"Two Silver Daggers"
May. 14th, 2022 02:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Two Silver Daggers"
5/19/1977
I.
Jeremy Bane awoke with a gasp and sat up in an unfamiliar bed. He felt so weak but at least he was more clear-headed. Whatever had been making him deathly sick was over. His memories were vague at firstw. What had been the problem? His arm. Yes, the bites on his arm, he remembered now. Infected. Swollen, red, burning hot to the touch. The young Dire Wolf raised his left arm and saw a poultice of arrowhead-shaped purple leaves taped to where his wound had been. He brought his arm closer and sniffed a pleasant minty aroma that made his head swim. What the hell?
Nearly twenty, Bane was a gaunt young man with short black hair and pale grey eyes set under heavy feral brows. He glanced down at his wiry muscular torso with its white scars from earlier fights and saw that his shirt was gone. He pulled the blanket out and found he was wearing only the pair of white underwear. His clothes had been taken.
Now he was really alarmed. Where was his knife? Or the thin steel chain he wore instead of a belt because it could be whipped off and used as a weapon? Or most importantly, where was his grouch bag, the small chamois bag that hung on a cord around his neck, crammed with every cent he had in the world? Bane started to swing his legs around preparatory to leaping out of bed, but he felt the world whirling. He couldn't do it. He sank back against the double pillows, unconsciously pulling the heavy comforter back up to his chin. Maybe in a minute he would try again.
Where was he anyway? A room maybe fifteen feet to each side, with real wood walls and a polished wood floor decorated with an oval-shaped rug. A heavily curtained window let in enough light to show it was afternoon. Opposite the bed was a massive oak dresser, a long mirror in a gilt frame running across its top. Over in the corner nearest him was an old-fashioned writing desk with its simple chair, and a telephone sat there temptingly available. The narrow door next to that desk was ajar, enough to give a glimpse of a sink with white enamel taps... a bathroom then.
As his head stopped spinning, the Dire Wolf still did not relax but he felt slightly less panic. This was not how Yorick's gang would treat him. If they did not let him die of the infection, they would have brought him to some damp sound-proofed basement far from anyone who could hear him scream under questioning. No, crazy as it was, somehow he felt safe here....
Then the door opened and a small bent figure entered. It was the same old man Bane had come here to rob.
He estimated the man was in his late seventies. Not more than five feet nine or ten to begin with, arthritis was making him stay slightly hunched over as he came into the room. Dred was well dressed in a dark brown tweed suit with a tan shirt and black necktie, even a vest. The old man had a gnomish, deeply lined face beneath grey hair that was receding well back on a high forehead. The dark eyes were shrewd and alert.
"Ah! Excellent," Dred greeted his puzzled guest. "Good afternoon, my name is Kenneth Dred. You are in my building. A few minutes ago, your fever broke. You broke out in a sweat and the shivering stopped. When I took your temperature, it was back to normal. Here." He held out a china saucer and a white tea cup with a thin gold ring around the rim.
Bane took the cup without thinking. When he smelled the same sharp fragrance of mint, he took a sip and then drained the cup in a single gulp. Immediately, he felt better. Relief seemed to flow through his body in a wave. "Thanks. I guess I was pretty sick."
"Oh, you were near death," Dred replied, taking the empty cup and placing it with the saucer on the writing desk. He pulled the simple leather-padded chair over by the bed and sank down onto it with a sigh. "Ow, my poor back will never be what it once was. Dragging you off the roof to the elevator and then in here took everything I had. Yes, my boy, the bites on your arm were more inflamed than I have ever seen before. But because they were inflicted by a Growler, taking you to a hospital would have done no good. They might have cleaned and dressed the wound, but that venom is not anything they would have recognized."
The young Dire Wolf exhaled, feeling almost giddy at having the pain and fear become only a memory that was already fading. He knew he had to get out of here. Yorick's goons would be looking for him. He needed his clothes, his weapons, but that seemed less urgent than before for some reason. "What is this stuff? That cup of tea, these leaves on my arm, what are they?"
"Ah, one of the great secrets of the Midnight War. Those are Tagra leaves, son. Almost impossible to obtain. I got hold of a tiny amount by chance when I was in the lair of a Tel Shai knight after he had died. I can't say why I didn't use them on myself.. their healing property is miraculous... but something told me to save them for an unexpected emergency. That was all I had."
"Yeah? Thanks again." Bane started to swing his legs around again, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He felt back to normal, maybe better than usual. "I appreciate it believe me but I have to get going. Where are my clothes, by the way?"
"Oh, they are in my dryer in the basement," Dred replied. "Between the blood and the sweat and general grime, they badly needed laundering. They should be ready soon. What was it you came here to steal?"
That stopped Bane short. For a long tense thirty seconds, he did not respond. "Hell. Yes, I'm a thief. I'll do whatever it takes to survive. I was gonna get paid enough to rent a room for a few weeks and eat some decent meals. The guy who hired me said this joint was packed with valuables and you were so rich you would never miss a few."
Oddly, Dred seemed more amused than angry at this. "Exactly what were you supposed to steal?"
"A sword, of all things. Six feet long, made of some red metal like copper. I was told to forget about snatching any cash or jewels or anything, all the guy wanted was that sword."
"Hellspawn."
"Yeah. That was the name. Hellspawn." The pale grey eyes were studying the old man's face. "You don't seem to be getting mad about it."
"No, not really. First, Hellspawn is secured beyond your ability to take. Even if you had come here with high explosives, you would not be able to reach it. More than that, something in your reactions hints your heart is not in your way of life."
"Look, I'd feel better with a pair of pants on," Bane said. "Then, if you're not pressing charges, I will be on my way."
Dred maneuvered himself up onto his feet with a subdued grunt of discomfort. He reached over for the teacup and saucer. "Your clothes should be dry now. But I saw your name on the fake drivers' license in your wallet. Not a bad fake, by the way. Jeremy Bane. Jeremy, think about the beast who savaged you, who left fang wounds on you that brought you within inches of death. And you should realize that the man who hired you still has that beast ready to finish you off."
II.
As soon as Dred returned with his clothes, Bane rushed to get into them. All were plain black with no trace of bright colors or accents... canvas sneakers, socks, jeans, a crewneck shirt and a nylon windbreaker. The seven inch commando knife in its sheath was in the bundle too and he strapped it on so its hilt stood up behind his right shoulder for easy draw. The beat-up wallet and cigarette lighter and three keys on a ring went into his pockets.
