"The Preincarnators"
May. 22nd, 2022 09:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"The Preincarnators"
(9/18-9/20/1986)
I.
Dr Leopold Vidimar stared somberly at the large map which hung on the wall in his study. Nine red pins showed where his agents were at work, seeking out possible new recruits, carrying out assassination contracts, recovering long-lost treasure now remembered from previous lives. Vidimar turned away, removed his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped them carefully with a soft cloth. Tonight had an uncanny feel to it. The ghostly voices from the ages whispered to him in voices which only he could hear, pleading with him to restore them to life. The voices never went away completely.
If only he hadn't found the Preincarnation spell from his study of the REVELATIONS OF TOLLINOR KJE, that unimaginably ancient book passed down from the Darthan Age... but he had and it could not be undone.
Without warning, a silent explosion of white light burst directly before him with blinding intensity that left him dazed. Dark spots swam before his watering eyes. He could just make out a huge bulk that loomed where nothing had been before. As his eyes recovered, he saw a titanic figure of living metal towering over him.
Over seven feet tall and powerfully built, the strange figure had gleaming skin which moved like normal flesh but which looked like burnished silver. The head was a smooth helmet, featureless except for two eyeslots which glowed from within. And when it spoke with lungs or a mouth, the deep resonant voice seemed to come from all directions at once.
"Leopold Vidimar! You look upon Khang. Be still and hear my words," thundered the voice. "I know that you are the master of the cult of Preincarnation. Nay, do not seek to flee."
With a panicky quickness, the stout middle-aged man had wheeled about and started to run. He hadn't a chance. A long silver arm swung out and a glistening hand gripped his upper arm with strength beyond measure. Vidimar gasped and held absolutely motionless as his arm came close to snapping in that grip.
"Be you still, I say," rumbled Khang ominously. "For I am of no mind to coddle my foes. Too long have I served in this cold form. The African wizard Arem Kamende used a forbidden spell to restore me to flesh and blood. But I was forced back into this inhuman body without my consent. Enough, I say. I will not live life this way."
As he was released, Vidimar fell backwards into an overstuffed chair. He rubbed his arm to try to restore feeling to it. "I don't understand... you were once Human? You were put in that form?"
"It is so," came the resonant voice. "I have learned that I was Mark Drum, the Blue Guide. I was a living man of flesh and blood, and I would be that way again."
Dr Vidimar was used to thinking quickly. "I can help you."
Khang moved closer. He was a surreal sight at best, seemingly a statue brought to animate life and at close range he was overwhelming. "Tell me more..."
"There is indeed a spell which can return you to your Human self. Arem Kamende used it. I know this spell in theory, yet I alone do not have the gralic force necessary to cast it."
"Do you mean you will NOT help me?" came the menacing voice. The eyeslots blazed up brighter.
"No, no! Of course I'll help you. But I will need assistance. There is a Dartha named Wilinor Kje who can supply the gralir. You must go to Maroch and fetch him here."
"I have no reason to trust you," Khang rumbled. "It may well be that you intend me to be slain by the Darthim if I enter their realm. Yet mark me well. Jordyn made me invincible in this form. If I return to you with anger in my heart...!"
"No!" yelled Vidimar in desperation. "I am not betraying you. Bring me Wilinor and I promise you will be fully Human again."
"For that, I would dare anything," said the silver man. "Aye, I will break the gates of Maroch itself and confront the dreaded Kjes in their very stronghold. I will be back!" As he spoke, a second detonation of white light filled the den, silent but blowing loose papers around as the air was displaced.
Slumped in his chair, Vidimar gasped and tried to breathe normally. Being in the presence of Khang was an unnerving experience. Yet, he quickly regained composure. He had not built and run the Preincarnation cult without having to be cunning and hard. Vidimar smiled to himself. It had worked. The fool Khang was on his way to fetch Wilinor, the sole Dartha who could boast direct descent from Tollinor Kje himself. With his Preincarnation spell, Vidimar would turn Wilinor into the very image and spirit of Tollinor, with all that first Dartha's knowledge.. and the most dangerous warlock of all time would walk the Earth again.
II.
Under a Caribbean sky as perfect an azure as any artist could want, with a golden dawn to the east, two men sped in a black jetcopter that just cleared the waves. Piloting the black CORBY was a dark-haired man in a tan business suit, tie neatly knotted and jacket buttoned. He was wearing an incongruous black helmet with its visor retracted into the crest; the helmet plugged into the craft's system to feed him alarms and updates, and oxygen if needed. Even after years as a knight of Tel Shai, Larry Taper seemed reserved and even diffident when in civilian clothes. He handled the stealth copter smoothly but cautiously.
Sitting in the co-pilot seat, Shiro Mitsuru was flamboyant in comparison. The Asian man wore soft slippers, baggy trousers, a plain white T-shirt and an unbutton black denim vest with four pockets. His bare arms looked as if they had been carved from old ivory, with every muscle standing out dramatically. Shiro's was letting his hair grow, as well, and it was a vivid black mop on his head at the moment.
"...so then, we stayed in Hawaii a few years," Shiro was saying. "They are tolerant of mixed marriages. My father being Japanese and my mother Chinese, they encountered a lot of prejudice from both races. I didn't notice or care. I was raised by my parents to master martial arts and every person I got to know was a teacher of some kind."
"A nomadic upbringing," Taper said. "Weren't you afflicted by solitude? You enjoyed no peers your own age for socializing."
Shiro shrugged. "It was all I knew. For years, I assumed everyone lived in hotel rooms and squatted in apartments when owners were away. The White Web was after us, after all. My parents had stolen the Web's treasury, so they had millions of dollars to use. But in the end, assassins got them. I was on my own at fifteen."
"My commiserations." Taper brought the CORBY up a hundred feet, as the waves were getting choppy. "Sounds like a woebegone life."
"You think so? I wouldn't have changed it. At fifteen, I had studied with dozens of sensei and sifus and Western boxers. It was and is all I know. When I found someone to sponsor me at Tel Shai, Teacher Chael took me as a Kumundu student immediately. I became the first Tiger Fury in years."
"And you still don't possess a permanent home," Taper said thoughtfully. "You switch hotel suites frequently and rent apartments for one month only. All you own are some habiliments and weapons. I would abhor such a lifestyle, my preference is for comfort, like my cozy domicile in Edgewater."
"Oh, I am going to buy a car!" Shiro interrupted. "I ran that Fiero until it fell apart. I was thinking of getting a little sports car, maybe an MG."
"Traffic will never be the same. Ah, I espy our destination." Taper slowed the CORBY and brought it down gently on the white sands of a beach. The three wheels lowered, the rotors slowed and stopped. Taper powered down the systems, the lights on the cabin panels went off in groups.
"Aren't you going to put on your Silver Skull outfit?" asked Shiro as he unstrapped himself.
"Not until compelling need urges transition. The role is not to be assumed capriciously." Taper popped open the hatch and warm tropical air rushed into the usually pressurized cabin. He grabbed a handle and swung down to the sand. On his side, Shiro hopped lightly down, swinging his arms to loosen up.
"Nice vacation spot," the Tiger Fury said. "Where are the bad boys?"
"Concealed in that deciduous panorama," Taper answered. "Your ninjutsu expertise qualifies you to lead the way."
"Watch where I put my feet," Shiro said and sprinted across the beach toward the edge of the woods. Hampered by dress shoes, Taper followed as best he could. As soon as Shiro reached the bushes and sparse trees, he seemed to vanish. A second later, his head popped up a dozen feet away as he gestured for Taper to hurry. The Tiger Fury seemed to glide silently through undergrowth, barely making a branch move as he passed. Taper took more time and ocassionally caused some rustling.
Shortly, Shiro paused by a cluster of palm trees and motioned Taper to be cautious. They peered out into a clearing in which five men stood in a circle around two rocks placed at an angle to each other. The men wore shorts and sneakers and baggy shirts, and two of them carried shovels, one a pick. One was black and another had straw-colored hair but they were otherwise nondescript. They were discussing something in a low tone.
The Preincarnators, thought Taper. As he saw them, the air around Larry Taper shimmered and suddenly he was wearing a snug outfit of tight black leather tunic and pants and boots. On his left arm was strapped a circular silver shield three feet across; on a belt worn low, a straight sword hung in its scabbard. On his head appeared a metal helmet crafted in the semblance of a human skull.
Seeing this, Shiro grinned fiercely. He knew that when the Silver Skull appeared, it meant danger. Oddly, he could not see Taper's eyes looking out of the skull helmet. The eyeholes were as black as if no one were inside. The Silver Skull placed his right hand on the hilt of his sword Chalcemar and nodded once, then they went back to observing the Preincarnators.
As they watched, one of the men was enveloped in a crackle of red energy within which his form shifted. As it cleared, he stood revealed as a burly 16th Century English pirate, with a ragged yellow beard. He wore white breeches and a jacket with brass buttons, a cutlass stuck in the silk sash around his middle. The pirate had no eyepatch but a white scar running down his cheek showed in life he had come close to needing one. His long hair was bound up in a kerchief.
The uneasy balance between the modern Preincarnator and his ancestor Norman Redhands took a deep shuddering breath and pointed to the base of a palm tree at the edge of the clearing farthest from the two Tel Shai The men in modern clothes began to dig.
Shiro and Taper watched with interest. The Preincarnators were a recent development, they had only been heard of within the last year. Somehow, modern men could assume an exact likeness of any ancestor, drawing on the memories and skills of that ancestor as long as the spell lasted. Here, the cultists were recovering treasure lost for hundreds of years. But the Preincarnators also hired out as assassins, with the perfect alibi that they resumed their modern forms and left the police looking for killers who no longer existed. This was how obscure linguist Dr Leopold Vidimar had become wealthy with undeclared millions within the past few months.
The Tiger Fury tapped the Skull on the shoulder and indicated he was going to circle closer. The silver helmet nodded, and as Shiro slipped like a shadow through the dense undergrowth, Taper slid his sword from its sheath. When he assumed this guise, his self-assurance increased to cockiness. He became almost another person. Now, without a word, he plunged out of the bushes and headed for the cultists at a full run.
As they spotted the strange black and silver figure charging, the Preincarnators straightened and drew on their own spell. Red haze flickered around them and they changed into ancestors. In those scant seconds, the Silver Skull had leaped at the pirate. Norman Redhands swung his short cutlass in a vicious swipe that Taper deflected with his shield. Instantly, the reborn pirate dealt a backhand blow with all the strength in his beefy arm. Taper parried it, their blades rang like bells and then the Silver Skull spun and threw a roundhouse kick that smashed his boot to the pirate's head and flung the man to one side. As the stunned pirate was knocked senseless, the spell faltered for a second and almost broke.
