"The Heartless Men"
May. 16th, 2022 05:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"The Heartless Men"
1/20/2002
I.
The old man left his car parked in a tow-away zone on Third Avenue, right near the warning sign. It was the least of his concerns. At seven o'clock on a cold winter night, he slowly got out from behind the wheel and walked stiffly down the block with the dogged determination of someone who is drunk or ill but wants to conceal his condition. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. A little under six feet tall, rather overweight, dressed in a dark overcoat, he had a round sullen face and a noticeable bald spot.
Standing at the corner of 44th Street, he paused before a small four-story yellow brick building that held several doctors'offices, a spa and a graphic arts company. Moving through the glass double doors, he entered the lobby. To his left was an elevator and a short hallway. Ahead were wide stairs going upward. On the wall by his right hand was a plaque listing the various businesses occupying the building, and he leaned forward to peer at the one listing he was looking for. There. Right on the first floor. DIRE WOLF AGENCY. As he read this, he swayed and almost dropped.
Slower and slower, the man turned and trudged across the lobby. He made it to the short hallway. At its end was a metal door that led outside, with a sign EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. On the wall to its left was a plain dark wood door with a brass plate that read DIRE WOLF AGENCY. The man did not get that far. Before his hand could reach the doorknob, he gave a low mournful groan and spun to fell face up. The back of his head hit the carpeted floor and bounced once, his eyes staying open. Inside the Dire Wolf agency were two rooms; the smaller reception area held only a few chairs, a low table with a magazine or two, and not much else. The inner door suddenly swung open and Jeremy Bane stepped out.
Now hitting forty-five, the Dire Wolf himself had not changed much over the years. There was no thickening of the waist, no softening of the jawline. Only a grey hair here and there and two faint lines at the corners of the thin mouth showed time had passed. Bane was still a tall, lean man who dressed all in black and who watched the world through cold grey eyes. Sitting at his desk in the inner office, he had thought he had heard something and checked the tiny camera he had installed himself in the hall outside. There was a man lying on the floor right outside his door. Swiveling the camera, he had spotted no one else out there and now he opened the door to step out into the hall.
For a long minute, Bane did not move. He stood over the body, studying it, memorizing every detail. He knew the man, but he barely recognized him... twenty years had left its marks on that face. Bending over, Bane reached into his jacket and pulled on thin black latex gloves. Very lightly, barely making contact, he examined the body and found no obvious signs of violence until he opened one button on the faded blue work shirt. There was a hole in the man's chest, a big one, its edges long ago sealed as if healed. Yet there was no heart within that cavity. A strange gleam sparked in the Dire Wolf's eyes and he let out a deep breath. The Midnight War was on again. Going through the man's pockets, Bane found only keys and money and a cigarette lighter. No wallet, no ID.
Standing up, Bane went to the lobby and warily looked through the glass door to the street outside. No one he could see. Taking the Link from his belt, he called a specific extension on 20th Street and hoped he would get Montez. For the longest moment, there was no answer and then someone picked up.
"Lieutenant Montez? This is Jeremy Bane. Yes, again. And again, I have something for you. I just found something in front of my office that I think you will want to see. Bring forensics. No, there's no hurry. He's not going anywhere and neither am I. Yes. Yeah, I know you love hearing from me." Breaking the connection and putting the Link away, Bane jammed the gloves back in his pocket. As always, he wore all black- slacks, sport jacket and a turtleneck, almost a uniform for him. He did not have to wait long before he saw the flashing red and blue lights outside and two uniformed officers came into the lobby, followed immediately by the obese bulk of Lieutenant Joseph Montez. Bane settled back for a long two hours of questions as the CSI people did their work. After the first twenty minutes, Montez took him over to a corner of the lobby.
"I saw the video from the lobby camera," he said bluntly. "The guy walked in under his own steam, but unsteady. He dropped by your office door. We can see his feet but we can't see you coming out. So right now, it looks like you are not going to be charged with anything. Did you remove anything from the body?"
"No," came the single word. "I did check his condition and found he was dead. And I did notice the funny thing about his chest."
Montez grimaced. He was once been a handsome man with thick wavy black hair and a movie-star smile but the pounds had been been put on steadily and now he was seriously overweight. "Yeah. That. What do you make of it, Bane?"
"So far, I don't know what to think any more than you do. There's a hole where his heart should be. I took a good look. The edges are clean. No blood. Frankly, it looks to me as if the wound had healed long ago, but of course there's no way he could be walking around like that."
"Of course! It's something that just couldn't happen, just like a hundred other things that just couldn't happen and most of them seem to end up at your feet, Mr Dire Wolf!"
Bane raised his eyebrows mildly. "Montez, you worked with Inspector Klein this last year before his death. I know you had long talks with him about who I am and the work I do."
"That's right," Montez spat angrily. "Klein was a good man, a good cop. I know he used you as an unofficial weapon. Look, Bane, I'm not blind. I know that there are weird things going on at night in this city. I know there are things out there preying on people, things that just should not exist. I didn't want to believe in them, I'm a good Catholic boy and I don't want to believe in the monsters that run around in the dark of the moon. But I have to accept what I've seen and I had to agree with Klein when he told me you were the best defense against these things."
Bane had looked over at the forensic examiners. They were packing up their equipment and a couple of EMTS were putting a stretcher down to load the body. "The CSI will be coming over in a minute, Lt.... They're almost done."
"Let me finish. So Klein convinced me that the city benefits from you. That you can go out after these monsters and psychos and take them down. But I don't have to like it! I don't like it at all."
The Dire Wolf did not react. With the death from a heart attack of Inspector Klein not long ago, he had expected to have to start all over again struggling against suspicion and resistance from the NYPD. But Bane had established himself over the years. The police did not exactly trust him, they certainly never made public statements about his unofficial status handling cases that reeked of the supernatural and the occult. But they were pragmatic enough to accept how useful Bane had become.
Montez waddled over to confer with the examiners for ten minutes, then returned to Bane. "One more time, pal. You know that man?"
"I can't identify him," Bane said. "Did they find anything useful?"
"Yeah, there's one thing, in the hole in the chest were a few chips of rock. Black rock. They haven't identified it yet. Those poor bastards, they're not going to sleep for a few days because they can't figure this out. The guy should have been dead, yet the video shows him walking in here. I can't imagine what their reports are going to say."
"They've got their problems, we've got ours. I'll tell you right now this is from the Midnight War. It's supernatural. There is no rational explanation."
Montez shuddered visibly. "I hate the spirit world. I hate ghost stories, I got the creeps so bad right now."
"Come into my office and we'll talk further," Bane offered.
"No, no, thanks but I got a truckload of paperwork to do tonight after all this. Listen. I know I don't have to tell you to stay in the city, I know you're going to investigate this on your own."
