"Wolf War"
May. 13th, 2022 04:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Wolf War"
10/23/2001
I.
It was late afternoon when Jeremy Bane emerged from the dense forest and stood at the bottom of the hill, gazing up at Harris West House. He had been hiking through difficult Adirondack terrain for five hours but did not seem tired in the least. His pace as he headed up the incline was brisk and easy. The Dire Wolf was wearing the full field suit with its inner layer of flexible Trom armor, its waist-length jacket and visored helmet. He also had a sizeable backpack high up across his shoulders. In one hand, he carried a thick walking stick he had trimmed from a tree branch to help with the ascent.
He knew Harris West House had been built in 1909 as a retreat for an unreasonably wealthy Connecticut family. It was solid as any fortress, with walls of rocks mortared tightly together and a log roof. There was no road leading to it. The area for twenty yards around the building had been cleared down to the soil, and high iron posts supported floodlights. Adjoining the main structure was a garage. Bane knew that the members of the Hunting Party drove Land Rovers and Jeeps here through wilderness, with a trip of four hours to the nearest village. Electricity came from three generators. Food and medical supplies were always well stocked, and the fortress had been built adjoining its own well, with a septic tank in the rear. The building had been constructed on the edge of a precipice. Right behind the back walls, the ground dropped straight down one hundred and twenty feet to the jagged rocks of a dried creek. One lone tree had been left standing on the edge of the cliff, a gnarled old oak with no leaves on its twisted branches.
Starting as a millionaire's leisure retreat, Harris West House had ended up as a command center for a secret war. Only the five members of the Hunting Party and a handful of government officials had known of its location. Now, Bane was here.
He was being watched from the woods, but he had known that. The past few miles, he had caught glimpses of scurrying forms in the brush and a faint occasional growl in the distance. A porch ran the width of Harris West House, with a handcarved railing and wicker chairs. As Bane drew nearer, the front door swung open. A man in dark clothing raised a Browning Automatic Rifle with a telescopic sight and gestured frantically with his free hand. "Hurry!" he yelled. "Get in here." At that urging, Bane accelerated his pace so rapidly that he was up on the porch and through the door before the rifleman could process his motion.
In a second, the Hunting Party member had slammed the door shut and yanked down a lever on a panel next to it. They were in a small foyer with a bench and coathooks, as well as a dozen firearms lined up on one wall. "Alarms are activated," he said. "Did you walk here?! We expected to go fetch you in an armored vehicle. We were expecting you tonight."
"I was stalked for a few miles by a howler," Bane said as casually as if discussing what he had for breakfast. He unfastened the chin strap and lifted the helmet up off his head. This revealed him as a man in his mid-forties, with a narrow face and short black hair. Under heavy brows were two cold grey eyes that were so intense they startled even those who knew him. He turned to the rifleman and held out a hand. "I know Dr West but I haven't met any of you men yet."
A bit over feet tall, the Hunting Party man was limber and rangy in his dark flannel shirt and work pants. He carefully placed the BAR in its place on a wall rack and accepted the handshake. "Scot. That is, me name is Andrew Dunham but we normally address each other by our nicknames. Call me Scot." Except for the noticeable Highlands accent, he did not look particularly Scottish. He had wavy medium-brown hair and dark brown eyes in an olive-skinned face.
"Glad to meet you, Scot," Bane said. "There weren't any roads reaching up here, but a few friends dropped me off from a helicopter and I hiked here to get a feel for the terrain." He did not feel it necessary to explain that Sable and her new KDF team had then gone on in the CORBY toward Florida to investigate Gator Joe sightings. Returning to civilization was something he could worry about when this was all over.
"Well, I'm glad to see you and glad you got through uneaten. This is a real siege. Come on, the rest of the Party is in the next room." They went through the inner door into an enormous high-ceiling room where a modest fire burned in the hearth beneath a stone mantlepiece. The furnishings were those of an exclusive men's club of an earlier era. Deep, leather-bound easy chairs and coffee tables piled with newspapers and magazines sat on a plush rug. Shelves along two walls held reference books, standard literature like Dickens and Twain, and various curios. One oil painting showed a seascape with a high-masted sailing ship in the distance.
As Bane and Scot entered, the other three members of the Hunting Party turned around in their chairs and put down their various drinks. It was an older man in a neatly tailored charcoal grey suit who came forward to greet the Dire Wolf.
"It's been forever, Jeremy," Edwin West said with a wry smile. "I haven't seen you since you put that silver bullet in my arm."
II.
Introductions were quickly made. With his experience as a licensed PI, Bane was skilled at remembering names and faces so he invariably retained more information about everyone he met than was really necessary. There were four men in the Hunting Party. The Dire Wolf had already met Scot. Now he shook hands with 'Champ,' an Italian-descent bodybuilder and wrestler; 'Cap,' an ex-Army Ranger; and 'Scoop.' a former investigative journalist. Edwin West was called 'Doc' by all of them. Bane had no idea why these men all used those nicknames but it seemed important to them. Perhaps it built team spirit
Champ was a good-looking man with curly black hair and a strongly cleft chin. He was also about feet four and visibly well muscled, even in the baggy sweat shirt and khaki pants he wore. "Ain't it ironic we're working with a guy called the Dire Wolf? I mean, it does seem sorta funny."
Next to Champ, almost leaning on him as if they were old buddies, Scoop was a puny-looking specimen with narrow shoulders and a weak face. He had bright carrot-red hair that was receding. But his eyes were sharp and inquisitive, and he was obviously studying Bane to take in every detail. "I've been following this fellow's career for years, you big goof. Mr Bane here has probably destroyed more howlers by himself than our entire team has."
"I do my best," the Dire Wolf replied. He glanced over at Cap. This was a man his own size, feet even and maybe one hundred and seventy pounds. Cap had light blond hair cut short and greenish eyes in a weathered face. He seemed to be in his late twenties, a decade younger than his teammates who all looked about forty. Cap nodded politely but didn't offer to speak. Bane reflected how odd it was that the four men had such distinctive hair colors... black, medium brown, red and blond. It had to be random chance because the members of the Hunting Party had not known each other before that traumatic bus ride.
Once he saw that their visitor had met everyone, West gestured for them all to be seated. The chairs were in a semi-circle facing the fireplace and Bane lowered himself into one that he found really too comfortable. It would be easy to drowse off next to the fire in such a chair. "I'm glad I got here before the action started," he said. "To be honest, I was sniffing some scents out there that are all too familiar to me. Lupine and Human mixed."
"Yes," Dr West agreed. "For the past week, the Great Pack has been gathering out there. We have only left this building in one of our armored Land Rovers, armed up to the eyeballs and ready for ambush. The past three days, we've spotted numerous strange shapes lurking between the trees and through the bushes. The assault is coming."
"Let me get the background straight in my mind first," Bane interrupted. "From what I understand, you men were the only survivors of an attack on a Greyhound bus. It had broken down late at night not far from Buffalo. That was three years ago. The authorities, and by that I mean the Department of Justice's Mandate organization, passed off the deaths as resulting from injuries. They arranged the scene to make the bus look like a convincing wreck that had gone off the road and tumbled down the hillside. One of their many cover-ups. And you four agreed to keep the massacre secret."
"It was for the best," Champ put in. "Why make the families of those poor people more traumatized than they already were? I say, they were better off not knowing."
"You should understand, Mr Bane," added Scoop. He was seated next to Champ, the two seemed close partners. "We made a pledge that night that since we had been spared from death, it had been for a reason. We swore to devote our lives to tracking down and wiping out as many werewolves as we could."
"Oh, I don't disagree with your decision," Bane said. "Keeping the Midnight War secret is a good idea. The mundane dangers of life are scary enough to keep people occupied."
"I met these gentlemen soon after they started their crusade," Dr West said. "My family is well off, or should I say they were well-off since I'm the sole living representative. I offered to fund the Hunting Party and we refurbished this retreat to serve as our headquarters. And not being modest about it, we have done our task well."
Cap spoke for the first time in a weary voice. "Oh yeah. We've eliminated dozens of the monsters over the past few years. Without taking any casualties ourselves. I think it was our success that drew the attention of Mardigail."
"Him again," Bane snapped. "I've butted heads with Jamil Mardigail a few times. He calls himself King of the Werewolves."
"As well he might," Dr West said. "Jeremy, I believe he has gathered his Great Pack that is running through the woods around us and getting ready to swarm over us at any minute. That's an army of murderous howlers out for our blood."
III.
As a reddish full moon rose over the mountains in the distance, Jeremy Bane stepped out of Harris West House and strolled around to the back. He stood staring down at the deadly sharp rocks waiting a hundred feet below, then moved back from the edge of the cliff. From around one shoulder, he uncoiled a length of thin nylon cord that had been tested to hold three hundred pounds. On one end was a small collapsible metal grapple with padded tines. Although he generally had the cord with him on missions, it seemed he didn't get much use out of it. Still, better to have it and not need than the other way around. The trunks of his cars were always crammed with cases of equipment and supplies which varied according to the situation.
Studying the bent old oak which leaned out over the drop, Bane whirled the grapple around a few times and cast it upward where it hooked perfectly the first time on a solid branch forty feet above the ground. He tugged a few times, seemed satisfied but then simply left the nylon cord dangling there. He had heard something from the side of the building. A faint snuffling, the soft thud of padded paws on stone. Unseen in the deepening gloom, the Dire Wolf allowed a remarkably predatory smile to cross his face. Sometimes he felt as much a creature of the night as the monsters he fought.
He knew he was being watched from inside the house and that high-powered rifles were ready to fire silver bullets into any shape-shifters that appeared. He didn't want that. Bane had seen the tight kinship between the men of the Hunting Party. Their common origin in surviving that slaughter and three years working closely together against deadly enemies had bonded them in a way they wouldn't share with an outsider. He had to prove himself.
