"Llandeilo, Servant of Draldros"
May. 22nd, 2022 08:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Llandeilo"
11/8-11/9/1977
I.
It was past two in the morning when Bane returned to Kenneth Dred's house on East 38th Street, coming back from an errand for the old man that involved delivering a mysterious package to the Pennsylvania border. Bane didn't mind. His early doubts about working for Dred as a live-in aide had quickly given way to excited loyalty toward the occultist. Learning about the Midnight War still astounded him. He had never dreamed such things really went on the world and he found in it the challenge he had always been unconsciously seeking.
At twenty-one, Jeremy Bane was so serious and self-controlled that he gave the impression of being older. Just over six feet tall and gaunt, he had already adopted the outfit which would be his trademark... black boots, slacks, long-sleeved turtleneck and sport jacket. In the January chill, he had given in to wearing a long cloth coat which he now hung on the heavy oak rack just inside the front door. The young Dire Wolf made sure the front door was locked as the door to the street already was, then turned off the outside light. He spotted a note lying on the round end table before him and saw it read, JEREMY - COLD CHICKEN AND POTATO SALAD IN REFRIGERATOR. SEE YOU AT EIGHT.
Bane allowed himself the faintest of smiles on his normally deadpan face. For once, the grey eyes softened. Kenneth Dred was the first person to ever really care if he ate or had a warm bed to sleep in or was even safe from immediate harm. An orphan with no memory of his early years, Bane was not used to knowing that someone was concerned about his welfare. He just barely recognized that the emotion he was trying not to feel was gratitude. Walking through the front hall, past the staircase leading up, he went through the kitchen door and flicked the light on. For the next ten minutes, Bane sat at the table in the corner and devoured half a leftover chicken and a huge bowl of potato salad, gulping down one glass of ice water after another.
His enhanced speed asked several prices of him, including chronic restlessness and a metabolism that burned calories mercilessly. Despite his lean build, he ate enough daily for two burly men. Bane threw the scraps in the garbage and put the dishes in the sink for later. It was close to three, he saw by the clock. Probably he should try to get a few hours sleep in his room on the third floor.
He heard something in the front hall. It could not be Kenneth Dred, who rarely left his suite of rooms after retiring for the night. The Dire Wolf shifted instantly into a full alert state, pulse speeding up and his senses sharpening. The matched silver daggers were already sheathed on his forarms as always, and the Colt 45 automatic was holstered behind his left hip. Opening the door just the barest crack, Bane peered warily out into the front hall.
>Standing just aside the front door was a tall man in a dark blue cloak with a high collar that rose up to the top of his head. As Bane watched, the intruder staggered and almost fell but caught himself against a bookcase. After a few deep shuddering breaths, the man straightened up and threw his cloak back over his shoulders. He rose to his full height but his head was still lowered as if in pain or weariness. The man was wearing a dark blue tunic and black leggings, both decorated with fine silver patterns, and his clothing was badly torn as if he had been mauled. As he lifted his head, Bane could see blood caked on one side of the man's saturnine face.
The man raised his gloved hands and touched his bruised face gingerly, then took a step toward the staircase. That was the limit. Bane came out of the kitchen, 45 in hand and arm fully extended. "Hold it right there, buddy," he began. "You and me need to talk before you go anywhere-"
To the Dire Wolf's complete surprise, the man said, "Eryasha, aid me!" and merely made a dismissive gesture with one hand and something unseen yanked the gun away so hard his wrist nearly broke. Bane grunted at the unexpected pain. The heavy 45 spun through the air to be caught deftly by the cloaked man. This close, it could be seen that he had dark hair streaked with grey, and dark deepset eyes under heavy brows. A neat mustache under a beaklike nose and a firm trap of a mouth completed a face that was glaring angrily at Bane.
"A firearm?" he demanded in a cultured voice. "I don't know you, young fellow, and it's clear that you do not know Dr Mage!"
Bane abruptly blurred forward, faster than any normal Human, fist drawing back for the attack. Again, the man who called himself Dr Mage raised a gloved hand and Bane bounced back as if he had run headlong at an invisible wall. He skidded on his back across the polished hardwood floor. Rolling, leaping up again, he found himself unable to move forward. It felt as if he was trying to walk against hurricane-force winds but there was no wind. He braced himself and stubbornly took a step forward despite the resistance.
"Impressive," said the cloaked man. "I am not sure we should be clashing this way, young man. I am Dr Matthias Mage, an old friend of Kenneth Dred from many years ago. I have come here wounded and desperate, seeking sanctuary. Rest assured, I mean Kenneth no harm."
"All right," Bane grunted. "Let me go. Drop whatever trick you're using to hold me back. I'll listen to you."
"The Breath of Eryasha is no mere trick," Mage said but he lowered his hand and released Bane. "Please. Let me use the bathroom there to clean my wounds and see how badly I am injured. I lost a mortal combat early this night."
"Sure, go ahead," the Dire Wolf told him with a total lack of grace. "Maybe you can explain while you clean up."
In the bathroom adjoining the kitchen, Dr Mage unclasped his heavy cloak and hung it carelessly from a hook on the door. His tunic was shredded across the back and scorch marks showed in the material. The man wrestled out of that garment with some difficulty. His heavily muscled torso was badly bruised and scraped, and a gasp escaped him as he moved.
Standing in the doorway, Bane said, "Hey, you ARE banged up pretty bad." Starting to trust this stranger for some reason, he fetched a first aid kit from a cabinet and handed it to him. "Looks like you're still bleeding from the scalp there. Who were you fighting anyway?"
Starting to clean his face of the dried blood, Dr Mage examined his reflection in the mirror ruefully. "I was fighting the deadliest enemy the Human race has, youngster. The disciple of Draldros Himself, my despised rival Llandeilo. I failed. For all of us, it is later than you think."
II.
The Kulan dropped from the moonless sky, its batlike wings flapping and then folding against its back as it landed on the stone patio. The warrior demon straightened, a full seven feet tall, and glared down at the dead slave of Llandeilo. Its houndlike head had erect ears that twitched and rows of yellowed fangs in a long muzzle from which a low growl rumbled.
Llandeilo glanced over at the huge beast with annoyance. Kulan were difficult to control under the best of conditions. He gripped his staff and swung it idly as he watched the demon crouch over the body of his fallen slave. Brucatu had been a good man who had served him well, and he was annoyed that it had been Brucatu who had died during the fight with Mage. Ah well, nothing to do done for it now. Llandeilo pointed his staff at the twisted body and said to the Kulan, "Very well. But take it into the woods over there far from sight, Nagash. Do not let the others see you feed."
With a rumbling laugh in its leathery chest, the demon seized the body and lifted it easily by one leg. The Kulan loped away into the gloom with its meal dragging behind it. Llandeilo turned away. Poor Brucato. The warlock would have preferred another slave had died, but what was done was done. Llandeilo seemed to be a slim youth of about twenty, with a sensitive poet's face and long black hair brushed back over his shoulders. He was wearing a plain linen tunic of midnight green and black leggings with soft slippers. His looks were extremely deceptive. The slender long-fingered hand gripped the staff with strength that could snap the thick wood if he wanted to, and there was murderous anger in the soft brown eyes.
Llandeilo turned back to the house. He admitted that Mage had done well for himself in a material sense. The home here in Westchester was a four story Tudor-style structure on a landscaped two-acre lot, with three bedrooms and three bathrooms. It had this rear patio, Gazebo, retaining wall, attached two-car garage. The finished attic with skylights was Mage's meditation chamber. Since the furious battle had ended hours ago, Llandeilo's slaves had been searching the house and the grounds for any sign of the Yellow Shield but without success.
From the nearby woods came a faint gruesome noise of crunching and gobbling. Llandeilo scowled. Draldros had insisted on sending one of those Kulan to accompany him, ostensibly for protection but also, he realized, to keep an eye on him and report back to the Dreaded One. Llandeilo headed into the house to get Brucatu's fate from his mind. He stepped into a rear kitchenette and dining nook, to find two of his slaves coming for him.
"Well?" asked the warlock in his soft gentle voice. "Any sign of what we seek?"
"No, master," said the taller slave. These were men of Fanedral, short and stocky, with dark olive skin and curly black hair. They wore simple cotton shirts and baggy trousers with low boots, all tan or brown in color. Each also had a curved dagger sheathed in their waist sash, and several carried heavy bludgeons. "We must admit failure."
"Keep searching!" commanded Llandeilo. "Mage will return sooner or later..." His voice
trailed off.
The taller slave had stiffened, head thrown back and fingers clenched tensely. The man's eyes rolled up in his head until only the whites showed. Llandeilo knew what this meant. A faint red nimbus shimmered around the slave, and suddenly he spoke in a deep thunderous voice not his own, "What news?!"