"Without a client and with no fee in sight," Bane smiled wryly. "I'm not much of a detective."
Montez nodded at him and turned to stomp off without saying anything more.
II.
The lobby cleared out. It was past twelve by now. Bane watched as the security guard locked the front door and turned on the alarms. If he wanted to get out now, he would have to call the guard to be let out but of course he had arranged his own way if needed. Bane went back into his office, the door locking automatically behind him, and strode quickly through the waiting room into the inner office itself. He had been bored and restless before, but now he felt burning with life and interest. He swung right, went behind his desk and sat down in the solid wooden chair.
The office was nothing remarkable. A big oak desk with a reading lamp, a cordless phone in a charger, a tray full of papers and envelopes and receipts. There was no desktop computer, but a small laptop was plugged in to one side. Two plain wooden chairs in front of the desk and a wide leather couch on the wall to his right completed the furnishings. Over the couch stretched a wide window with opaque curtains beyond which was Third Avenue. A narrow door in the far left corner opened to a cubicle with a sink and toilet but no shower. In the corner by his left hand, an identical door opened to the closet.
Bane glanced over the place. He had been here less than a year and had been on the go since re-opening his agency, A small refrigerator would be useful, and he needed a larger bookcase of some kind against that bare wall, but in general he was happy with this office and its layout had been the deciding factor. Right outside the door to the hall was an emergency exit and he had asked Trom Girl to unobtrusively rig it so he could turn off the alarm just for the second it took to get out in the alley between this building and the next. The window behind the couch opened also (although it was not supposed to work that way) so that if needed he could get out onto Third Avenue in a few seconds.
Dropping down into his chair, Bane grinned in his predatory way. The war was on again. He was not made for times of peace. The enhanced metabolism which gave him his reflexes also made him hyper-active and restless, and his basic personality was geared toward conflict. It was no accident his code name was Dire Wolf. He looked at the phone. He could call his former teammates in the old brownstone on East 38th Street for information. But no. He had wanted them to work on their own. They had proven themselves for two years and he had realized it was time for him to let them go, which also meant relying on himself.
Bane thought back to where he knew that man from. It had been more than ten years ago, 1988? No, 1989. The summer he had fought Seneca upstate. Yes. The dead man at his door was Rob Haney. Formerly of Red Sect. That cult was no longer the infamous band of hedonists it had been back then, but in its day Red Sect was a very dangerous society of people dabbling in gralic sorcery for their own benefit. They used magick to give them advantages in business, to dispose of rivals in personal feuds and to entice a lot of sex from unwilling victims.
Haney had been one of them, an assistant to the Lundborg family who ran the cult. When Bane broke up Red Sect, there had been quite a slaughter at the coven headquarters out on Long Island. Finding the remains of a sacrificed baby on the stone altar had made Bane snap and he had torn through the cultists like a real wolf in a chicken coop. But Bane knew Haney had been just a driver and groundskeeper. He had nothing to do with the ceremonies and possibly did not realize they were more than mere orgies. So Bane had lowered his knives and let Haney run away. Weeks later, he had seen Haney in the street quite by accident and nodded grimly at the man, who had lowered his head and hurried off.
Why had Rob Haney come here? Why come to Bane, except that he knew who the Dire Wolf was? Bane stood up abruptly. It wasn't that he felt any particular sympathy for Haney, they certainly hadn't been friends or anything. But the man was dead and his last act had been to come here for help. Bane felt a certain professional obligation. Suddenly he realized all the notes on Red Sect were still at the KDF headquarters. Damn. He couldn't just pull out a folder and read up on the cult membership and activities. All right, the smart thing to do would be to go back to HQ and look everything up but he wanted to leave the team alone. Running back to them all the time wouldn't be good for them or him. He remembered where the Lundborgs had lived and where the cult met, that was enough to start.
Stripping down, he took a bundle of grey metallic fabric from a drawer of his desk and pulled it on. The Trom metal armor was something he had been sure to retain from his KDF days. Soft as silk, the armor provided protection by dispersing impact throughout its entire area. It wasn't perfect. A high-velocity slug could penetrate it if striking directly, and most bullets would leave a painful bruise. But wearing it had saved his life many times. Pulling the black slacks and turtleneck back on, Bane buckled a holster onto his belt, holding a 38 Colt behind his left hip. For years he had used exotic handcrafted weapons like air pistols that fired anesthetic darts but he had left that behind him now. For the lesser threats he faced now, regular weapons were adequate.
Still, strapped to his forearms beneath his sleeves, he kept the two silver-bladed daggers he had been given by Kenneth Dred so long ago. Those blades had been blessed and ensorcelled by the immortal Eldarin and were holy in a potent sense. They could break up malevolent spells, shatter cursed talismans, slay what ordinary weapons could not. The sheaths were mundane, but they were cleverly made and had cost a bundle. A German craftsman had fashioned them with dense silicon ridges that felt like muscle. A quick weapons search usually overlooked them. Yanking on his black sport jacket, Bane looked around the office for a quick check, turned off the lights and went out into the hall. The door locked itself behind him.
In the next few seconds, Bane broke half a dozen laws and regulations. He pressed a stud on the round fob of his keys. A click sounded high up on the wall, and he went out through the emergency exit in the few seconds the alarm was disabled. This had given him an alibi more than once. Out in the crisp chilly air, the Dire Wolf took off toward 40th Street with a stride that was faster than most athletes could run, then turned over toward Lexington. In a few minutes, he walked into Imperial Garage and stopped to check with the attendant. It had been a quiet night. Bane trotted down to the lower level where his car was kept.
At the moment, he was driving a Toyota Matrix that had been worked on ("hot-rodded up a bit" as his teammate Megan Salenger said) but not extensively rebuilt. He approached it watchfully. The tiny green and blue lights on the driver visor blinked on and off. Thumbing his keys, Bane started the car and let it warm up, then unlocked the doors and slid behind the wheel. Again, he felt like he was winding down from the days when he had enemies capable of planting the most devious deathtraps. Old habits died hard, though, and just that afternoon while checking the oil and tires, he had inspected the car for any signs someone had been near it.
Out into the night again, Bane took a deep breath, suddenly feeling alive. He was nocturnal by nature. For ten minutes, he drove around Midtown, making turns and jumping lights, watching for any trace of a follower. Nothing. Maybe Montez was finally getting to trust him. Heading north up Sixth Avenue, Bane reviewed what he remembered of Red Sect and the Lundborg family. It seemed ages ago. The Dire Wolf never had the radio or music on, he was constantly checking his mirrors and watching other cars, paying attention to the feel of his own vehicle. This was a consequence of a violent life. Leaving the city itself, he cruised up to White Plains, stopping to top off the gas tank. It was the middle of the night, with almost no traffic, as he drove into Schuylerville. On the outskirts of the town, next to a veterinary hospital, was a steep hill on which sat a big and rather garish Victorian mansion. Bane drove past it, pulled over and parked on a side road, then hopped out of the car. In his black suit, he was a barely visible blur in the night as he trotted through a wooded area and crept onto the estate of the Lundborg family.