At the instant that the Skull had attacked, Shiro came at the Preincarnators from behind. He knocked two men to the ground, leaped over them and whirled to face them as they rose. The Tiger Fury saw how the Preincarnators had changed and realized he could not facing more deadly opponents. A gladiator and a samurai. A wicked grin swept over Shiro's bronze face as he plunged at the nearer man.
Flavius Mares, eight time winner at the Colosseum games, wore a breastplate and short skirt, with a basin helmet. In his left hand was a short stabbing spear, a stiletto in his right. Flavius was fast and accurate, he had killed dozen of opponents in the great games and this unarmed man would surely be no problem. He thrust the spear forward quickly and got a rude awakening as Shiro moved in close to seize the weapon below the barbed head and yank Flavius into a blurring backfist that snapped the man's head around in a half-circle. Another inch and the neck might have broken. Wresting the spear away, Shiro whirled just barely in time to block the samurai attack.
If the katana had struck the spear shaft squarely, that tempered blade might well have splintered it. But Shiro swung the weapon at an angle, deflecting the sword to one side and only getting the shaft hacked partly though. Immediately reversing the spear to thrust its blunt end forward like a pool cue, Shiro drove it between the samurai's eyes with murderous force. The revived form of Hideko Tanaka dropped to his knees, cross-eyed from the impact. Dropping the damaged weapon, Shiro wheeled around just as Flavius had gotten to his feet and was lunging forward with the stiletto. Grabbing the man's wrist and pulling that arm out straight, Shiro brought his other fist hard to break Flavius' elbow. Tough as he was, the reborn gladiator cried out and was open to a vicious rabbit punch that threw him down senseless. As he lapsed from consciousness, the red light flared around him and he sagged to the ground a modern man again.
As soon as he had struck down Flavius, not waiting to see him fall, Shiro spun and flung himself at Tanaka. Not a fraction of a second too soon. The samurai had gotten up on his feet and he was drawing his katana back for a stroke as the Tiger Fury crashed into him. Shiro blasted a flurry of alternating left-right hooking punches to the man's body which drove the wind out of him. Tanaka faltered, his sword fell, and Shiro caught the man squarely on the chin with an uppercut that lifted Tanaka off the ground to fall in a heap. That outcome had been closer than he liked, thought Shiro. If those two had been further apart, the fight might have ended differently.
Larry Taper was dealing with the other Preincarnators. The first to rush at him was a tall lanky black man, almost naked except for a red cloth kilt and a headdress of white feathers. His assegai stabbed forward quick as a lion striking, but glanced off the metal breastplate under the Silver Skull tunic. Taper was driven back a few steps. Dropping his sword, he whipped the round buckler from his left arm and flung it with a backhand swing like a discus. The Zulu was taken offguard by this unorthodox attack. The heavy shield crashed hard against his neck, breaking it. As the Zulu fell, Taper turned to meet the final Preincarnator. As he did this, the shield appeared strapped to his left forearm and the sword was in his hand again; this summoning of his tools was one of the attributes of the Silver Skull that caught most opponents by surprise.
The final cultist was a tall man with filthy blond hair tied behind him in a plait, wearing a fur vest and leather leggings. He had a round helmet with a nose guard and a massive axe was in both hands. The revived Viking roared and swung back his axe behind his own shoulders to bring it down for a killing stroke. Against a circular attack, the Silver Skull countered with a linear strike. He plunged forward in a fencer's stance , sliding the point of his straight sword right into the Viking's chest. Hrolf Wolfsson gaped in surprise at the pain and dropped his own sword. Taper tugged his sword free and watched the man topple backwards. There was no blood on the blade, since Chalcemar had been ensorcelled by the Eldarin to not slay unless its victim was totally beyond redemption. The Judgement of the Sword left its victims stunned and senseless, but usually alive.
As the fighting ended, Larry Taper reverted to normal. The black leather uniform, the Skull helmet and sword and shield vanished and he appeared in his business suit again. Taper adjusted his jacket, straightened his tie and exhaled sharply. Shiro watched with a bemused smile. He had not gotten used to the way the Silver Skull came and went as needed.
Five deadly warriors had fallen before two in less than a minute. English pirate, Roman gladiator, Japanese samurai, Zulu spearman and Danish Viking, all taken down. The knights of Tel Shai were working at a separate level of ability.
"Behold the Preincarnators," Taper said. "Your cogitations, Shiro?"
The Tiger Fury crouched over the unconscious cultists. "These are not merely men who think they have become their ancestors. They have literally changed muscle and bone and hair. And their weapons and clothing appeared from thin air... like yours do."
"Gralic magick," said Taper. "Powerful sorcery indeed. The Preincarnators could predicate a significant crisis in the Midnight War. It's only prudent we manacle these atavisms and remand them into the CORBY before proceeding to Hawk Island for clarification of our agenda."
"Yes," Shiro agreed. "If there had been a dozen of these resurrected warriors, we would have had problems. Let out Dire Wolf decide the next move."
III.
On a dark rainy morning in New York City, Cindy Brunner walked down the stairs from the third floor. She and Jeremy Bane had adjoining rooms with a connecting door between them, and although she frequently stayed in his room, it was a good arrangement considering the irregular hours they both kept. The telepath entered the conference room on the second floor and flicked the lights on. There was the long oak table with its dozen chairs, ten on each side and one at each end. There was the row of green metal filing cabinets with shelves of reference books above them. She sighed faintly and walked over to drop into a swivel chair that sat before a cluster of communications equipment with a 12" monitor.
At twenty-seven, Cindy was at a peak both physically and telepathically. A small blonde just over five foot one and just over one hundred pounds, she had a gymnast body except for breasts which were a little large for her frame. With an inquisitive face sprinkled with freckles half the year and dark blue eyes under bangs, Cindy was attractive to men and likeble to women. This morning, she was wearing jeans and sneakers and a white long-sleeved pullover with three buttons extending down from the collar. She leaned forward and starting throwing switches on the console.
Instantly, a color image appeared on the monitor. It showed a room similar to the one she was in, brightly lit by fluorescent lamps in the ceiling. She pressed a button and heard a low beeping in the other room. Within a minute or two, the face she knew best in the world appeared. A few years older, Bane had a narrow face with short black hair and pale grey eyes under heavy brows. He smiled as he saw who was calling.
"Well, good morning," the Dire Wolf said.
"Hey there," she answered. "How are things on Hawk Island?"
"We're having a meeting in an hour. It's about the Preincarnator. Larry and Shiro are on their way here with some prisoners, so we can make a decision what to do about them." He paused for the barest instant. "Wish you were here. Your moral support always makes things easier."
"I'd like to be there, but I have to go see Jan. The things she saw in the Sanguinarians case..! The kid is only ten, and she's handling it well, but I need to spend time with her. I can help her mind heal without anyone knowing. I know she's having nightmares again."
"I know. You do so much that no one finds out about," Bane said. "Still no word from Khang?"
"Nothing. He's staying away longer and longer each time he wanders off. I thought he would get over what happened by now."
Bane shook his head unhappily. "It was a hard decision, putting him back in that body. But at that time, we needed his power on our side just to survive. I just hope he sees that."
"He has a strong sense of duty," Cindy said. "I have to get going, hon. I just wanted to touch base before driving down to Long Island. Call me if I'm needed."
"You're always needed, Cindy," said Bane with a faint smile. "Take care."
As she broke the connection, the Dire Wolf stood up and shut down the console. He was wearing his inevitable outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, a trademark in the Midnight War. Bane went over and stood before the long meeting table. He had duplicated the 38th Street's conference room here as closely as he could, but this table was new and did not have the long history of the original. Bane left the room and went out into the hall to gaze out the window. Beyond the rocky beach was a strip of ocean that separated them from the coast of northern Maine. In the past few years, Bane had spent some of his fortune expanding the facility here left to him by Michael Hawk, the first KDF member to die in action.
The Hawk Island facility was all on ground level, with the main meeting room inside the front door. Bane's office was to the left as one entered, followed by five private apartments which members could use as as needed. On the other side of the door was a lounge, a gym, medical ward and two holding cells. The hangar was a hundred feet away, big enough to hold all three CORBYs at the same time, also a major reason he had decided to renovate the small concrete buildings here Mike had used as a retreat. The hangar in NYC could barely fit the one helicopter. As Bane stared moodily out at the cold choppy ocean, he spotted a black shape coming in fast. Good. The black jetcopter lowered its landing gear and taxied in through the huge open door of the hangar. Bane went to the door and stepped out into a cold wind to go meet his teammates.
The rotors had slowed to a stop as he entered. Shiro and Taper stepped out of the hatches and went to open the rear compartment. "Hi, captain!"shouted the Tiger Fury. "Would you like to meet a real Viking? Or a pirate?"
"Okay. I take it you captured some of the Preincarnators?"
"Four to be exact," Larry Taper said. "One expired in the altercation and we abandoned him there. Let the cult retrieve his carcass if they want. Should we incarcerate them in the new brig?"
"Yes. They're an interesting-looking crew, except for this one." Bane indicated the stunned man in shorts and T-shirt. "He seems kind of ordinary."
"Ah, the spell wore off on him when he got knocked out," said Shiro. "You should have seen him before."
Taper reached in and started dragging one of the prisoners out. "I thought it prudent to administer a light dose of the chemical we use in our anesthetic darts. They would be awake by now otherwise and we would have had to tie them up. They should be stirring soon."
The three KDF members carried their prisoners across the tarmac to the facility, putting them in the holding cells. These had been designed to restrain superhuman prisoners like Melgarin or Gelydrim, and were sturdier than needed for mere Humans. An outer door had to close before the inner door to each cell would open. Bane ordered all four prisoners put in one cell, which was large enough to hold them without crowding. The drugged men had been searched for weapons, which were still locked away in the CORBY.
As they stepped out into the hallway, the door to the cell closing with a hiss behind them, Bane said "The rest of the team is already here. I know Steve is in the gym. Ming is in one of the apartments, and I think Sulak is sleeping. He said he had been at a feast in Androval last night. But let them go about their business for now, it's Garrison we need to bring here."
"If it's all the same to you," Shiro said, "I could use a shower and a hot meal. I have been on the go since four this morning."
"Sure. Larry?"
"Total agreement. Sustenance would be much appreciated."
As the two of them went toward the lounge, which held a refrigerator and gas stove, Bane turned the other way. He walked past his office, down a corridor with doors on the one side. At the furthest one, he raised his knuckles to knock as a voice from within said, "Come in, Jeremy."
Bane lowered his brows slightly. Nebel could still freak him out sometimes. He opened the door and entered to find the blind mystic sitting on a thin hard mat in the full lotus. Nebel was just forty, a slender man with brown hair and a long somber face. Here in private he did not wear the opaque sunglasses and he met Bane's gaze with eyes that had white pupils. Nebel rose smoothly to his feet, wearing only white shorts.
"I sensed Larry and Shiro returning," he explained.
"They brought some Preincarnators. I want you to examine them."