As two shaggy horrors galloped around the edge of the building straight for him, Bane had decided here was his chance to impress the Hunting Party. These werewolves were man-sized, with lupine hind legs but arms like a human's, and frighteningly quick. The howlers had no way of knowing they were charging an opponent every bit as fast as they were. Bane whipped up a thick metal cylinder that had been attached to his belt and discharged its contents with a thump of compressed air.
Thick polymer strands devised by Trom science snapped around the nearer werewolf, contracting on exposure to the air. Like wet rawhide drying instantly, the strands hardened to half their original length. The brute tumbled to the ground and rolled over frantically, but its howls showed how helpless it was against a binding with a greater tensile strength than steel. This was the tanglegun, a recent device which Bane had not had an opportunity to try in the field before and he was gratified how well it worked.
The second monster never hesitated. From twenty feet away, it launched itself with its claws ready to rip into its intended victim.
Bane had been standing in a casual stance, hands down at his sides. Abruptly, he turned into a dark blur of lethal precision. The howler had stopped dead in midair by a high straight kick that caught it squarely in the muzzle and flipped it over on its back. As soon as its back touched the ground, the beast was heaving back up again but it was met by a storm of alternating left-right hooking punches. Much faster than a normal Human, Bane struck with the full Kumundu technique. Under his fists, bone shattered like porcelain and flesh softened into mush. In less than a second, he had blasted thirty blows, any one of which would have killed a natural animal. Drops of blood flew in all directions.
The werewolf had been promised slow, weak prey like the other Humans he had already killed in his life. But even without fangs or talons, this man in black was beating him to death and he did not have any idea how to escape. There was no time to react. The howler lurched upright, its upper limbs dropping down. The Dire Wolf launched a side kick to the mid-torso that broke ribs and ruptured the heart. The beast fell backwards with the finality of death.
Bane watched the body for a few seconds, then started flexing his fists to keep them from stiffening. Even with his enhanced healing from the tagra tea, that was a lot of punishment to put his hands through. One reason Tel Shai knights were so overwhelming in combat was that they recovered from bruises and tiny fractures instantly. Some breeds of werewolves could only be harmed or killed by silver weapons, but most were vulnerable to enough damage. There was no way to tell which type this beast had been, so Bane watched him suspiciously until he was certain the howler was dead. If the brute had stirred, Bane would have drawn one of his silver daggers for the finishing stroke but it wasn't necessary.
Turning over to the entangled beast, the Dire Wolf satisfied himself that the monster was securely bound by the hardened strands. It would take a power saw to cut the werewolf free. There was a solvent which supposedly loosened the compound but it hadn't been tested in practice yet. Avoiding those gnashing jaws as the howler swung its head trying to bit him, Bane gripped the tangler strands and hoisted the two hundred pound beast up with one hand. As he walked easily over to the rear door of the lodge, he was let in by members of the Hunting Party who stared with open mouths.
"I gotta admit, that was slightly impressive," Champ said, closing the steel-reinforced door and switching its alarms back on.
"You're not kidding," agreed Scot. "Killing a howler with your hands and feet...! I would have said it was impossible."
Bane made no comment. He carried his burden into the main room and propping the snarling monster up in one corner. "He has to revert to Human soon or later," he said. "Then we can get some information about the enemy."
Facing the four men of his team, Dr West was smiling. "I think everyone will agree it was a good idea to bring Jeremy in to help."
IV.
Standing in front of a huge map of the Adirondack Preserve which had been pulled down from its rack in the ceiling, the Dire Wolf faced the assembled members of the Hunting Party just before midnight. While they waited for the captive to become normal again, everyone had packed away a light supper of bacon, mushrooms and hash browns which had been grilled in the kitchen by Scoop. The journalist seemed to be the unofficial cook of the group and he had done a good job. Bane noticed that the men drank a lot of coffee and tea but no alcohol was in evidence. He himself had devoured double servings quickly; one price for his superhuman speed was a metabolism that burned up calories constantly.
At ten o'clock, the werewolf whimpered and shuddered, and changed back into a naked man in his early ties. Dr West and Bane interrogated the prisoner in a professional manner but had made no promises about releasing him soon. Using his Link, the Dire Wolf had taken some readings on the miserable man, then covered him up a bit with a blanket while he analyzed the results. Now, he felt ready to share the findings. He held up the black metal Link, which looked like an excessively complex remote control. "This electronic device has checked the prisoner's fingerprints with FBI and State Police records," he said. "We can comfirm the man is Henry Willis Keach from Syracuse. He was arrested two years ago for a DWI, so his prints and information were on file. According to Keach, he's an involuntary shifter... his trigger is sight of the full moon, which means he's susceptible to mind control by an older and more experienced howler."
Dr West broke in, "Of course, I can sympathize with him, considering my own condition. Being cursed doesn't make him innocent. He still choose to throw his lot in with Mardigail, but I can see why he would feel his life was hopeless."
"Yeah, we try to keep that in mind, Doc," said Champ, nursing a final cup of coffee as he leaned back in the easy chair. "Some of these guys, it might not be their fault that they're howlers but they're still tryin' to take a few bites outta us."
"Hold on a second," interrupted Scoop. The slightly built journalist almost raised a hand for attention out of habit born from covering press conferences. "You have access to police and FBI records?"
"My KDF organization has developed connections with the authorities," Bane answered. He did not volunteer that in fact Trom technology allowed his team to gain restricted information without being detected. The KDF broke many laws in their missions. He turned a pressed a finger to a spot on the wall map. "Here we are. And here, only three miles north of in a natural clearing, is the campaign headquarters of Jamil Mardigail. He is using an old abandoned farmhouse for his quarters, while his lieutenants stay in the barn. He has a driver and valet for his personal use, and ten of the more experienced shape-shifters serve as his lieutenants."
The Dire Wolf turned to face the Hunting Party. "Assembled in this area, a few in tents but most simply roaming the forest, the Great Pack has gathered. Around one hundred werewolves."
Everyone gasped or whistled or shifted about in their chairs. It was Champ who said out loud, "Holy Mary Mother of God, that's a LOT of howlers."
"I've never heard of a assemblage like this before," Bane commented. "My guess is that Mardigail has found a new way of summoning and controlling the shape-shifters. A word of power, an Alchemy drug in the food, some talisman, it's hard to say. I wouldn't have thought anyone has enough will power or gralic skill to do it. Finding out his secret might be our best chance of resolving this crisis."
"I hope so," Scot said glumly, shaking his head. "Otherwise upstate New York will have killer werewolves running through their bac k yards for the next hundred years."
"Mardigail again," said Scoop. The smallest man there sat up next to the largest and raised an accusing finger. "Doc, I think we need to learn everything you know about Mardigail and we need to learn it now."
"The peanut's right," Champ put in. "You've dropped hints and clues and vague references but c'mon, give us the straight dope. We deserve it. What was that crack about a silver bullet in your arm, anyway? How do you know this Dire Wolf joker?"
"All right," Dr West conceded. "I'm not proud of it. Would you tell the story, Jeremy?"
Bane seemed startled by the request but he nodded and looked over the Hunting Party. "Okay then. It was March of 1978, I was just starting to work for Kenneth Dred as his investigator. I was only twenty-one and still learning about the Midnight War. Dr West here was one of Mr Dred's colleagues. They had written a few books together. One night, he came to the building on 38th Street in New York City and told us how much trouble he was in.
"Edwin had tracked down a notorious sorcerer named Jamil Mardigail. As far as we have learned, Mardigail was born in Armenia in 1938. He was a voluntary shape-shifter who used his gralic spell to assume a howler form because he enjoyed it. As a werewolf, he pulled many burglaries, killed a great many bodyguards and victims and laughed at police attempts to capture him using conventional weapons. Mardigail came to America looking to pull more crimes where he wasn't known. Edwin confronted him."
Bane paused, then took a breath. "I might as well come out with it. Mardigail bit Edwin and infested him. He was now an involuntary werewolf himself and his strange feelings as the full moon approached naturally frightened him. We tried using restraints but you can imagine how well that worked. Edwin transformed, broke loose and was going after a... colleague. Mr Dred has given me some silver bullets and I used them but I was young and shaken, and I put one in his left arm instead of his heart."
"What?! Are you telling us Doc used to be a howler?" yelled Champ.
More quietly, Scot spoke up, "Is this true, Doc?"
"Every word of it," Edwin West said. "It turned out the bullet in my upper arm was enough to prevent the transformations, possibly because it was my first changeover. I have never even begun to transform again in all these years."
The men of the Hunting Party all started talking over each other. It was Cap who cut them off by shouting, "We've been led to hunt howlers BY a howler? And you never told us? We oughtta walk out right now."
Bane did not intervene. He thought that this was something the team needed to decide without an outsider butting in. But it was Dr West who stepped forward and raised a hand for silence.
"Have I proven myself these past three years?" he said in a low steady voice.
"Well, yeah..." Cap admitted. "You've been a good leader. You took care of us when we got wounded as well as a nurse could. We sure can't complain about the way we've been treated."
"What about the war on werewolves?" asked West. "How has that gone?"
Scoop jumped to his feet. "You've been great. It's your planning and your attention to detail that has led to our wiping out so many howlers. Look... Champ, Scot, Cap... I say this changes nothing. Nothing at all. Doc is still our leader and we'll follow him into Hell. Am I right?"
Everyone agreed. Bane felt relief. This battle was going to be nearly impossible to win as it was, having dissension in the Hunting Party would be disastrous.
V.
The deep woods were silent that night. No owls hooted, no small mammals rustled through the underbrush. There was not even a breeze. Nature seemed to be holding its breath. Moving a few feet ahead of his new teammates, the Dire Wolf moved steadily forward with an uncanny stealth. On the inside of his visor, the Trom light enhancers gave him a clear view of the area. To be honest, he would have preferred to proceed on his own without two Human partners to worry about. He knew his capabilies. But Champ had insisted on going with him and inevitably Scoop had joined as well. Bane figured the two men were inseperable with their good-natured teasing a sign of deep trust for each other.
