolls, Eldanarin, Darthim, Snake men, Nekrosim. Very close to being Human but not quite. That coffin there holds the bones of a great Darthan sorcerer, a Kje named Chalinor, and two of his talismans. That's what I'm here for."
Sherrinford struggled for a moment and managed to ask, "The Line? What is it?"
"Ha ha, get ready to have your mind blown, old man. That marks the time the entire planet was stopped and remade. It was a Cosmic Reset button being pushed by the gods who steer this world. A few hundred objects somehow slipped through the great change and turn up anywhere in the world. Like this one here."
"I know you," Sherrinford blurted out. "We met at a seminar. Coutant, Ruth Coutant, you're a writer?"
"Oh damn, I'm so sorry you said that. I was seriously debating letting you three survive but not if you can identify me that well. So be it. Joe, Harry...?"
Two dull thumping noises sounded from the top of the hill and before anyone could react, the two thugs thudded hard to the ground on either side of the stunned group. From the way they landed flat and never stirred, they were quite dead.
A second later, Babe Lincoln's hand dropped down to unfasten the flap of her holster but she froze motionless as a cold voice shouted, "Hold it! Don't even try."
All heads turned again. Standing on the edge of the cliff above them was a tall thin man all in black, holding a long-barreled .38 revolver in his left hand. Without hesitation, he jumped over the rim and dropped straight down fifty feet, rolling as he struck the ground and leaping back up again with his gun aimed right at the red-haired woman's face. This was done as casually as a normal person stepping down off a ladder.
"Bane! Why am I not surprised?" she growled.
"By now you should realize a lot of informers work for both of us," Bane replied calmly. "Don't even twitch. You don't want to end up like your employees there." Moving around behind her, the man in black clicked back the hammer of his gun to distract her at the same instant he snatched her Browning from its holster and stepped back. "Got any mystic gadgets on you, Lincoln?"
"No. I'm clean. I've been running low on talismans lately."
"So that's why you're here." Without taking his pale eyes off her, Bane said, "Professor Sherrinford, Dr Fletcher, I'm a licensed PI from New York City. Jeremy Bane. I specialize in these sort of weird and unlikely cases."
"The Dire Wolf!" said Snark. "I've heard some wild stories about you."
"People exaggerate," Bane told them blandly.
"After that entrance? I'm inclined to believe all the tall tales!"
"Never mind that now. Professor Sherrinford, this woman has five warrants out on her for fleeing arrest and failing to show up at court. She has serious felony charges waiting. Now, I'm not going to turn her over to the local police, she's way too slippery for that. The FBI has a special unit, Department 21 Black, they'll be glad to take her away and clean up her two goons as well. They'll ask you to never speak about this to anyone and I'd..."
He was cut off by a dry rasping noise from the red steel coffin. Although everyone swung around, Bane was careful to keep positioned where he could watch Babe Lincoln as well.
The lower jaw of the brazen skull gaped wide and remained open. A shrill falsetto voice rang, "Draldros Darthim et nekrosithul! Margoth eren bluthen rume!"
The air was stinging with a corrosive scent that choked everyone and made their eyes blur, cutting off oxygen. All four Humans fell hard to the ground. From high overhead, a crow plummeted straight down and hit the dry dirt with a fatal thud. A great weight seemed to press down on everyone, flattening them, bending bones to the breaking point.
"Grelok, manikior aff juliorous..." screamed the ancient skull.
Only three feet away from the steel coffin, Jeremy Bane forced himself up on hands and knees, fell flat on his face and made himself rise again. The ringing in his ears drowned out anything else. His eyes blinked vaguely through red haze. Moving on the sheer bone-deep stubbornness that had always been his driving force, he managed to get his hands under one edge of the coffin lid. He couldn't do it. No, he had to. Bane groaned and straightened up, sliding the heavy lid back over the coffin and, as soon as the casket was covered, the shrill voice was cut off. Relief swept him into darkness.
When his head finally cleared, the Dire Wolf found he was propped up against the side of the coffin. He was sticky with sweat. A glance at the Sun told him more than an hour had passed. That had been way too close. He didn't find these ordeals something to shrug off anymore. On trembling legs, he pushed himself up again and kept his balance with both arms windmilling slowly.
What next? Oh, there was Babe Lincoln. Bane spotted her only a few yards away, crawling on hands and knees with her head hanging down. At the rate she was going, it would be days before she got up by the church where her gang had left their SUV. Bane took his time going over to her, feeling a little stronger with every minute as his healing factor finally kicked in. He fell to his knees and shoved her down roughly with a palm between her shoulder blades. She couldn't even summon the energy to curse as Bane wrestled her arms behind her to handcuff them. He made sure she was secure before getting up again. She wouldn't be going anywhere.
Moving almost in slow-motion, he checked on the three researchers. They were breathing normally, not entirely conscious but mumbling as if being roused from a restless sleep. He took their pulses and was satisfied, and as they started to revive, he gave them sips of water from their canteens.
It was late in the afternoon before everyone had stabilized enough for coherent conversation. The three archaeologists kept repeating the same questions over and over, and Bane kept patiently explaining. He knew it took time to get over a Midnight War trauma. As they recovered and started moving around, the team sat down huddled together facing Bane and watching him with a sort of horrified fascination.
"You're all going to be okay," he kept reassuring them. "I don't see any lasting effects from a gralic spell that brief. Maybe you'll have nightmares for a little while, but they'll fade."
"And that horrible woman? She's being arrested?" asked Fletcher.
"Absolutely. I'm going to have the FBI Department 21 Black here in an hour or so," Bane said. "It's too bad her killers fell over the cliff like that but they were trying to get clear shots at you folks.
"Not like someone up there threw them over the edge," mumbled Snark. "But who could blame you?"
"I got there a second too late in any case," Bane lied. "I did see them fall. Very unfortunate. Anyway, I'm feeling better now. I still have some work to do."
"Like what?"
"My transportation is a half mile that way, behind those trees, under a camo tarp. I need to load the Gremthom coffin in it and stow it away. 21 Black has too many gralic talismans already, they don't need that spellbinding skull or the ceremonial dagger I saw. Those are going in the Vault."
"We'll help you," Sherrinford said. "Of course we will. And we'll never speak of this to anyone. We'll tell the rancher some story about the metal box being worthless."
"That's for the best," Bane replied, wearily rising again. Everything hurt. He stretched and turned toward the trees where the stealthcopter was concealed.
"Wait," said Helen Fletcher, getting to one knee. "I have to ask. Why did you come out here? Why did you tackle two men with rifles and then fight whatever was coming out of that coffin? Why do you go through all this?"
The faintest smile touched that expressionless face. "I've been doing this stuff all my life. I guess it's all I know."
11/21/2024
no subject
The story also touches on the metaphysical event when the Darthan Age ended and history as we knew it began. It's not really satisfying to say there were these huge empires with cities and trade routes and everything but that all traces of them were wiped out in an earthquake. There would be so much evidence left. I'm going with the idea of a thin transition line, almost imperceptible, between eras. It annoys geologists and archaeologists but there's no rational explanation, so all they can do is sweep it under the rug for now. But WE know, eh?