Not caring what the old man might think, the Dire Wolf undid his grouch bag and counted his savings. Forty-three dollars, about what he usually managed to scrape gather at any one point. He tucked the bag under his shirt. "Not that I'm ungrateful, mister, but I gotta move on."
"Heh, I think you can make time for this." The old man brought in a wooden serving tray with a plate covered by a pewter dome and a steaming mug of regular tea. "I have a married couple come in three times a week to cook a feast and I live on the leftovers in between."
Bane's stomach rumbled audibly in the room. He WAS starving. Whatever made him so much faster than normal people also meant he burned up calories like a bonfire and he had not eaten since the day before. There was no decision to be made. He plopped back down on the bed and lifted the dome to reveal generous servings of sliced white turkey, mashed potatoes in a pool of gravy and mixed corn with peas. Two buttered soft rolls. A slice of blueberry pie on a separate plate. It was all hot enough that tendrils of steam rose from the surface. The aroma was irresistable.
Bane unrolled knife and fork from a linen napkin and dug in as if he had just crawled out of the wilderness. "Can't say no to this," he mumbled through a full mouth. "Mmm."
"Heh. I hope you get to try their lasagna sometime," Dred replied amiably. He sat down again on the chair which had not been moved in his absence. "So. While you were delirious with a fever of one hundred and six, and the Tagra was working to save you, I made a few phone calls. I have sources. A man who calls himself Bleak had some intriguing information about you."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Little is known for certain about you, my boy. You seem to be an orphan who literally grew up on the streets fending for himself. Although you haven't joined any one gang, you have hired on to fight in their clashes for territory. It's said you won't deal drugs or handle sex trafficking but you have no problem fighting gangsters on behalf of their rivals. You have committed several burglaries recently on behalf of some one called Yorick. Yorick, that's droll."
The food was disappearing rapidly. Bane paused for a second and wiped his mouth. "What's funny about that name?"
"It's from a play by William Shakespeare. Hamlet picks up the bare skull of a jester who had been named Yorick. If you meet this mastermind in person, you'll understand why he chose that name."
"If you say so." The Dire Wolf went back to cleaning the plate of the last crumbs. "So, you found out about me."
"Not enough to explain what a puzzle you are. Bleak said you were widely rumored to be physically faster than a rattlesnake striking. Almost superhuman. The stories of you fighting four men at a time, dodging bullets at point-blank range, catching up on foot with a car before it can reach full speed and yanking the driver out.. there are some fascinating legends about you, Jeremy."
Those pale eyes remained cold and distant as he sipped the tea. It was regular Orange Pekoe, not the strange Tagra that had cured him. "Yeah. I'm kind of a freak. Can't explain it. Thanks for everything, Mr Dred. Not only this food, but taking care of me when I was dying. Especially after I came here to rob you. Guess I owe you a big one, maybe I can pay you back someday."
"You still do not realize what danger you are in, son."
Bane had straightened up, tugged his windbreaker down and turned toward the door. "Like what?"
"You were still up on my roof because you failed to break in. Yorick's men were watching. When you went back to climb down your rope, they loosed the Growler on you."
Sudden memory flooded back into Bane's awareness. That long dark form crouching and leaping, sleek black fur bristling in the night. A desperate struggle to keep slavering fangs away from his throat and push the monster away. Then the swipe of those jaws that ripped open his sleeve and left a deep gouge along his arm. Instant burning pain and dizziness that was worse than anything he had ever felt in a lifetime of violence. Then darkness and silence until he had woken up in this room.
"Stop! Hold it, I remember everything now. Goddamn."
"Your mind was trying to push the memories away because they were too horrifying," Dred told him. "It happens to victims of violent assault, to survivors of plane crashes and train derailments. The trauma is damaging enough that the mind tries to protect itself by forgetting. That beast is a servant of Yorick. Once it is known that you survived, that Growler will be sent again to kill you."
"Whew. Guess I better buy a gun. Biggest I can find, maybe a .44 Magnum, you know?"
"Mundane bullets against a creature of the night? No, no, you might as well throw roses against monsters like that. But I think I will take a chance on you, Jeremy. I see a spark in you that has not entirely gone out yet. Here, have something that will give you a fighting chance." Dred reached down to where he had placed something on the floor and brought up two sheaths of soft leather. These held matched throwing knives without crossguards and only simple rough grips for hilts. "Two silver daggers."
III.
Striding briskly through the night, Bane made his way to a notoriously bad neighborhood on the Lower East Side. Part of the Bowery, sometimes called Skid Row, it was so run down that the deeply pitted roads damaged suspensions on cars passing through. Sleazy topless bars, old buildings that were once mansions for the wealthy but now held apartments where desperate immigrants huddled six to a room, pawn shops and liquor stores and used clothing nooks. Small clusters of sullen young men watched the Dire Wolf go by but sized him up as too confident, too dangerous-looking, to be a safe victim. Bane stopped on a corner. Here was a dingy red brick structure only a few feet from the East River, unforgiveably called the Paradise Hotel.
He needed more time to digest all that Mr Dred had told him that afternoon. He had heard wild tales about the Midnight War, which allegedly had raged in secret for thousands of years with its human maniacs and inhuman monsters running after victims in the darkness. Dred had told him that there were non-Human Races in that very city that night. Sorcerers, men with fangs like rattlesnakes, Trolls that dug tunnels beneath the streets. Keeping a straight face and hiding his skepticism, the young Dire Wolf had slowly started to accept what Dred was telling him. His own ordeal with that creature had opened him to the outre. More was possible than the average person ever dreamed.
Bane tapped his forearms where the throwing daggers were held with their hilts right at the edge of his cuff for quick access. Kenneth Dred had told him that the daggers had great power against the creatures of night. They would be effective where normal weapons would fail. Dred had explained that the blades were of Ensalir, silver which had been blessed by the immortal Eldarin themselves. Those were only unfamiliar words to Bane, they meant nothing, but something about those two daggers gave him immense confidence he could handle anything. Even facing that Growler brute was not so much a possible ordeal but a challenge.