"Certainly," Nebel said. He picked up his clothes off the bed and started pulling them on. A white long-sleeved tunic and white trousers, both of pure cotton. White boots and elbow-length gold-cloth gloves. Over his head he lowered a mantle to which was fastened a floor-length cloak of bright golden fabric woven with ensalir threads. Around his neck he hung a small blue gem as an amulet. Finally, he lifted the eyeless helmet but did not put it on just yet. That helmet was ancient, Bane knew, crafted of the sacred metal ensalir by the immortal Eldarin at the beginning of the world. Over the ages, it had granted visions and inspirations to seers and prophets.
Now the eyeless helmet was the property of Garrison Nebel, known as Imthril, the blind Sorcerer of Truth whose innate powers of gralic perception were magnified enormously by the helm in a perfect union.
The effect of the white and gold costume should have been bizarre, but wasn't. Nebel held himself with such reserve that he had dignity even in that outfit. He regarded Bane thoughtfully. "I know you are not always comfortable with my perception, Jeremy. I will not volunteer information you are not ready to hear."
"Yeah, that's a comfort," Bane answered. "Your powers DO take a little getting used to." He was understating it. Nebel was not an original member of the KDF, having joined years after its founding, and he remained very much a loner. Bane had never warmed to him the way he had with Shiro or Sulak or Ted. In some ways, he thought of Nebel as someone who worked with the KDF when its missions suited his own purposes.
They headed down the corridor toward the brig, where Bane opened the outer door. As they stepped into the tiny cubicle and the outer door closed, the inner door could open. Four men were still stretched out on the plain floor. There was no window here, just an air vent in the ceiling, a sleeping mat, a toilet and sink in one corner... not very plush but then, prisoners were never kept here for long.
Nebel stepped into the cell and stood over the prone figures. He raised the eyeless helmet and lowered it over his head. Behind him, Bane felt uneasy and yet pleased at having the sorcerer on his side. Nebel gazed down with blind eyes through an opaque metal surface and saw deeply.
"Interesting," he said at last. "These are not discrete individuals. Each is an unstable union both physically and mentally. The bodies resemble each man's ancestor down to each hair. Yet the minds are a combination of the modern cult member dominating the ancestor. Each Preincarnator is able to draw on the memories and skills of the ancestor without losing his own personality."
"Go on," said Bane.
"They are not able to speak while in this state. There is too much conflict. This state is not permanent. It will weaken and undo within a few hours. I believe the cult members are only able to cause this transformation once or twice before they need gralic reinforcement from the leader." Nebel looked back over his shoulder at Bane. "I knew Leopold Vidimar. We had a correspondence for a year. He is a gifted man but deeply flawed. Forming a cult like this will bring out the worst qualities in him. Jeremy, if you intend to act against these Preincarnators, I feel justified in supporting you fully."
"Thanks. It's good to have your approval," Bane said while trying to keep sarcasm out of his voice. "What about these guys? Can you change them back to normal?"
Nebel removed his helmet again, holding it in front of him with both hands. "I could. But it is not necessary. They are harmless while sedated and the spell will undo itself in a few hours. They are no threat to us."
"That leaves only the problem of what to do with them," said Bane. "There's no use in turning them over to the police, of course. What could we charge them with? And we can't hold them here indefinitely. This isn't a prison."
"If I may suggest, we should simply leave them on the mainland. Take them in a CORBY and drop them in some secluded area before they awaken. By the time they figure out where they are and manage to contact their cult to come fetch them, we will likely be already attacking."
Bane nodded. "I'll take care of that, with Larry or Shiro helping. These goons will wake up in northern Maine and have no idea what happened, but they'll be out of our hair. When I come back, we will assemble and go after the cult directly."
IV.
In a burst of white light, the grim figure of Khang appeared on a barren hill. It was stifling hot, the morning sun burning in a cloudless grey sky. There below him was the dread Citadel of Maroch.
This was the stronghold of the Darthim. Thirty thousand years ago, they had ruled the world in their Age, lording it over the Seven Races, but their reign had finally been broken and the face of the world changed in the cataclysm that followed. Scant evidence remained for archaeologists or geologists to find that might inform them of the Darthan Age. Only those few who knew of the Midnight War even had intimations of such a time.
Cruel and perverse, masters of sorcery such as the other Races could not match, the Darthim drew much of the power which fueled their spells from the captive Sulla Chun which still was imprisoned deep beneath the Citadel. On occasion, one or two of the white-skinned warlocks might venture to the real world for captives to torture, but for the most part, the former masters of the world drowsed in drugged slumber and dreamed of earlier times.
A high wall of white stone surrounded the Citadel, with guard towers at intervals. Two gaping pits flanking the gate showed where sacrificial pits had bubbled long ago. Towering over the city itself was the Burning Pyramid, with its six hundred steps to the temple at the top. Khang remembered it well. Not too many years earlier, he himself had slain the wargod Angdros there and broken the sword Hellspawn beneath his foot. The silver man drew himself up and strode proudly down the hill toward the Citadel.
From within the city, horns blared an alarm. He had been spotted. A storm of slim arrows fell like heavy rain, their poisoned barbs glancing off him harmlessly. Khang stopped before the forty-foot high gate and glared upward. Atop the walls stood the council of Kjes. The pale Darthim were hooded and cloaked against the harsh sunlight.
"We bear no love for you," called down one of the sorcerers. He held up a blasting wand topped with a green jewel. "Your name is cursed in our prayers nightly, you and your Tel Shai brigands and the Melgar brutes you brought here. What would you have of us now?"
Khang's voice echoed from the hills around the Citadel. "I have come to claim one of you. Bring me Wilinor and I will depart without doing further harm."
Standing on a platform that extended over the gate, the Kje waved his blasting wand angrily. "Are you mad? To come here and demand one of us! Do not forget to whom you speak, tool of Jordyn. This is Maroch and we are Darthim."
"I know your kind well," rumbled the silver man. In the bright sunlight, Khang shone so he was difficult to look upon. "Know you this, tormentor and blasphemer, that it is within my power to level your city and slay every Dartha within, leaving this world a cleaner place. Nor could you hinder me."
"Begone, I say-" began the Kje, but Khang drowned him out with a voice like thunder. "I am no longer inclined to show mercy. My patience has worn thin. Bring me Wilinor now or I shall bring your city down and take him over your corpses!"
The Kjes responded with roaring gralic bolts from their wands. The fierce dark energy swept over Khang, but where any other being would have been blackened and charred, he stood unharmed. He strode up to the massive gate, drew back a fist and brought it forward to smash out a huge segment. Another blow, and there was a hole in the ancient gate big enough for him to step through. The arrows and spears and gralic bolts which poured down did not seem to even catch his notice.
Charging toward him was a monstrous beast, like a rhino with apelike arms and intelligent eyes. As it reached him, Khang sent it spinning away with a backhanded slap that killed the creature instantly. Other monsters drew back in fear. In the open courtyard, hundreds of the Darthim shrank away as Khang entered.
The silver man raised his hands and lightning played wildly around them, brighter than the sun, casting new shadows. Before he could strike, three Human slaves hurried up, dragging a Dartha bound in red gremthom chains. They flung the terrified sorcerer at Khang's feet and retreated hastily. The silver giant's inhuman eyes smoldered as he inspected the shivering wretch.
"It is indeed Wilinor Kje," he rumbled with satisfaction. Closing his hand around the chains, he lifted the man bodily off the ground and faced the cowed mob. The Darthim glared at him with venomous hatred but dared not attack.
"Handing him over may be doing your Race a great service," boomed the voice that seemed to come from all directions. "For he may in a way bring about the end of Khang, make of that what you will!" A gate flared up blindingly around him, as he departed with his captive. The Darthim began to chatter with more genuine emotion than they had felt in years.
V.
"I tell you, we've got to find Khang!" Bane said in a taut voice. He was standing at the head of the long table as the assembled KDF members watched him. "With him in this state, there's no telling what might happen."
Seated before him were Larry Taper and Shiro Mitsuru. Joining them were Sulak, Steven Weaver and Tang Ming. Garrison Nebel stood at the other end of the table, wrapped motionless in his golden cloak. Several members had previous commitments and were excused from this mission, among them Cindy Brunner, Ethan Petrov, Jessica Frost and Ted Wright.
Only one member was missing without explanation, the most powerful and unpredictable of them all. Khang!
"Chill a little bit, captain," said Steven Weaver. He was a tall lanky American black man wearing a dark blue jumpsuit with a few oil stains from working on the CORBY. "Khang goes off on his own missions all the time. You know that. And what's out there that can hurt him, anyway?"
"That's not what I'm worried about," Bane snapped. "Only a few weeks ago, Arem Kamende reverted Khang to his original Human body. He was Mark Drum again. But the situation was so desperate- we needed the power of Khang so badly- that I ordered Garrison to undo Kamende's spell. Drum turned back into the silver man again."
"He was ticked off, sure. But he didn't turn against us. He didn't walk out," Weaver said.
"Not then." Bane sighed. "He is resentful of me now. I can deal with that. Since that incident, he has been studying our files and searching the rare books in our headquarters. He has been searching for a way to become Mark Drum again, and that's understandable. And suddenly, we're dealing with the Preincarnators and I'm afraid he has found that way."
Tang Ming spoke up. The young Chinese woman was new to the team and still unsure about putting her opinions out. "I see. You fear that Khang will go to this Vidimar and ask to be Preincarnated.. that he will revert to Mark Drum once more."
"Yes. And that's not the worst of it. If that happens, Drum may be under Vidimar's control to some extent. Mark Drum was a dangerous man. Before he was a Blue Guide, he was a sorcerer in his own and a Kumundu master. Facing him would be a challenge for any of us."
"I worked with Mark Drum for years," said Sulak. "He was a good man, but you're right- as an enemy, he would be formidable."
Bane stood up straight. "We have two leads. One is a location where the Preincarnators might strike next. The other is where I believe Vidimar is staying. Our sources are usually pretty good. I want us to split into two teams. Going to North Dakota will be Larry, Shiro, Ming and Steve. Going after Vidimar himself, I will take Sulak and Garrison. Each team will take a CORBY and arrive there using an Eldar travel crystal. Full combat gear for everyone. The Midnight War has never been more desperate than today."
VI.
The boarding house was nearly a century old, a two-story wood plank box of a building, with a porch and a small shed around the back. Here in 1914, a drifter named Jed Dunne had buried over $10,000 in cash and gold coins, the haul from a bank robbery. The loot was never recovered and Dunne was never captured. Two months after the robbery, he died alone of pneumonia out on the high plains.
seventy years later, Jed Dunne was seemingly alive and well, walking the earth again. He was dressed in denims, red checked flannel shirt and a yellow bandanna around his neck. A big iron was on his hip. The reborn outlaw from the closing day of the Old West led seven of his fellow Preincarnators toward the house. Their cars were parked by the dirt road that led to the nearest town. Dunne could not speak, none of the revenants could while in their ancestor's bodies, but he pointed a bony finger at a spot between an old tree stump and the shed, and the cultists carried their shovels there.