Over a century ago, Clinton and Morgan Lundborg had been heirs to a fortune made by their grandfather's steel interests back in the days before labor unions or income tax. The two brothers had met been tutored by a Darthan Kje in Europe and gotten a taste for decadent pleasures made available by black magic. Rumors of orgies and missing prostitutes and mysterious deaths of business rivals followed the Lundborgs for decades. Those who knew of the Midnight War kept clear of the Lundborgs and their coven, Red Sect, if they were wise. Four times, Jeremy Bane had clashed with the cult, twice with his KDF team and twice by himself. The final time had been out on Long Island when he broke up a forbidden ceremony and eleven people had died; he claimed they were attacking him and at first they actually had been, but after a few minutes the survivors were trying to get away from him as fast as they could. This was when he had spared Rob Haney.
There was a low stone wall around the grounds, waist high, no alarms he could detect. Running lightly up, he vaulted over the wall without touching it, and landed on the other side with his knees bent and fingertips touching the ground. Listening and watching, Bane slowly made his way up to the house on top of the hill. There was quite a bit of cover, which surprised him, and he went from tree to bush without being exposed for more than half a second at a time. He was not taken completely by surprise when a man jumped him. A few seconds earlier, he had caught the faintest scrape of leather on dirt as the guard jumped up and at him, but even so Bane was puzzled he had not heard any breathing or caught any odor as his training prepared him to do. The guard was a good-sized man, not tall but bulky. He came running with his hands out in front of him, half crouched, moving quickly. In a blur, Bane stepped to meet him and whirled in a tight circle that blasted a reverse roundhouse kick. it caught the man squarely in the face and he fell to one side but simply leaped up again.
That DID surprise the Dire Wolf. All his training and experience told him his kick had landed perfectly. This man should be dazed for at least a few minutes, but he was up and attacking again. Bane swiveled sideways and crashed a straight side punch to the solar plexus, a blow he knew would drop almost anyone, but the guard tackled him anyway. Now he was fighting to defend himself. Bane rolled, kicked free and got in close to the guard. He drove a flurry of full power punches to the chest and stomach, then a lightning backfist to the jaw that spun the man completely around and dropped him. The guard made no noise, not a grunt or moan, but just leaped up again. Now Bane was getting concerned. The man grabbed for him. Bane seized that arm in an aikido hold and flung him down hard to the ground, keeping the arm up straight and planting a knee in the man's back. Although the guard struggled doggedly, he was not any stronger than normal and could be kept pinned down indefinitely.
Suddenly Bane realized what he had sensed unconsciously. Although the guard was wriggling and trying to get free, he wasn't breathing hard. He had not taken a breath at all. His skin was cold. The Dire Wolf bent low, whispering, "Can you understand me?" There was no answer and abruptly the guard managed to get free and grab hold of Bane, who at close quarters pulled back his arm and smashed his elbow down with killing impact right on the heart. This time the man did shudder and go limp. Bane exhaled and sat up on the ground next to the guard. What had that been all about? Did this guy have some sort of gralic power? Was he maybe a zombie or revenant, unable to feel pain? A stinging at Bane's elbow led him to touch it and discover the material of his jacket there was ripped open. Kneeling over the guard, who seemed dead, the Wolf yanked up the man's shirt and examined his chest in a vague light of a fading crescent moon. Yes. Where the man's heart should have been was a cavity filled with a faceted black stone, and Bane's elbow strike had cracked that stone.
III
He thought he understood now. This was dark magick indeed, perhaps even a Darthan spell. But he heard footsteps and straightened up as two more guards ran full tilt at him. They weren't wearing uniforms, just regular street clothes, but these two were armed. The taller one was holding what looked like an axe handle and his partner had a butcher knife. Bane faced them, dropping into a slight crouch and crossing his wrists in front of him to grip the hilts of his daggers. As they came within reach, the Wolf drove his knives straightforward, each one thumping home directly in the attacker's chest. Silver alone has power against the children of the night, but ensalir - silver blessed by the Eldarin- was even more potent. The black stones in the men's chests popped like bubbles with a sharp cracking noise. They dropped to the lawn, face down.
Others were hurrying from another direction, still quite a distance away. Still, they had made no noise, not even the snuffle of men running. Five of them, some with clubs and the rest bare-handed. Bane decided to let himself be captured. This was not the safest approach, not one for anyone without supreme confidence in his own abilities but he thought it was the quickest way to get to the heart of the matter. He sheathed his daggers again before the guards got close enough to spot them in the dark. As the men rushed at him, Bane met them with a flurry of short chopping punches to the head. The guards were knocked aside or back, but instantly recovered as he knew they would. These men were not normal Humans at this point.. evidently the black stones kept them alive and gave them vitality. A guard struck him on the head from behind with a billy club; Bane had caught the movement with peripheral vision and rolled with it, forcing himself to take a little of the impact to make this look good.
Dropping his guard despite all his instincts, Bane sagged to the ground. One of the guards landed a final blow as he fell, but they did not touch him after that. If they had kept beating him, of course he would have been forced to break free and either get away or thrash them. But they evidently had their orders. Two of the guards lifted him by arms and legs and started started walking up the hill. The next few minutes required Bane to keep his eyes shut and not try to catch a peek of what was going on or his surroundings. Even so, he could tell he was being carried around the outside of the house to the back. He heard bolts being drawn, he was taken through a cold damp area into a brightly lit room and dropped unceremoniously on a freezing concrete floor. Someone patted him down, squeezing along his arms and legs, looking for weapons. They found his pistol and he felt it being tugged from its holster but they did not discover the daggers. Those padded sheaths had fooled even trained police before and Bane smiled inwardly at how they had been worth the expense.
Behind him, he heard a young man's voice. "What is this all about? What have you fellows brought me, a burglar?"
But then a woman's voice sounded with an unmistakable hissing accent not native to any nation of the world. "He is not dazed, nor is he helpless even now. Hold him tightly! One man on each arm. Press that knife to his throat."
As the guards hauled him up to a seated position on the floor, each of his arms held and a cold metal blade pricking the skin of his neck, Bane opened his eyes and took it all in within a second. This was a cellar, blazing with light bulbs high up on the ceiling. The metal instruments which hung on the walls were never used as tools for farming or home repair... they were the instruments of torture. A canvas sheet spread out was dark with dried blood. The air was stinging with a strange, flowery aroma.