Standing across the street from the Paradise, Bane wondered why Dred had been so generous to him? People were no damn good, he had known that all his way. Dred would want something in return. Maybe to hire Bane as a bodyguard? The Dire Wolf gave one of his rare thin smiles in the gloom. Sleeping in that building and eating meals on a regular basis would not be too hard to take. But that would have to wait. Right now he had settle things with Yorick.
Seeing no traffic go by at the monment, he moved quickly into the blind alley between the hotel and the boarded-up store that had been closed for years. He knew the layout. Bane had stayed at the Paradise a few times, as he had slept in various hellholes and flophouses all over Manhattan. Even a rat-infested fleabag room was better than being curled up under cardboard boxes behind a dumpster. As a kid, he had done that many times as well.
A window on the second floor was raised to leave a two foot opening on this muggy night. All he needed. The Dire Wolf moved back as far as he could, raced forward and hopped up to plant both feet on the brick window ledge of the first floor window. Using his momentum and his strong legs, Bane leaped straight up to grasp the ledge of the window above him. He was nimble enough that he made clambering in through the open window seem easy. To his relief, there was no one in the narrow hall between rooms. Explaining his entrance would have been beyond his improvisational skills.
Yorick had taken two rooms on the third floor. Bane had been told to bring the sword there. The young Dire Wolf felt the burning of adrenalin in his veins as he silently crept up the stairs. He knew the trick of placing his feet on the far sides of each step to minimize creaking. Bane felt tense and eager, rather than nervous. It wasn't that he was fearless, he used fear as motivation to act anyway. And he knew his capabilities. At the top of the stairs, he swung around beside the opening where no door hung. This was where Yorick would station one of his guards.
Taking a quarter from his pocket, Bane dropped it down the stairwell. The clear metallic clink as it hit on the floor below them was just loud enough to draw attention, but not close enough to cause alarm. A second later, a brutal face with a flat nose and bristly red hair protruded through the opening, moving through further as the thug listened for any second noise.
The back of the man's neck was visible. Bane had raised his arm up behind his own head and now he slammed a tight fist down at the nape of the man's neck in a vicious rabbit punch. There was good reason such blows were outlawed in boxing. The guard made an odd wheezing noise and collapsed, Bane catching him with both hands and lowering him out of sight. No one else seemed to be out in that hall. Good. The young Dire Wolf dragged the limp form over to prop it up against the far wall where an ancient dark green bench stood.
The thug was breathing raggedly. Being knocked unconscious was not a trivial injury, he could easily die or suffer brain damage if not given medical treatment. Bane didn't even consider the man's fate. That was the enemy lying there. Going through the goon's pockets, he found a half-empty pack of Lucky Strikes, a lighter, a comb and two keys held together with a paper clip. But there were also three twenty dollar bills and two singles folded together and Bane pocketed this. Robbing gangsters he had beaten up was an old habit of his.
In the back of the man's trousers was a snub-nosed Colt .32 revolver. Perfect. Bane checked that there was a shell in the first chamber, thumbed the safety off and jammed the gun into his own waistband where his windbreaker hid it. Gun safety trainers would be horrified at the way he treated firearms but it was his life on the line, not theirs.
IV.
Emerging into the hall of the third floor, Bane sniffed the mixture of mildew and old cigarette smoke and even urine that had saturated the air in this dive for decades. The Paradise was notorious for welcoming prostitution and drug deals, as well as sheltering many alcoholics quietly going into a stupor each night. Loud arguments, even brawling, would go unreported. A few times while staying here, Bane had clearly heard a gunshot in the building but not any stir over it. It was a no man's land in the city.
Opposite him was a door with the brass numbers 301 on it. That was where he had been told to report. The Dire Wolf's left arm throbbed, reminding him of the attack that had nearly killed him. Cold anger settled in his mind. He spotted a crumpled newspaper on a bench over by the hall radiator. Bane took a page and brought it over by the door. Using his lighter, he set two ends of the page on fire and shoved it up afainst the bottom of the door, then moved quickly back toward the stairs.
In a few seconds, a voice behind the door could be heard saying, "Do you smell that? Go see what it is, Gene." By that time, the newspaper page had gone out, leaving a wisp of black smoke still rising.
The doorknob turned and the door swung open. A big, almost fat man in dark shirt and trousers poked his head out and stepped forward. As soon as that door began to move, the Dire Wolf was vaulting forward faster than a real wolf, spinning sideways to drive a stiff-legged kick right against the thug's sternum, throwing the man back into the room so hard he did a cartwheel. Directly behind him, Bane closed the door and swept his purloined revolver from side to side, covering the room.
The scene was as seedy as he had expected. The sagging mattress on a double bed, a small black and white TV with rabbit ears on a stand, a few chairs that didn't match each other. Two things were out of place. In an ornate bronze holder set on the floor, three sticks of pungent incense were burning. The other unexpected sight was Yorick.
Wrapping in a brown robe evidently made of burlap, the thin frail-looking man stood with his hands concealed within the bell sleeves. Yorick's face was a nearly fleshless nightmare without any hair, not even eyebrows. He resembled a skin tautly covered with dark yellow skin, the nose a mere stub with two nostrils, the mouth a wide slash. A prominent brow ledge stood out over two deepset black-irised eyes which regarded Bane's entrance without perturbation.
Now Bane understand what Dred had meant by the Hamlet reference. He was determined not to show how rattled he was by this hideous sight. "You're not gonna get too far in life on your looks, buddy."
That provoked a low chuckle. "Why are you not dead? Don't tell me that dear Growler is losing his venom."
"Look," said Bane. "I couldn't get that damn sword you wanted. Dred's building seems to have special windows that the diamond wheel couldn't scratch. But I would have found another way. You had no call to sic that monster on me, whatever it was!"
"There is so much you will never understand. You call yourself Dire Wolf? How pretentious. Obviously you are wondering if I was the victim of a fire or acid attack or other misfortune. No. All my Race look like this. I am a Nekrosan from Perjena. There are seventy thousand of us but we seldom leave our own realm."
"If you ask me, that's a good thing." Bane did not need to cock the double-action revolver, he held it out at the end of an extended arm as steady as if braced on an iron bar. "What about that thing that bit me? Tell me the truth, is that a real life werewolf? Because it sure seemed like one."