The warlock dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "Mage has fled in defeat, Dreaded One. We are searching his home even now."
"No sign of the Yellow Shield? Or of the sword Hellspawn?"
"Not yet, my lord. Other talismans and rare volumes of lore are being brought to me now."
"But not what I seek," said the voice through its unconscious host. "You must not fail me, mortal. I will send you more gralic force as you need it, more slaves, more Kulan. But I want that shield and that sword."
"Yes, my lord," Llandeio muttered humbly. As he looked up, the slave came out of that trance and slumped limply to the stone patio. Channeling the voice of the ruler of Fanedral was no easy task.
Llandeilo rose and frowned down at the stunned slave. He regretted his pact bitterly, but there was no way out once you dealt with Draldros.
III.
To his own surprise, Bane found himself relaxing around Mage. It was rare for him to trust anyone, life on the streets had left him permanently suspicious of people. But something steady and reassuring about the sorcerer reached him. The young Dire Wolf even helped bandage the gouges on Mage's back. "Looks kind of like eagle claws did this," he said. "But bigger."
"It was a Kulan," Mage said without explanation. He finished cleaning a scrape by his hairline that had been bleeding down his cheek, fixing a wide bandaid over it. "Thank you. I don't know your name, son."
"Bane. Jeremy Bane. Mr Dred hired me a few months ago to work for him. Are you going to fill me in on all this? How did you get in past two locked doors? Who is this Draldros you are so worried about? What is a Kulan anyway, some sort of bird?"
The sorcerer leaned wearily on the sink and shook his head. "If it is acceptable to you, Jeremy, I need rest right now. In the morning, Kenneth and I will answer all your questions. We are in great danger right now... all Humans are. Here at least I will be safe to regain my strength."
"I suppose," the Dire Wolf told him reluctantly. Going to the walk-in closet by the front door, he returned with a heavy flannel bathrobe and handed it to the sorcerer. "Here. Your clothes are a wreck. Come on, there's a comfortable couch in the reception room, I've slept on it myself."
Leaving Mage in the reception room, Bane paused outside the door and heard the deep steady breathing of exhausted slumber. He closed the door and stood at the foot of the staircase, thinking. He had planned on standing guard outside that room until Dred was up, but for some reason he felt Dr Mage could be trusted. He shrugged, then trotted up to his own room on the third floor. There was not much in it except a double bed, an easy chair and writing table, and a closet which he was just beginning to fill as he bought clothes with his new salary. A television sat on top of the dresser but he almost never watched it.
It was after three. Bane set his alarm clock to seven forty-five, kicked off his boots and tossed his jacket over the easy chair, then stretched out fully dressed on his bed. He had expected to have a hard time getting to even rest, but within a minute, he was sound asleep.
IV.
The alarm went off and it felt as if no time had passed at all. The Dire Wolf jumped up, fully refreshed after only a few hours sleep. His metabolism was so charged that he almost never slept a full night. Going to the bathroom adjoining his room, he stripped off his shirt, washed quickly standing by the sink and put on a fresh black turtleneck. He felt alert and eager to find out what was going on. Bane pulled on his boots and grabbed his jacket, shrugging into it as he hurried down the stairs.
The door was still closed to the reception room. Bane went to the bathroom at the other end of the front hall and found Mage's shredded clothing still folded on the hamper where it had been left. He examined it as if looking for clues. The dark blue linen tunic had no pockets, nor did the black leggings. Both were covered with fine silver thread that was barely visible, forming some sort of symbols he didn't recognize. The cloak was heavy and stiff, a dark blue that was almost black. Its collar rose to head level, its top surface straight across, and there were two metal buttons and a cord that fastened the cloak at the throat. Strange outfit, Bane thought... no keys, no wallet, no place to carry money. How did this guy get around?
The Dire Wolf sniffed as he caught the sudden smell of bacon from the kitchen nearby. His stomach growled audibly. Bane opened the kitchen door and saw Dred with two frying pans at work. The elderly man turned and smiled. "Good morning."
"Morning, sir. I have to tell you, we have a guest...."
"Dr Mage. I saw his cloak in the bathroom." Dred stirred a huge mass of scrambled eggs. "From the way his costume looked, he seems to have been in quite a fight. Perhaps you might put some bread in the toaster."
At seventy-seven, Kenneth Dred was becoming bent and stiff as he lost the struggle against arthritis. He was a slight, spare figure well under average height, with a keen gnomish face and thin grey hair. Dred wore black slacks and a white dress shirt with a dark brown tie but he had left his suit jacket draped over a chair. As Bane got four slices of whole wheat bread for the toaster, he watched the old man thoughtfully.
"I have know Matthias for many years, if that's what you're wondering," Dred told him. "He's a good man. Matthias is the best defense the Human race has against tyrants from the adjacent realms."
"He mentioned someone named Draldros?"
"Yes," Dred answered, looking up. "A powerful and malicious being. Basically a god, beyond our ability to fight. He rules the realm of Fanedral. Draldros cannot leave his domain but he does send his agents and his servants here to do as much harm as they can."
"All right. I guess I understand. And your friend protects us from this Draldros?" Bane asked.
"As no other mortal could. I think you might want to see if he's up, Jeremy. All this will be ready in just a few minutes." Dred went over to a cupboard and starting bringing down china plates. "And the coffee is brewing."
Heading quickly down the hall, Bane rapped on the door and it opened as he did so. Dr Mage looked a lot better after some sleep. His dark hair had a pronounced widow's peak and was grey at the temples. The neat mustache and deepset eyes gave him a grave dignity as he said, "Good morning, Jeremy. I don't need magick to know bacon is cooking."
"We're about to start eating," Bane said. "Come on." He led the sorcerer to the kitchen, where Dred had begun filling the plates with piles of scrambled eggs and bacon. As the two old comrades shook hands and greeted each other, Bane poured them both coffee and left the mugs on the table. He himself avoided caffeine as he was too hyper already, so he got a tumbler of orange juice. Everyone seated themselves and dug in with enthusiasm, not speaking beyond mundane requests for more or to pass the cream.
When everyone was satisfied, Bane brought the dishes over to the sink and started running hot water. Dred glanced up, "You can let them go for now, Jeremy. Mrs Priore is coming at eleven for cleaning and laundry."
"Fine with me," the Dire Wolf said, drying his hands. "Now I'm looking forward to learning what is going on here."
They went back to the reception room. Dr Mage seated himself before the massive old desk, while Dred lowered himself carefully into his swivel chair behind it. On the wall behind him hung a gorgeous hand-painted map of the world as it had been in 1937. Bane remained on his feet, trying not to pace back and forth.
"Last night, I was attacked by Llandeilo," Mage began without preamble. "His powers were somehow much greater than before. My defenses could not stop him. We moved outside, where a Kulan was waiting and it mauled me before I could gate myself here. I knew, with the Yellow Shield inside your door, that no gralic attack could reach me here."
"So, Llandeilo. He's an enemy of yours?" asked Bane.
"My oldest enemy. He and I were students under the Venerable Gwerdun together. We learned the secrets of Invocation. But Llandeilo was treacherous and plotted to slay our Teacher and usurp his place. I exposed him and he swore vengeance on us both." Mage held up his hands and seemed to study them. "So far I have stopped his attempts."
Kenneth Dred leaned forward, placing his gnarled hands on the desk, and he sighed. "Your feud has gone on for so long, Matthias. When I think of all you could have done if Llandeilo did not keep interrupting your work..."
"So true," said the sorcerer. "Yet I am sworn not to slay a fellow student. All I can do is repel his attacks."
Bane unexpectedly said, "Well, I am not sworn not to slay him."
Both older men looked at him in surprise, then Mage said slowly, "I cannot condone killing my classmate. Yet, with all the innocents he has slain and made suffer, it would be justice such as no court could render."
"You could look the other way," the Dire Wolf suggested. "You say he's murdered innocent people?"
"And tortured and abused, yes. Dozens. The law of civilization cannot touch him because of his powers," Mage slowly answered. He glanced over at Dred. "Your thoughts?"
"Jeremy has already ended the careers of some genuinely evil men," Kenneth Dred told him. "It is not why I have hired him for. He is not my assassin. Yet, when he has had to act in self-defense, I feel he is justified in using deadly force."
"I don't have a problem with calling a spade a spade," Bane said. "Give me the address where I can find this Llandeilo and I'll have a little discussion with him."
Dr Mage rose, looming up over the slim Dire Wolf. "I must go with you. With the new increased ability Llandeilo has shown, I can not guarantee that even the two of us together will be able to defeat him. But try we must."