He paused before entering a clearing, watching and listening. Behind him, Champ muttered, "I honestly can't smell that spray you dosed us with, Jeremy. You sure it's working?"
"Yes. It's a neutralizer. The chemical balance reduces your scent to as close to nonexistent as possible. We're effectively invisible to the howlers." Bane did not explain that the scent neutralizer was devised by the Trom and that he was forbidden to share its formula or to give one of the spray tubes to a colleague. The agreement was that the KDF received restricted use to advanced Trom weapons and technology in exchange for arranging Tel Shai membership to a Trom representative.
Champ grunted in reply. The big man's name was Antonio Costello from Atlantic City. At the age of twenty, he had been a minor sensation in the overlapping worlds of bodybuilding and professional wrestling but he had dropped out because of all the deals with organized crimes that had been asked of him. For this expedition, he was wearing Army combat boots, tough baggy pants and a distressed leather coat that had seen considerable wear and tear. Holstered on a web belt was a .357 Magnum; he was one of the few men with hands large enough to comfortably grip that weapon. Sheathed up behind his left shoulder where he could draw it quickly was a seven-inch survival knife whose edges had been trimmed with silver.
But Champ's main defense was the Quando. A traditional Chinese weapon, his was a five foot steel shaft with rough leather grips in the middle. Its top end had had a rectangular block the size of a fist, with further effect given by a short spike extending perpendicular to the shaft. The sharp points on both ends had also been dipped in pure silver. Costello twirled the heavy weapon the way a teenager might play with a baton. The modified Quando reminded Bane of several medieval European weapons; it was a good choice to bring.
Scoop had been keeping up well enough. Les Hannigan was his real name, he did freelance work for local TV stations and had a Sunday column in several newspapers, mostly writing about government corruption. The small wiry journalist had mentioned that he jogged for exercise. He was wearing sneakers, denim jeans and a red checked flannel shirt, with a Mets baseball cap on his red hair. Around his thin waist was a Wild West-style gunbelt holding Colt .32 revolvers. Slung from one shoulder was an Uzi. All three of them were using silver bullets which Dr West had stored in plentiful supply.
"You want to ride on my shoulders, squirt?" asked Champ.
"Why, you. Don't listen to him, Jeremy," Scoop said. "Champ is not that bright. When you point at something, he looks at your finger!"
"Keep it down, both of you." Under the best of circumstances, Bane seldom showed any sense of humor and he was at his upper limit for tenseness just then. Every few minutes, he glimpsed dark shapes scuttling through the shadows or heard a branch rustle far to one side. They were being stalked, all right. Why hadn't the monsters attacked? Was it the intimidating scent of all the silver? Or were the beasts under orders not to kill the three Humans yet?
"I'm glad Cap and Scot stayed at the house to keep an eye on things," Champ went on in a quieter rumble. "They're better shots than either of us, that's fer shure. With Doc watching the closed-circuit TV cameras outside the house, they'll mow down any howlers that stick their snouts into view."
Bane shushed him. He had his head cocked to one side. "Quick, behind those trees." Taking Scoop by one arm forcibly, the Dire Wolf vaulted ten feet to swing around between a group of elms. Champ was right behind them. They held their breaths. Scoop had jerked his arm out of Bane's hold with some annoyance when the rapid pad of footfalls came clearer.
Across the clearing in the bright moonlight, dozens of werewolves galloped past. They were all sizes and shapes, with fur that was black or red or brown. Some ran on two legs and seemed like regular Humans covered with bristly fur and some lupine features. Some appeared to be normal four-legged wolves that any zoologist would hardly notice as unusual. But most were bizarre creatures with characteristics of both species, loping along and snuffling excitedly. Few looked anything like each other.
Watching them race past, Bane estimated he was seeing at least eighty of the monsters. He felt a dismay that was rare for him. The Trom armor under his field suit protected him against mundane threats like gunshots or blunt instruments, but these creatures were supernatural. Their fangs and claws would pierce his armor with only slight difficulty. But turning back and making a stand at Harris West House would not end this menace. He was sure that Mardigail was the key to finishing the Great Pack off.
Finally, the stampede of howlers trickled down to a few stragglers and then there was silence again. Eventually, Scoop let out a deep shuddering breath. "I'm going back to get some clean underwear."
"Always kidding around," Champ said. "Man, that WAS scary. You notice they wuz all heading in the same direction we're going?"
"Mardigail has summoned them," said the Dire Wolf. He stepped back out into the clearing. "You two should report back to the lodge and
settle in for a siege. I can approach the Pack better by myself."
"Aw, you give me a pain with that conceited attitude," Champ snorted. "Get over yourself. Scoop and me have been wiping out werewolves for years now. They should be afraid of us!"
"All right," said the Dire Wolf. Without arguing, he simply set off against at a brisk easy trot he could keep up all day. The terrain was sloping downhill, which helped their progress.
[The three are attacked by a dozen werewolves and fight their way down to the cabin in the clearing. Champ is wounded by a claw gouge across his chest, not a bite. Bane forces the front door and hauls the two men inside. There they find Mardigail waiting for them, with his personal guard of rifle-toting Vandages]
VI.
Slowly and deliberately, Bane thumbed the ear pod on his helmet that made the visor rise into its internal track. Without looking behind him, he said, "Scoop, take care of Champ's injuries. I'll handle this." He had already holstered his gun and now he unfastened the helmet to raise it up off his face and cradle it in the crook of one arm. As a dozen shape-changers drew toward him, the Dire Wolf gave them a cold glare that actually made them cringe back a bit. It was the sheer confidence and assurance in his manner that they recognized and were cowed by. Few of the werewolves could stand up to those icy grey eyes.
"Bane. Again," said Mardigail. "I am not a bit surprised."
The master of the Great Pack was a broad sturdy figure of medium height, wrapped loosely in a brown robe beneath which he was apparently naked. The bare legs and arms showed muscle hard and gnarled as an old oak. His coarse brown hair was well flecked with white as was the bristly beard and the hairy chest. Hanging on a fine-linked chain around his neck was a pentagonal medallion of the red Gremthom metal. Alone of the enemy, he stared back at the Dire Wolf steadily.
Bane placed his gun on a small table near to hand, then drew two daggers from their sheaths beneath his sleeves and carefully laid them down as well. That really upset the dozen howlers. The presence of silver made them so uneasy that Mardigail had to snap at them to settle down and stand your ground. The Dire Wolf lowered his empty hands. "Oh, we know each other, King of the Werewolves. I'm here to negotiate."
"Indeed? But the rest of your Tel Shai knights, where might they be tonight?"
"I'm here first," Bane said. "Let's talk and see if we can offer some terms."
Mardigail snapped his fingers and one of the more Humanoid two-legged werewolves dragged over a pair of sturdy wooden chairs to the table. The leader of the Great Pack and the Dire Wolf arranged themselves sitting out of reach of each other, with the length of the table between them. In the moments this took, Bane added up more details of the room. Of course it stank. In the corners were piles of well-gnawed bones. There was no other furniture in evidence other than the table and chairs, but piles of blankets were arranged along one wall. This was all as he had expected to find.
"Let me start by saying that I spoke with my contacts in the Mandate before leaving the city," Bane said. "They will have the National Guard standing by. Within eight hours, squads of heavily armed soldiers will tearing through the woods on an extermination spree. They know about silver bullets. They'll use dogs. They have helicopters. So take that in account before you work on terms to leave the area."
"Oh really. That is not at all like you, Bane. I know your methods. You only call in the Mandate or Department 21 Black after the carnage has died down. You regard them as a clean-up crew to pick up after you. So I find your claim dubious, to say the least."
Continuing as if his enemy had not spoken, the Dire Wolf said, "I've checked out the Hunting Party's fortress. It's beyond what claws and fangs can breach. Unless you've arranged for a Sherman tank to show up, you're not getting in and they're equipped to stay boarded up there for a month in comfort."
Mardigail dismissed this with a wave of a broad hand. "Water wears down mountains. My followers will find a weak point and then they will pour into that lodge like a wave crashing." After saying that, the Great Pack alpha lifted a folded linen cloth and dropped it over the daggers which sat between them, then made a bundle and tossed it to the far side of the room. Two howlers scuttled frantically out of the way with yelps of discomfort.
"The silver bothers you, I know," Bane went on. "One shifter said being near it made his skin burn as if peeling off. But that's okay."
"Of course, I feel I may relax more with your famous weapons away from your hands," laughed Mardigail. "Please continue. Is there any other false hope you wish to give yourself?"
The Dire Wolf pointed at the four white-furred Vandages, who were standing guard with lever-action Winchesters in their clawed hands. "Very rare. I didn't think any sorcerer today had knowledge enough to bring those creatures into the real world from Zimborlin."
"You show some obscure knowledge," Mardigail said. He stroked the wiry greying beard and thought for a second before saying, "Go on, why don't you?"
Before he spoke, Bane turned his head to check on his teammates. Scoop was seated on the dingy wooden floor, supporting the semi-conscious Champ in his arms. The smallish journalist had ripped off his own jacket sleeves to bind up the gash across the beefy weightlifter's chest. Although the material was soaked with blood, no new blood was coming through. Scoop looked up with a bleak expression and nodded once.
Giving Mardigail his full attention again, Bane said, "The White Wolves are brutes modified by Tollinor Kje from ordinary timber wolves. Somewhere in the thousands of years since then, a Human warlock bred White Wolves with Humans to create these Vandages. I can see where they would be useful to you as go-betweens with the more bestial howlers. But they are not your real project, are they? You have something much bigger in mind."
"You begin to show some intelligence, Bane." Mardigail hitched his robe closer across his wide chest and made a gesture toward a cabinet near them. "Perhaps a glass of wine while you enlighten me?"