Behind him, he caught movement as the stunned guard gasped and tried to sit up. In another second, he would have to club the man again and use as much force as necessary. Bane had unshakeable confidence in his ability to meet any possible opponent in unarmed combat. He had sparred many hours at Mahoney's Gym as a training partner to get boxing tips and he had studied Black Mantis gung fu for a year under Sifu Yuan. That relationship had ended badly. But it was his enhanced speed that he counted on the most. To Bane, normal humans moved as if they were in water up to their necks and he could slip past any punch to tag the guy. He wasn't worried about the man behind him.
Until he heard the bestial deep-chested snarl.
Pure instinct told him to toss the gun far to one side. He crossed his arms in front of him and whipped the silver daggers from their sheaths under his sleeves. It felt so natural to grip them, it felt like he had been using them for years. Quick as he was, the dark shaggy form which slammed him to the floor was quicker still. Bane landed hard on his back with the monster kneeling astride him. He barely rammed one forearm up in time to keep those jaws from ripping his throat open.
Bane had a vague impression of a manlike figure covered in black fur, with a lupine head that showed upright ears and a long muzzle. Even as he was dashed to the floor and as he forced the creature's head back, Bane used his free hand to drive the dagger to the hilt in the monster's side. The result was better than he had dared hope. The Growler yelped in an oddly pathetic way and convulsed, falling back off him. Silver daggers! Springing to his feet, an enraged Dire Wolf whirled the daggers left and right in a windmill action that slashed all over the beast's torso. There was the opening. Bane drove the point of one blade into the left side of the chest and felt it slide cleanly through muscle. Right in the heart. The Growler wheezed and fell to its knees, dropping over onto one side.
Bane got his knives free and lurched back in case even this dying monster might still slash at him. Already the Growler was reverting to its human form. The man named Gene was lying on the bare wooden floor with blood still trickling from a dozen wounds.
The night wasn't over yet. Bane wheeled to face the stupefied Yorick and spat, "Now for you!"
The skull-faced man was gaping with his mouth wide open but he got his wits about him quickly. "You are no common mortal," he said. "Bearing ensalir blades, slaying a Growler! What are you? A Tel Shai knight? A Melgar? What am I dealing with here?"
"I'm just me," Bane replied, shifting his grip on the silver daggers. "That's enough."
The Nekrosan regained his composure. That macabre smile was the rictus seen on a corpse. "Hah. Something new in the Midnight War, eh?" With the last word, he whipped his hands out from within his sleeves and flung a noxious yellow powder into the air.
Against, instinct took over. As the poison dust was spreading out into a cloud, Bane backpedaled until he hit the wall behind him. Even the small amount he could not avoid inhaling launched him into a helpless coughing jab where his eyes ran blinded by tears. Desperate, he raised the knives and readied himself for whatever defense he could muster.
But instead, he heard the voice of the skull-faced man pass him, moving out into the hall. "I think I shall hear more about you, child. And there will be another time for us. Heh. Heh heh heh."
Still coughing and choking, Bane wiped his eyes with his sleeve and reeled out into the hall. He had to make tracks. That was a dead man on the floor of the room, covered with multiple stabs which would exactly match the blades on the daggers he was holding. There wasn't time to clean the blades, he sheathed them as they were and would worry about that later. Barely functional between the coughing and the tears, the Dire Wolf opened the window over the radiator, climbed out through it and hung by his fingertips before dropping straight down three stories. He landed in a roll that broke most of the impact but still had the wind knocked out of him. At least nothing felt broken.
The Dire Wolf placed one hand on the side of the building for support, staggered toward the rear of the alley and managed to climb up over the chest high wooden fence. He fell clumsily and had to admit he was not at his peak right then. He was in a courtyard facing the back of a restaurant within reach. It was of course closed this time of night. Long minutes dragged by before the coughing settled down and his eyes cleared enough to consider moving on. Bane held up his hands and saw they were trembling, so he clasped them together and waited to calm down.
He found it strangely easy to accept the bizarre things he had seen that night. The idea that he might be dreaming or hallucinating or insane never occured to him. Bane had a pragmatic, rather unimaginative mind that processed whatever he encountered and planned how to cope. That had been a man with a face like a living skull. That had been a man who changed shape into a furry beast. So it was a werewolf, like in the horror movies. He had never believed in such things but he trusted his senses. All he ever had to have faith in was himself.
Painfully getting to his feet, Bane straightened his clothes and wiped sweat from his face. In a weird way, that life and death struggle had excited him. He reacted well to high stress and danger. The Dire Wolf moved off onto 17th Street and began the long walk uptown, heading for 38th Street. That old guy Kenneth Dred had treated him square, he felt obligated to return the daggers even though he loved the weapons fiercely after that fight. Maybe there was some way he could earn them...
V.
In the reception room just to the left of the front door as one entered the building on East 38th Street, Kenneth Dred sat on the long leather-bound couch. He was leaning forward, bony hands clasped and resting on his knees. His concession to the late hour was trading his dress shoes for soft slippers and replacing his suit jacket with a heavy maroon smoking jacket, but he still had his necktie pulled up properly.
"I must admit to a good deal of anxiety," he said to his companion. "Those precious silver daggers saw me through decades of the Midnight War. They were a gift from Dr Vitarius and he received them from the Eldarin as a sign of great favor. I can never replace them. How could I trust them to a young man I don't know...and a young man who is a brutal street fighter at that?"
Seated next to him was a slender young girl no more than eighteen. Katherine Wheatley was wearing Navy blue slacks and a long-sleeved white silk blouse with two breast pockets and as buttoned-up collar. Her long straight black hair hung down past her shoulders and contrasted dramatically with two bright blue eyes.
"I found his mind exceedingly difficult to read," she said with a faint Northern England accent left even after her years in the States. "He's closed up inside like a bear trap that has been sprung."
"What could have I been thinking?" Dred asked, more to himself than to her.
The teen placed a hand on his sleeve in a rare moment of contact between them. "I believe you did the right thing, sir. I am only beginning to refine my power. I don't have much control. But the strongest impressions I got from his mind were suprise and gratitude. He's thankful for you healing him and for gifting him with those knives."
The old man turned toward her. "You know that for certain?"
"Yes," Katherine replied. "I could tell how isolated and lonely he is. Such a sad life. He was genuinely taken by your caring for him. I wish I could read actual thoughts, but I can't as yet. Still, I'm sure this Jeremy Bane lad liked you and was comfortable here." She swung her head to look out the open doorway into the hall and her face brightened with a grin. "I can feel him. He's come back. He's stepping up to the front door now!"