Standing before him were two people. One was a young man of college age, thin and gawky, with a scrubby short goatee and mustache, black-rimmed glasses and a cap. The resemblance to the Lundborg brothers Bane had known was striking enough that he figured this must be Osmond, one of the few members of that family of sorcerers left. But it was the other person that caught all his attention and made him fill with a deadly calm. She was tall and slim, with barely discernible hints of breasts and hips under the green silk robe. Her skin was white, not the paleness of even the palest Human but whiter than an albino. Fine hair the color of cotton hung straight down her back. There was a long, bony face with a pointed nose and thin lips, long catlike eyes with pale green irises, and strangest of all, ears that rose to points. Bane had not seen a Dartha in the flesh for years.
Ignoring the guards still holding his arms, he rose to his feet to face her. Suddenly he had a revelation that his senses were fully alert, his body ready with all its training and strength at the call. He knew he had lost nothing, he was still the Dire Wolf, ready for action. His pale grey eyes met the venomous glare of the white-skinned woman without flinching.
The Dartha held up a dainty hand. "No, Osmond," she said in a purr of glee. "No mere burglar is this. You do not know him, do you? Ah, Jeremy Bane. The notorious Dire Wolf! The greatest enemy of my Race. Do you think we have forgotten the Invasion of Maroch? The horde of vile Eldarin you brought to our shores? The silver man who slew Angdros and broke Hellspawn beneath his foot? Hah. Oh, dear child, your death will be a masterpiece, you will not perish quickly nor easily. I myself will take you before the Council of Kjes. You will be paraded before our people, your torture will be carried out by our Elders so all our folk may watch. But first, let us secure you. Do not think you may still escape, you can not run well without legs!"
"Nice to be remembered," answered Bane dryly. "You know, I try to not to be prejudiced but I have never met a Dartha who was not evil to the bone!"
"I did not grant you leave to speak, little human."
"You don't have to. You're a Kje, aren't you? I recognize the decorations on your robe."
"Hah. Yes. I am Avonlir Kje, high in the councils of the wise. When your ancestors walked naked across the plains, barely knowing enough to use a stick as a weapon, the Darthim were already ancient and learned, masters of gralic arts no other Race dare know." She turned her gaze toward the guards, and Bane saw there were at least twenty of them in that cellar. "You have met my minions, Dire Wolf?"
"Oh yes," he said. "Something new, I guess. Gralic sorcery that replaces their hearts with a black stone. Interesting. Your own spell?"
The Dartha seemed pleased. "How strangely flattered I seem to be. I suppose it is just that you are the first Human that I have met who is not completely ignorant. Yes, the Heart of Stone is of my devising. I have crafted it for more than a century until it is now ready to use. They shall be known as Abevnakim... Men Without Hearts. They do not need to breathe, they cannot be poisoned, they do not feel pain. I shall sell them to the rulers of your world and of the other realms." She laughed, a low throaty chuckle. "Even more, without a pulse or breath, they have lost emotion. They will slay whatever they are told to slay without remorse. They have no pity, no mercy... they are Heartless."
Slowly, barely moving his head, Bane established the scene for the next few minutes. Lundborg and Avonlir stood side by side, just within arm's reach of him. Two of the Heartless Men held his arms at the biceps, another was behind him, pressing a knife blade to the side of his neck. He counted eleven more standing in a loose circle around the room. No guns were in sight, just clubs and a few knives and one axe. He took this all in within a few seconds, quietly taking deeper breaths to draw more oxygen into his body.
Avonlir spoke again, "I have a merry thought. I feel that you are of a tougher nature than most humans. You are a knight of Tel Shai and a Master of Kumundu. Torture will not break you quickly, no, I dare say you will be able to endure our attentions for days, perhaps weeks. Maybe you will not even miss your skin at first..."
Bane smiled. "Sometimes a Human is born who acts like you Darthim. They are called psychopaths, but the common expression is 'sick in the head.'" He lowered his voice, and said, "But there is one thing you don't know..."
This was a trick. The Kje stepped closer without realizing it, and the Heartless Men relaxed their grips just the slightest. Bane ripped his arms free, slamming one elbow backwards without looking to catch the knife-weilder square in the forehead. In the half second he had before they could react, he drew the silver dagger from his right sleeve and blurred it in a backhand stroke. Sharper than a scalpel, the blade sliced deep across the Kje's throat, cutting right through the windpipe. She may well have been thousands of years old. Darthim, like their cousin the Eldarin, are immortal in the sense that they do not perish of natural causes but their lives can end by violence. Avonlir gagged, spewing dark blood and fell to her hands and knees, then sagged in a heap. Even before she hit the floor, Bane had whirled to blast a high side kick that swung Lundborg's head so far back that his neck cracked audibly. Then the Dire Wolf swung around to face the rest.
More than a dozen of the Heartless Men surrounded him, emotionless eyes fastened on him. It was like being in a room full of moving mannequins. Bane raised his hands, a silver dagger in each one, and stepped forward to meet them. There were a lot of them, they did not know fear or pain. But on the other hand, they had no training in martial arts and were no stronger than an average man. Bane plowed through them in a dark patterns that seemed almost to have been choreographed. Every time he drove one of his knives to a man's chest, the silver blades broke the Darthan spell and the man fell in true death. They tried to grab him or to club him, but Bane was moving faster than they could track and not one connected.
In less than a minute, only two of the Heartless Men remained. The idea of making a break for it never seemed to occur to them, even though nine of their group were sprawled lifeless around the cellar where they had fallen. The two separated, one trying to get around behind Bane. The other lunged in, grabbing for the Dire Wolf with both hands. Neither made it. Bane knocked one reeling back with a front snap kick to the abdomen, then spun around to impale the other with the point of his dagger. That one dropped to his knees and fell face down.
Now only one remained. Bane stepped up to him, barely breathing harder than if he had been lying in bed. He had lost none of his skill as far as he could tell, he was pleased at this but then his satisfaction faded and was gone. The Heartless Man had opened his shirt to reveal the jagged black stone protruding from the hole in his chest and now he stood with lowered arms and closed eyes. Bane understood. Quick as any fencer, he darted in and stabbed the rock, splintering it into fragments as the silver blade disrupted the Darthan spell.
It was quiet in the cellar. Bane examined his knives but there was no blood on them. He had not cut any of the Heartless Men except to break the stones which animated them. Sheathing the silver daggers again beneath his sleeves, the Dire Wolf thoughtfully surveyed the scene. What a slaughter. He felt a faint twinge of an over-extended muscle in his right shoulder and massaged it absently. The real problem now was what to report to Lieutenant Montez. Should he just leave the scene and deny any knowledge of what had happened here? That might be best; there was nothing to connect him to this and no one alive to identify him. Or should he call Montez and make up some story about spying on these cultists and seeing the rocks in their chests spontaneously explode as the spell failed? And what about the Dartha... what would the forensic squad make of her? Bane stood with arms folded and one hand cupping his chin as he fretted about his next move.