As they started unenthusiastically to dig, a small Chinese woman raced from concealment behind the house and hurtled at them. Tang Ming did not wear the KDF field suit or bear the weapons because she claimed they interfered with her balance and perception. Instead she had on soft slippers, baggy black trousers and a white long-sleeved blouse with full sleeves. She reached Jed Dunne just as he spotted her and his hand dropped but he did not clear leather before she had kicked one of his feet out from under him and struck hard with her open hand at the back of his neck even as he fell. Ming grabbed the heavy revolver and thew it as far away as she could.
Red auras crackled around the others as the Preincarnators assumed their dual states, and suddenly there were nine very different men coming toward the Chinese girl. Tang Ming dropped into a cat stance, one knee raised and her hands open in claws. Her mystic perception told her which of these was going to attack first, and she swung to face him. But a dark man-sized shape plummeted down from nowhere to plow through the crowd at a hundred miles per hour. The Preincarnators were sent tumbling, dropping their weapons in the confusion.
Rising with his red batlike wings spread, Black Angel barked a short laugh and came down again. He seized one warrior under the arms, a bare-chested Hebrew from the days of the Judges and spun around quick to fling the man fifty yards away. The thump of the body landing had a decisive sound that promised the Preincarnator would not be getting up except to be carried away.
In his own era and natural lifetime, the Chinese resistance fighter named Hu Yin-pai had been the best wu-shu artist alive. Even now, with his disciplined mind weakened by the dominance of a modern descendant with criminal tendencies, Hu was still excellent. Jumping to his feet, he throw a lightning ram's-head punch which would open a way for the killing stroke. But Tang Ming was moving so quickly and precisely that it appeared her opponent was deliberately missing when she dodged his blows. With a soft palm block, she diverted a high front kick, stepped in so close she was almost embracing him and slammed her elbow directly over Hu's heart. The Preincarnator gasped and his defenses faltered. Ming struck him twice on both sides of the head with open palms and as he started to drop, she flung a roundhouse punch with all her weight behind it. his body dropped to the hard earth, Hu Yin-Pai reverted to the modern body of his descendant in death. Her ivory face remained as placid as if she were practicing calligraphy.
Nearby, Shiro Mitsuru took a 19th Century Filipino fighter for his first opponent. Ruiz Santangelo hefted his dagger by the blade and flung it at the oncoming stranger. Shiro smiled. From inside his vest, he plucked a six-pointed shuriken and flicked it backhand. The metal star struck the dagger in mid-flight and deflected it with a metallic ringing noise. Santangelo googled in surprise just before a second shruiken sank one of its points deep into his windpipe. Choking and clutching at the weapon, Santangelo fell dying to the cold ground. Shiro whirled just in time sway out of the way of a thin dueling sword whose point missed him by inches. It was a Puritan dueling instructor named John Isaac Cooper. He dressed all in black, with no frills or decorations, and his long bony face was fierce with determination. He had lunged but missed, and in that second he lost the fight and his life.
Shiro seized the man's extended sword arm by the wrist, twisting it and breaking the elbow. Despite himself, Cooper gasped at the pain just before Shiro's other hand whipped up along that extended arm to crash into his face. Cooper was lucky enough to survive that blow, but he sank to the ground with a broken elbow and concussion.
The Preincarnators were dwindling fast. Larry Taper had assumed the Silver Skull guise, proof that the sword and shield were needed. He rushed at a short, stocky man with coppery skin, wearing woolen breeches, high-laced sandals and a headdress made of blue bird feathers. He held an odd weapon, a thick wooden club with jagged mica blades set in its head. Taper had not spent much time on pre-Columbian Indian tribes, his area was more European megalithic cultures, but he placed them tentatively as an Olmec. Not for the first time, he was saddened how Vidimar was wasting the Preincarnation spell on crime. Its value to history, archaeology, anthropology, linguistics would be immeasurable. What a waste. Even as he thought this ruefully, the Skull was attacked by Tuitalxan. The vicious weapon went up and back, then came crashing down, to be blocked aside by the circular shield. Taper hesitated to finish off the man, he was wondering there was a way to interrogate these Preincarnators and get some hard data on their times. But he could see there was no use trying. As the club swung again, the Silver Skull swayed back just enough and lunged to send the sword Chalcemar piercing the man's chest. Tuitalcan shuddered and fell with a limp thump. But there was no wound on his chest or blood on Chalcemar. The Judgement of the Sword had found the man not deserving of death at that moment.
Weaver had struck down two more of the Preincarnators, diving down at them at top speed and punching them with fists moving more than a hundred miles an hour. If not for his padded gauntlets, Black Angel would have broken his fists each time. He lowered his legs and came to a light landing where Tang Ming was standing over a fallen Apache. She tossed his long knife aside and exhaled sharply.
"Nice dancing, Ming," said Weaver. "That guy is a foot and half taller and maybe a hundred and forty pounds heavier and you beat him like he owed you money."'
"Strength is good. Speed is better," she said, just a bit out of breath. "But skill is best."
VII.
The black jetcopter soared through the night, nearly silent in whisper mode and nearly invisible with no running lights. In the pilot seat of CORBY I, Jeremy Bane stared down grimly through the windscreen with its light enhancers that let him pick out every detail of the terrain below. He was wearing the field suit with inner layer of Trom armor and protective Eldar talisman in the collar. The visor was up on his war helmet.
Seated in the co-pilot seat was the muscular bulk of Sulak, Champion of Androval. He was the one Melgar born in each generation with the Legacy of Malberon which charged his body with incredible strength. Sulak had been a warrior and adventurer all his long life. He had a shock of unruly black hair and dark blue eyes. Before boarding, he had changed into his arena uniform of blue cotton tunic and trousers, with white boots and gloves and a white mantle around his shoulders with a single red bar to mark his rank in the Melgar hierarchy. The tight uniform showed impressive solid muscle.
In the rear compartment, Garrison Nebel sat with lowered head, meditating or lost in thought. The eyeless helmet was in his lap. He had not spoken since coming aboard and Sulak regarded him sourly. The Melgar was a blunt, straightforward type and had little admiration for Nebel's enigmatic ways. Turning back to his captain, Sulak said, "What do we know about this Vidimar anyway?"
Bane thought for a second. "Leopold Vidimar was born in Prague in 1931. His wife is dead. He has two sons, Warren and Scott. Neither is active in Midnight War. Vidimar was a respected scholar for most of his career but his colleagues agree he went off the deep end five years ago. His published papers got wilder and more speculative. Eventually he lost his position and made a living writing vampire thrillers. I haven't read them."
From the back compartment, Nebel said, "He found some pages from THE REVELATIONS OF TOLLINOR KJE and managed to translate them. This gave him the idea for the Preincarnation spell. I had been corresponding with him but this was when he dropped from sight."
"Well, you can see what he's been up to," continued Bane. "He found some volunteers to be Reincarnated as an experiment. Then the criminal possibilities occurred to him. I've been trying to get some solid information on the cult for months now. There aren't a lot of members, probably under a hundred. I guess most people don't have ancestors that Vidimar finds useful." He tilted the CORBY down. "There's Lake Placid. The Tappen Inn should be in the area."
Sulak was staring down at the forest. "It's just starting to sink in that Khang used to be Mark Drum. I worked with Mark for years, it's upsetting to think he was remade this way. Why doesn't Khang have Mark's memories and personality? What's the point of the amnesia?"
"Wish I knew," said Bane. "Garrison, any insight?"
"It is beyond Human understanding," Nebel answered. "Khang was created by the will of Jordyn and only Jordyn could say why."
"There's the Inn," said Bane, bringing the CORBY down a mile away. The Tappen Inn was a pleasant old building with stone walls and green shutters on the windows. A back patio looked out on the lake, and there were chairs and tables there for guests. The Dire Wolf landed the jetcopter in a clearing less than a mile away, taxiing under some elms to give cover. Bane popped the hatch and swung down to the forest floor. Sulak and Nebel followed.
As Bane peered through the trees toward the Inn, Nebel quietly said, "One of the Preincarnators is approaching. He is the semblance of Romal the Mongrel."
"WHAT?" exclaimed Bane in disbelief just as a big man leaped through an opening in the woods and knocked him down in passing. The stranger rushed at Sulak and walked into a simple jab that would have cracked a brick wall. The attacker was flung back, rolled and leaped up to his feet.
Now that they could see the man, all three Tel Shai knights were unnerved at facing a figure out of legend. Romal stood well over six feet tall, slim and fit rather than muscular in a weightlifting way. He wore a light blue long-sleeved tunic and black trousers and boots. Clasped at his neck was a short cloak of yellow silk. A sword hung in a scabbard at his sword. Romal had thick black hair bound at the temples with a metal tiara, and sullen eyes in a sullen face. Strangest of all, his ears rose to distinct points.
Bane and Sulak were dumbfounded by this, although Nebel's reaction was hard to read. Romal had been a major player in the Darthan Age. He had been created unnaturally by Tollinor infusing characteristics of the Seven Races into a Human infant. Romal had the strength of a Troll and the speed of a Snake men, gills like a Gelydra, resistance to magick like an Eldar. The tales of Romal were many, mostly tragic and violent. But he had been dead for thirty thousand years...
As soon as he had touched down, Romal was up again and hurtling toward Sulak. He was too shrewd to head into another punch like that, though, and as the big Melgar threw a quick right cross, Romal came up under it and smashed his fist to his opponent's jaw. Punching Sulak was rather like punching a marble statue, and Romal hopped back to rub his cracked knuckles. Enough of this, he seemed to think, and whipped out a straight sword with a three-foot blade of dark grey metal.
Sulak laughed and started forward, but Bane put a restraining hand on his arm. "Hold it, my friend. I remember Romal was supposed to have a sword made by the Trom. The edge was impossibly sharp and could slice through boulders. I think he could cut even your hide."
"We'll see about that," the big Melgar growled as he advanced with clenched fists.
But Garrison Nebel had lowered the eyeless helmet over his head. In the gloom of the forest, the golden helm shimmered strangely. Romal paused and seem to be trying to speak as he saw this, although no words came out from his Preincarnated mouth.
"You remember this helmet," Nebel said. "Fare you well, Romal, wherever your spirit is fated to dwell." A broad shaft of dazzling golden light shone from the eyeless helmet and fell directly on Romal, who shuddered and dwindled and changed. A mousy little man with a bald spot dropped senseless to the ground.
Sulak yelled, "Hey! I was going to fight him. I was enjoying it."
"We have more urgent business," Nebel said calmly. He pointed a gloved hand at the rear of the inn, where lights were going on. "Our greatest challenge awaits within."