10/3/2020
5/19/1977
I.
Jeremy Bane awoke with a gasp and sat up in an unfamiliar bed. He felt so weak but at least he was more clear-headed. Whatever had been making him deathly sick was over. His memories were vague at firstw. What had been the problem? His arm. Yes, the bites on his arm, he remembered now. Infected. Swollen, red, burning hot to the touch. The young Dire Wolf raised his left arm and saw a poultice of arrowhead-shaped purple leaves taped to where his wound had been. He brought his arm closer and sniffed a pleasant minty aroma that made his head swim. What the hell?
Nearly twenty, Bane was a gaunt young man with short black hair and pale grey eyes set under heavy feral brows. He glanced down at his wiry muscular torso with its white scars from earlier fights and saw that his shirt was gone. He pulled the blanket out and found he was wearing only the pair of white underwear. His clothes had been taken.
Now he was really alarmed. Where was his knife? Or the thin steel chain he wore instead of a belt because it could be whipped off and used as a weapon? Or most importantly, where was his grouch bag, the small chamois bag that hung on a cord around his neck, crammed with every cent he had in the world? Bane started to swing his legs around preparatory to leaping out of bed, but he felt the world whirling. He couldn't do it. He sank back against the double pillows, unconsciously pulling the heavy comforter back up to his chin. Maybe in a minute he would try again.
Where was he anyway? A room maybe fifteen feet to each side, with real wood walls and a polished wood floor decorated with an oval-shaped rug. A heavily curtained window let in enough light to show it was afternoon. Opposite the bed was a massive oak dresser, a long mirror in a gilt frame running across its top. Over in the corner nearest him was an old-fashioned writing desk with its simple chair, and a telephone sat there temptingly available. The narrow door next to that desk was ajar, enough to give a glimpse of a sink with white enamel taps... a bathroom then.
As his head stopped spinning, the Dire Wolf still did not relax but he felt slightly less panic. This was not how Yorick's gang would treat him. If they did not let him die of the infection, they would have brought him to some damp sound-proofed basement far from anyone who could hear him scream under questioning. No, crazy as it was, somehow he felt safe here....
Then the door opened and a small bent figure entered. It was the same old man Bane had come here to rob.
He estimated the man was in his late seventies. Not more than five feet nine or ten to begin with, arthritis was making him stay slightly hunched over as he came into the room. Dred was well dressed in a dark brown tweed suit with a tan shirt and black necktie, even a vest. The old man had a gnomish, deeply lined face beneath grey hair that was receding well back on a high forehead. The dark eyes were shrewd and alert.
"Ah! Excellent," Dred greeted his puzzled guest. "Good afternoon, my name is Kenneth Dred. You are in my building. A few minutes ago, your fever broke. You broke out in a sweat and the shivering stopped. When I took your temperature, it was back to normal. Here." He held out a china saucer and a white tea cup with a thin gold ring around the rim.
Bane took the cup without thinking. When he smelled the same sharp fragrance of mint, he took a sip and then drained the cup in a single gulp. Immediately, he felt better. Relief seemed to flow through his body in a wave. "Thanks. I guess I was pretty sick."
"Oh, you were near death," Dred replied, taking the empty cup and placing it with the saucer on the writing desk. He pulled the simple leather-padded chair over by the bed and sank down onto it with a sigh. "Ow, my poor back will never be what it once was. Dragging you off the roof to the elevator and then in here took everything I had. Yes, my boy, the bites on your arm were more inflamed than I have ever seen before. But because they were inflicted by a Growler, taking you to a hospital would have done no good. They might have cleaned and dressed the wound, but that venom is not anything they would have recognized."
The young Dire Wolf exhaled, feeling almost giddy at having the pain and fear become only a memory that was already fading. He knew he had to get out of here. Yorick's goons would be looking for him. He needed his clothes, his weapons, but that seemed less urgent than before for some reason. "What is this stuff? That cup of tea, these leaves on my arm, what are they?"
"Ah, one of the great secrets of the Midnight War. Those are Tagra leaves, son. Almost impossible to obtain. I got hold of a tiny amount by chance when I was in the lair of a Tel Shai knight after he had died. I can't say why I didn't use them on myself.. their healing property is miraculous... but something told me to save them for an unexpected emergency. That was all I had."
"Yeah? Thanks again." Bane started to swing his legs around again, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He felt back to normal, maybe better than usual. "I appreciate it believe me but I have to get going. Where are my clothes, by the way?"
"Oh, they are in my dryer in the basement," Dred replied. "Between the blood and the sweat and general grime, they badly needed laundering. They should be ready soon. What was it you came here to steal?"
That stopped Bane short. For a long tense thirty seconds, he did not respond. "Hell. Yes, I'm a thief. I'll do whatever it takes to survive. I was gonna get paid enough to rent a room for a few weeks and eat some decent meals. The guy who hired me said this joint was packed with valuables and you were so rich you would never miss a few."
Oddly, Dred seemed more amused than angry at this. "Exactly what were you supposed to steal?"
"A sword, of all things. Six feet long, made of some red metal like copper. I was told to forget about snatching any cash or jewels or anything, all the guy wanted was that sword."
"Hellspawn."
"Yeah. That was the name. Hellspawn." The pale grey eyes were studying the old man's face. "You don't seem to be getting mad about it."
"No, not really. First, Hellspawn is secured beyond your ability to take. Even if you had come here with high explosives, you would not be able to reach it. More than that, something in your reactions hints your heart is not in your way of life."
"Look, I'd feel better with a pair of pants on," Bane said. "Then, if you're not pressing charges, I will be on my way."
Dred maneuvered himself up onto his feet with a subdued grunt of discomfort. He reached over for the teacup and saucer. "Your clothes should be dry now. But I saw your name on the fake drivers' license in your wallet. Not a bad fake, by the way. Jeremy Bane. Jeremy, think about the beast who savaged you, who left fang wounds on you that brought you within inches of death. And you should realize that the man who hired you still has that beast ready to finish you off."
II.
As soon as Dred returned with his clothes, Bane rushed to get into them. All were plain black with no trace of bright colors or accents... canvas sneakers, socks, jeans, a crewneck shirt and a nylon windbreaker. The seven inch commando knife in its sheath was in the bundle too and he strapped it on so its hilt stood up behind his right shoulder for easy draw. The beat-up wallet and cigarette lighter and three keys on a ring went into his pockets.