Stiffly getting up from behind the desk, Kenneth Dred seemed sad. "The fighting never ends. I am getting so tired of it. One monster is destroyed, one warlock is defeated, yet there are always more to replace them. It will never end." He shook his head and exhaled sharply. "Come to the closet in the hall, Matthias. Sulak left some of his clothes there years ago, I think they will fit you. Jeremy, will you be ready?"
"I wake up ready, sir." As the two older men left the room, Bane adjusted the hilts of the silver daggers sheathed under his sleeves, making sure they were ready to draw. They were supposed to have been blessed by the immortal Eldarin, whoever THEY were, to disrupt evil spells and slays creatures of the night. So far, they hadn't let him down. He put more faith in them than he did in the 45 automatic holstered behind his left hip. But ultimately he counted on his own speed and tenacity when fighting started. He went over to the fish tank that stood on a waisthigh counter and studied the weird specimens in there. A big sea horse with teeth. A starfish with a single red eye in its center. Hermit crabs that were building a tunnel out of bits of gravel they seemed to be cementing with a bodily secetion..
Dr Mage and Kenneth Dred came back into the room, and Dred immediately went to sit down again. The sorcerer was now wearing a dark brown suit with a lighter brown shirt and tan necktie, all of which fit him well enough. Incongrously, he still had on the low soft slippers he had with him when he had arrived, rather than dress shoes.
"Jeremy," he said. "Kenneth tells me that you might drive me to my home so that we can do battle with the usurper. Will you do so?"
"I can't wait!" snapped Bane.
IV.
At early morning, while his slaves still searched the building, Llandeilo decided to use his own approach. The meditation room on the top floor of Mage's home was clean and uncluttered, with a single bookcase in one corner and a comfortable chair beside the door. In the center of the open space, under the skylight, a cloth mat inlaid with esoteric symbols was stretched and a silver brazier stood before it which still carried the scent of sandlewood. Llandeilo dismissed his valet slave and lowered himself to the full lotus on the map. The chamber was well prepared. In the near darkness, Llandeilo sat with back straight and head held up, closed his eyes and began the breathing patterns he had learned so long ago. "Efriko," he whispered, "I call on thee."
Smoothly and invisibly, Llandeilo's senses expanded. His awareness was reinforced and extended by gralic force. There was a faint snapping sensation and suddenly his awareness seemed to be hovering weightless in the air, so that he could turn and look down at his physical body. Llaneilo saw himself now as a translucent ghostly image of himself.
This was an illusion, he knew. His mind was interpreting his astral projection in terms he could comprehend, but actually this was his awareness feeding information back into his mind. No matter. Llandeilo's spirit form may have been a construct to help his conscious mind but it worked as well as if he now were a real ghosy. Swifter than any material object, Llandeilo's spirit flashed up and out through the skylight without disturbing it and into the darkness. His perception caught a faint silver haze that still hung in the night air, almost a glitter that stretched out below the clouds. Dr Mage's trail. Llandeilo hurtled after with a celerity close to instaneous. He soared down over Manhattan, worried as the silver trail was growing faint. There. On 38th Street, a substantial old building nine stories high. His spirit form circled at a prudent distance.
A normal person with untrained senses would have seen nothing of Llandeilo. The rare individual with a psychic gift might feel a sudden chill or uneasiness as the gralic projection passed nearby. The warlock's spirit felt strong gralic energy pulsing within this building. Either powerful beings or potent talismans were inside, or both. Llandeilo flew warily around the building, sensing its defenses. Someone wise in the Midnight War lived here.
The translucent image of the Welsh warlock flitted from window to window, peering in and seeing nothing but drawn curtains. Finally, he glided down to street level in front of the building, hovering just over the sidewalk. He had to try. The spirit form swept up toward the front door and bounced back off with a crackle of blue force that numbed him. Llandeilo struggled to keep his presence intact. What in Akuran's Name was that barrier? He had never encountered anything so potent. Again, he drew back and flew forward swift as thought itself, only to be repelled even more violently. His spirit form began to break up, to dissipate, and he spent almost an hour reconstituting it.
This was too dangerous to repeat. Llandeilo knew that if his projected awareness was broken, his physical body would slip into coma and death within a few days. Yet he was convinced that here was his goal. He must not fail Draldros. Mere death was almost be to welcomed compared to the punishments the Dreaded One could inflict. Llandeilo began searching the building slowly, intensely, looking for any weak spot that would give him an opening. No defense was perfect. And as he moved about the outer walls, he had no clue that his greatest enemy had left that building just before he had arrived, riding in a car driven by a young newcomer to the Midnight War.
V.
Zipping past Van Cortlandt Park, Bane left the Bronx and entered Westchester County. They still had a ways to go, he knew. He drove Kenneth Dred's big old Buick Regal just over the speed limit, relying on his enhanced reflexes in the usual furious traffic. Beside him, Dr Mage stared somberly out the window. Finally, the Dire Wolf broke the silence, "So, you're one of the Tel Shai knights Mr Dred has told me about?"
"What? No. No, I am not with the Order of Tel Shai, Jeremy." The sorceror tugged at the bandage on his left temple and pulled it off to find the gouge had stopped bleeding. He seemed relieved. "I studied magick under my teacher, the Venerable Gwerdun. He himself learned from his own master over a hundred years ago. Not every one in the Midnight War is affiliated with Tel Shai."
"I know I have a lot to learn," Bane said a bit peevishly. "I've only been in this game a few months, you know. So who is this Draldros? You talk like he's the Devil."
"More true than you realize! Draldros is one of the higher spirits, the Halarim, who were created before the world began. He has been forced into his realm of Fanedral by the efforts of Jordyn, and he may not return so long as Jordyn lives."
"Got you so far," the Dire Wolf said. "But he's ticked off and he keeps starting trouble for people, right? Just to be that way."
Mage smiled. "Exactly right. Now, Llandeilo was a student of the Venerable One before I was, he had studied longer and his magick is stronger than mine. But I have continued to learn and now I think I am his match. Our next meeting should be the last." The sorcerer stroked his mustache thoughtfully, and was silent again.
After a few more minutes, Bane broke in again. "So. You and Llandeilo call on these Halarim to give you your powers? You ask them to lend you gralic force?"
"Again, you are correct." Mage sighed. "There are times when our patrons decline to help us. If I misuse the power or fail to uphold our ethics, Cirkoth or Eryasha or even Jordyn himself may decide I am not worthy. Everything is uncertain."
"Got it," said Bane. "Look, we're coming up on Hillcrest Lane. You want to pull over and get a plan of action?"
Mage nodded. "Yes. Perhaps by that side road." They were in a residential area off the highway. The houses were large and well-kept on substantial properties. The big Buick rolled to a halt next to a chest-high retaining wall and Bane turned the engine off.
The sorcerer gazed up at the hill a few blocks ahead of them. He pressed his palms together at his chest and lowered his head. "Do not be alarmed, Jeremy. I am going to go into a trance for a little while. Cirkoth, I call on thee to loosen the bonds of flesh."
With that, his body sagged and his breathing slowed.
For a bare instant, Bane thought he glimpsed a wisp of something pale and translucent rise up from Mage's body and dissipate. But he couldn't be sure. He still wasn't used to all this supernatural mumbo-jumbo and wondered if he was being tricked somehow when he saw the occult. Mage seemed to be out of it. The young Dire Wolf shifted uneasily in his seat and stared out the windshield, figuring he had no choice but to wait.
Then, Dr Mage shuddered and drew in a deep breath. As his eyes opened, he said, "Quickly, young man. Go up that driveway on the next block. The white house with blue trim that you see on the hill. We must be swift!"
Bane started the car up and tore out onto the street and up the circular driveway toward Mage's home. "And just why must we be swift?" he asked.
"Llandeilo is out of body. He will never be more vulnerable. Stop here. He will have slaves, dangerous men with knives. And a Kulan demon! Leave the demon to me, Jeremy."
"Glad to," muttered the Dire Wolf as he jumped out of the car and followed the sorcerer at a run toward the Tudor-style house. Before they reached it, the front door slammed open and four stocky men raced down toward them. All have knives with wavy-shaped blades in their hands, already drawn.
Bane barked, "Leave these losers to me!" and hurtled forward to dive right into the four men before they could react. The next few seconds were a confused blur of lightning movement. One man screamed and another grunted loudly, then they were all down on the gravel driveway with the Dire Wolf standing grimly over him. The daggers he held were wet with fresh blood. He himself had not been touched.
"That's what you get when you tackle me," he growled at the four corpses. Glaring up at Dr Mage as if expecting criticism, Bane knelt and cleaned his silver blades on the shirt of one of the Fanedralites, then rose smoothly to his feet again. "What next? You're the boss, Doc."