The patio at the back of the Tappen Inn was in sight as the three KDF members hurried towards it. The door opened and a tall man in a neat dark blue suit emerged to face them. He had a craggy Scots face with deep lines in his cheeks. His black hair was short and thick, and he had cold grey eyes under heavy brows. As he saw the onrushing Dire Wolf, a faint frown lowered those brows. There was a distinct resemblance between this man and Bane, almost as if they were closely related. Mark Drum raised his hands and a blue halo played around each one. In a second, he would launch a searing gralic bolt at the oncoming strangers.
But Bane did not give him that second. Faster than a real wolf on its prey, he flashed across the intervening space and crashed a left backfist that caught Mark Drum squarely on the jaw. The Blue Guide dropped the gralic force from his hands and threw them high for defense, but an instant too late. The Dire Wolf drove out a right cross instantly that rocked Drum's head the same way, dazing him as his brain took the impact within his skull. Bane's stiff left hand blurred up and back, then came down like a hatchet where neck joins shoulder. The crisp sound of impact was decisive. Mark Drum fell to his side and stretched his full length on the patio stones.
"Quick, Gary! Change him back!" the Dire Wolf ordered. As the blind mystic stepped up and the golden light shone on the prone figure, a rumbling sounded in the air. They could feel the ground tremble under their feet.
"We need to get inside," Bane said. "The last time Khang was brought back, the change fused the ground into glass. Don't look at it, follow me!" Bane rushed through the open door, with Sulak and Nebel behind him. Dazzling white light was glaring in all directions and the air smelled of ozone. Bane slammed the door behind them as a shock wave hit the Inn and the windows crashed inward to send flying glass in a dangerous spray.
Bane led his teammates through a short hall and two swinging doors to what had been the main dining area. The tables and chairs had been taken away after the Preincarnators had taken over this inn, leaving the floor empty. Standing in their way was a stout middle-aged man with round wire-rimmed glasses. Dr Leopold Vidimar blocked their path as if somehow he could stand against warriors like these.
The eyeless helmet blazed, channeling the golden light which shone on Elvedal and playing it over Vidimar. The warlock froze in place, transfixed. Nebel said quietly, "You tricked Khang with misleading promises."
"Yes," came the single word unwillingly.
"You reverted him to Mark Drum, and in the process, gained control over his unstable union of minds."
"Yes."
"Using the Preincarnation spell, you turned a Dartha named Wilinor into the semblance of his distant ancestor, Rimnnor Kje. It was Tollinor who then reverted one of your cult into Romal, a feat beyond your ability," Nebel announced somberly.
"Yes," said Vidimar as the word was dragged from him.
"I see," Nebel finished. Abruptly, his helmet stopped shining as the blind mystic threw a perfect Kumundu backfist that dropped Vidimar senseless to the floor.
"Well struck," Sulak said in surprise. "I did not think to ever see you use your fists."
Nebel turned to his teammates and his even measured tones held new urgency. "The worst is yet before us."
From the dim doorway at the other end of the dining room, a slender figure emerged. This was a man in silk garments of green and white, draped in a cloak that fell to the floor. His body was slim but hard, as a swordblade is. His skin was white as an albino's but his slanted eyes were jade-green. Straight white hair fell to his shoulders. His ears rose to distinct points, his long face held the most wicked leer any of them had ever seen.
"What are we waiting for?" demanded Sulak. "He's just another of those filthy Darthim. We can handle him."
"Sure," said Bane. "Let's nail him quick."
"He is no ordinary Dartha." Nebel's voice was stern. "He is the malice and knowledge of the ancient Rimnor Kje."
Hearing his name pronounced aloud, the Darthan warlock bared his teeth and swept one thin hand in a horizontal arc. Red lightning exploded across the room with a deafening roar, hurling the three Tel Shai knights all the way against the wall behind them with bone-cracking force. Small fires started here and there. As Rimnnor shook with silent laughter, he spotted Vidimar rising behind him. The First Kje of the Darthim reached out and seized the warlock's clothing in his hand, yanking him to his feet. But then Rimnnor seemed to spy something outside that alarmed him. He vanished in a lurid scarlet gate of gralic force, taking Vidimar with him.
Slowly, painfully, the KDF members stirred. Sulak had taken the brunt of that blast, which spared the lives of his teammates. The big Melgar struggled to rise and could only manage to get on one knee. The front of his tunic had been burned away and smoke rose from his chest. Within his double layer of Trom armor, Bane had not been seriously harmed but he also was dazed. Nebel fared the best; his cloak was woven with ensalir-threads which dispersed malevolent force and he got to his feet first.
As Nebel helped Sulak to a chair, Bane stood up. "Whoa. I never saw a Dartha pack a clout like that. He almost fried us."
"I warned you," Nebel said. "That is Rimnor, one of the first Kjes, among the most dreaded of his Race."
"Rimnor Kje..." Bane said. "Preincarnated. We have got to track him down and stop him before he starts a new Darthan Age."
The door to the outside swung open and Khang filled it. The giant silver man stood motionless in the opening for a long moment before stepping into the room.
"Khang, are you all right?" asked Bane.
"You need not fear me, Jeremy," rumbled the deep voice. "I see now I must accept my duty and my burden. I was given this form for some reason, though I do not know yet what it might be."
"That's good to hear. We need you more than ever, big guy," Bane said. "Are you coming back to New York with us?"
"Where you lead, I will follow," said the silver man. "Until the end of our lives."
2/7/2014
(9/18-9/20/1986)
I.
Dr Leopold Vidimar stared somberly at the large map which hung on the wall in his study. Nine red pins showed where his agents were at work, seeking out possible new recruits, carrying out assassination contracts, recovering long-lost treasure now remembered from previous lives. Vidimar turned away, removed his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped them carefully with a soft cloth. Tonight had an uncanny feel to it. The ghostly voices from the ages whispered to him in voices which only he could hear, pleading with him to restore them to life. The voices never went away completely.
If only he hadn't found the Preincarnation spell from his study of the REVELATIONS OF TOLLINOR KJE, that unimaginably ancient book passed down from the Darthan Age... but he had and it could not be undone.
Without warning, a silent explosion of white light burst directly before him with blinding intensity that left him dazed. Dark spots swam before his watering eyes. He could just make out a huge bulk that loomed where nothing had been before. As his eyes recovered, he saw a titanic figure of living metal towering over him.
Over seven feet tall and powerfully built, the strange figure had gleaming skin which moved like normal flesh but which looked like burnished silver. The head was a smooth helmet, featureless except for two eyeslots which glowed from within. And when it spoke with lungs or a mouth, the deep resonant voice seemed to come from all directions at once.
"Leopold Vidimar! You look upon Khang. Be still and hear my words," thundered the voice. "I know that you are the master of the cult of Preincarnation. Nay, do not seek to flee."
With a panicky quickness, the stout middle-aged man had wheeled about and started to run. He hadn't a chance. A long silver arm swung out and a glistening hand gripped his upper arm with strength beyond measure. Vidimar gasped and held absolutely motionless as his arm came close to snapping in that grip.
"Be you still, I say," rumbled Khang ominously. "For I am of no mind to coddle my foes. Too long have I served in this cold form. The African wizard Arem Kamende used a forbidden spell to restore me to flesh and blood. But I was forced back into this inhuman body without my consent. Enough, I say. I will not live life this way."
As he was released, Vidimar fell backwards into an overstuffed chair. He rubbed his arm to try to restore feeling to it. "I don't understand... you were once Human? You were put in that form?"
"It is so," came the resonant voice. "I have learned that I was Mark Drum, the Blue Guide. I was a living man of flesh and blood, and I would be that way again."
Dr Vidimar was used to thinking quickly. "I can help you."
Khang moved closer. He was a surreal sight at best, seemingly a statue brought to animate life and at close range he was overwhelming. "Tell me more..."
"There is indeed a spell which can return you to your Human self. Arem Kamende used it. I know this spell in theory, yet I alone do not have the gralic force necessary to cast it."
"Do you mean you will NOT help me?" came the menacing voice. The eyeslots blazed up brighter.
"No, no! Of course I'll help you. But I will need assistance. There is a Dartha named Wilinor Kje who can supply the gralir. You must go to Maroch and fetch him here."
"I have no reason to trust you," Khang rumbled. "It may well be that you intend me to be slain by the Darthim if I enter their realm. Yet mark me well. Jordyn made me invincible in this form. If I return to you with anger in my heart...!"
"No!" yelled Vidimar in desperation. "I am not betraying you. Bring me Wilinor and I promise you will be fully Human again."
"For that, I would dare anything," said the silver man. "Aye, I will break the gates of Maroch itself and confront the dreaded Kjes in their very stronghold. I will be back!" As he spoke, a second detonation of white light filled the den, silent but blowing loose papers around as the air was displaced.
Slumped in his chair, Vidimar gasped and tried to breathe normally. Being in the presence of Khang was an unnerving experience. Yet, he quickly regained composure. He had not built and run the Preincarnation cult without having to be cunning and hard. Vidimar smiled to himself. It had worked. The fool Khang was on his way to fetch Wilinor, the sole Dartha who could boast direct descent from Tollinor Kje himself. With his Preincarnation spell, Vidimar would turn Wilinor into the very image and spirit of Tollinor, with all that first Dartha's knowledge.. and the most dangerous warlock of all time would walk the Earth again.
II.
Under a Caribbean sky as perfect an azure as any artist could want, with a golden dawn to the east, two men sped in a black jetcopter that just cleared the waves. Piloting the black CORBY was a dark-haired man in a tan business suit, tie neatly knotted and jacket buttoned. He was wearing an incongruous black helmet with its visor retracted into the crest; the helmet plugged into the craft's system to feed him alarms and updates, and oxygen if needed. Even after years as a knight of Tel Shai, Larry Taper seemed reserved and even diffident when in civilian clothes. He handled the stealth copter smoothly but cautiously.
Sitting in the co-pilot seat, Shiro Mitsuru was flamboyant in comparison. The Asian man wore soft slippers, baggy trousers, a plain white T-shirt and an unbutton black denim vest with four pockets. His bare arms looked as if they had been carved from old ivory, with every muscle standing out dramatically. Shiro's was letting his hair grow, as well, and it was a vivid black mop on his head at the moment.
"...so then, we stayed in Hawaii a few years," Shiro was saying. "They are tolerant of mixed marriages. My father being Japanese and my mother Chinese, they encountered a lot of prejudice from both races. I didn't notice or care. I was raised by my parents to master martial arts and every person I got to know was a teacher of some kind."
"A nomadic upbringing," Taper said. "Weren't you afflicted by solitude? You enjoyed no peers your own age for socializing."
Shiro shrugged. "It was all I knew. For years, I assumed everyone lived in hotel rooms and squatted in apartments when owners were away. The White Web was after us, after all. My parents had stolen the Web's treasury, so they had millions of dollars to use. But in the end, assassins got them. I was on my own at fifteen."
"My commiserations." Taper brought the CORBY up a hundred feet, as the waves were getting choppy. "Sounds like a woebegone life."