Not caring what the old man might think, the Dire Wolf undid his grouch bag and counted his savings. Forty-three dollars, about what he usually managed to scrape gather at any one point. He tucked the bag under his shirt. "Not that I'm ungrateful, mister, but I gotta move on."
"Heh, I think you can make time for this." The old man brought in a wooden serving tray with a plate covered by a pewter dome and a steaming mug of regular tea. "I have a married couple come in three times a week to cook a feast and I live on the leftovers in between."
Bane's stomach rumbled audibly in the room. He WAS starving. Whatever made him so much faster than normal people also meant he burned up calories like a bonfire and he had not eaten since the day before. There was no decision to be made. He plopped back down on the bed and lifted the dome to reveal generous servings of sliced white turkey, mashed potatoes in a pool of gravy and mixed corn with peas. Two buttered soft rolls. A slice of blueberry pie on a separate plate. It was all hot enough that tendrils of steam rose from the surface. The aroma was irresistable.
Bane unrolled knife and fork from a linen napkin and dug in as if he had just crawled out of the wilderness. "Can't say no to this," he mumbled through a full mouth. "Mmm."
"Heh. I hope you get to try their lasagna sometime," Dred replied amiably. He sat down again on the chair which had not been moved in his absence. "So. While you were delirious with a fever of one hundred and six, and the Tagra was working to save you, I made a few phone calls. I have sources. A man who calls himself Bleak had some intriguing information about you."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Little is known for certain about you, my boy. You seem to be an orphan who literally grew up on the streets fending for himself. Although you haven't joined any one gang, you have hired on to fight in their clashes for territory. It's said you won't deal drugs or handle sex trafficking but you have no problem fighting gangsters on behalf of their rivals. You have committed several burglaries recently on behalf of some one called Yorick. Yorick, that's droll."
The food was disappearing rapidly. Bane paused for a second and wiped his mouth. "What's funny about that name?"
"It's from a play by William Shakespeare. Hamlet picks up the bare skull of a jester who had been named Yorick. If you meet this mastermind in person, you'll understand why he chose that name."
"If you say so." The Dire Wolf went back to cleaning the plate of the last crumbs. "So, you found out about me."
"Not enough to explain what a puzzle you are. Bleak said you were widely rumored to be physically faster than a rattlesnake striking. Almost superhuman. The stories of you fighting four men at a time, dodging bullets at point-blank range, catching up on foot with a car before it can reach full speed and yanking the driver out.. there are some fascinating legends about you, Jeremy."
Those pale eyes remained cold and distant as he sipped the tea. It was regular Orange Pekoe, not the strange Tagra that had cured him. "Yeah. I'm kind of a freak. Can't explain it. Thanks for everything, Mr Dred. Not only this food, but taking care of me when I was dying. Especially after I came here to rob you. Guess I owe you a big one, maybe I can pay you back someday."
"You still do not realize what danger you are in, son."
Bane had straightened up, tugged his windbreaker down and turned toward the door. "Like what?"
"You were still up on my roof because you failed to break in. Yorick's men were watching. When you went back to climb down your rope, they loosed the Growler on you."
Sudden memory flooded back into Bane's awareness. That long dark form crouching and leaping, sleek black fur bristling in the night. A desperate struggle to keep slavering fangs away from his throat and push the monster away. Then the swipe of those jaws that ripped open his sleeve and left a deep gouge along his arm. Instant burning pain and dizziness that was worse than anything he had ever felt in a lifetime of violence. Then darkness and silence until he had woken up in this room.
"Stop! Hold it, I remember everything now. Goddamn."
"Your mind was trying to push the memories away because they were too horrifying," Dred told him. "It happens to victims of violent assault, to survivors of plane crashes and train derailments. The trauma is damaging enough that the mind tries to protect itself by forgetting. That beast is a servant of Yorick. Once it is known that you survived, that Growler will be sent again to kill you."
"Whew. Guess I better buy a gun. Biggest I can find, maybe a .44 Magnum, you know?"
"Mundane bullets against a creature of the night? No, no, you might as well throw roses against monsters like that. But I think I will take a chance on you, Jeremy. I see a spark in you that has not entirely gone out yet. Here, have something that will give you a fighting chance." Dred reached down to where he had placed something on the floor and brought up two sheaths of soft leather. These held matched throwing knives without crossguards and only simple rough grips for hilts. "Two silver daggers."
III.
Striding briskly through the night, Bane made his way to a notoriously bad neighborhood on the Lower East Side. Part of the Bowery, sometimes called Skid Row, it was so run down that the deeply pitted roads damaged suspensions on cars passing through. Sleazy topless bars, old buildings that were once mansions for the wealthy but now held apartments where desperate immigrants huddled six to a room, pawn shops and liquor stores and used clothing nooks. Small clusters of sullen young men watched the Dire Wolf go by but sized him up as too confident, too dangerous-looking, to be a safe victim. Bane stopped on a corner. Here was a dingy red brick structure only a few feet from the East River, unforgiveably called the Paradise Hotel.
He needed more time to digest all that Mr Dred had told him that afternoon. He had heard wild tales about the Midnight War, which allegedly had raged in secret for thousands of years with its human maniacs and inhuman monsters running after victims in the darkness. Dred had told him that there were non-Human Races in that very city that night. Sorcerers, men with fangs like rattlesnakes, Trolls that dug tunnels beneath the streets. Keeping a straight face and hiding his skepticism, the young Dire Wolf had slowly started to accept what Dred was telling him. His own ordeal with that creature had opened him to the outre. More was possible than the average person ever dreamed.
Bane tapped his forearms where the throwing daggers were held with their hilts right at the edge of his cuff for quick access. Kenneth Dred had told him that the daggers had great power against the creatures of night. They would be effective where normal weapons would fail. Dred had explained that the blades were of Ensalir, silver which had been blessed by the immortal Eldarin themselves. Those were only unfamiliar words to Bane, they meant nothing, but something about those two daggers gave him immense confidence he could handle anything. Even facing that Growler brute was not so much a possible ordeal but a challenge.
Standing across the street from the Paradise, Bane wondered why Dred had been so generous to him? People were no damn good, he had known that all his way. Dred would want something in return. Maybe to hire Bane as a bodyguard? The Dire Wolf gave one of his rare thin smiles in the gloom. Sleeping in that building and eating meals on a regular basis would not be too hard to take. But that would have to wait. Right now he had settle things with Yorick.