"No, thanks," Bane answered. "This won't take long." He looked back at the two Hunting Party men again. "Scoop, listen. I want you to carefully haul Champ over behind that couch and then both of you lie low. Do it." Seeing the journalist start to gingerly drag his wounded buddy over behind a delapidated sofa, the Dire Wolf fixed his grey eyes on Mardigail again.
The King of the Werewolves returned the stare with increasing uneasiness. "You were explaining my own plan to me."
"Fair enough. Thinking about the logistics of this Great Pack of yours, I don't see how so many Howlers could be congregated here from any distances. It would take months and they would depopulate the wildlife for fifty miles in all directions. No, I think right there are more missing persons cases in the Adirondack State Park than ever before. You brought unwilling victims here. I think you have discovered the basic nature of lycanthropy."
To Bane's surprise, Jamil Mardigail snorted and then broke out in laughter he could not repress. "Yes! Yes. Finally, someone understands. Protoplasm is mostly water, Mr Bane, more than ninety-five per cent so. Gralic force can reduce the surface tension on a molecular level so that the organs and limbs and glands will reshape without losing their functions. The final shape which gels is chosen by the shifter's subconscious."
"And most of the time, it's an animal totem they identify with," Bane added. "Lion, bear, even bat... but mostly wolf. You found a way to force the change on any Humans in a wide area and place them under your control. Am I right?"
Instead of answering, Mardigail gestured for the Vandages to draw closer. "Raise your weapons," he said. "Be alert. Yes, Dire Wolf. I have done all this. The Great Pack out there in the night will not return to their earlier lives. They are mine forever. Only a handful were changers before I call them, and they may revert to Human in death or under duress. But my army will stay the way they are and they will obey me."
"I'm so sorry to hear that," Bane said, and his voice showed he felt burdened by all this. "All right then. They're lost souls. So I have just have two more things to say. I recognize that medallion you wear. It's one of the Five Amulets. On my KDF's first mission, we recovered the Amulet of Damozar which controlled Ghouls. So that's how you keep these howlers under your thumb."
Despite prudence which would lead him to deny everything, Mardigail reached up to touch the round Gremthom token hanging on his hairy exposed chest. "So be it then. You mentioned you had two things to say before we end this?"
"Yes." Bane had been leaning forward in his chair, hands resting wearily on his knees. A new roughness came into his voice. "By now, almost everyone knows I carry the two ensalir-bladed daggers. It's even widely known that I wear them on my forearms. So, sometimes, when I think I might be searched and disarmed, I bring decoys. Those two weapons you threw in the corner are ordinary steel knives with a thin coating of silver to mislead you."
Mardigail gasped as those words sank in but he did not have time to react. The Dire Wolf had reached down into his boots and he shot to his feet with one of the silver-bladed daggers in each hand.
VI.
The explosion of violence caught the Vandages not fully prepared. They were quick-thinking predators who had taken many victims with ease, but they had never faced Jeremy Bane before. The Dire Wolf moved on their own level, but he had highly honed martial arts skill and cool planning rather than mere ferocity. With half a second, he had bodyslammed the nearest man-wolf hybrid into two others so they fell in a tangle, and in a continuation of the same movement, a front snap kick smashed his steel-toe boot up under the jaw of another Vandage. That creature's head swung so far back that its neck broke.
Jamil Mardigail was barely beginning to react to this stunning blur of motion before Bane was upon him. The silver daggers slashed left and right and back again. The leader of the Great Pack slumped back down in his chair, with his massive head dangling from a neck that had been nearly severed, two gouges opening up his chest so his lungs showed. The Dire Wolf had thought of his every move before he had started. Dropping the dagger from one hand, he yanked the Darthan medallion up off Mardigail's dying form and clenched it tightly. Hot stinging energy ran up his arm.
"Lie down!" he yelled as loudly as he could. "All of you, lie down on the floor and stay there!" He had been just in time. The two Vandages who had remained on their feet had been pointing their rifles at him and several of the other howlers were already crouching to spring at him. At his command, they all meekly got down and stretched out on their stomachs. In their amber eyes that murderous gleam remained but they could not disobey.
Bane's hand and lower arm ached from holding the Amulet. He hated even coming in contact with a Darthan talisman, let alone using one, but he had no choice. Watching the werewolves scattered across the floor, he wiped his daggers on Mardigail's robe, which further enraged the howlers so much he thought they were likely to go into cardiac arrest. He slid the knives back into their sheaths without loosening his grip on the amulet.
"Scoop?" he asked. "You guys okay?"
"Yeah, Jeremy," came the voice from behind the couch. "Champ has stopped bleeding. He's weak but starting to stir a little."
"Good. I want both of you to stay hidden back there as long as you possibly can. Use your best judgement."
"Wait! What are you going to do?" Scoop said.
"Something that might solve our problems." Bane backed toward the door and opened it a crack. "Everyone stay back! Stay back!" he yelled. He moved out onto the porch and flinched involuntarily at all the glittering eyes staring at him out of the darkness. Even Bane felt uncomfortable facing a horde of vicious manbeasts who ached to rip him apart. But so far the Amulet was working. He headed slowly up the trail away from the old cabin, repeating "Stay back! Stay!" at the top of his lungs every few feet.
In the back of his mind, he realized he was using the same commands you'd give a tame house dog, 'Lie down,' and 'Stay.' It struck him as vaguely ironic but the immense danger of the situation occupied his thoughts. He made it a full eighty yards along the trail, standing at the crest of a low rise, and looked back at a hellish mob of shaggy, growling monsters all watching him. They craved to bite and claw at him until he was mere shreds. Only the arcane power of the ancient Darthan talisman was keeping them at bay. What a nightmare, he thought.
Glancing ahead, he saw the trail was deserted until it ended at the edge of the forest. Hopefully, all of the Great Pack had assembled near the cabin where Mardigail would have given the attack orders. Bane took a deep breath and held up the Amulet, then shouted, "Follow me! Come on! Follow me!" Swinging on one heel, he flashed away full tilt faster than he had ever run before.
An instant later, a hideous howling filled the night air as a hundred throats bayed furiously. Not even in prehistoric times had that forest echoed to so many predators crying out as they launched themselves after a prey. Bane's top running speed had never been clocked in a trial. At Tel Shai, Teacher Chael had estimated that Bane possessed natural reflexes and voluntary movements between two and three times as fast as the fastest Human, judging by the way he fought in Kumundu duels. So, with an army of werewolves loping in pursuit, the Dire Wolf tore through the woods faster than any whitetail had ever fled a pack of normal wolves. The ruddy moon and clear starry sky gave enough light that he could retrace his route without hesitation.
After a mile, when he had hit his stride, Bane estimated by sound that the Great Pack was not drawing any closer behind him. He was holding his own. When he had first devised this desperate plan, he had considered that he might have to slow down and use the Amulet to command the howlers to stay back but he didn't know if the talisman would work before he was torn apart. He kept running. Crises like these were why he trained so hard year after year, never slacking off, never skipping a session with Teacher Chael. His pace was steady as the distance in front of him became the distance behind him.
There was the hill, with Harris West House sitting atop it. Now, the Dire Wolf drew on his deepest resources. Adrenalin was already burning through his body, he called on all his reserves as he rushed up the slope. The snarling and panting sounded noticeably closer.
The headquarters building was brilliantly lit by floodlamps. Up on the second floor, he spotted a dark form moving in one window and then the other on the roof itself. Scot and Cap, the remaining Hunting Party members. As Bane drew near, abruptly flashes of white light flickered overhead and gunfire crackled. The men were shooting directly into that hairy mob, launching a barrage of silver bullets that dropped one howler after another. Leaping after their fallen brethren, the howlers quickened even more and the closest one was so close he snapped at Bane without quite making contact.
The oak tree by the edge of the cliff! Bane seized the nylon cord with his free hand and swung out over the abyss. At the same time, he threw the Amulet outward as far as he could and screamed, "Get it! Go after it!" With both hands, he pulled himself up and wriggled onto a gnarled branch thick enough to support his weight. "Fetch," he added as he realized how hard he was breathing.
For a full minute, a flood of hairy bodies stampeded headlong over that cliff to plummet onto the jagged rocks of the dry creek. The thuds and thumps drowned out shrieks of inhuman pain. Eventually, only a few stragglers remained but none hesitated. The power of the Amulet compelled them. Then there were no more.
Cap and Scot emerged from the rear door and leaned over the brink. They fired down to finish off any werewolves who seemed to be surviving the drop. Dr West came out last and steadied the cord as Bane started climbing down, but the Dire Wolf's hands were weak and he fell the final ten feet to sprawl on the gravel. "I'm all right," he gasped, trying to sit up. "I... might need a minute."
"Scoop? Champ? What about them?" asked West, helping to support Bane.
"They were okay when I left them. Mardigail is definitely dead. We'll need to use one of your Jeeps to go retrieve our friends." Bane was sitting up but did not feel able to stand at the moment. He could not remember the last time he had pushed himself to the limits so thoroughly. Cramps were making his legs tighten up.
Carrying his BAR, Scot wiped a sweaty face with the back of one hand. "What a sight. You know about the 'buffalo jumps,' where your Indians used to stampede a herd of bison over a cliff? That's what this looks like. I'll never forget it."
"I was telling Edwin that Champ and Scoop were all right the last I saw them," Bane replied. He had gotten his wind back and felt only tremendous relief as all the stress and anxiety fell away.
"Glad to hear that. You did good work," said Scot. "It's amazing. We've rid the world of so many howlers tonight. But, you know, our war will never be over. There will always be new ones turning up."
Managing to get back to his feet, Bane patted West thankfully on one shoulder for the help. "I suppose. It's like fighting crime. Maybe even now, a few of the Great Pack were too far away to be pulled into the trap."
As if responding to his words, a mournful howl sounded far-off under the moon. They gave each other wry smiles despite the weariness.