"You think so? I wouldn't have changed it. At fifteen, I had studied with dozens of sensei and sifus and Western boxers. It was and is all I know. When I found someone to sponsor me at Tel Shai, Teacher Chael took me as a Kumundu student immediately. I became the first Tiger Fury in years."
"And you still don't possess a permanent home," Taper said thoughtfully. "You switch hotel suites frequently and rent apartments for one month only. All you own are some habiliments and weapons. I would abhor such a lifestyle, my preference is for comfort, like my cozy domicile in Edgewater."
"Oh, I am going to buy a car!" Shiro interrupted. "I ran that Fiero until it fell apart. I was thinking of getting a little sports car, maybe an MG."
"Traffic will never be the same. Ah, I espy our destination." Taper slowed the CORBY and brought it down gently on the white sands of a beach. The three wheels lowered, the rotors slowed and stopped. Taper powered down the systems, the lights on the cabin panels went off in groups.
"Aren't you going to put on your Silver Skull outfit?" asked Shiro as he unstrapped himself.
"Not until compelling need urges transition. The role is not to be assumed capriciously." Taper popped open the hatch and warm tropical air rushed into the usually pressurized cabin. He grabbed a handle and swung down to the sand. On his side, Shiro hopped lightly down, swinging his arms to loosen up.
"Nice vacation spot," the Tiger Fury said. "Where are the bad boys?"
"Concealed in that deciduous panorama," Taper answered. "Your ninjutsu expertise qualifies you to lead the way."
"Watch where I put my feet," Shiro said and sprinted across the beach toward the edge of the woods. Hampered by dress shoes, Taper followed as best he could. As soon as Shiro reached the bushes and sparse trees, he seemed to vanish. A second later, his head popped up a dozen feet away as he gestured for Taper to hurry. The Tiger Fury seemed to glide silently through undergrowth, barely making a branch move as he passed. Taper took more time and ocassionally caused some rustling.
Shortly, Shiro paused by a cluster of palm trees and motioned Taper to be cautious. They peered out into a clearing in which five men stood in a circle around two rocks placed at an angle to each other. The men wore shorts and sneakers and baggy shirts, and two of them carried shovels, one a pick. One was black and another had straw-colored hair but they were otherwise nondescript. They were discussing something in a low tone.
The Preincarnators, thought Taper. As he saw them, the air around Larry Taper shimmered and suddenly he was wearing a snug outfit of tight black leather tunic and pants and boots. On his left arm was strapped a circular silver shield three feet across; on a belt worn low, a straight sword hung in its scabbard. On his head appeared a metal helmet crafted in the semblance of a human skull.
Seeing this, Shiro grinned fiercely. He knew that when the Silver Skull appeared, it meant danger. Oddly, he could not see Taper's eyes looking out of the skull helmet. The eyeholes were as black as if no one were inside. The Silver Skull placed his right hand on the hilt of his sword Chalcemar and nodded once, then they went back to observing the Preincarnators.
As they watched, one of the men was enveloped in a crackle of red energy within which his form shifted. As it cleared, he stood revealed as a burly 16th Century English pirate, with a ragged yellow beard. He wore white breeches and a jacket with brass buttons, a cutlass stuck in the silk sash around his middle. The pirate had no eyepatch but a white scar running down his cheek showed in life he had come close to needing one. His long hair was bound up in a kerchief.
The uneasy balance between the modern Preincarnator and his ancestor Norman Redhands took a deep shuddering breath and pointed to the base of a palm tree at the edge of the clearing farthest from the two Tel Shai The men in modern clothes began to dig.
Shiro and Taper watched with interest. The Preincarnators were a recent development, they had only been heard of within the last year. Somehow, modern men could assume an exact likeness of any ancestor, drawing on the memories and skills of that ancestor as long as the spell lasted. Here, the cultists were recovering treasure lost for hundreds of years. But the Preincarnators also hired out as assassins, with the perfect alibi that they resumed their modern forms and left the police looking for killers who no longer existed. This was how obscure linguist Dr Leopold Vidimar had become wealthy with undeclared millions within the past few months.
The Tiger Fury tapped the Skull on the shoulder and indicated he was going to circle closer. The silver helmet nodded, and as Shiro slipped like a shadow through the dense undergrowth, Taper slid his sword from its sheath. When he assumed this guise, his self-assurance increased to cockiness. He became almost another person. Now, without a word, he plunged out of the bushes and headed for the cultists at a full run.
As they spotted the strange black and silver figure charging, the Preincarnators straightened and drew on their own spell. Red haze flickered around them and they changed into ancestors. In those scant seconds, the Silver Skull had leaped at the pirate. Norman Redhands swung his short cutlass in a vicious swipe that Taper deflected with his shield. Instantly, the reborn pirate dealt a backhand blow with all the strength in his beefy arm. Taper parried it, their blades rang like bells and then the Silver Skull spun and threw a roundhouse kick that smashed his boot to the pirate's head and flung the man to one side. As the stunned pirate was knocked senseless, the spell faltered for a second and almost broke.
At the instant that the Skull had attacked, Shiro came at the Preincarnators from behind. He knocked two men to the ground, leaped over them and whirled to face them as they rose. The Tiger Fury saw how the Preincarnators had changed and realized he could not facing more deadly opponents. A gladiator and a samurai. A wicked grin swept over Shiro's bronze face as he plunged at the nearer man.
Flavius Mares, eight time winner at the Colosseum games, wore a breastplate and short skirt, with a basin helmet. In his left hand was a short stabbing spear, a stiletto in his right. Flavius was fast and accurate, he had killed dozen of opponents in the great games and this unarmed man would surely be no problem. He thrust the spear forward quickly and got a rude awakening as Shiro moved in close to seize the weapon below the barbed head and yank Flavius into a blurring backfist that snapped the man's head around in a half-circle. Another inch and the neck might have broken. Wresting the spear away, Shiro whirled just barely in time to block the samurai attack.
If the katana had struck the spear shaft squarely, that tempered blade might well have splintered it. But Shiro swung the weapon at an angle, deflecting the sword to one side and only getting the shaft hacked partly though. Immediately reversing the spear to thrust its blunt end forward like a pool cue, Shiro drove it between the samurai's eyes with murderous force. The revived form of Hideko Tanaka dropped to his knees, cross-eyed from the impact. Dropping the damaged weapon, Shiro wheeled around just as Flavius had gotten to his feet and was lunging forward with the stiletto. Grabbing the man's wrist and pulling that arm out straight, Shiro brought his other fist hard to break Flavius' elbow. Tough as he was, the reborn gladiator cried out and was open to a vicious rabbit punch that threw him down senseless. As he lapsed from consciousness, the red light flared around him and he sagged to the ground a modern man again.
As soon as he had struck down Flavius, not waiting to see him fall, Shiro spun and flung himself at Tanaka. Not a fraction of a second too soon. The samurai had gotten up on his feet and he was drawing his katana back for a stroke as the Tiger Fury crashed into him. Shiro blasted a flurry of alternating left-right hooking punches to the man's body which drove the wind out of him. Tanaka faltered, his sword fell, and Shiro caught the man squarely on the chin with an uppercut that lifted Tanaka off the ground to fall in a heap. That outcome had been closer than he liked, thought Shiro. If those two had been further apart, the fight might have ended differently.
Larry Taper was dealing with the other Preincarnators. The first to rush at him was a tall lanky black man, almost naked except for a red cloth kilt and a headdress of white feathers. His assegai stabbed forward quick as a lion striking, but glanced off the metal breastplate under the Silver Skull tunic. Taper was driven back a few steps. Dropping his sword, he whipped the round buckler from his left arm and flung it with a backhand swing like a discus. The Zulu was taken offguard by this unorthodox attack. The heavy shield crashed hard against his neck, breaking it. As the Zulu fell, Taper turned to meet the final Preincarnator. As he did this, the shield appeared strapped to his left forearm and the sword was in his hand again; this summoning of his tools was one of the attributes of the Silver Skull that caught most opponents by surprise.
The final cultist was a tall man with filthy blond hair tied behind him in a plait, wearing a fur vest and leather leggings. He had a round helmet with a nose guard and a massive axe was in both hands. The revived Viking roared and swung back his axe behind his own shoulders to bring it down for a killing stroke. Against a circular attack, the Silver Skull countered with a linear strike. He plunged forward in a fencer's stance , sliding the point of his straight sword right into the Viking's chest. Hrolf Wolfsson gaped in surprise at the pain and dropped his own sword. Taper tugged his sword free and watched the man topple backwards. There was no blood on the blade, since Chalcemar had been ensorcelled by the Eldarin to not slay unless its victim was totally beyond redemption. The Judgement of the Sword left its victims stunned and senseless, but usually alive.
As the fighting ended, Larry Taper reverted to normal. The black leather uniform, the Skull helmet and sword and shield vanished and he appeared in his business suit again. Taper adjusted his jacket, straightened his tie and exhaled sharply. Shiro watched with a bemused smile. He had not gotten used to the way the Silver Skull came and went as needed.
Five deadly warriors had fallen before two in less than a minute. English pirate, Roman gladiator, Japanese samurai, Zulu spearman and Danish Viking, all taken down. The knights of Tel Shai were working at a separate level of ability.
"Behold the Preincarnators," Taper said. "Your cogitations, Shiro?"
The Tiger Fury crouched over the unconscious cultists. "These are not merely men who think they have become their ancestors. They have literally changed muscle and bone and hair. And their weapons and clothing appeared from thin air... like yours do."
"Gralic magick," said Taper. "Powerful sorcery indeed. The Preincarnators could predicate a significant crisis in the Midnight War. It's only prudent we manacle these atavisms and remand them into the CORBY before proceeding to Hawk Island for clarification of our agenda."
"Yes," Shiro agreed. "If there had been a dozen of these resurrected warriors, we would have had problems. Let out Dire Wolf decide the next move."
III.
On a dark rainy morning in New York City, Cindy Brunner walked down the stairs from the third floor. She and Jeremy Bane had adjoining rooms with a connecting door between them, and although she frequently stayed in his room, it was a good arrangement considering the irregular hours they both kept. The telepath entered the conference room on the second floor and flicked the lights on. There was the long oak table with its dozen chairs, ten on each side and one at each end. There was the row of green metal filing cabinets with shelves of reference books above them. She sighed faintly and walked over to drop into a swivel chair that sat before a cluster of communications equipment with a 12" monitor.
At twenty-seven, Cindy was at a peak both physically and telepathically. A small blonde just over five foot one and just over one hundred pounds, she had a gymnast body except for breasts which were a little large for her frame. With an inquisitive face sprinkled with freckles half the year and dark blue eyes under bangs, Cindy was attractive to men and likeble to women. This morning, she was wearing jeans and sneakers and a white long-sleeved pullover with three buttons extending down from the collar. She leaned forward and starting throwing switches on the console.