"We go in," the sorcerer intoned somberly, "to finish this. His deepset eyes narrowed as he glanced up at the trees on the edge of the property. With surprising strength, he swept Bane behind him with the sweep of one arm. "Stand fast, my friend."
Plummeting down from the sky in a power dive was a dark-hided figure taller than a man. Its batlike wings were spread wide and the taloned claws were ready to clutch. The head of a great hound opened its jaws in a howl.
"Thunderbolt of Jordyn, protect me!" cried out Dr Mage, holding out his open hand with the index and little finger touching in an arcane gesture. A blinding blue-white arc crackled from around his head to crash into the oncoming demon. Thunder detonated and the Kulan was flung violently to one side to slam against the side of the house with a bone-breaking impact. As the beast slid to lie face down on the patio, black oil. smoke rose from its corpse.
"Thank you, Great Jordyn," breathed Dr Mage, lowering his hand. "Remember your humble follower." He turned toward Bane and nodded somberly. "That brute nearly ripped me apart last night. I'm glad to see him dead!"
"You're not the only one," said Bane. "I was expecting a real close tangle with that thing..." He straightened the sleeves of his jacket. "Any more like him?"
"No. Draldros sent this Kulan here to guard my enemy. There may be one or two more slaves. Come, let us end this." Dr Mage glared at the building behind them. "My home. I have done so much work here, and to think that Llandeilo has taken it..!" He strode toward the rear door and, seeing his anger, Bane thought he wouldn't want Mage mad at him that way. He followed the sorcerer into a small room which held a few lawn chairs, a rake and other odds and ends, then into a dining room. To their left was a bannistered staircase which Mage immediately began to ascend.
As they passed a few paintings and a pair of crossed sabers on the wall, Bane watched suspiciously in all directions, expecting an attack from any direction. He didn't know much about gralic magick yet, he wasn't sure just what could happen and what couldn't.
At the top of the stairs was a wide door of polished dark wood, with an unlit brazier standing beside it. Mage swung it inward and stepped inside, then paused. "We are in time," he whispered.
Sitting cross-legged on the ornate mat, directly in the path of a sunbeam which slanted down through the skylight, Llandeilo was not aware of them. His eyes were closed and his chest barely moved in deep slow breaths.
"Perfect!" Mage said with satisfaction. "I will take him back to the Venerable Gerwun for judgement." The sorceror held up both open palms toward the unmoving figure. "Koromas, I ask thee for the Chains of Stillness." As he spoke, the familiar blue shimmer of his magick swirled around the form of Llandeilo and settled into a firm nimbus.
"I thank thee, Koromas," the sorcerer said as he lowered his hands. "It is done, Jeremy. This traitor will be punished for what he has done." He stared at a spot just above the warlock. "Nor are we a moment too soon. I see your spirit form, Llandeilo. Hover all you like, you cannot pierce the Chains of Koromas. You will remain insubstantial and harmless from now on."
"He sure looks like a kid," Bane said, "like he should be in high school. Are you sure you've got the right magician?"
"Hah! Llandeilo is close to eighty years old. His appearance is from Alchemy. Ask Kenneth about when they met at the end of World War II."
In the door behind them, one of the Fanedralites appeared, opening his mouth to ask his master what was going on. So quickly that Dr Mage blinked in astonishment, the Dire Wolf had whirled and driven one fist deeply into the man's stomach, doubling him up, and then straightening him again with an uppercut that clapped the slave's jaw shut audibly. The Fanedralite sagged. Bane seized him and flung him roughly to the floor near his master.
"By Akuran!" Mage said. "That was impressive. I've seen Kumundu masters not half as quick as you, Jeremy."
"No idea what Kumundu is," answered Bane, "I was just born this way." He snapped his head around as the slave painfully attempted to get up on hands and knees. Bane scowled, "Looks like I pulled my punches a bit too much to keep from killing him, doc."
With an abrupt jerky convulsion, the slave was upright, head thrown back and eyes rolled up. Hot foul air rushed into that room and the early afternoon sunlight assumed a lurid red undertone. The slave opened his mouth and a voice deeper and louder than normal boomed out, "Fool! You have not won yet."
"Stand behind me," commanded Mage under his breath, but Bane did not obey. The sorcerer called out, "You know it is forbidden for you to enter this world, Dread One."
"Nor have I done so," boomed the hollow voice from the entranced slave. "I merely speak to you from afar. And, perhaps, bid this pathetic wretch to do my bidding. Llandeilo, awaken! Be free!"
As the slave awakwardly gestured with a limp hand, deep crimson force whirled around the still body of the warlock seated on the floor. Llandeilo coughed, rolled over and jumped hastily to his feet. "Mage! Hah, you have spared me tracking you down!"
"Thunderbolt of Jordyn, strike you down!" shouted the sorcerer, and again lightning exploded from his empty hand but it was diverted by a stroke of the dark red force crackling from the entranced slave. The lightning dissipated harmlessly and Llandeilo leered at his mortal enemy.
"I do not need to call upon any patron," boomed the deep voice from the slave. "I myself am a Halara! I will protect my servant from you, Matthias, and I will grant him all the power he needs. Llandeilo... slay him for me."
"I hear, Dread One, and I obey." The boyish-looking warlock held up both fists, knuckles pressed together and cried out, "Fires of Cirkoth, burn my foe!" Instantly searing yellow flame roared through the air in a brilliant stream. But Mage had reacted even as his opponent spoke, yelling "Breath of Eryasha!" A gust of freezing wind whirled from nowhere to break up the fire and scatter it into sparks.
The entranced slave roared with laughter. "Well done, Matthias, yet you cannot win. My servant can command the Claws of Efriko. The Crushing Doom--"
"How about the Underhand Throw?" asked Bane quietly. No one had seen him move, but his left arm was already lowering and the slim hilt of a throwing dagger protruded from Llandeilo's chest. The warlock gasped and grabbed at it as if to try to pull it free, but his heart had been pierced. He sank to his knees and fell over on one side.
The young Dire Wolf looked over at Mage. "Sorry to butt in, Doc," he said, "But it was two on one, you know, and I hate that."
Allowing himself a brief smile, the sorcerer answered, "How can I complain? Thank you, Jeremy, but the real threat still stands before us." He raised his open hands in a gesture and blue light played around them. "Dread One, will you step back now?"
"After you have slain my disciple? I think not!" The Fanedralite slave took a clumsy step forward. "This puny form will be consumed by channeling my wrath, but what is that to me? I will show you the full might of Draldros, Lord of Fanedral, and nothing you can conjure will halt me."
Mage lowered his hands just a bit. "True. Whatever I may be granted by the Halarin cannot match your own direct force. I would seem to be doomed. And yet..." Here he actually winked at Bane beside him. "Perhaps something more mundane might help me?"
The Dire Wolf grinned, and abruptly the 45 was in his left hand and firing. In that enclosed space, the shots were deafening. Four heavy slugs punched home in the chest of the entranced slave, knocking him back off his feet. Even as the corpse began to fall, a final bullet caught the side of its head, spraying blood and fragments into the air. When the body sprawled its gory length on the polished hardwood floor, Bane slowly returned the automatic to its holster behind his hip.
The oppressive heat and heaviness in the air was gone, just like that. The presence of Draldros leaving was like a weight being lifted and both men found it easier to breathe.
"Nothing magic about a lead pellet in the ticker," he said. "But I guess it works."
Dr Mage let out a deep shuddering breath. He walked over and examined the body of the slave. "Nothing possesses this shell now," he said, then going to kneel over Llandeilo. "And this rogue is dead as well. At last, at long last. He will scheme no more. A pity, he was so talented and yet..."
Coming over beside him, the Dire Wolf tugged his dagger out and wiped it callously on the corpse's robes. "Glad that's over," he said. "I have to admit that Draldros guy is a little intimidating. He had me worried." Bane rose and slid the dagger back into its sheath under his sleeve.
"That was not Draldros really we faced just now. Merely a glimpse of the Dread One's power being channeled through a mortal body. I fear you have made a terrible enemy today, my boy."
"Not the first, not the last," Bane answered casually. "Say, Doc, what are you going to do with these bodies?"
"My property is large enough to bury them in, and I will take care no traces show. Tonight. Perhaps you would return to assist me, after reporting to Kenneth?"
"Fine with me. I do have to go back to town and tell Mr Dred what happened. I'll come back to help after dark. Okay?" He started for the door, as calm and unshaken as if nothing unsual had happened that day.
"Yes. But, Jeremy?"
The Dire Wolf stopped at the door, looking back over one shoulder. "Yeah?"