1/11/2019
10/23/2001
I.
It was late afternoon when Jeremy Bane emerged from the dense forest and stood at the bottom of the hill, gazing up at Harris West House. He had been hiking through difficult Adirondack terrain for five hours but did not seem tired in the least. His pace as he headed up the incline was brisk and easy. The Dire Wolf was wearing the full field suit with its inner layer of flexible Trom armor, its waist-length jacket and visored helmet. He also had a sizeable backpack high up across his shoulders. In one hand, he carried a thick walking stick he had trimmed from a tree branch to help with the ascent.
He knew Harris West House had been built in 1909 as a retreat for an unreasonably wealthy Connecticut family. It was solid as any fortress, with walls of rocks mortared tightly together and a log roof. There was no road leading to it. The area for twenty yards around the building had been cleared down to the soil, and high iron posts supported floodlights. Adjoining the main structure was a garage. Bane knew that the members of the Hunting Party drove Land Rovers and Jeeps here through wilderness, with a trip of four hours to the nearest village. Electricity came from three generators. Food and medical supplies were always well stocked, and the fortress had been built adjoining its own well, with a septic tank in the rear. The building had been constructed on the edge of a precipice. Right behind the back walls, the ground dropped straight down one hundred and twenty feet to the jagged rocks of a dried creek. One lone tree had been left standing on the edge of the cliff, a gnarled old oak with no leaves on its twisted branches.
Starting as a millionaire's leisure retreat, Harris West House had ended up as a command center for a secret war. Only the five members of the Hunting Party and a handful of government officials had known of its location. Now, Bane was here.
He was being watched from the woods, but he had known that. The past few miles, he had caught glimpses of scurrying forms in the brush and a faint occasional growl in the distance. A porch ran the width of Harris West House, with a handcarved railing and wicker chairs. As Bane drew nearer, the front door swung open. A man in dark clothing raised a Browning Automatic Rifle with a telescopic sight and gestured frantically with his free hand. "Hurry!" he yelled. "Get in here." At that urging, Bane accelerated his pace so rapidly that he was up on the porch and through the door before the rifleman could process his motion.
In a second, the Hunting Party member had slammed the door shut and yanked down a lever on a panel next to it. They were in a small foyer with a bench and coathooks, as well as a dozen firearms lined up on one wall. "Alarms are activated," he said. "Did you walk here?! We expected to go fetch you in an armored vehicle. We were expecting you tonight."
"I was stalked for a few miles by a howler," Bane said as casually as if discussing what he had for breakfast. He unfastened the chin strap and lifted the helmet up off his head. This revealed him as a man in his mid-forties, with a narrow face and short black hair. Under heavy brows were two cold grey eyes that were so intense they startled even those who knew him. He turned to the rifleman and held out a hand. "I know Dr West but I haven't met any of you men yet."
A bit over feet tall, the Hunting Party man was limber and rangy in his dark flannel shirt and work pants. He carefully placed the BAR in its place on a wall rack and accepted the handshake. "Scot. That is, me name is Andrew Dunham but we normally address each other by our nicknames. Call me Scot." Except for the noticeable Highlands accent, he did not look particularly Scottish. He had wavy medium-brown hair and dark brown eyes in an olive-skinned face.
"Glad to meet you, Scot," Bane said. "There weren't any roads reaching up here, but a few friends dropped me off from a helicopter and I hiked here to get a feel for the terrain." He did not feel it necessary to explain that Sable and her new KDF team had then gone on in the CORBY toward Florida to investigate Gator Joe sightings. Returning to civilization was something he could worry about when this was all over.
"Well, I'm glad to see you and glad you got through uneaten. This is a real siege. Come on, the rest of the Party is in the next room." They went through the inner door into an enormous high-ceiling room where a modest fire burned in the hearth beneath a stone mantlepiece. The furnishings were those of an exclusive men's club of an earlier era. Deep, leather-bound easy chairs and coffee tables piled with newspapers and magazines sat on a plush rug. Shelves along two walls held reference books, standard literature like Dickens and Twain, and various curios. One oil painting showed a seascape with a high-masted sailing ship in the distance.
As Bane and Scot entered, the other three members of the Hunting Party turned around in their chairs and put down their various drinks. It was an older man in a neatly tailored charcoal grey suit who came forward to greet the Dire Wolf.
"It's been forever, Jeremy," Edwin West said with a wry smile. "I haven't seen you since you put that silver bullet in my arm."
II.
Introductions were quickly made. With his experience as a licensed PI, Bane was skilled at remembering names and faces so he invariably retained more information about everyone he met than was really necessary. There were four men in the Hunting Party. The Dire Wolf had already met Scot. Now he shook hands with 'Champ,' an Italian-descent bodybuilder and wrestler; 'Cap,' an ex-Army Ranger; and 'Scoop.' a former investigative journalist. Edwin West was called 'Doc' by all of them. Bane had no idea why these men all used those nicknames but it seemed important to them. Perhaps it built team spirit
Champ was a good-looking man with curly black hair and a strongly cleft chin. He was also about feet four and visibly well muscled, even in the baggy sweat shirt and khaki pants he wore. "Ain't it ironic we're working with a guy called the Dire Wolf? I mean, it does seem sorta funny."
Next to Champ, almost leaning on him as if they were old buddies, Scoop was a puny-looking specimen with narrow shoulders and a weak face. He had bright carrot-red hair that was receding. But his eyes were sharp and inquisitive, and he was obviously studying Bane to take in every detail. "I've been following this fellow's career for years, you big goof. Mr Bane here has probably destroyed more howlers by himself than our entire team has."
"I do my best," the Dire Wolf replied. He glanced over at Cap. This was a man his own size, feet even and maybe one hundred and seventy pounds. Cap had light blond hair cut short and greenish eyes in a weathered face. He seemed to be in his late twenties, a decade younger than his teammates who all looked about forty. Cap nodded politely but didn't offer to speak. Bane reflected how odd it was that the four men had such distinctive hair colors... black, medium brown, red and blond. It had to be random chance because the members of the Hunting Party had not known each other before that traumatic bus ride.
Once he saw that their visitor had met everyone, West gestured for them all to be seated. The chairs were in a semi-circle facing the fireplace and Bane lowered himself into one that he found really too comfortable. It would be easy to drowse off next to the fire in such a chair. "I'm glad I got here before the action started," he said. "To be honest, I was sniffing some scents out there that are all too familiar to me. Lupine and Human mixed."
"Yes," Dr West agreed. "For the past week, the Great Pack has been gathering out there. We have only left this building in one of our armored Land Rovers, armed up to the eyeballs and ready for ambush. The past three days, we've spotted numerous strange shapes lurking between the trees and through the bushes. The assault is coming."
"Let me get the background straight in my mind first," Bane interrupted. "From what I understand, you men were the only survivors of an attack on a Greyhound bus. It had broken down late at night not far from Buffalo. That was three years ago. The authorities, and by that I mean the Department of Justice's Mandate organization, passed off the deaths as resulting from injuries. They arranged the scene to make the bus look like a convincing wreck that had gone off the road and tumbled down the hillside. One of their many cover-ups. And you four agreed to keep the massacre secret."
"It was for the best," Champ put in. "Why make the families of those poor people more traumatized than they already were? I say, they were better off not knowing."
"You should understand, Mr Bane," added Scoop. He was seated next to Champ, the two seemed close partners. "We made a pledge that night that since we had been spared from death, it had been for a reason. We swore to devote our lives to tracking down and wiping out as many werewolves as we could."
"Oh, I don't disagree with your decision," Bane said. "Keeping the Midnight War secret is a good idea. The mundane dangers of life are scary enough to keep people occupied."
"I met these gentlemen soon after they started their crusade," Dr West said. "My family is well off, or should I say they were well-off since I'm the sole living representative. I offered to fund the Hunting Party and we refurbished this retreat to serve as our headquarters. And not being modest about it, we have done our task well."
Cap spoke for the first time in a weary voice. "Oh yeah. We've eliminated dozens of the monsters over the past few years. Without taking any casualties ourselves. I think it was our success that drew the attention of Mardigail."
"Him again," Bane snapped. "I've butted heads with Jamil Mardigail a few times. He calls himself King of the Werewolves."
"As well he might," Dr West said. "Jeremy, I believe he has gathered his Great Pack that is running through the woods around us and getting ready to swarm over us at any minute. That's an army of murderous howlers out for our blood."
III.
As a reddish full moon rose over the mountains in the distance, Jeremy Bane stepped out of Harris West House and strolled around to the back. He stood staring down at the deadly sharp rocks waiting a hundred feet below, then moved back from the edge of the cliff. From around one shoulder, he uncoiled a length of thin nylon cord that had been tested to hold three hundred pounds. On one end was a small collapsible metal grapple with padded tines. Although he generally had the cord with him on missions, it seemed he didn't get much use out of it. Still, better to have it and not need than the other way around. The trunks of his cars were always crammed with cases of equipment and supplies which varied according to the situation.
Studying the bent old oak which leaned out over the drop, Bane whirled the grapple around a few times and cast it upward where it hooked perfectly the first time on a solid branch forty feet above the ground. He tugged a few times, seemed satisfied but then simply left the nylon cord dangling there. He had heard something from the side of the building. A faint snuffling, the soft thud of padded paws on stone. Unseen in the deepening gloom, the Dire Wolf allowed a remarkably predatory smile to cross his face. Sometimes he felt as much a creature of the night as the monsters he fought.
He knew he was being watched from inside the house and that high-powered rifles were ready to fire silver bullets into any shape-shifters that appeared. He didn't want that. Bane had seen the tight kinship between the men of the Hunting Party. Their common origin in surviving that slaughter and three years working closely together against deadly enemies had bonded them in a way they wouldn't share with an outsider. He had to prove himself.