Instantly, a color image appeared on the monitor. It showed a room similar to the one she was in, brightly lit by fluorescent lamps in the ceiling. She pressed a button and heard a low beeping in the other room. Within a minute or two, the face she knew best in the world appeared. A few years older, Bane had a narrow face with short black hair and pale grey eyes under heavy brows. He smiled as he saw who was calling.
"Well, good morning," the Dire Wolf said.
"Hey there," she answered. "How are things on Hawk Island?"
"We're having a meeting in an hour. It's about the Preincarnator. Larry and Shiro are on their way here with some prisoners, so we can make a decision what to do about them." He paused for the barest instant. "Wish you were here. Your moral support always makes things easier."
"I'd like to be there, but I have to go see Jan. The things she saw in the Sanguinarians case..! The kid is only ten, and she's handling it well, but I need to spend time with her. I can help her mind heal without anyone knowing. I know she's having nightmares again."
"I know. You do so much that no one finds out about," Bane said. "Still no word from Khang?"
"Nothing. He's staying away longer and longer each time he wanders off. I thought he would get over what happened by now."
Bane shook his head unhappily. "It was a hard decision, putting him back in that body. But at that time, we needed his power on our side just to survive. I just hope he sees that."
"He has a strong sense of duty," Cindy said. "I have to get going, hon. I just wanted to touch base before driving down to Long Island. Call me if I'm needed."
"You're always needed, Cindy," said Bane with a faint smile. "Take care."
As she broke the connection, the Dire Wolf stood up and shut down the console. He was wearing his inevitable outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, a trademark in the Midnight War. Bane went over and stood before the long meeting table. He had duplicated the 38th Street's conference room here as closely as he could, but this table was new and did not have the long history of the original. Bane left the room and went out into the hall to gaze out the window. Beyond the rocky beach was a strip of ocean that separated them from the coast of northern Maine. In the past few years, Bane had spent some of his fortune expanding the facility here left to him by Michael Hawk, the first KDF member to die in action.
The Hawk Island facility was all on ground level, with the main meeting room inside the front door. Bane's office was to the left as one entered, followed by five private apartments which members could use as as needed. On the other side of the door was a lounge, a gym, medical ward and two holding cells. The hangar was a hundred feet away, big enough to hold all three CORBYs at the same time, also a major reason he had decided to renovate the small concrete buildings here Mike had used as a retreat. The hangar in NYC could barely fit the one helicopter. As Bane stared moodily out at the cold choppy ocean, he spotted a black shape coming in fast. Good. The black jetcopter lowered its landing gear and taxied in through the huge open door of the hangar. Bane went to the door and stepped out into a cold wind to go meet his teammates.
The rotors had slowed to a stop as he entered. Shiro and Taper stepped out of the hatches and went to open the rear compartment. "Hi, captain!"shouted the Tiger Fury. "Would you like to meet a real Viking? Or a pirate?"
"Okay. I take it you captured some of the Preincarnators?"
"Four to be exact," Larry Taper said. "One expired in the altercation and we abandoned him there. Let the cult retrieve his carcass if they want. Should we incarcerate them in the new brig?"
"Yes. They're an interesting-looking crew, except for this one." Bane indicated the stunned man in shorts and T-shirt. "He seems kind of ordinary."
"Ah, the spell wore off on him when he got knocked out," said Shiro. "You should have seen him before."
Taper reached in and started dragging one of the prisoners out. "I thought it prudent to administer a light dose of the chemical we use in our anesthetic darts. They would be awake by now otherwise and we would have had to tie them up. They should be stirring soon."
The three KDF members carried their prisoners across the tarmac to the facility, putting them in the holding cells. These had been designed to restrain superhuman prisoners like Melgarin or Gelydrim, and were sturdier than needed for mere Humans. An outer door had to close before the inner door to each cell would open. Bane ordered all four prisoners put in one cell, which was large enough to hold them without crowding. The drugged men had been searched for weapons, which were still locked away in the CORBY.
As they stepped out into the hallway, the door to the cell closing with a hiss behind them, Bane said "The rest of the team is already here. I know Steve is in the gym. Ming is in one of the apartments, and I think Sulak is sleeping. He said he had been at a feast in Androval last night. But let them go about their business for now, it's Garrison we need to bring here."
"If it's all the same to you," Shiro said, "I could use a shower and a hot meal. I have been on the go since four this morning."
"Sure. Larry?"
"Total agreement. Sustenance would be much appreciated."
As the two of them went toward the lounge, which held a refrigerator and gas stove, Bane turned the other way. He walked past his office, down a corridor with doors on the one side. At the furthest one, he raised his knuckles to knock as a voice from within said, "Come in, Jeremy."
Bane lowered his brows slightly. Nebel could still freak him out sometimes. He opened the door and entered to find the blind mystic sitting on a thin hard mat in the full lotus. Nebel was just forty, a slender man with brown hair and a long somber face. Here in private he did not wear the opaque sunglasses and he met Bane's gaze with eyes that had white pupils. Nebel rose smoothly to his feet, wearing only white shorts.
"I sensed Larry and Shiro returning," he explained.
"They brought some Preincarnators. I want you to examine them."
"Certainly," Nebel said. He picked up his clothes off the bed and started pulling them on. A white long-sleeved tunic and white trousers, both of pure cotton. White boots and elbow-length gold-cloth gloves. Over his head he lowered a mantle to which was fastened a floor-length cloak of bright golden fabric woven with ensalir threads. Around his neck he hung a small blue gem as an amulet. Finally, he lifted the eyeless helmet but did not put it on just yet. That helmet was ancient, Bane knew, crafted of the sacred metal ensalir by the immortal Eldarin at the beginning of the world. Over the ages, it had granted visions and inspirations to seers and prophets.
Now the eyeless helmet was the property of Garrison Nebel, known as Imthril, the blind Sorcerer of Truth whose innate powers of gralic perception were magnified enormously by the helm in a perfect union.
The effect of the white and gold costume should have been bizarre, but wasn't. Nebel held himself with such reserve that he had dignity even in that outfit. He regarded Bane thoughtfully. "I know you are not always comfortable with my perception, Jeremy. I will not volunteer information you are not ready to hear."
"Yeah, that's a comfort," Bane answered. "Your powers DO take a little getting used to." He was understating it. Nebel was not an original member of the KDF, having joined years after its founding, and he remained very much a loner. Bane had never warmed to him the way he had with Shiro or Sulak or Ted. In some ways, he thought of Nebel as someone who worked with the KDF when its missions suited his own purposes.
They headed down the corridor toward the brig, where Bane opened the outer door. As they stepped into the tiny cubicle and the outer door closed, the inner door could open. Four men were still stretched out on the plain floor. There was no window here, just an air vent in the ceiling, a sleeping mat, a toilet and sink in one corner... not very plush but then, prisoners were never kept here for long.
Nebel stepped into the cell and stood over the prone figures. He raised the eyeless helmet and lowered it over his head. Behind him, Bane felt uneasy and yet pleased at having the sorcerer on his side. Nebel gazed down with blind eyes through an opaque metal surface and saw deeply.
"Interesting," he said at last. "These are not discrete individuals. Each is an unstable union both physically and mentally. The bodies resemble each man's ancestor down to each hair. Yet the minds are a combination of the modern cult member dominating the ancestor. Each Preincarnator is able to draw on the memories and skills of the ancestor without losing his own personality."
"Go on," said Bane.
"They are not able to speak while in this state. There is too much conflict. This state is not permanent. It will weaken and undo within a few hours. I believe the cult members are only able to cause this transformation once or twice before they need gralic reinforcement from the leader." Nebel looked back over his shoulder at Bane. "I knew Leopold Vidimar. We had a correspondence for a year. He is a gifted man but deeply flawed. Forming a cult like this will bring out the worst qualities in him. Jeremy, if you intend to act against these Preincarnators, I feel justified in supporting you fully."
"Thanks. It's good to have your approval," Bane said while trying to keep sarcasm out of his voice. "What about these guys? Can you change them back to normal?"
Nebel removed his helmet again, holding it in front of him with both hands. "I could. But it is not necessary. They are harmless while sedated and the spell will undo itself in a few hours. They are no threat to us."
"That leaves only the problem of what to do with them," said Bane. "There's no use in turning them over to the police, of course. What could we charge them with? And we can't hold them here indefinitely. This isn't a prison."
"If I may suggest, we should simply leave them on the mainland. Take them in a CORBY and drop them in some secluded area before they awaken. By the time they figure out where they are and manage to contact their cult to come fetch them, we will likely be already attacking."
Bane nodded. "I'll take care of that, with Larry or Shiro helping. These goons will wake up in northern Maine and have no idea what happened, but they'll be out of our hair. When I come back, we will assemble and go after the cult directly."
IV.
In a burst of white light, the grim figure of Khang appeared on a barren hill. It was stifling hot, the morning sun burning in a cloudless grey sky. There below him was the dread Citadel of Maroch.
This was the stronghold of the Darthim. Thirty thousand years ago, they had ruled the world in their Age, lording it over the Seven Races, but their reign had finally been broken and the face of the world changed in the cataclysm that followed. Scant evidence remained for archaeologists or geologists to find that might inform them of the Darthan Age. Only those few who knew of the Midnight War even had intimations of such a time.
Cruel and perverse, masters of sorcery such as the other Races could not match, the Darthim drew much of the power which fueled their spells from the captive Sulla Chun which still was imprisoned deep beneath the Citadel. On occasion, one or two of the white-skinned warlocks might venture to the real world for captives to torture, but for the most part, the former masters of the world drowsed in drugged slumber and dreamed of earlier times.
A high wall of white stone surrounded the Citadel, with guard towers at intervals. Two gaping pits flanking the gate showed where sacrificial pits had bubbled long ago. Towering over the city itself was the Burning Pyramid, with its six hundred steps to the temple at the top. Khang remembered it well. Not too many years earlier, he himself had slain the wargod Angdros there and broken the sword Hellspawn beneath his foot. The silver man drew himself up and strode proudly down the hill toward the Citadel.
From within the city, horns blared an alarm. He had been spotted. A storm of slim arrows fell like heavy rain, their poisoned barbs glancing off him harmlessly. Khang stopped before the forty-foot high gate and glared upward. Atop the walls stood the council of Kjes. The pale Darthim were hooded and cloaked against the harsh sunlight.
"We bear no love for you," called down one of the sorcerers. He held up a blasting wand topped with a green jewel. "Your name is cursed in our prayers nightly, you and your Tel Shai brigands and the Melgar brutes you brought here. What would you have of us now?"
Khang's voice echoed from the hills around the Citadel. "I have come to claim one of you. Bring me Wilinor and I will depart without doing further harm."
Standing on a platform that extended over the gate, the Kje waved his blasting wand angrily. "Are you mad? To come here and demand one of us! Do not forget to whom you speak, tool of Jordyn. This is Maroch and we are Darthim."