"Don't call me Doc."
9/16/2014
11/8-11/9/1977
I.
It was past two in the morning when Bane returned to Kenneth Dred's house on East 38th Street, coming back from an errand for the old man that involved delivering a mysterious package to the Pennsylvania border. Bane didn't mind. His early doubts about working for Dred as a live-in aide had quickly given way to excited loyalty toward the occultist. Learning about the Midnight War still astounded him. He had never dreamed such things really went on the world and he found in it the challenge he had always been unconsciously seeking.
At twenty-one, Jeremy Bane was so serious and self-controlled that he gave the impression of being older. Just over six feet tall and gaunt, he had already adopted the outfit which would be his trademark... black boots, slacks, long-sleeved turtleneck and sport jacket. In the January chill, he had given in to wearing a long cloth coat which he now hung on the heavy oak rack just inside the front door. The young Dire Wolf made sure the front door was locked as the door to the street already was, then turned off the outside light. He spotted a note lying on the round end table before him and saw it read, JEREMY - COLD CHICKEN AND POTATO SALAD IN REFRIGERATOR. SEE YOU AT EIGHT.
Bane allowed himself the faintest of smiles on his normally deadpan face. For once, the grey eyes softened. Kenneth Dred was the first person to ever really care if he ate or had a warm bed to sleep in or was even safe from immediate harm. An orphan with no memory of his early years, Bane was not used to knowing that someone was concerned about his welfare. He just barely recognized that the emotion he was trying not to feel was gratitude. Walking through the front hall, past the staircase leading up, he went through the kitchen door and flicked the light on. For the next ten minutes, Bane sat at the table in the corner and devoured half a leftover chicken and a huge bowl of potato salad, gulping down one glass of ice water after another.
His enhanced speed asked several prices of him, including chronic restlessness and a metabolism that burned calories mercilessly. Despite his lean build, he ate enough daily for two burly men. Bane threw the scraps in the garbage and put the dishes in the sink for later. It was close to three, he saw by the clock. Probably he should try to get a few hours sleep in his room on the third floor.
He heard something in the front hall. It could not be Kenneth Dred, who rarely left his suite of rooms after retiring for the night. The Dire Wolf shifted instantly into a full alert state, pulse speeding up and his senses sharpening. The matched silver daggers were already sheathed on his forarms as always, and the Colt 45 automatic was holstered behind his left hip. Opening the door just the barest crack, Bane peered warily out into the front hall.
>Standing just aside the front door was a tall man in a dark blue cloak with a high collar that rose up to the top of his head. As Bane watched, the intruder staggered and almost fell but caught himself against a bookcase. After a few deep shuddering breaths, the man straightened up and threw his cloak back over his shoulders. He rose to his full height but his head was still lowered as if in pain or weariness. The man was wearing a dark blue tunic and black leggings, both decorated with fine silver patterns, and his clothing was badly torn as if he had been mauled. As he lifted his head, Bane could see blood caked on one side of the man's saturnine face.
The man raised his gloved hands and touched his bruised face gingerly, then took a step toward the staircase. That was the limit. Bane came out of the kitchen, 45 in hand and arm fully extended. "Hold it right there, buddy," he began. "You and me need to talk before you go anywhere-"
To the Dire Wolf's complete surprise, the man said, "Eryasha, aid me!" and merely made a dismissive gesture with one hand and something unseen yanked the gun away so hard his wrist nearly broke. Bane grunted at the unexpected pain. The heavy 45 spun through the air to be caught deftly by the cloaked man. This close, it could be seen that he had dark hair streaked with grey, and dark deepset eyes under heavy brows. A neat mustache under a beaklike nose and a firm trap of a mouth completed a face that was glaring angrily at Bane.
"A firearm?" he demanded in a cultured voice. "I don't know you, young fellow, and it's clear that you do not know Dr Mage!"
Bane abruptly blurred forward, faster than any normal Human, fist drawing back for the attack. Again, the man who called himself Dr Mage raised a gloved hand and Bane bounced back as if he had run headlong at an invisible wall. He skidded on his back across the polished hardwood floor. Rolling, leaping up again, he found himself unable to move forward. It felt as if he was trying to walk against hurricane-force winds but there was no wind. He braced himself and stubbornly took a step forward despite the resistance.
"Impressive," said the cloaked man. "I am not sure we should be clashing this way, young man. I am Dr Matthias Mage, an old friend of Kenneth Dred from many years ago. I have come here wounded and desperate, seeking sanctuary. Rest assured, I mean Kenneth no harm."
"All right," Bane grunted. "Let me go. Drop whatever trick you're using to hold me back. I'll listen to you."
"The Breath of Eryasha is no mere trick," Mage said but he lowered his hand and released Bane. "Please. Let me use the bathroom there to clean my wounds and see how badly I am injured. I lost a mortal combat early this night."
"Sure, go ahead," the Dire Wolf told him with a total lack of grace. "Maybe you can explain while you clean up."
In the bathroom adjoining the kitchen, Dr Mage unclasped his heavy cloak and hung it carelessly from a hook on the door. His tunic was shredded across the back and scorch marks showed in the material. The man wrestled out of that garment with some difficulty. His heavily muscled torso was badly bruised and scraped, and a gasp escaped him as he moved.
Standing in the doorway, Bane said, "Hey, you ARE banged up pretty bad." Starting to trust this stranger for some reason, he fetched a first aid kit from a cabinet and handed it to him. "Looks like you're still bleeding from the scalp there. Who were you fighting anyway?"
Starting to clean his face of the dried blood, Dr Mage examined his reflection in the mirror ruefully. "I was fighting the deadliest enemy the Human race has, youngster. The disciple of Draldros Himself, my despised rival Llandeilo. I failed. For all of us, it is later than you think."
II.
The Kulan dropped from the moonless sky, its batlike wings flapping and then folding against its back as it landed on the stone patio. The warrior demon straightened, a full seven feet tall, and glared down at the dead slave of Llandeilo. Its houndlike head had erect ears that twitched and rows of yellowed fangs in a long muzzle from which a low growl rumbled.
Llandeilo glanced over at the huge beast with annoyance. Kulan were difficult to control under the best of conditions. He gripped his staff and swung it idly as he watched the demon crouch over the body of his fallen slave. Brucatu had been a good man who had served him well, and he was annoyed that it had been Brucatu who had died during the fight with Mage. Ah well, nothing to do done for it now. Llandeilo pointed his staff at the twisted body and said to the Kulan, "Very well. But take it into the woods over there far from sight, Nagash. Do not let the others see you feed."
With a rumbling laugh in its leathery chest, the demon seized the body and lifted it easily by one leg. The Kulan loped away into the gloom with its meal dragging behind it. Llandeilo turned away. Poor Brucato. The warlock would have preferred another slave had died, but what was done was done. Llandeilo seemed to be a slim youth of about twenty, with a sensitive poet's face and long black hair brushed back over his shoulders. He was wearing a plain linen tunic of midnight green and black leggings with soft slippers. His looks were extremely deceptive. The slender long-fingered hand gripped the staff with strength that could snap the thick wood if he wanted to, and there was murderous anger in the soft brown eyes.
Llandeilo turned back to the house. He admitted that Mage had done well for himself in a material sense. The home here in Westchester was a four story Tudor-style structure on a landscaped two-acre lot, with three bedrooms and three bathrooms. It had this rear patio, Gazebo, retaining wall, attached two-car garage. The finished attic with skylights was Mage's meditation chamber. Since the furious battle had ended hours ago, Llandeilo's slaves had been searching the house and the grounds for any sign of the Yellow Shield but without success.
From the nearby woods came a faint gruesome noise of crunching and gobbling. Llandeilo scowled. Draldros had insisted on sending one of those Kulan to accompany him, ostensibly for protection but also, he realized, to keep an eye on him and report back to the Dreaded One. Llandeilo headed into the house to get Brucatu's fate from his mind. He stepped into a rear kitchenette and dining nook, to find two of his slaves coming for him.
"Well?" asked the warlock in his soft gentle voice. "Any sign of what we seek?"
"No, master," said the taller slave. These were men of Fanedral, short and stocky, with dark olive skin and curly black hair. They wore simple cotton shirts and baggy trousers with low boots, all tan or brown in color. Each also had a curved dagger sheathed in their waist sash, and several carried heavy bludgeons. "We must admit failure."
"Keep searching!" commanded Llandeilo. "Mage will return sooner or later..." His voice
trailed off.
The taller slave had stiffened, head thrown back and fingers clenched tensely. The man's eyes rolled up in his head until only the whites showed. Llandeilo knew what this meant. A faint red nimbus shimmered around the slave, and suddenly he spoke in a deep thunderous voice not his own, "What news?!"