As two shaggy horrors galloped around the edge of the building straight for him, Bane had decided here was his chance to impress the Hunting Party. These werewolves were man-sized, with lupine hind legs but arms like a human's, and frighteningly quick. The howlers had no way of knowing they were charging an opponent every bit as fast as they were. Bane whipped up a thick metal cylinder that had been attached to his belt and discharged its contents with a thump of compressed air.
Thick polymer strands devised by Trom science snapped around the nearer werewolf, contracting on exposure to the air. Like wet rawhide drying instantly, the strands hardened to half their original length. The brute tumbled to the ground and rolled over frantically, but its howls showed how helpless it was against a binding with a greater tensile strength than steel. This was the tanglegun, a recent device which Bane had not had an opportunity to try in the field before and he was gratified how well it worked.
The second monster never hesitated. From twenty feet away, it launched itself with its claws ready to rip into its intended victim.
Bane had been standing in a casual stance, hands down at his sides. Abruptly, he turned into a dark blur of lethal precision. The howler had stopped dead in midair by a high straight kick that caught it squarely in the muzzle and flipped it over on its back. As soon as its back touched the ground, the beast was heaving back up again but it was met by a storm of alternating left-right hooking punches. Much faster than a normal Human, Bane struck with the full Kumundu technique. Under his fists, bone shattered like porcelain and flesh softened into mush. In less than a second, he had blasted thirty blows, any one of which would have killed a natural animal. Drops of blood flew in all directions.
The werewolf had been promised slow, weak prey like the other Humans he had already killed in his life. But even without fangs or talons, this man in black was beating him to death and he did not have any idea how to escape. There was no time to react. The howler lurched upright, its upper limbs dropping down. The Dire Wolf launched a side kick to the mid-torso that broke ribs and ruptured the heart. The beast fell backwards with the finality of death.
Bane watched the body for a few seconds, then started flexing his fists to keep them from stiffening. Even with his enhanced healing from the tagra tea, that was a lot of punishment to put his hands through. One reason Tel Shai knights were so overwhelming in combat was that they recovered from bruises and tiny fractures instantly. Some breeds of werewolves could only be harmed or killed by silver weapons, but most were vulnerable to enough damage. There was no way to tell which type this beast had been, so Bane watched him suspiciously until he was certain the howler was dead. If the brute had stirred, Bane would have drawn one of his silver daggers for the finishing stroke but it wasn't necessary.
Turning over to the entangled beast, the Dire Wolf satisfied himself that the monster was securely bound by the hardened strands. It would take a power saw to cut the werewolf free. There was a solvent which supposedly loosened the compound but it hadn't been tested in practice yet. Avoiding those gnashing jaws as the howler swung its head trying to bit him, Bane gripped the tangler strands and hoisted the two hundred pound beast up with one hand. As he walked easily over to the rear door of the lodge, he was let in by members of the Hunting Party who stared with open mouths.
"I gotta admit, that was slightly impressive," Champ said, closing the steel-reinforced door and switching its alarms back on.
"You're not kidding," agreed Scot. "Killing a howler with your hands and feet...! I would have said it was impossible."
Bane made no comment. He carried his burden into the main room and propping the snarling monster up in one corner. "He has to revert to Human soon or later," he said. "Then we can get some information about the enemy."
Facing the four men of his team, Dr West was smiling. "I think everyone will agree it was a good idea to bring Jeremy in to help."
IV.
Standing in front of a huge map of the Adirondack Preserve which had been pulled down from its rack in the ceiling, the Dire Wolf faced the assembled members of the Hunting Party just before midnight. While they waited for the captive to become normal again, everyone had packed away a light supper of bacon, mushrooms and hash browns which had been grilled in the kitchen by Scoop. The journalist seemed to be the unofficial cook of the group and he had done a good job. Bane noticed that the men drank a lot of coffee and tea but no alcohol was in evidence. He himself had devoured double servings quickly; one price for his superhuman speed was a metabolism that burned up calories constantly.
At ten o'clock, the werewolf whimpered and shuddered, and changed back into a naked man in his early ties. Dr West and Bane interrogated the prisoner in a professional manner but had made no promises about releasing him soon. Using his Link, the Dire Wolf had taken some readings on the miserable man, then covered him up a bit with a blanket while he analyzed the results. Now, he felt ready to share the findings. He held up the black metal Link, which looked like an excessively complex remote control. "This electronic device has checked the prisoner's fingerprints with FBI and State Police records," he said. "We can comfirm the man is Henry Willis Keach from Syracuse. He was arrested two years ago for a DWI, so his prints and information were on file. According to Keach, he's an involuntary shifter... his trigger is sight of the full moon, which means he's susceptible to mind control by an older and more experienced howler."
Dr West broke in, "Of course, I can sympathize with him, considering my own condition. Being cursed doesn't make him innocent. He still choose to throw his lot in with Mardigail, but I can see why he would feel his life was hopeless."
"Yeah, we try to keep that in mind, Doc," said Champ, nursing a final cup of coffee as he leaned back in the easy chair. "Some of these guys, it might not be their fault that they're howlers but they're still tryin' to take a few bites outta us."
"Hold on a second," interrupted Scoop. The slightly built journalist almost raised a hand for attention out of habit born from covering press conferences. "You have access to police and FBI records?"
"My KDF organization has developed connections with the authorities," Bane answered. He did not volunteer that in fact Trom technology allowed his team to gain restricted information without being detected. The KDF broke many laws in their missions. He turned a pressed a finger to a spot on the wall map. "Here we are. And here, only three miles north of in a natural clearing, is the campaign headquarters of Jamil Mardigail. He is using an old abandoned farmhouse for his quarters, while his lieutenants stay in the barn. He has a driver and valet for his personal use, and ten of the more experienced shape-shifters serve as his lieutenants."
The Dire Wolf turned to face the Hunting Party. "Assembled in this area, a few in tents but most simply roaming the forest, the Great Pack has gathered. Around one hundred werewolves."
Everyone gasped or whistled or shifted about in their chairs. It was Champ who said out loud, "Holy Mary Mother of God, that's a LOT of howlers."
"I've never heard of a assemblage like this before," Bane commented. "My guess is that Mardigail has found a new way of summoning and controlling the shape-shifters. A word of power, an Alchemy drug in the food, some talisman, it's hard to say. I wouldn't have thought anyone has enough will power or gralic skill to do it. Finding out his secret might be our best chance of resolving this crisis."
"I hope so," Scot said glumly, shaking his head. "Otherwise upstate New York will have killer werewolves running through their bac k yards for the next hundred years."
"Mardigail again," said Scoop. The smallest man there sat up next to the largest and raised an accusing finger. "Doc, I think we need to learn everything you know about Mardigail and we need to learn it now."
"The peanut's right," Champ put in. "You've dropped hints and clues and vague references but c'mon, give us the straight dope. We deserve it. What was that crack about a silver bullet in your arm, anyway? How do you know this Dire Wolf joker?"
"All right," Dr West conceded. "I'm not proud of it. Would you tell the story, Jeremy?"
Bane seemed startled by the request but he nodded and looked over the Hunting Party. "Okay then. It was March of 1978, I was just starting to work for Kenneth Dred as his investigator. I was only twenty-one and still learning about the Midnight War. Dr West here was one of Mr Dred's colleagues. They had written a few books together. One night, he came to the building on 38th Street in New York City and told us how much trouble he was in.
"Edwin had tracked down a notorious sorcerer named Jamil Mardigail. As far as we have learned, Mardigail was born in Armenia in 1938. He was a voluntary shape-shifter who used his gralic spell to assume a howler form because he enjoyed it. As a werewolf, he pulled many burglaries, killed a great many bodyguards and victims and laughed at police attempts to capture him using conventional weapons. Mardigail came to America looking to pull more crimes where he wasn't known. Edwin confronted him."
Bane paused, then took a breath. "I might as well come out with it. Mardigail bit Edwin and infested him. He was now an involuntary werewolf himself and his strange feelings as the full moon approached naturally frightened him. We tried using restraints but you can imagine how well that worked. Edwin transformed, broke loose and was going after a... colleague. Mr Dred has given me some silver bullets and I used them but I was young and shaken, and I put one in his left arm instead of his heart."
"What?! Are you telling us Doc used to be a howler?" yelled Champ.
More quietly, Scot spoke up, "Is this true, Doc?"
"Every word of it," Edwin West said. "It turned out the bullet in my upper arm was enough to prevent the transformations, possibly because it was my first changeover. I have never even begun to transform again in all these years."
The men of the Hunting Party all started talking over each other. It was Cap who cut them off by shouting, "We've been led to hunt howlers BY a howler? And you never told us? We oughtta walk out right now."
Bane did not intervene. He thought that this was something the team needed to decide without an outsider butting in. But it was Dr West who stepped forward and raised a hand for silence.
"Have I proven myself these past three years?" he said in a low steady voice.
"Well, yeah..." Cap admitted. "You've been a good leader. You took care of us when we got wounded as well as a nurse could. We sure can't complain about the way we've been treated."
"What about the war on werewolves?" asked West. "How has that gone?"
Scoop jumped to his feet. "You've been great. It's your planning and your attention to detail that has led to our wiping out so many howlers. Look... Champ, Scot, Cap... I say this changes nothing. Nothing at all. Doc is still our leader and we'll follow him into Hell. Am I right?"
Everyone agreed. Bane felt relief. This battle was going to be nearly impossible to win as it was, having dissension in the Hunting Party would be disastrous.
V.
The deep woods were silent that night. No owls hooted, no small mammals rustled through the underbrush. There was not even a breeze. Nature seemed to be holding its breath. Moving a few feet ahead of his new teammates, the Dire Wolf moved steadily forward with an uncanny stealth. On the inside of his visor, the Trom light enhancers gave him a clear view of the area. To be honest, he would have preferred to proceed on his own without two Human partners to worry about. He knew his capabilies. But Champ had insisted on going with him and inevitably Scoop had joined as well. Bane figured the two men were inseperable with their good-natured teasing a sign of deep trust for each other.