2/26/2013
1/20/2002
I.
The old man left his car parked in a tow-away zone on Third Avenue, right near the warning sign. It was the least of his concerns. At seven o'clock on a cold winter night, he slowly got out from behind the wheel and walked stiffly down the block with the dogged determination of someone who is drunk or ill but wants to conceal his condition. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. A little under six feet tall, rather overweight, dressed in a dark overcoat, he had a round sullen face and a noticeable bald spot.
Standing at the corner of 44th Street, he paused before a small four-story yellow brick building that held several doctors'offices, a spa and a graphic arts company. Moving through the glass double doors, he entered the lobby. To his left was an elevator and a short hallway. Ahead were wide stairs going upward. On the wall by his right hand was a plaque listing the various businesses occupying the building, and he leaned forward to peer at the one listing he was looking for. There. Right on the first floor. DIRE WOLF AGENCY. As he read this, he swayed and almost dropped.
Slower and slower, the man turned and trudged across the lobby. He made it to the short hallway. At its end was a metal door that led outside, with a sign EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. On the wall to its left was a plain dark wood door with a brass plate that read DIRE WOLF AGENCY. The man did not get that far. Before his hand could reach the doorknob, he gave a low mournful groan and spun to fell face up. The back of his head hit the carpeted floor and bounced once, his eyes staying open. Inside the Dire Wolf agency were two rooms; the smaller reception area held only a few chairs, a low table with a magazine or two, and not much else. The inner door suddenly swung open and Jeremy Bane stepped out.
Now hitting forty-five, the Dire Wolf himself had not changed much over the years. There was no thickening of the waist, no softening of the jawline. Only a grey hair here and there and two faint lines at the corners of the thin mouth showed time had passed. Bane was still a tall, lean man who dressed all in black and who watched the world through cold grey eyes. Sitting at his desk in the inner office, he had thought he had heard something and checked the tiny camera he had installed himself in the hall outside. There was a man lying on the floor right outside his door. Swiveling the camera, he had spotted no one else out there and now he opened the door to step out into the hall.
For a long minute, Bane did not move. He stood over the body, studying it, memorizing every detail. He knew the man, but he barely recognized him... twenty years had left its marks on that face. Bending over, Bane reached into his jacket and pulled on thin black latex gloves. Very lightly, barely making contact, he examined the body and found no obvious signs of violence until he opened one button on the faded blue work shirt. There was a hole in the man's chest, a big one, its edges long ago sealed as if healed. Yet there was no heart within that cavity. A strange gleam sparked in the Dire Wolf's eyes and he let out a deep breath. The Midnight War was on again. Going through the man's pockets, Bane found only keys and money and a cigarette lighter. No wallet, no ID.
Standing up, Bane went to the lobby and warily looked through the glass door to the street outside. No one he could see. Taking the Link from his belt, he called a specific extension on 20th Street and hoped he would get Montez. For the longest moment, there was no answer and then someone picked up.
"Lieutenant Montez? This is Jeremy Bane. Yes, again. And again, I have something for you. I just found something in front of my office that I think you will want to see. Bring forensics. No, there's no hurry. He's not going anywhere and neither am I. Yes. Yeah, I know you love hearing from me." Breaking the connection and putting the Link away, Bane jammed the gloves back in his pocket. As always, he wore all black- slacks, sport jacket and a turtleneck, almost a uniform for him. He did not have to wait long before he saw the flashing red and blue lights outside and two uniformed officers came into the lobby, followed immediately by the obese bulk of Lieutenant Joseph Montez. Bane settled back for a long two hours of questions as the CSI people did their work. After the first twenty minutes, Montez took him over to a corner of the lobby.
"I saw the video from the lobby camera," he said bluntly. "The guy walked in under his own steam, but unsteady. He dropped by your office door. We can see his feet but we can't see you coming out. So right now, it looks like you are not going to be charged with anything. Did you remove anything from the body?"
"No," came the single word. "I did check his condition and found he was dead. And I did notice the funny thing about his chest."
Montez grimaced. He was once been a handsome man with thick wavy black hair and a movie-star smile but the pounds had been been put on steadily and now he was seriously overweight. "Yeah. That. What do you make of it, Bane?"
"So far, I don't know what to think any more than you do. There's a hole where his heart should be. I took a good look. The edges are clean. No blood. Frankly, it looks to me as if the wound had healed long ago, but of course there's no way he could be walking around like that."
"Of course! It's something that just couldn't happen, just like a hundred other things that just couldn't happen and most of them seem to end up at your feet, Mr Dire Wolf!"
Bane raised his eyebrows mildly. "Montez, you worked with Inspector Klein this last year before his death. I know you had long talks with him about who I am and the work I do."
"That's right," Montez spat angrily. "Klein was a good man, a good cop. I know he used you as an unofficial weapon. Look, Bane, I'm not blind. I know that there are weird things going on at night in this city. I know there are things out there preying on people, things that just should not exist. I didn't want to believe in them, I'm a good Catholic boy and I don't want to believe in the monsters that run around in the dark of the moon. But I have to accept what I've seen and I had to agree with Klein when he told me you were the best defense against these things."
Bane had looked over at the forensic examiners. They were packing up their equipment and a couple of EMTS were putting a stretcher down to load the body. "The CSI will be coming over in a minute, Lt.... They're almost done."
"Let me finish. So Klein convinced me that the city benefits from you. That you can go out after these monsters and psychos and take them down. But I don't have to like it! I don't like it at all."
The Dire Wolf did not react. With the death from a heart attack of Inspector Klein not long ago, he had expected to have to start all over again struggling against suspicion and resistance from the NYPD. But Bane had established himself over the years. The police did not exactly trust him, they certainly never made public statements about his unofficial status handling cases that reeked of the supernatural and the occult. But they were pragmatic enough to accept how useful Bane had become.
Montez waddled over to confer with the examiners for ten minutes, then returned to Bane. "One more time, pal. You know that man?"
"I can't identify him," Bane said. "Did they find anything useful?"
"Yeah, there's one thing, in the hole in the chest were a few chips of rock. Black rock. They haven't identified it yet. Those poor bastards, they're not going to sleep for a few days because they can't figure this out. The guy should have been dead, yet the video shows him walking in here. I can't imagine what their reports are going to say."
"They've got their problems, we've got ours. I'll tell you right now this is from the Midnight War. It's supernatural. There is no rational explanation."
Montez shuddered visibly. "I hate the spirit world. I hate ghost stories, I got the creeps so bad right now."
"Come into my office and we'll talk further," Bane offered.
"No, no, thanks but I got a truckload of paperwork to do tonight after all this. Listen. I know I don't have to tell you to stay in the city, I know you're going to investigate this on your own."
"Without a client and with no fee in sight," Bane smiled wryly. "I'm not much of a detective."