The warlock dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "Mage has fled in defeat, Dreaded One. We are searching his home even now."
"No sign of the Yellow Shield? Or of the sword Hellspawn?"
"Not yet, my lord. Other talismans and rare volumes of lore are being brought to me now."
"But not what I seek," said the voice through its unconscious host. "You must not fail me, mortal. I will send you more gralic force as you need it, more slaves, more Kulan. But I want that shield and that sword."
"Yes, my lord," Llandeio muttered humbly. As he looked up, the slave came out of that trance and slumped limply to the stone patio. Channeling the voice of the ruler of Fanedral was no easy task.
Llandeilo rose and frowned down at the stunned slave. He regretted his pact bitterly, but there was no way out once you dealt with Draldros.
III.
To his own surprise, Bane found himself relaxing around Mage. It was rare for him to trust anyone, life on the streets had left him permanently suspicious of people. But something steady and reassuring about the sorcerer reached him. The young Dire Wolf even helped bandage the gouges on Mage's back. "Looks kind of like eagle claws did this," he said. "But bigger."
"It was a Kulan," Mage said without explanation. He finished cleaning a scrape by his hairline that had been bleeding down his cheek, fixing a wide bandaid over it. "Thank you. I don't know your name, son."
"Bane. Jeremy Bane. Mr Dred hired me a few months ago to work for him. Are you going to fill me in on all this? How did you get in past two locked doors? Who is this Draldros you are so worried about? What is a Kulan anyway, some sort of bird?"
The sorcerer leaned wearily on the sink and shook his head. "If it is acceptable to you, Jeremy, I need rest right now. In the morning, Kenneth and I will answer all your questions. We are in great danger right now... all Humans are. Here at least I will be safe to regain my strength."
"I suppose," the Dire Wolf told him reluctantly. Going to the walk-in closet by the front door, he returned with a heavy flannel bathrobe and handed it to the sorcerer. "Here. Your clothes are a wreck. Come on, there's a comfortable couch in the reception room, I've slept on it myself."
Leaving Mage in the reception room, Bane paused outside the door and heard the deep steady breathing of exhausted slumber. He closed the door and stood at the foot of the staircase, thinking. He had planned on standing guard outside that room until Dred was up, but for some reason he felt Dr Mage could be trusted. He shrugged, then trotted up to his own room on the third floor. There was not much in it except a double bed, an easy chair and writing table, and a closet which he was just beginning to fill as he bought clothes with his new salary. A television sat on top of the dresser but he almost never watched it.
It was after three. Bane set his alarm clock to seven forty-five, kicked off his boots and tossed his jacket over the easy chair, then stretched out fully dressed on his bed. He had expected to have a hard time getting to even rest, but within a minute, he was sound asleep.
IV.
The alarm went off and it felt as if no time had passed at all. The Dire Wolf jumped up, fully refreshed after only a few hours sleep. His metabolism was so charged that he almost never slept a full night. Going to the bathroom adjoining his room, he stripped off his shirt, washed quickly standing by the sink and put on a fresh black turtleneck. He felt alert and eager to find out what was going on. Bane pulled on his boots and grabbed his jacket, shrugging into it as he hurried down the stairs.
The door was still closed to the reception room. Bane went to the bathroom at the other end of the front hall and found Mage's shredded clothing still folded on the hamper where it had been left. He examined it as if looking for clues. The dark blue linen tunic had no pockets, nor did the black leggings. Both were covered with fine silver thread that was barely visible, forming some sort of symbols he didn't recognize. The cloak was heavy and stiff, a dark blue that was almost black. Its collar rose to head level, its top surface straight across, and there were two metal buttons and a cord that fastened the cloak at the throat. Strange outfit, Bane thought... no keys, no wallet, no place to carry money. How did this guy get around?
The Dire Wolf sniffed as he caught the sudden smell of bacon from the kitchen nearby. His stomach growled audibly. Bane opened the kitchen door and saw Dred with two frying pans at work. The elderly man turned and smiled. "Good morning."
"Morning, sir. I have to tell you, we have a guest...."
"Dr Mage. I saw his cloak in the bathroom." Dred stirred a huge mass of scrambled eggs. "From the way his costume looked, he seems to have been in quite a fight. Perhaps you might put some bread in the toaster."
At seventy-seven, Kenneth Dred was becoming bent and stiff as he lost the struggle against arthritis. He was a slight, spare figure well under average height, with a keen gnomish face and thin grey hair. Dred wore black slacks and a white dress shirt with a dark brown tie but he had left his suit jacket draped over a chair. As Bane got four slices of whole wheat bread for the toaster, he watched the old man thoughtfully.
"I have know Matthias for many years, if that's what you're wondering," Dred told him. "He's a good man. Matthias is the best defense the Human race has against tyrants from the adjacent realms."
"He mentioned someone named Draldros?"
"Yes," Dred answered, looking up. "A powerful and malicious being. Basically a god, beyond our ability to fight. He rules the realm of Fanedral. Draldros cannot leave his domain but he does send his agents and his servants here to do as much harm as they can."
"All right. I guess I understand. And your friend protects us from this Draldros?" Bane asked.
"As no other mortal could. I think you might want to see if he's up, Jeremy. All this will be ready in just a few minutes." Dred went over to a cupboard and starting bringing down china plates. "And the coffee is brewing."
Heading quickly down the hall, Bane rapped on the door and it opened as he did so. Dr Mage looked a lot better after some sleep. His dark hair had a pronounced widow's peak and was grey at the temples. The neat mustache and deepset eyes gave him a grave dignity as he said, "Good morning, Jeremy. I don't need magick to know bacon is cooking."
"We're about to start eating," Bane said. "Come on." He led the sorcerer to the kitchen, where Dred had begun filling the plates with piles of scrambled eggs and bacon. As the two old comrades shook hands and greeted each other, Bane poured them both coffee and left the mugs on the table. He himself avoided caffeine as he was too hyper already, so he got a tumbler of orange juice. Everyone seated themselves and dug in with enthusiasm, not speaking beyond mundane requests for more or to pass the cream.
When everyone was satisfied, Bane brought the dishes over to the sink and started running hot water. Dred glanced up, "You can let them go for now, Jeremy. Mrs Priore is coming at eleven for cleaning and laundry."
"Fine with me," the Dire Wolf said, drying his hands. "Now I'm looking forward to learning what is going on here."
They went back to the reception room. Dr Mage seated himself before the massive old desk, while Dred lowered himself carefully into his swivel chair behind it. On the wall behind him hung a gorgeous hand-painted map of the world as it had been in 1937. Bane remained on his feet, trying not to pace back and forth.
"Last night, I was attacked by Llandeilo," Mage began without preamble. "His powers were somehow much greater than before. My defenses could not stop him. We moved outside, where a Kulan was waiting and it mauled me before I could gate myself here. I knew, with the Yellow Shield inside your door, that no gralic attack could reach me here."
"So, Llandeilo. He's an enemy of yours?" asked Bane.
"My oldest enemy. He and I were students under the Venerable Gwerdun together. We learned the secrets of Invocation. But Llandeilo was treacherous and plotted to slay our Teacher and usurp his place. I exposed him and he swore vengeance on us both." Mage held up his hands and seemed to study them. "So far I have stopped his attempts."
Kenneth Dred leaned forward, placing his gnarled hands on the desk, and he sighed. "Your feud has gone on for so long, Matthias. When I think of all you could have done if Llandeilo did not keep interrupting your work..."
"So true," said the sorcerer. "Yet I am sworn not to slay a fellow student. All I can do is repel his attacks."
Bane unexpectedly said, "Well, I am not sworn not to slay him."
Both older men looked at him in surprise, then Mage said slowly, "I cannot condone killing my classmate. Yet, with all the innocents he has slain and made suffer, it would be justice such as no court could render."
"You could look the other way," the Dire Wolf suggested. "You say he's murdered innocent people?"
"And tortured and abused, yes. Dozens. The law of civilization cannot touch him because of his powers," Mage slowly answered. He glanced over at Dred. "Your thoughts?"
"Jeremy has already ended the careers of some genuinely evil men," Kenneth Dred told him. "It is not why I have hired him for. He is not my assassin. Yet, when he has had to act in self-defense, I feel he is justified in using deadly force."
"I don't have a problem with calling a spade a spade," Bane said. "Give me the address where I can find this Llandeilo and I'll have a little discussion with him."
Dr Mage rose, looming up over the slim Dire Wolf. "I must go with you. With the new increased ability Llandeilo has shown, I can not guarantee that even the two of us together will be able to defeat him. But try we must."