He paused before entering a clearing, watching and listening. Behind him, Champ muttered, "I honestly can't smell that spray you dosed us with, Jeremy. You sure it's working?"
"Yes. It's a neutralizer. The chemical balance reduces your scent to as close to nonexistent as possible. We're effectively invisible to the howlers." Bane did not explain that the scent neutralizer was devised by the Trom and that he was forbidden to share its formula or to give one of the spray tubes to a colleague. The agreement was that the KDF received restricted use to advanced Trom weapons and technology in exchange for arranging Tel Shai membership to a Trom representative.
Champ grunted in reply. The big man's name was Antonio Costello from Atlantic City. At the age of twenty, he had been a minor sensation in the overlapping worlds of bodybuilding and professional wrestling but he had dropped out because of all the deals with organized crimes that had been asked of him. For this expedition, he was wearing Army combat boots, tough baggy pants and a distressed leather coat that had seen considerable wear and tear. Holstered on a web belt was a .357 Magnum; he was one of the few men with hands large enough to comfortably grip that weapon. Sheathed up behind his left shoulder where he could draw it quickly was a seven-inch survival knife whose edges had been trimmed with silver.
But Champ's main defense was the Quando. A traditional Chinese weapon, his was a five foot steel shaft with rough leather grips in the middle. Its top end had had a rectangular block the size of a fist, with further effect given by a short spike extending perpendicular to the shaft. The sharp points on both ends had also been dipped in pure silver. Costello twirled the heavy weapon the way a teenager might play with a baton. The modified Quando reminded Bane of several medieval European weapons; it was a good choice to bring.
Scoop had been keeping up well enough. Les Hannigan was his real name, he did freelance work for local TV stations and had a Sunday column in several newspapers, mostly writing about government corruption. The small wiry journalist had mentioned that he jogged for exercise. He was wearing sneakers, denim jeans and a red checked flannel shirt, with a Mets baseball cap on his red hair. Around his thin waist was a Wild West-style gunbelt holding Colt .32 revolvers. Slung from one shoulder was an Uzi. All three of them were using silver bullets which Dr West had stored in plentiful supply.
"You want to ride on my shoulders, squirt?" asked Champ.
"Why, you. Don't listen to him, Jeremy," Scoop said. "Champ is not that bright. When you point at something, he looks at your finger!"
"Keep it down, both of you." Under the best of circumstances, Bane seldom showed any sense of humor and he was at his upper limit for tenseness just then. Every few minutes, he glimpsed dark shapes scuttling through the shadows or heard a branch rustle far to one side. They were being stalked, all right. Why hadn't the monsters attacked? Was it the intimidating scent of all the silver? Or were the beasts under orders not to kill the three Humans yet?
"I'm glad Cap and Scot stayed at the house to keep an eye on things," Champ went on in a quieter rumble. "They're better shots than either of us, that's fer shure. With Doc watching the closed-circuit TV cameras outside the house, they'll mow down any howlers that stick their snouts into view."
Bane shushed him. He had his head cocked to one side. "Quick, behind those trees." Taking Scoop by one arm forcibly, the Dire Wolf vaulted ten feet to swing around between a group of elms. Champ was right behind them. They held their breaths. Scoop had jerked his arm out of Bane's hold with some annoyance when the rapid pad of footfalls came clearer.
Across the clearing in the bright moonlight, dozens of werewolves galloped past. They were all sizes and shapes, with fur that was black or red or brown. Some ran on two legs and seemed like regular Humans covered with bristly fur and some lupine features. Some appeared to be normal four-legged wolves that any zoologist would hardly notice as unusual. But most were bizarre creatures with characteristics of both species, loping along and snuffling excitedly. Few looked anything like each other.
Watching them race past, Bane estimated he was seeing at least eighty of the monsters. He felt a dismay that was rare for him. The Trom armor under his field suit protected him against mundane threats like gunshots or blunt instruments, but these creatures were supernatural. Their fangs and claws would pierce his armor with only slight difficulty. But turning back and making a stand at Harris West House would not end this menace. He was sure that Mardigail was the key to finishing the Great Pack off.
Finally, the stampede of howlers trickled down to a few stragglers and then there was silence again. Eventually, Scoop let out a deep shuddering breath. "I'm going back to get some clean underwear."
"Always kidding around," Champ said. "Man, that WAS scary. You notice they wuz all heading in the same direction we're going?"
"Mardigail has summoned them," said the Dire Wolf. He stepped back out into the clearing. "You two should report back to the lodge and
settle in for a siege. I can approach the Pack better by myself."
"Aw, you give me a pain with that conceited attitude," Champ snorted. "Get over yourself. Scoop and me have been wiping out werewolves for years now. They should be afraid of us!"
"All right," said the Dire Wolf. Without arguing, he simply set off against at a brisk easy trot he could keep up all day. The terrain was sloping downhill, which helped their progress.
[The three are attacked by a dozen werewolves and fight their way down to the cabin in the clearing. Champ is wounded by a claw gouge across his chest, not a bite. Bane forces the front door and hauls the two men inside. There they find Mardigail waiting for them, with his personal guard of rifle-toting Vandages]
VI.
Slowly and deliberately, Bane thumbed the ear pod on his helmet that made the visor rise into its internal track. Without looking behind him, he said, "Scoop, take care of Champ's injuries. I'll handle this." He had already holstered his gun and now he unfastened the helmet to raise it up off his face and cradle it in the crook of one arm. As a dozen shape-changers drew toward him, the Dire Wolf gave them a cold glare that actually made them cringe back a bit. It was the sheer confidence and assurance in his manner that they recognized and were cowed by. Few of the werewolves could stand up to those icy grey eyes.
"Bane. Again," said Mardigail. "I am not a bit surprised."
The master of the Great Pack was a broad sturdy figure of medium height, wrapped loosely in a brown robe beneath which he was apparently naked. The bare legs and arms showed muscle hard and gnarled as an old oak. His coarse brown hair was well flecked with white as was the bristly beard and the hairy chest. Hanging on a fine-linked chain around his neck was a pentagonal medallion of the red Gremthom metal. Alone of the enemy, he stared back at the Dire Wolf steadily.
Bane placed his gun on a small table near to hand, then drew two daggers from their sheaths beneath his sleeves and carefully laid them down as well. That really upset the dozen howlers. The presence of silver made them so uneasy that Mardigail had to snap at them to settle down and stand your ground. The Dire Wolf lowered his empty hands. "Oh, we know each other, King of the Werewolves. I'm here to negotiate."
"Indeed? But the rest of your Tel Shai knights, where might they be tonight?"
"I'm here first," Bane said. "Let's talk and see if we can offer some terms."
Mardigail snapped his fingers and one of the more Humanoid two-legged werewolves dragged over a pair of sturdy wooden chairs to the table. The leader of the Great Pack and the Dire Wolf arranged themselves sitting out of reach of each other, with the length of the table between them. In the moments this took, Bane added up more details of the room. Of course it stank. In the corners were piles of well-gnawed bones. There was no other furniture in evidence other than the table and chairs, but piles of blankets were arranged along one wall. This was all as he had expected to find.
"Let me start by saying that I spoke with my contacts in the Mandate before leaving the city," Bane said. "They will have the National Guard standing by. Within eight hours, squads of heavily armed soldiers will tearing through the woods on an extermination spree. They know about silver bullets. They'll use dogs. They have helicopters. So take that in account before you work on terms to leave the area."
"Oh really. That is not at all like you, Bane. I know your methods. You only call in the Mandate or Department 21 Black after the carnage has died down. You regard them as a clean-up crew to pick up after you. So I find your claim dubious, to say the least."
Continuing as if his enemy had not spoken, the Dire Wolf said, "I've checked out the Hunting Party's fortress. It's beyond what claws and fangs can breach. Unless you've arranged for a Sherman tank to show up, you're not getting in and they're equipped to stay boarded up there for a month in comfort."
Mardigail dismissed this with a wave of a broad hand. "Water wears down mountains. My followers will find a weak point and then they will pour into that lodge like a wave crashing." After saying that, the Great Pack alpha lifted a folded linen cloth and dropped it over the daggers which sat between them, then made a bundle and tossed it to the far side of the room. Two howlers scuttled frantically out of the way with yelps of discomfort.
"The silver bothers you, I know," Bane went on. "One shifter said being near it made his skin burn as if peeling off. But that's okay."
"Of course, I feel I may relax more with your famous weapons away from your hands," laughed Mardigail. "Please continue. Is there any other false hope you wish to give yourself?"
The Dire Wolf pointed at the four white-furred Vandages, who were standing guard with lever-action Winchesters in their clawed hands. "Very rare. I didn't think any sorcerer today had knowledge enough to bring those creatures into the real world from Zimborlin."
"You show some obscure knowledge," Mardigail said. He stroked the wiry greying beard and thought for a second before saying, "Go on, why don't you?"
Before he spoke, Bane turned his head to check on his teammates. Scoop was seated on the dingy wooden floor, supporting the semi-conscious Champ in his arms. The smallish journalist had ripped off his own jacket sleeves to bind up the gash across the beefy weightlifter's chest. Although the material was soaked with blood, no new blood was coming through. Scoop looked up with a bleak expression and nodded once.
Giving Mardigail his full attention again, Bane said, "The White Wolves are brutes modified by Tollinor Kje from ordinary timber wolves. Somewhere in the thousands of years since then, a Human warlock bred White Wolves with Humans to create these Vandages. I can see where they would be useful to you as go-betweens with the more bestial howlers. But they are not your real project, are they? You have something much bigger in mind."
"You begin to show some intelligence, Bane." Mardigail hitched his robe closer across his wide chest and made a gesture toward a cabinet near them. "Perhaps a glass of wine while you enlighten me?"