Montez nodded at him and turned to stomp off without saying anything more.
II.
The lobby cleared out. It was past twelve by now. Bane watched as the security guard locked the front door and turned on the alarms. If he wanted to get out now, he would have to call the guard to be let out but of course he had arranged his own way if needed. Bane went back into his office, the door locking automatically behind him, and strode quickly through the waiting room into the inner office itself. He had been bored and restless before, but now he felt burning with life and interest. He swung right, went behind his desk and sat down in the solid wooden chair.
The office was nothing remarkable. A big oak desk with a reading lamp, a cordless phone in a charger, a tray full of papers and envelopes and receipts. There was no desktop computer, but a small laptop was plugged in to one side. Two plain wooden chairs in front of the desk and a wide leather couch on the wall to his right completed the furnishings. Over the couch stretched a wide window with opaque curtains beyond which was Third Avenue. A narrow door in the far left corner opened to a cubicle with a sink and toilet but no shower. In the corner by his left hand, an identical door opened to the closet.
Bane glanced over the place. He had been here less than a year and had been on the go since re-opening his agency, A small refrigerator would be useful, and he needed a larger bookcase of some kind against that bare wall, but in general he was happy with this office and its layout had been the deciding factor. Right outside the door to the hall was an emergency exit and he had asked Trom Girl to unobtrusively rig it so he could turn off the alarm just for the second it took to get out in the alley between this building and the next. The window behind the couch opened also (although it was not supposed to work that way) so that if needed he could get out onto Third Avenue in a few seconds.
Dropping down into his chair, Bane grinned in his predatory way. The war was on again. He was not made for times of peace. The enhanced metabolism which gave him his reflexes also made him hyper-active and restless, and his basic personality was geared toward conflict. It was no accident his code name was Dire Wolf. He looked at the phone. He could call his former teammates in the old brownstone on East 38th Street for information. But no. He had wanted them to work on their own. They had proven themselves for two years and he had realized it was time for him to let them go, which also meant relying on himself.
Bane thought back to where he knew that man from. It had been more than ten years ago, 1988? No, 1989. The summer he had fought Seneca upstate. Yes. The dead man at his door was Rob Haney. Formerly of Red Sect. That cult was no longer the infamous band of hedonists it had been back then, but in its day Red Sect was a very dangerous society of people dabbling in gralic sorcery for their own benefit. They used magick to give them advantages in business, to dispose of rivals in personal feuds and to entice a lot of sex from unwilling victims.
Haney had been one of them, an assistant to the Lundborg family who ran the cult. When Bane broke up Red Sect, there had been quite a slaughter at the coven headquarters out on Long Island. Finding the remains of a sacrificed baby on the stone altar had made Bane snap and he had torn through the cultists like a real wolf in a chicken coop. But Bane knew Haney had been just a driver and groundskeeper. He had nothing to do with the ceremonies and possibly did not realize they were more than mere orgies. So Bane had lowered his knives and let Haney run away. Weeks later, he had seen Haney in the street quite by accident and nodded grimly at the man, who had lowered his head and hurried off.
Why had Rob Haney come here? Why come to Bane, except that he knew who the Dire Wolf was? Bane stood up abruptly. It wasn't that he felt any particular sympathy for Haney, they certainly hadn't been friends or anything. But the man was dead and his last act had been to come here for help. Bane felt a certain professional obligation. Suddenly he realized all the notes on Red Sect were still at the KDF headquarters. Damn. He couldn't just pull out a folder and read up on the cult membership and activities. All right, the smart thing to do would be to go back to HQ and look everything up but he wanted to leave the team alone. Running back to them all the time wouldn't be good for them or him. He remembered where the Lundborgs had lived and where the cult met, that was enough to start.
Stripping down, he took a bundle of grey metallic fabric from a drawer of his desk and pulled it on. The Trom metal armor was something he had been sure to retain from his KDF days. Soft as silk, the armor provided protection by dispersing impact throughout its entire area. It wasn't perfect. A high-velocity slug could penetrate it if striking directly, and most bullets would leave a painful bruise. But wearing it had saved his life many times. Pulling the black slacks and turtleneck back on, Bane buckled a holster onto his belt, holding a 38 Colt behind his left hip. For years he had used exotic handcrafted weapons like air pistols that fired anesthetic darts but he had left that behind him now. For the lesser threats he faced now, regular weapons were adequate.
Still, strapped to his forearms beneath his sleeves, he kept the two silver-bladed daggers he had been given by Kenneth Dred so long ago. Those blades had been blessed and ensorcelled by the immortal Eldarin and were holy in a potent sense. They could break up malevolent spells, shatter cursed talismans, slay what ordinary weapons could not. The sheaths were mundane, but they were cleverly made and had cost a bundle. A German craftsman had fashioned them with dense silicon ridges that felt like muscle. A quick weapons search usually overlooked them. Yanking on his black sport jacket, Bane looked around the office for a quick check, turned off the lights and went out into the hall. The door locked itself behind him.
In the next few seconds, Bane broke half a dozen laws and regulations. He pressed a stud on the round fob of his keys. A click sounded high up on the wall, and he went out through the emergency exit in the few seconds the alarm was disabled. This had given him an alibi more than once. Out in the crisp chilly air, the Dire Wolf took off toward 40th Street with a stride that was faster than most athletes could run, then turned over toward Lexington. In a few minutes, he walked into Imperial Garage and stopped to check with the attendant. It had been a quiet night. Bane trotted down to the lower level where his car was kept.
At the moment, he was driving a Toyota Matrix that had been worked on ("hot-rodded up a bit" as his teammate Megan Salenger said) but not extensively rebuilt. He approached it watchfully. The tiny green and blue lights on the driver visor blinked on and off. Thumbing his keys, Bane started the car and let it warm up, then unlocked the doors and slid behind the wheel. Again, he felt like he was winding down from the days when he had enemies capable of planting the most devious deathtraps. Old habits died hard, though, and just that afternoon while checking the oil and tires, he had inspected the car for any signs someone had been near it.
Out into the night again, Bane took a deep breath, suddenly feeling alive. He was nocturnal by nature. For ten minutes, he drove around Midtown, making turns and jumping lights, watching for any trace of a follower. Nothing. Maybe Montez was finally getting to trust him. Heading north up Sixth Avenue, Bane reviewed what he remembered of Red Sect and the Lundborg family. It seemed ages ago. The Dire Wolf never had the radio or music on, he was constantly checking his mirrors and watching other cars, paying attention to the feel of his own vehicle. This was a consequence of a violent life. Leaving the city itself, he cruised up to White Plains, stopping to top off the gas tank. It was the middle of the night, with almost no traffic, as he drove into Schuylerville. On the outskirts of the town, next to a veterinary hospital, was a steep hill on which sat a big and rather garish Victorian mansion. Bane drove past it, pulled over and parked on a side road, then hopped out of the car. In his black suit, he was a barely visible blur in the night as he trotted through a wooded area and crept onto the estate of the Lundborg family.