Stiffly getting up from behind the desk, Kenneth Dred seemed sad. "The fighting never ends. I am getting so tired of it. One monster is destroyed, one warlock is defeated, yet there are always more to replace them. It will never end." He shook his head and exhaled sharply. "Come to the closet in the hall, Matthias. Sulak left some of his clothes there years ago, I think they will fit you. Jeremy, will you be ready?"
"I wake up ready, sir." As the two older men left the room, Bane adjusted the hilts of the silver daggers sheathed under his sleeves, making sure they were ready to draw. They were supposed to have been blessed by the immortal Eldarin, whoever THEY were, to disrupt evil spells and slays creatures of the night. So far, they hadn't let him down. He put more faith in them than he did in the 45 automatic holstered behind his left hip. But ultimately he counted on his own speed and tenacity when fighting started. He went over to the fish tank that stood on a waisthigh counter and studied the weird specimens in there. A big sea horse with teeth. A starfish with a single red eye in its center. Hermit crabs that were building a tunnel out of bits of gravel they seemed to be cementing with a bodily secetion..
Dr Mage and Kenneth Dred came back into the room, and Dred immediately went to sit down again. The sorcerer was now wearing a dark brown suit with a lighter brown shirt and tan necktie, all of which fit him well enough. Incongrously, he still had on the low soft slippers he had with him when he had arrived, rather than dress shoes.
"Jeremy," he said. "Kenneth tells me that you might drive me to my home so that we can do battle with the usurper. Will you do so?"
"I can't wait!" snapped Bane.
IV.
At early morning, while his slaves still searched the building, Llandeilo decided to use his own approach. The meditation room on the top floor of Mage's home was clean and uncluttered, with a single bookcase in one corner and a comfortable chair beside the door. In the center of the open space, under the skylight, a cloth mat inlaid with esoteric symbols was stretched and a silver brazier stood before it which still carried the scent of sandlewood. Llandeilo dismissed his valet slave and lowered himself to the full lotus on the map. The chamber was well prepared. In the near darkness, Llandeilo sat with back straight and head held up, closed his eyes and began the breathing patterns he had learned so long ago. "Efriko," he whispered, "I call on thee."
Smoothly and invisibly, Llandeilo's senses expanded. His awareness was reinforced and extended by gralic force. There was a faint snapping sensation and suddenly his awareness seemed to be hovering weightless in the air, so that he could turn and look down at his physical body. Llaneilo saw himself now as a translucent ghostly image of himself.
This was an illusion, he knew. His mind was interpreting his astral projection in terms he could comprehend, but actually this was his awareness feeding information back into his mind. No matter. Llandeilo's spirit form may have been a construct to help his conscious mind but it worked as well as if he now were a real ghosy. Swifter than any material object, Llandeilo's spirit flashed up and out through the skylight without disturbing it and into the darkness. His perception caught a faint silver haze that still hung in the night air, almost a glitter that stretched out below the clouds. Dr Mage's trail. Llandeilo hurtled after with a celerity close to instaneous. He soared down over Manhattan, worried as the silver trail was growing faint. There. On 38th Street, a substantial old building nine stories high. His spirit form circled at a prudent distance.
A normal person with untrained senses would have seen nothing of Llandeilo. The rare individual with a psychic gift might feel a sudden chill or uneasiness as the gralic projection passed nearby. The warlock's spirit felt strong gralic energy pulsing within this building. Either powerful beings or potent talismans were inside, or both. Llandeilo flew warily around the building, sensing its defenses. Someone wise in the Midnight War lived here.
The translucent image of the Welsh warlock flitted from window to window, peering in and seeing nothing but drawn curtains. Finally, he glided down to street level in front of the building, hovering just over the sidewalk. He had to try. The spirit form swept up toward the front door and bounced back off with a crackle of blue force that numbed him. Llandeilo struggled to keep his presence intact. What in Akuran's Name was that barrier? He had never encountered anything so potent. Again, he drew back and flew forward swift as thought itself, only to be repelled even more violently. His spirit form began to break up, to dissipate, and he spent almost an hour reconstituting it.
This was too dangerous to repeat. Llandeilo knew that if his projected awareness was broken, his physical body would slip into coma and death within a few days. Yet he was convinced that here was his goal. He must not fail Draldros. Mere death was almost be to welcomed compared to the punishments the Dreaded One could inflict. Llandeilo began searching the building slowly, intensely, looking for any weak spot that would give him an opening. No defense was perfect. And as he moved about the outer walls, he had no clue that his greatest enemy had left that building just before he had arrived, riding in a car driven by a young newcomer to the Midnight War.
V.
Zipping past Van Cortlandt Park, Bane left the Bronx and entered Westchester County. They still had a ways to go, he knew. He drove Kenneth Dred's big old Buick Regal just over the speed limit, relying on his enhanced reflexes in the usual furious traffic. Beside him, Dr Mage stared somberly out the window. Finally, the Dire Wolf broke the silence, "So, you're one of the Tel Shai knights Mr Dred has told me about?"
"What? No. No, I am not with the Order of Tel Shai, Jeremy." The sorceror tugged at the bandage on his left temple and pulled it off to find the gouge had stopped bleeding. He seemed relieved. "I studied magick under my teacher, the Venerable Gwerdun. He himself learned from his own master over a hundred years ago. Not every one in the Midnight War is affiliated with Tel Shai."
"I know I have a lot to learn," Bane said a bit peevishly. "I've only been in this game a few months, you know. So who is this Draldros? You talk like he's the Devil."
"More true than you realize! Draldros is one of the higher spirits, the Halarim, who were created before the world began. He has been forced into his realm of Fanedral by the efforts of Jordyn, and he may not return so long as Jordyn lives."
"Got you so far," the Dire Wolf said. "But he's ticked off and he keeps starting trouble for people, right? Just to be that way."
Mage smiled. "Exactly right. Now, Llandeilo was a student of the Venerable One before I was, he had studied longer and his magick is stronger than mine. But I have continued to learn and now I think I am his match. Our next meeting should be the last." The sorcerer stroked his mustache thoughtfully, and was silent again.
After a few more minutes, Bane broke in again. "So. You and Llandeilo call on these Halarim to give you your powers? You ask them to lend you gralic force?"
"Again, you are correct." Mage sighed. "There are times when our patrons decline to help us. If I misuse the power or fail to uphold our ethics, Cirkoth or Eryasha or even Jordyn himself may decide I am not worthy. Everything is uncertain."
"Got it," said Bane. "Look, we're coming up on Hillcrest Lane. You want to pull over and get a plan of action?"
Mage nodded. "Yes. Perhaps by that side road." They were in a residential area off the highway. The houses were large and well-kept on substantial properties. The big Buick rolled to a halt next to a chest-high retaining wall and Bane turned the engine off.
The sorcerer gazed up at the hill a few blocks ahead of them. He pressed his palms together at his chest and lowered his head. "Do not be alarmed, Jeremy. I am going to go into a trance for a little while. Cirkoth, I call on thee to loosen the bonds of flesh."
With that, his body sagged and his breathing slowed.
For a bare instant, Bane thought he glimpsed a wisp of something pale and translucent rise up from Mage's body and dissipate. But he couldn't be sure. He still wasn't used to all this supernatural mumbo-jumbo and wondered if he was being tricked somehow when he saw the occult. Mage seemed to be out of it. The young Dire Wolf shifted uneasily in his seat and stared out the windshield, figuring he had no choice but to wait.
Then, Dr Mage shuddered and drew in a deep breath. As his eyes opened, he said, "Quickly, young man. Go up that driveway on the next block. The white house with blue trim that you see on the hill. We must be swift!"
Bane started the car up and tore out onto the street and up the circular driveway toward Mage's home. "And just why must we be swift?" he asked.
"Llandeilo is out of body. He will never be more vulnerable. Stop here. He will have slaves, dangerous men with knives. And a Kulan demon! Leave the demon to me, Jeremy."
"Glad to," muttered the Dire Wolf as he jumped out of the car and followed the sorcerer at a run toward the Tudor-style house. Before they reached it, the front door slammed open and four stocky men raced down toward them. All have knives with wavy-shaped blades in their hands, already drawn.
Bane barked, "Leave these losers to me!" and hurtled forward to dive right into the four men before they could react. The next few seconds were a confused blur of lightning movement. One man screamed and another grunted loudly, then they were all down on the gravel driveway with the Dire Wolf standing grimly over him. The daggers he held were wet with fresh blood. He himself had not been touched.
"That's what you get when you tackle me," he growled at the four corpses. Glaring up at Dr Mage as if expecting criticism, Bane knelt and cleaned his silver blades on the shirt of one of the Fanedralites, then rose smoothly to his feet again. "What next? You're the boss, Doc."