"No, thanks," Bane answered. "This won't take long." He looked back at the two Hunting Party men again. "Scoop, listen. I want you to carefully haul Champ over behind that couch and then both of you lie low. Do it." Seeing the journalist start to gingerly drag his wounded buddy over behind a delapidated sofa, the Dire Wolf fixed his grey eyes on Mardigail again.
The King of the Werewolves returned the stare with increasing uneasiness. "You were explaining my own plan to me."
"Fair enough. Thinking about the logistics of this Great Pack of yours, I don't see how so many Howlers could be congregated here from any distances. It would take months and they would depopulate the wildlife for fifty miles in all directions. No, I think right there are more missing persons cases in the Adirondack State Park than ever before. You brought unwilling victims here. I think you have discovered the basic nature of lycanthropy."
To Bane's surprise, Jamil Mardigail snorted and then broke out in laughter he could not repress. "Yes! Yes. Finally, someone understands. Protoplasm is mostly water, Mr Bane, more than ninety-five per cent so. Gralic force can reduce the surface tension on a molecular level so that the organs and limbs and glands will reshape without losing their functions. The final shape which gels is chosen by the shifter's subconscious."
"And most of the time, it's an animal totem they identify with," Bane added. "Lion, bear, even bat... but mostly wolf. You found a way to force the change on any Humans in a wide area and place them under your control. Am I right?"
Instead of answering, Mardigail gestured for the Vandages to draw closer. "Raise your weapons," he said. "Be alert. Yes, Dire Wolf. I have done all this. The Great Pack out there in the night will not return to their earlier lives. They are mine forever. Only a handful were changers before I call them, and they may revert to Human in death or under duress. But my army will stay the way they are and they will obey me."
"I'm so sorry to hear that," Bane said, and his voice showed he felt burdened by all this. "All right then. They're lost souls. So I have just have two more things to say. I recognize that medallion you wear. It's one of the Five Amulets. On my KDF's first mission, we recovered the Amulet of Damozar which controlled Ghouls. So that's how you keep these howlers under your thumb."
Despite prudence which would lead him to deny everything, Mardigail reached up to touch the round Gremthom token hanging on his hairy exposed chest. "So be it then. You mentioned you had two things to say before we end this?"
"Yes." Bane had been leaning forward in his chair, hands resting wearily on his knees. A new roughness came into his voice. "By now, almost everyone knows I carry the two ensalir-bladed daggers. It's even widely known that I wear them on my forearms. So, sometimes, when I think I might be searched and disarmed, I bring decoys. Those two weapons you threw in the corner are ordinary steel knives with a thin coating of silver to mislead you."
Mardigail gasped as those words sank in but he did not have time to react. The Dire Wolf had reached down into his boots and he shot to his feet with one of the silver-bladed daggers in each hand.
VI.
The explosion of violence caught the Vandages not fully prepared. They were quick-thinking predators who had taken many victims with ease, but they had never faced Jeremy Bane before. The Dire Wolf moved on their own level, but he had highly honed martial arts skill and cool planning rather than mere ferocity. With half a second, he had bodyslammed the nearest man-wolf hybrid into two others so they fell in a tangle, and in a continuation of the same movement, a front snap kick smashed his steel-toe boot up under the jaw of another Vandage. That creature's head swung so far back that its neck broke.
Jamil Mardigail was barely beginning to react to this stunning blur of motion before Bane was upon him. The silver daggers slashed left and right and back again. The leader of the Great Pack slumped back down in his chair, with his massive head dangling from a neck that had been nearly severed, two gouges opening up his chest so his lungs showed. The Dire Wolf had thought of his every move before he had started. Dropping the dagger from one hand, he yanked the Darthan medallion up off Mardigail's dying form and clenched it tightly. Hot stinging energy ran up his arm.
"Lie down!" he yelled as loudly as he could. "All of you, lie down on the floor and stay there!" He had been just in time. The two Vandages who had remained on their feet had been pointing their rifles at him and several of the other howlers were already crouching to spring at him. At his command, they all meekly got down and stretched out on their stomachs. In their amber eyes that murderous gleam remained but they could not disobey.
Bane's hand and lower arm ached from holding the Amulet. He hated even coming in contact with a Darthan talisman, let alone using one, but he had no choice. Watching the werewolves scattered across the floor, he wiped his daggers on Mardigail's robe, which further enraged the howlers so much he thought they were likely to go into cardiac arrest. He slid the knives back into their sheaths without loosening his grip on the amulet.
"Scoop?" he asked. "You guys okay?"
"Yeah, Jeremy," came the voice from behind the couch. "Champ has stopped bleeding. He's weak but starting to stir a little."
"Good. I want both of you to stay hidden back there as long as you possibly can. Use your best judgement."
"Wait! What are you going to do?" Scoop said.
"Something that might solve our problems." Bane backed toward the door and opened it a crack. "Everyone stay back! Stay back!" he yelled. He moved out onto the porch and flinched involuntarily at all the glittering eyes staring at him out of the darkness. Even Bane felt uncomfortable facing a horde of vicious manbeasts who ached to rip him apart. But so far the Amulet was working. He headed slowly up the trail away from the old cabin, repeating "Stay back! Stay!" at the top of his lungs every few feet.
In the back of his mind, he realized he was using the same commands you'd give a tame house dog, 'Lie down,' and 'Stay.' It struck him as vaguely ironic but the immense danger of the situation occupied his thoughts. He made it a full eighty yards along the trail, standing at the crest of a low rise, and looked back at a hellish mob of shaggy, growling monsters all watching him. They craved to bite and claw at him until he was mere shreds. Only the arcane power of the ancient Darthan talisman was keeping them at bay. What a nightmare, he thought.
Glancing ahead, he saw the trail was deserted until it ended at the edge of the forest. Hopefully, all of the Great Pack had assembled near the cabin where Mardigail would have given the attack orders. Bane took a deep breath and held up the Amulet, then shouted, "Follow me! Come on! Follow me!" Swinging on one heel, he flashed away full tilt faster than he had ever run before.
An instant later, a hideous howling filled the night air as a hundred throats bayed furiously. Not even in prehistoric times had that forest echoed to so many predators crying out as they launched themselves after a prey. Bane's top running speed had never been clocked in a trial. At Tel Shai, Teacher Chael had estimated that Bane possessed natural reflexes and voluntary movements between two and three times as fast as the fastest Human, judging by the way he fought in Kumundu duels. So, with an army of werewolves loping in pursuit, the Dire Wolf tore through the woods faster than any whitetail had ever fled a pack of normal wolves. The ruddy moon and clear starry sky gave enough light that he could retrace his route without hesitation.
After a mile, when he had hit his stride, Bane estimated by sound that the Great Pack was not drawing any closer behind him. He was holding his own. When he had first devised this desperate plan, he had considered that he might have to slow down and use the Amulet to command the howlers to stay back but he didn't know if the talisman would work before he was torn apart. He kept running. Crises like these were why he trained so hard year after year, never slacking off, never skipping a session with Teacher Chael. His pace was steady as the distance in front of him became the distance behind him.
There was the hill, with Harris West House sitting atop it. Now, the Dire Wolf drew on his deepest resources. Adrenalin was already burning through his body, he called on all his reserves as he rushed up the slope. The snarling and panting sounded noticeably closer.
The headquarters building was brilliantly lit by floodlamps. Up on the second floor, he spotted a dark form moving in one window and then the other on the roof itself. Scot and Cap, the remaining Hunting Party members. As Bane drew near, abruptly flashes of white light flickered overhead and gunfire crackled. The men were shooting directly into that hairy mob, launching a barrage of silver bullets that dropped one howler after another. Leaping after their fallen brethren, the howlers quickened even more and the closest one was so close he snapped at Bane without quite making contact.
The oak tree by the edge of the cliff! Bane seized the nylon cord with his free hand and swung out over the abyss. At the same time, he threw the Amulet outward as far as he could and screamed, "Get it! Go after it!" With both hands, he pulled himself up and wriggled onto a gnarled branch thick enough to support his weight. "Fetch," he added as he realized how hard he was breathing.
For a full minute, a flood of hairy bodies stampeded headlong over that cliff to plummet onto the jagged rocks of the dry creek. The thuds and thumps drowned out shrieks of inhuman pain. Eventually, only a few stragglers remained but none hesitated. The power of the Amulet compelled them. Then there were no more.
Cap and Scot emerged from the rear door and leaned over the brink. They fired down to finish off any werewolves who seemed to be surviving the drop. Dr West came out last and steadied the cord as Bane started climbing down, but the Dire Wolf's hands were weak and he fell the final ten feet to sprawl on the gravel. "I'm all right," he gasped, trying to sit up. "I... might need a minute."
"Scoop? Champ? What about them?" asked West, helping to support Bane.
"They were okay when I left them. Mardigail is definitely dead. We'll need to use one of your Jeeps to go retrieve our friends." Bane was sitting up but did not feel able to stand at the moment. He could not remember the last time he had pushed himself to the limits so thoroughly. Cramps were making his legs tighten up.
Carrying his BAR, Scot wiped a sweaty face with the back of one hand. "What a sight. You know about the 'buffalo jumps,' where your Indians used to stampede a herd of bison over a cliff? That's what this looks like. I'll never forget it."
"I was telling Edwin that Champ and Scoop were all right the last I saw them," Bane replied. He had gotten his wind back and felt only tremendous relief as all the stress and anxiety fell away.
"Glad to hear that. You did good work," said Scot. "It's amazing. We've rid the world of so many howlers tonight. But, you know, our war will never be over. There will always be new ones turning up."
Managing to get back to his feet, Bane patted West thankfully on one shoulder for the help. "I suppose. It's like fighting crime. Maybe even now, a few of the Great Pack were too far away to be pulled into the trap."
As if responding to his words, a mournful howl sounded far-off under the moon. They gave each other wry smiles despite the weariness.
1/11/2019