Over a century ago, Clinton and Morgan Lundborg had been heirs to a fortune made by their grandfather's steel interests back in the days before labor unions or income tax. The two brothers had met been tutored by a Darthan Kje in Europe and gotten a taste for decadent pleasures made available by black magic. Rumors of orgies and missing prostitutes and mysterious deaths of business rivals followed the Lundborgs for decades. Those who knew of the Midnight War kept clear of the Lundborgs and their coven, Red Sect, if they were wise. Four times, Jeremy Bane had clashed with the cult, twice with his KDF team and twice by himself. The final time had been out on Long Island when he broke up a forbidden ceremony and eleven people had died; he claimed they were attacking him and at first they actually had been, but after a few minutes the survivors were trying to get away from him as fast as they could. This was when he had spared Rob Haney.
There was a low stone wall around the grounds, waist high, no alarms he could detect. Running lightly up, he vaulted over the wall without touching it, and landed on the other side with his knees bent and fingertips touching the ground. Listening and watching, Bane slowly made his way up to the house on top of the hill. There was quite a bit of cover, which surprised him, and he went from tree to bush without being exposed for more than half a second at a time. He was not taken completely by surprise when a man jumped him. A few seconds earlier, he had caught the faintest scrape of leather on dirt as the guard jumped up and at him, but even so Bane was puzzled he had not heard any breathing or caught any odor as his training prepared him to do. The guard was a good-sized man, not tall but bulky. He came running with his hands out in front of him, half crouched, moving quickly. In a blur, Bane stepped to meet him and whirled in a tight circle that blasted a reverse roundhouse kick. it caught the man squarely in the face and he fell to one side but simply leaped up again.
That DID surprise the Dire Wolf. All his training and experience told him his kick had landed perfectly. This man should be dazed for at least a few minutes, but he was up and attacking again. Bane swiveled sideways and crashed a straight side punch to the solar plexus, a blow he knew would drop almost anyone, but the guard tackled him anyway. Now he was fighting to defend himself. Bane rolled, kicked free and got in close to the guard. He drove a flurry of full power punches to the chest and stomach, then a lightning backfist to the jaw that spun the man completely around and dropped him. The guard made no noise, not a grunt or moan, but just leaped up again. Now Bane was getting concerned. The man grabbed for him. Bane seized that arm in an aikido hold and flung him down hard to the ground, keeping the arm up straight and planting a knee in the man's back. Although the guard struggled doggedly, he was not any stronger than normal and could be kept pinned down indefinitely.
Suddenly Bane realized what he had sensed unconsciously. Although the guard was wriggling and trying to get free, he wasn't breathing hard. He had not taken a breath at all. His skin was cold. The Dire Wolf bent low, whispering, "Can you understand me?" There was no answer and abruptly the guard managed to get free and grab hold of Bane, who at close quarters pulled back his arm and smashed his elbow down with killing impact right on the heart. This time the man did shudder and go limp. Bane exhaled and sat up on the ground next to the guard. What had that been all about? Did this guy have some sort of gralic power? Was he maybe a zombie or revenant, unable to feel pain? A stinging at Bane's elbow led him to touch it and discover the material of his jacket there was ripped open. Kneeling over the guard, who seemed dead, the Wolf yanked up the man's shirt and examined his chest in a vague light of a fading crescent moon. Yes. Where the man's heart should have been was a cavity filled with a faceted black stone, and Bane's elbow strike had cracked that stone.
III
He thought he understood now. This was dark magick indeed, perhaps even a Darthan spell. But he heard footsteps and straightened up as two more guards ran full tilt at him. They weren't wearing uniforms, just regular street clothes, but these two were armed. The taller one was holding what looked like an axe handle and his partner had a butcher knife. Bane faced them, dropping into a slight crouch and crossing his wrists in front of him to grip the hilts of his daggers. As they came within reach, the Wolf drove his knives straightforward, each one thumping home directly in the attacker's chest. Silver alone has power against the children of the night, but ensalir - silver blessed by the Eldarin- was even more potent. The black stones in the men's chests popped like bubbles with a sharp cracking noise. They dropped to the lawn, face down.
Others were hurrying from another direction, still quite a distance away. Still, they had made no noise, not even the snuffle of men running. Five of them, some with clubs and the rest bare-handed. Bane decided to let himself be captured. This was not the safest approach, not one for anyone without supreme confidence in his own abilities but he thought it was the quickest way to get to the heart of the matter. He sheathed his daggers again before the guards got close enough to spot them in the dark. As the men rushed at him, Bane met them with a flurry of short chopping punches to the head. The guards were knocked aside or back, but instantly recovered as he knew they would. These men were not normal Humans at this point.. evidently the black stones kept them alive and gave them vitality. A guard struck him on the head from behind with a billy club; Bane had caught the movement with peripheral vision and rolled with it, forcing himself to take a little of the impact to make this look good.
Dropping his guard despite all his instincts, Bane sagged to the ground. One of the guards landed a final blow as he fell, but they did not touch him after that. If they had kept beating him, of course he would have been forced to break free and either get away or thrash them. But they evidently had their orders. Two of the guards lifted him by arms and legs and started started walking up the hill. The next few minutes required Bane to keep his eyes shut and not try to catch a peek of what was going on or his surroundings. Even so, he could tell he was being carried around the outside of the house to the back. He heard bolts being drawn, he was taken through a cold damp area into a brightly lit room and dropped unceremoniously on a freezing concrete floor. Someone patted him down, squeezing along his arms and legs, looking for weapons. They found his pistol and he felt it being tugged from its holster but they did not discover the daggers. Those padded sheaths had fooled even trained police before and Bane smiled inwardly at how they had been worth the expense.
Behind him, he heard a young man's voice. "What is this all about? What have you fellows brought me, a burglar?"
But then a woman's voice sounded with an unmistakable hissing accent not native to any nation of the world. "He is not dazed, nor is he helpless even now. Hold him tightly! One man on each arm. Press that knife to his throat."
As the guards hauled him up to a seated position on the floor, each of his arms held and a cold metal blade pricking the skin of his neck, Bane opened his eyes and took it all in within a second. This was a cellar, blazing with light bulbs high up on the ceiling. The metal instruments which hung on the walls were never used as tools for farming or home repair... they were the instruments of torture. A canvas sheet spread out was dark with dried blood. The air was stinging with a strange, flowery aroma.