"We go in," the sorcerer intoned somberly, "to finish this. His deepset eyes narrowed as he glanced up at the trees on the edge of the property. With surprising strength, he swept Bane behind him with the sweep of one arm. "Stand fast, my friend."
Plummeting down from the sky in a power dive was a dark-hided figure taller than a man. Its batlike wings were spread wide and the taloned claws were ready to clutch. The head of a great hound opened its jaws in a howl.
"Thunderbolt of Jordyn, protect me!" cried out Dr Mage, holding out his open hand with the index and little finger touching in an arcane gesture. A blinding blue-white arc crackled from around his head to crash into the oncoming demon. Thunder detonated and the Kulan was flung violently to one side to slam against the side of the house with a bone-breaking impact. As the beast slid to lie face down on the patio, black oil. smoke rose from its corpse.
"Thank you, Great Jordyn," breathed Dr Mage, lowering his hand. "Remember your humble follower." He turned toward Bane and nodded somberly. "That brute nearly ripped me apart last night. I'm glad to see him dead!"
"You're not the only one," said Bane. "I was expecting a real close tangle with that thing..." He straightened the sleeves of his jacket. "Any more like him?"
"No. Draldros sent this Kulan here to guard my enemy. There may be one or two more slaves. Come, let us end this." Dr Mage glared at the building behind them. "My home. I have done so much work here, and to think that Llandeilo has taken it..!" He strode toward the rear door and, seeing his anger, Bane thought he wouldn't want Mage mad at him that way. He followed the sorcerer into a small room which held a few lawn chairs, a rake and other odds and ends, then into a dining room. To their left was a bannistered staircase which Mage immediately began to ascend.
As they passed a few paintings and a pair of crossed sabers on the wall, Bane watched suspiciously in all directions, expecting an attack from any direction. He didn't know much about gralic magick yet, he wasn't sure just what could happen and what couldn't.
At the top of the stairs was a wide door of polished dark wood, with an unlit brazier standing beside it. Mage swung it inward and stepped inside, then paused. "We are in time," he whispered.
Sitting cross-legged on the ornate mat, directly in the path of a sunbeam which slanted down through the skylight, Llandeilo was not aware of them. His eyes were closed and his chest barely moved in deep slow breaths.
"Perfect!" Mage said with satisfaction. "I will take him back to the Venerable Gerwun for judgement." The sorceror held up both open palms toward the unmoving figure. "Koromas, I ask thee for the Chains of Stillness." As he spoke, the familiar blue shimmer of his magick swirled around the form of Llandeilo and settled into a firm nimbus.
"I thank thee, Koromas," the sorcerer said as he lowered his hands. "It is done, Jeremy. This traitor will be punished for what he has done." He stared at a spot just above the warlock. "Nor are we a moment too soon. I see your spirit form, Llandeilo. Hover all you like, you cannot pierce the Chains of Koromas. You will remain insubstantial and harmless from now on."
"He sure looks like a kid," Bane said, "like he should be in high school. Are you sure you've got the right magician?"
"Hah! Llandeilo is close to eighty years old. His appearance is from Alchemy. Ask Kenneth about when they met at the end of World War II."
In the door behind them, one of the Fanedralites appeared, opening his mouth to ask his master what was going on. So quickly that Dr Mage blinked in astonishment, the Dire Wolf had whirled and driven one fist deeply into the man's stomach, doubling him up, and then straightening him again with an uppercut that clapped the slave's jaw shut audibly. The Fanedralite sagged. Bane seized him and flung him roughly to the floor near his master.
"By Akuran!" Mage said. "That was impressive. I've seen Kumundu masters not half as quick as you, Jeremy."
"No idea what Kumundu is," answered Bane, "I was just born this way." He snapped his head around as the slave painfully attempted to get up on hands and knees. Bane scowled, "Looks like I pulled my punches a bit too much to keep from killing him, doc."
With an abrupt jerky convulsion, the slave was upright, head thrown back and eyes rolled up. Hot foul air rushed into that room and the early afternoon sunlight assumed a lurid red undertone. The slave opened his mouth and a voice deeper and louder than normal boomed out, "Fool! You have not won yet."
"Stand behind me," commanded Mage under his breath, but Bane did not obey. The sorcerer called out, "You know it is forbidden for you to enter this world, Dread One."
"Nor have I done so," boomed the hollow voice from the entranced slave. "I merely speak to you from afar. And, perhaps, bid this pathetic wretch to do my bidding. Llandeilo, awaken! Be free!"
As the slave awakwardly gestured with a limp hand, deep crimson force whirled around the still body of the warlock seated on the floor. Llandeilo coughed, rolled over and jumped hastily to his feet. "Mage! Hah, you have spared me tracking you down!"
"Thunderbolt of Jordyn, strike you down!" shouted the sorcerer, and again lightning exploded from his empty hand but it was diverted by a stroke of the dark red force crackling from the entranced slave. The lightning dissipated harmlessly and Llandeilo leered at his mortal enemy.
"I do not need to call upon any patron," boomed the deep voice from the slave. "I myself am a Halara! I will protect my servant from you, Matthias, and I will grant him all the power he needs. Llandeilo... slay him for me."
"I hear, Dread One, and I obey." The boyish-looking warlock held up both fists, knuckles pressed together and cried out, "Fires of Cirkoth, burn my foe!" Instantly searing yellow flame roared through the air in a brilliant stream. But Mage had reacted even as his opponent spoke, yelling "Breath of Eryasha!" A gust of freezing wind whirled from nowhere to break up the fire and scatter it into sparks.
The entranced slave roared with laughter. "Well done, Matthias, yet you cannot win. My servant can command the Claws of Efriko. The Crushing Doom--"
"How about the Underhand Throw?" asked Bane quietly. No one had seen him move, but his left arm was already lowering and the slim hilt of a throwing dagger protruded from Llandeilo's chest. The warlock gasped and grabbed at it as if to try to pull it free, but his heart had been pierced. He sank to his knees and fell over on one side.
The young Dire Wolf looked over at Mage. "Sorry to butt in, Doc," he said, "But it was two on one, you know, and I hate that."
Allowing himself a brief smile, the sorcerer answered, "How can I complain? Thank you, Jeremy, but the real threat still stands before us." He raised his open hands in a gesture and blue light played around them. "Dread One, will you step back now?"
"After you have slain my disciple? I think not!" The Fanedralite slave took a clumsy step forward. "This puny form will be consumed by channeling my wrath, but what is that to me? I will show you the full might of Draldros, Lord of Fanedral, and nothing you can conjure will halt me."
Mage lowered his hands just a bit. "True. Whatever I may be granted by the Halarin cannot match your own direct force. I would seem to be doomed. And yet..." Here he actually winked at Bane beside him. "Perhaps something more mundane might help me?"
The Dire Wolf grinned, and abruptly the 45 was in his left hand and firing. In that enclosed space, the shots were deafening. Four heavy slugs punched home in the chest of the entranced slave, knocking him back off his feet. Even as the corpse began to fall, a final bullet caught the side of its head, spraying blood and fragments into the air. When the body sprawled its gory length on the polished hardwood floor, Bane slowly returned the automatic to its holster behind his hip.
The oppressive heat and heaviness in the air was gone, just like that. The presence of Draldros leaving was like a weight being lifted and both men found it easier to breathe.
"Nothing magic about a lead pellet in the ticker," he said. "But I guess it works."
Dr Mage let out a deep shuddering breath. He walked over and examined the body of the slave. "Nothing possesses this shell now," he said, then going to kneel over Llandeilo. "And this rogue is dead as well. At last, at long last. He will scheme no more. A pity, he was so talented and yet..."
Coming over beside him, the Dire Wolf tugged his dagger out and wiped it callously on the corpse's robes. "Glad that's over," he said. "I have to admit that Draldros guy is a little intimidating. He had me worried." Bane rose and slid the dagger back into its sheath under his sleeve.
"That was not Draldros really we faced just now. Merely a glimpse of the Dread One's power being channeled through a mortal body. I fear you have made a terrible enemy today, my boy."
"Not the first, not the last," Bane answered casually. "Say, Doc, what are you going to do with these bodies?"
"My property is large enough to bury them in, and I will take care no traces show. Tonight. Perhaps you would return to assist me, after reporting to Kenneth?"
"Fine with me. I do have to go back to town and tell Mr Dred what happened. I'll come back to help after dark. Okay?" He started for the door, as calm and unshaken as if nothing unsual had happened that day.
"Yes. But, Jeremy?"
The Dire Wolf stopped at the door, looking back over one shoulder. "Yeah?"
"Don't call me Doc."
9/16/2014