Seeing no traffic go by at the monment, he moved quickly into the blind alley between the hotel and the boarded-up store that had been closed for years. He knew the layout. Bane had stayed at the Paradise a few times, as he had slept in various hellholes and flophouses all over Manhattan. Even a rat-infested fleabag room was better than being curled up under cardboard boxes behind a dumpster. As a kid, he had done that many times as well.
A window on the second floor was raised to leave a two foot opening on this muggy night. All he needed. The Dire Wolf moved back as far as he could, raced forward and hopped up to plant both feet on the brick window ledge of the first floor window. Using his momentum and his strong legs, Bane leaped straight up to grasp the ledge of the window above him. He was nimble enough that he made clambering in through the open window seem easy. To his relief, there was no one in the narrow hall between rooms. Explaining his entrance would have been beyond his improvisational skills.
Yorick had taken two rooms on the third floor. Bane had been told to bring the sword there. The young Dire Wolf felt the burning of adrenalin in his veins as he silently crept up the stairs. He knew the trick of placing his feet on the far sides of each step to minimize creaking. Bane felt tense and eager, rather than nervous. It wasn't that he was fearless, he used fear as motivation to act anyway. And he knew his capabilities. At the top of the stairs, he swung around beside the opening where no door hung. This was where Yorick would station one of his guards.
Taking a quarter from his pocket, Bane dropped it down the stairwell. The clear metallic clink as it hit on the floor below them was just loud enough to draw attention, but not close enough to cause alarm. A second later, a brutal face with a flat nose and bristly red hair protruded through the opening, moving through further as the thug listened for any second noise.
The back of the man's neck was visible. Bane had raised his arm up behind his own head and now he slammed a tight fist down at the nape of the man's neck in a vicious rabbit punch. There was good reason such blows were outlawed in boxing. The guard made an odd wheezing noise and collapsed, Bane catching him with both hands and lowering him out of sight. No one else seemed to be out in that hall. Good. The young Dire Wolf dragged the limp form over to prop it up against the far wall where an ancient dark green bench stood.
The thug was breathing raggedly. Being knocked unconscious was not a trivial injury, he could easily die or suffer brain damage if not given medical treatment. Bane didn't even consider the man's fate. That was the enemy lying there. Going through the goon's pockets, he found a half-empty pack of Lucky Strikes, a lighter, a comb and two keys held together with a paper clip. But there were also three twenty dollar bills and two singles folded together and Bane pocketed this. Robbing gangsters he had beaten up was an old habit of his.
In the back of the man's trousers was a snub-nosed Colt .32 revolver. Perfect. Bane checked that there was a shell in the first chamber, thumbed the safety off and jammed the gun into his own waistband where his windbreaker hid it. Gun safety trainers would be horrified at the way he treated firearms but it was his life on the line, not theirs.
IV.
Emerging into the hall of the third floor, Bane sniffed the mixture of mildew and old cigarette smoke and even urine that had saturated the air in this dive for decades. The Paradise was notorious for welcoming prostitution and drug deals, as well as sheltering many alcoholics quietly going into a stupor each night. Loud arguments, even brawling, would go unreported. A few times while staying here, Bane had clearly heard a gunshot in the building but not any stir over it. It was a no man's land in the city.
Opposite him was a door with the brass numbers 301 on it. That was where he had been told to report. The Dire Wolf's left arm throbbed, reminding him of the attack that had nearly killed him. Cold anger settled in his mind. He spotted a crumpled newspaper on a bench over by the hall radiator. Bane took a page and brought it over by the door. Using his lighter, he set two ends of the page on fire and shoved it up afainst the bottom of the door, then moved quickly back toward the stairs.
In a few seconds, a voice behind the door could be heard saying, "Do you smell that? Go see what it is, Gene." By that time, the newspaper page had gone out, leaving a wisp of black smoke still rising.
The doorknob turned and the door swung open. A big, almost fat man in dark shirt and trousers poked his head out and stepped forward. As soon as that door began to move, the Dire Wolf was vaulting forward faster than a real wolf, spinning sideways to drive a stiff-legged kick right against the thug's sternum, throwing the man back into the room so hard he did a cartwheel. Directly behind him, Bane closed the door and swept his purloined revolver from side to side, covering the room.
The scene was as seedy as he had expected. The sagging mattress on a double bed, a small black and white TV with rabbit ears on a stand, a few chairs that didn't match each other. Two things were out of place. In an ornate bronze holder set on the floor, three sticks of pungent incense were burning. The other unexpected sight was Yorick.
Wrapping in a brown robe evidently made of burlap, the thin frail-looking man stood with his hands concealed within the bell sleeves. Yorick's face was a nearly fleshless nightmare without any hair, not even eyebrows. He resembled a skin tautly covered with dark yellow skin, the nose a mere stub with two nostrils, the mouth a wide slash. A prominent brow ledge stood out over two deepset black-irised eyes which regarded Bane's entrance without perturbation.
Now Bane understand what Dred had meant by the Hamlet reference. He was determined not to show how rattled he was by this hideous sight. "You're not gonna get too far in life on your looks, buddy."
That provoked a low chuckle. "Why are you not dead? Don't tell me that dear Growler is losing his venom."
"Look," said Bane. "I couldn't get that damn sword you wanted. Dred's building seems to have special windows that the diamond wheel couldn't scratch. But I would have found another way. You had no call to sic that monster on me, whatever it was!"
"There is so much you will never understand. You call yourself Dire Wolf? How pretentious. Obviously you are wondering if I was the victim of a fire or acid attack or other misfortune. No. All my Race look like this. I am a Nekrosan from Perjena. There are seventy thousand of us but we seldom leave our own realm."
"If you ask me, that's a good thing." Bane did not need to cock the double-action revolver, he held it out at the end of an extended arm as steady as if braced on an iron bar. "What about that thing that bit me? Tell me the truth, is that a real life werewolf? Because it sure seemed like one."