Standing before him were two people. One was a young man of college age, thin and gawky, with a scrubby short goatee and mustache, black-rimmed glasses and a cap. The resemblance to the Lundborg brothers Bane had known was striking enough that he figured this must be Osmond, one of the few members of that family of sorcerers left. But it was the other person that caught all his attention and made him fill with a deadly calm. She was tall and slim, with barely discernible hints of breasts and hips under the green silk robe. Her skin was white, not the paleness of even the palest Human but whiter than an albino. Fine hair the color of cotton hung straight down her back. There was a long, bony face with a pointed nose and thin lips, long catlike eyes with pale green irises, and strangest of all, ears that rose to points. Bane had not seen a Dartha in the flesh for years.
Ignoring the guards still holding his arms, he rose to his feet to face her. Suddenly he had a revelation that his senses were fully alert, his body ready with all its training and strength at the call. He knew he had lost nothing, he was still the Dire Wolf, ready for action. His pale grey eyes met the venomous glare of the white-skinned woman without flinching.
The Dartha held up a dainty hand. "No, Osmond," she said in a purr of glee. "No mere burglar is this. You do not know him, do you? Ah, Jeremy Bane. The notorious Dire Wolf! The greatest enemy of my Race. Do you think we have forgotten the Invasion of Maroch? The horde of vile Eldarin you brought to our shores? The silver man who slew Angdros and broke Hellspawn beneath his foot? Hah. Oh, dear child, your death will be a masterpiece, you will not perish quickly nor easily. I myself will take you before the Council of Kjes. You will be paraded before our people, your torture will be carried out by our Elders so all our folk may watch. But first, let us secure you. Do not think you may still escape, you can not run well without legs!"
"Nice to be remembered," answered Bane dryly. "You know, I try to not to be prejudiced but I have never met a Dartha who was not evil to the bone!"
"I did not grant you leave to speak, little human."
"You don't have to. You're a Kje, aren't you? I recognize the decorations on your robe."
"Hah. Yes. I am Avonlir Kje, high in the councils of the wise. When your ancestors walked naked across the plains, barely knowing enough to use a stick as a weapon, the Darthim were already ancient and learned, masters of gralic arts no other Race dare know." She turned her gaze toward the guards, and Bane saw there were at least twenty of them in that cellar. "You have met my minions, Dire Wolf?"
"Oh yes," he said. "Something new, I guess. Gralic sorcery that replaces their hearts with a black stone. Interesting. Your own spell?"
The Dartha seemed pleased. "How strangely flattered I seem to be. I suppose it is just that you are the first Human that I have met who is not completely ignorant. Yes, the Heart of Stone is of my devising. I have crafted it for more than a century until it is now ready to use. They shall be known as Abevnakim... Men Without Hearts. They do not need to breathe, they cannot be poisoned, they do not feel pain. I shall sell them to the rulers of your world and of the other realms." She laughed, a low throaty chuckle. "Even more, without a pulse or breath, they have lost emotion. They will slay whatever they are told to slay without remorse. They have no pity, no mercy... they are Heartless."
Slowly, barely moving his head, Bane established the scene for the next few minutes. Lundborg and Avonlir stood side by side, just within arm's reach of him. Two of the Heartless Men held his arms at the biceps, another was behind him, pressing a knife blade to the side of his neck. He counted eleven more standing in a loose circle around the room. No guns were in sight, just clubs and a few knives and one axe. He took this all in within a few seconds, quietly taking deeper breaths to draw more oxygen into his body.
Avonlir spoke again, "I have a merry thought. I feel that you are of a tougher nature than most humans. You are a knight of Tel Shai and a Master of Kumundu. Torture will not break you quickly, no, I dare say you will be able to endure our attentions for days, perhaps weeks. Maybe you will not even miss your skin at first..."
Bane smiled. "Sometimes a Human is born who acts like you Darthim. They are called psychopaths, but the common expression is 'sick in the head.'" He lowered his voice, and said, "But there is one thing you don't know..."
This was a trick. The Kje stepped closer without realizing it, and the Heartless Men relaxed their grips just the slightest. Bane ripped his arms free, slamming one elbow backwards without looking to catch the knife-weilder square in the forehead. In the half second he had before they could react, he drew the silver dagger from his right sleeve and blurred it in a backhand stroke. Sharper than a scalpel, the blade sliced deep across the Kje's throat, cutting right through the windpipe. She may well have been thousands of years old. Darthim, like their cousin the Eldarin, are immortal in the sense that they do not perish of natural causes but their lives can end by violence. Avonlir gagged, spewing dark blood and fell to her hands and knees, then sagged in a heap. Even before she hit the floor, Bane had whirled to blast a high side kick that swung Lundborg's head so far back that his neck cracked audibly. Then the Dire Wolf swung around to face the rest.
More than a dozen of the Heartless Men surrounded him, emotionless eyes fastened on him. It was like being in a room full of moving mannequins. Bane raised his hands, a silver dagger in each one, and stepped forward to meet them. There were a lot of them, they did not know fear or pain. But on the other hand, they had no training in martial arts and were no stronger than an average man. Bane plowed through them in a dark patterns that seemed almost to have been choreographed. Every time he drove one of his knives to a man's chest, the silver blades broke the Darthan spell and the man fell in true death. They tried to grab him or to club him, but Bane was moving faster than they could track and not one connected.
In less than a minute, only two of the Heartless Men remained. The idea of making a break for it never seemed to occur to them, even though nine of their group were sprawled lifeless around the cellar where they had fallen. The two separated, one trying to get around behind Bane. The other lunged in, grabbing for the Dire Wolf with both hands. Neither made it. Bane knocked one reeling back with a front snap kick to the abdomen, then spun around to impale the other with the point of his dagger. That one dropped to his knees and fell face down.
Now only one remained. Bane stepped up to him, barely breathing harder than if he had been lying in bed. He had lost none of his skill as far as he could tell, he was pleased at this but then his satisfaction faded and was gone. The Heartless Man had opened his shirt to reveal the jagged black stone protruding from the hole in his chest and now he stood with lowered arms and closed eyes. Bane understood. Quick as any fencer, he darted in and stabbed the rock, splintering it into fragments as the silver blade disrupted the Darthan spell.
It was quiet in the cellar. Bane examined his knives but there was no blood on them. He had not cut any of the Heartless Men except to break the stones which animated them. Sheathing the silver daggers again beneath his sleeves, the Dire Wolf thoughtfully surveyed the scene. What a slaughter. He felt a faint twinge of an over-extended muscle in his right shoulder and massaged it absently. The real problem now was what to report to Lieutenant Montez. Should he just leave the scene and deny any knowledge of what had happened here? That might be best; there was nothing to connect him to this and no one alive to identify him. Or should he call Montez and make up some story about spying on these cultists and seeing the rocks in their chests spontaneously explode as the spell failed? And what about the Dartha... what would the forensic squad make of her? Bane stood with arms folded and one hand cupping his chin as he fretted about his next move.
2/26/2013