Behind him, he caught movement as the stunned guard gasped and tried to sit up. In another second, he would have to club the man again and use as much force as necessary. Bane had unshakeable confidence in his ability to meet any possible opponent in unarmed combat. He had sparred many hours at Mahoney's Gym as a training partner to get boxing tips and he had studied Black Mantis gung fu for a year under Sifu Yuan. That relationship had ended badly. But it was his enhanced speed that he counted on the most. To Bane, normal humans moved as if they were in water up to their necks and he could slip past any punch to tag the guy. He wasn't worried about the man behind him.
Until he heard the bestial deep-chested snarl.
Pure instinct told him to toss the gun far to one side. He crossed his arms in front of him and whipped the silver daggers from their sheaths under his sleeves. It felt so natural to grip them, it felt like he had been using them for years. Quick as he was, the dark shaggy form which slammed him to the floor was quicker still. Bane landed hard on his back with the monster kneeling astride him. He barely rammed one forearm up in time to keep those jaws from ripping his throat open.
Bane had a vague impression of a manlike figure covered in black fur, with a lupine head that showed upright ears and a long muzzle. Even as he was dashed to the floor and as he forced the creature's head back, Bane used his free hand to drive the dagger to the hilt in the monster's side. The result was better than he had dared hope. The Growler yelped in an oddly pathetic way and convulsed, falling back off him. Silver daggers! Springing to his feet, an enraged Dire Wolf whirled the daggers left and right in a windmill action that slashed all over the beast's torso. There was the opening. Bane drove the point of one blade into the left side of the chest and felt it slide cleanly through muscle. Right in the heart. The Growler wheezed and fell to its knees, dropping over onto one side.
Bane got his knives free and lurched back in case even this dying monster might still slash at him. Already the Growler was reverting to its human form. The man named Gene was lying on the bare wooden floor with blood still trickling from a dozen wounds.
The night wasn't over yet. Bane wheeled to face the stupefied Yorick and spat, "Now for you!"
The skull-faced man was gaping with his mouth wide open but he got his wits about him quickly. "You are no common mortal," he said. "Bearing ensalir blades, slaying a Growler! What are you? A Tel Shai knight? A Melgar? What am I dealing with here?"
"I'm just me," Bane replied, shifting his grip on the silver daggers. "That's enough."
The Nekrosan regained his composure. That macabre smile was the rictus seen on a corpse. "Hah. Something new in the Midnight War, eh?" With the last word, he whipped his hands out from within his sleeves and flung a noxious yellow powder into the air.
Against, instinct took over. As the poison dust was spreading out into a cloud, Bane backpedaled until he hit the wall behind him. Even the small amount he could not avoid inhaling launched him into a helpless coughing jab where his eyes ran blinded by tears. Desperate, he raised the knives and readied himself for whatever defense he could muster.
But instead, he heard the voice of the skull-faced man pass him, moving out into the hall. "I think I shall hear more about you, child. And there will be another time for us. Heh. Heh heh heh."
Still coughing and choking, Bane wiped his eyes with his sleeve and reeled out into the hall. He had to make tracks. That was a dead man on the floor of the room, covered with multiple stabs which would exactly match the blades on the daggers he was holding. There wasn't time to clean the blades, he sheathed them as they were and would worry about that later. Barely functional between the coughing and the tears, the Dire Wolf opened the window over the radiator, climbed out through it and hung by his fingertips before dropping straight down three stories. He landed in a roll that broke most of the impact but still had the wind knocked out of him. At least nothing felt broken.
The Dire Wolf placed one hand on the side of the building for support, staggered toward the rear of the alley and managed to climb up over the chest high wooden fence. He fell clumsily and had to admit he was not at his peak right then. He was in a courtyard facing the back of a restaurant within reach. It was of course closed this time of night. Long minutes dragged by before the coughing settled down and his eyes cleared enough to consider moving on. Bane held up his hands and saw they were trembling, so he clasped them together and waited to calm down.
He found it strangely easy to accept the bizarre things he had seen that night. The idea that he might be dreaming or hallucinating or insane never occured to him. Bane had a pragmatic, rather unimaginative mind that processed whatever he encountered and planned how to cope. That had been a man with a face like a living skull. That had been a man who changed shape into a furry beast. So it was a werewolf, like in the horror movies. He had never believed in such things but he trusted his senses. All he ever had to have faith in was himself.
Painfully getting to his feet, Bane straightened his clothes and wiped sweat from his face. In a weird way, that life and death struggle had excited him. He reacted well to high stress and danger. The Dire Wolf moved off onto 17th Street and began the long walk uptown, heading for 38th Street. That old guy Kenneth Dred had treated him square, he felt obligated to return the daggers even though he loved the weapons fiercely after that fight. Maybe there was some way he could earn them...
V.
In the reception room just to the left of the front door as one entered the building on East 38th Street, Kenneth Dred sat on the long leather-bound couch. He was leaning forward, bony hands clasped and resting on his knees. His concession to the late hour was trading his dress shoes for soft slippers and replacing his suit jacket with a heavy maroon smoking jacket, but he still had his necktie pulled up properly.
"I must admit to a good deal of anxiety," he said to his companion. "Those precious silver daggers saw me through decades of the Midnight War. They were a gift from Dr Vitarius and he received them from the Eldarin as a sign of great favor. I can never replace them. How could I trust them to a young man I don't know...and a young man who is a brutal street fighter at that?"
Seated next to him was a slender young girl no more than eighteen. Katherine Wheatley was wearing Navy blue slacks and a long-sleeved white silk blouse with two breast pockets and as buttoned-up collar. Her long straight black hair hung down past her shoulders and contrasted dramatically with two bright blue eyes.
"I found his mind exceedingly difficult to read," she said with a faint Northern England accent left even after her years in the States. "He's closed up inside like a bear trap that has been sprung."
"What could have I been thinking?" Dred asked, more to himself than to her.
The teen placed a hand on his sleeve in a rare moment of contact between them. "I believe you did the right thing, sir. I am only beginning to refine my power. I don't have much control. But the strongest impressions I got from his mind were suprise and gratitude. He's thankful for you healing him and for gifting him with those knives."
The old man turned toward her. "You know that for certain?"
"Yes," Katherine replied. "I could tell how isolated and lonely he is. Such a sad life. He was genuinely taken by your caring for him. I wish I could read actual thoughts, but I can't as yet. Still, I'm sure this Jeremy Bane lad liked you and was comfortable here." She swung her head to look out the open doorway into the hall and her face brightened with a grin. "I can feel him. He's come back. He's stepping up to the front door now!"
10/3/2020