"I know your kind well," rumbled the silver man. In the bright sunlight, Khang shone so he was difficult to look upon. "Know you this, tormentor and blasphemer, that it is within my power to level your city and slay every Dartha within, leaving this world a cleaner place. Nor could you hinder me."
"Begone, I say-" began the Kje, but Khang drowned him out with a voice like thunder. "I am no longer inclined to show mercy. My patience has worn thin. Bring me Wilinor now or I shall bring your city down and take him over your corpses!"
The Kjes responded with roaring gralic bolts from their wands. The fierce dark energy swept over Khang, but where any other being would have been blackened and charred, he stood unharmed. He strode up to the massive gate, drew back a fist and brought it forward to smash out a huge segment. Another blow, and there was a hole in the ancient gate big enough for him to step through. The arrows and spears and gralic bolts which poured down did not seem to even catch his notice.
Charging toward him was a monstrous beast, like a rhino with apelike arms and intelligent eyes. As it reached him, Khang sent it spinning away with a backhanded slap that killed the creature instantly. Other monsters drew back in fear. In the open courtyard, hundreds of the Darthim shrank away as Khang entered.
The silver man raised his hands and lightning played wildly around them, brighter than the sun, casting new shadows. Before he could strike, three Human slaves hurried up, dragging a Dartha bound in red gremthom chains. They flung the terrified sorcerer at Khang's feet and retreated hastily. The silver giant's inhuman eyes smoldered as he inspected the shivering wretch.
"It is indeed Wilinor Kje," he rumbled with satisfaction. Closing his hand around the chains, he lifted the man bodily off the ground and faced the cowed mob. The Darthim glared at him with venomous hatred but dared not attack.
"Handing him over may be doing your Race a great service," boomed the voice that seemed to come from all directions. "For he may in a way bring about the end of Khang, make of that what you will!" A gate flared up blindingly around him, as he departed with his captive. The Darthim began to chatter with more genuine emotion than they had felt in years.
V.
"I tell you, we've got to find Khang!" Bane said in a taut voice. He was standing at the head of the long table as the assembled KDF members watched him. "With him in this state, there's no telling what might happen."
Seated before him were Larry Taper and Shiro Mitsuru. Joining them were Sulak, Steven Weaver and Tang Ming. Garrison Nebel stood at the other end of the table, wrapped motionless in his golden cloak. Several members had previous commitments and were excused from this mission, among them Cindy Brunner, Ethan Petrov, Jessica Frost and Ted Wright.
Only one member was missing without explanation, the most powerful and unpredictable of them all. Khang!
"Chill a little bit, captain," said Steven Weaver. He was a tall lanky American black man wearing a dark blue jumpsuit with a few oil stains from working on the CORBY. "Khang goes off on his own missions all the time. You know that. And what's out there that can hurt him, anyway?"
"That's not what I'm worried about," Bane snapped. "Only a few weeks ago, Arem Kamende reverted Khang to his original Human body. He was Mark Drum again. But the situation was so desperate- we needed the power of Khang so badly- that I ordered Garrison to undo Kamende's spell. Drum turned back into the silver man again."
"He was ticked off, sure. But he didn't turn against us. He didn't walk out," Weaver said.
"Not then." Bane sighed. "He is resentful of me now. I can deal with that. Since that incident, he has been studying our files and searching the rare books in our headquarters. He has been searching for a way to become Mark Drum again, and that's understandable. And suddenly, we're dealing with the Preincarnators and I'm afraid he has found that way."
Tang Ming spoke up. The young Chinese woman was new to the team and still unsure about putting her opinions out. "I see. You fear that Khang will go to this Vidimar and ask to be Preincarnated.. that he will revert to Mark Drum once more."
"Yes. And that's not the worst of it. If that happens, Drum may be under Vidimar's control to some extent. Mark Drum was a dangerous man. Before he was a Blue Guide, he was a sorcerer in his own and a Kumundu master. Facing him would be a challenge for any of us."
"I worked with Mark Drum for years," said Sulak. "He was a good man, but you're right- as an enemy, he would be formidable."
Bane stood up straight. "We have two leads. One is a location where the Preincarnators might strike next. The other is where I believe Vidimar is staying. Our sources are usually pretty good. I want us to split into two teams. Going to North Dakota will be Larry, Shiro, Ming and Steve. Going after Vidimar himself, I will take Sulak and Garrison. Each team will take a CORBY and arrive there using an Eldar travel crystal. Full combat gear for everyone. The Midnight War has never been more desperate than today."
VI.
The boarding house was nearly a century old, a two-story wood plank box of a building, with a porch and a small shed around the back. Here in 1914, a drifter named Jed Dunne had buried over $10,000 in cash and gold coins, the haul from a bank robbery. The loot was never recovered and Dunne was never captured. Two months after the robbery, he died alone of pneumonia out on the high plains.
seventy years later, Jed Dunne was seemingly alive and well, walking the earth again. He was dressed in denims, red checked flannel shirt and a yellow bandanna around his neck. A big iron was on his hip. The reborn outlaw from the closing day of the Old West led seven of his fellow Preincarnators toward the house. Their cars were parked by the dirt road that led to the nearest town. Dunne could not speak, none of the revenants could while in their ancestor's bodies, but he pointed a bony finger at a spot between an old tree stump and the shed, and the cultists carried their shovels there.
As they started unenthusiastically to dig, a small Chinese woman raced from concealment behind the house and hurtled at them. Tang Ming did not wear the KDF field suit or bear the weapons because she claimed they interfered with her balance and perception. Instead she had on soft slippers, baggy black trousers and a white long-sleeved blouse with full sleeves. She reached Jed Dunne just as he spotted her and his hand dropped but he did not clear leather before she had kicked one of his feet out from under him and struck hard with her open hand at the back of his neck even as he fell. Ming grabbed the heavy revolver and thew it as far away as she could.
Red auras crackled around the others as the Preincarnators assumed their dual states, and suddenly there were nine very different men coming toward the Chinese girl. Tang Ming dropped into a cat stance, one knee raised and her hands open in claws. Her mystic perception told her which of these was going to attack first, and she swung to face him. But a dark man-sized shape plummeted down from nowhere to plow through the crowd at a hundred miles per hour. The Preincarnators were sent tumbling, dropping their weapons in the confusion.
Rising with his red batlike wings spread, Black Angel barked a short laugh and came down again. He seized one warrior under the arms, a bare-chested Hebrew from the days of the Judges and spun around quick to fling the man fifty yards away. The thump of the body landing had a decisive sound that promised the Preincarnator would not be getting up except to be carried away.
In his own era and natural lifetime, the Chinese resistance fighter named Hu Yin-pai had been the best wu-shu artist alive. Even now, with his disciplined mind weakened by the dominance of a modern descendant with criminal tendencies, Hu was still excellent. Jumping to his feet, he throw a lightning ram's-head punch which would open a way for the killing stroke. But Tang Ming was moving so quickly and precisely that it appeared her opponent was deliberately missing when she dodged his blows. With a soft palm block, she diverted a high front kick, stepped in so close she was almost embracing him and slammed her elbow directly over Hu's heart. The Preincarnator gasped and his defenses faltered. Ming struck him twice on both sides of the head with open palms and as he started to drop, she flung a roundhouse punch with all her weight behind it. his body dropped to the hard earth, Hu Yin-Pai reverted to the modern body of his descendant in death. Her ivory face remained as placid as if she were practicing calligraphy.
Nearby, Shiro Mitsuru took a 19th Century Filipino fighter for his first opponent. Ruiz Santangelo hefted his dagger by the blade and flung it at the oncoming stranger. Shiro smiled. From inside his vest, he plucked a six-pointed shuriken and flicked it backhand. The metal star struck the dagger in mid-flight and deflected it with a metallic ringing noise. Santangelo googled in surprise just before a second shruiken sank one of its points deep into his windpipe. Choking and clutching at the weapon, Santangelo fell dying to the cold ground. Shiro whirled just in time sway out of the way of a thin dueling sword whose point missed him by inches. It was a Puritan dueling instructor named John Isaac Cooper. He dressed all in black, with no frills or decorations, and his long bony face was fierce with determination. He had lunged but missed, and in that second he lost the fight and his life.
Shiro seized the man's extended sword arm by the wrist, twisting it and breaking the elbow. Despite himself, Cooper gasped at the pain just before Shiro's other hand whipped up along that extended arm to crash into his face. Cooper was lucky enough to survive that blow, but he sank to the ground with a broken elbow and concussion.
The Preincarnators were dwindling fast. Larry Taper had assumed the Silver Skull guise, proof that the sword and shield were needed. He rushed at a short, stocky man with coppery skin, wearing woolen breeches, high-laced sandals and a headdress made of blue bird feathers. He held an odd weapon, a thick wooden club with jagged mica blades set in its head. Taper had not spent much time on pre-Columbian Indian tribes, his area was more European megalithic cultures, but he placed them tentatively as an Olmec. Not for the first time, he was saddened how Vidimar was wasting the Preincarnation spell on crime. Its value to history, archaeology, anthropology, linguistics would be immeasurable. What a waste. Even as he thought this ruefully, the Skull was attacked by Tuitalxan. The vicious weapon went up and back, then came crashing down, to be blocked aside by the circular shield. Taper hesitated to finish off the man, he was wondering there was a way to interrogate these Preincarnators and get some hard data on their times. But he could see there was no use trying. As the club swung again, the Silver Skull swayed back just enough and lunged to send the sword Chalcemar piercing the man's chest. Tuitalcan shuddered and fell with a limp thump. But there was no wound on his chest or blood on Chalcemar. The Judgement of the Sword had found the man not deserving of death at that moment.
Weaver had struck down two more of the Preincarnators, diving down at them at top speed and punching them with fists moving more than a hundred miles an hour. If not for his padded gauntlets, Black Angel would have broken his fists each time. He lowered his legs and came to a light landing where Tang Ming was standing over a fallen Apache. She tossed his long knife aside and exhaled sharply.
"Nice dancing, Ming," said Weaver. "That guy is a foot and half taller and maybe a hundred and forty pounds heavier and you beat him like he owed you money."'
"Strength is good. Speed is better," she said, just a bit out of breath. "But skill is best."
VII.
The black jetcopter soared through the night, nearly silent in whisper mode and nearly invisible with no running lights. In the pilot seat of CORBY I, Jeremy Bane stared down grimly through the windscreen with its light enhancers that let him pick out every detail of the terrain below. He was wearing the field suit with inner layer of Trom armor and protective Eldar talisman in the collar. The visor was up on his war helmet.
Seated in the co-pilot seat was the muscular bulk of Sulak, Champion of Androval. He was the one Melgar born in each generation with the Legacy of Malberon which charged his body with incredible strength. Sulak had been a warrior and adventurer all his long life. He had a shock of unruly black hair and dark blue eyes. Before boarding, he had changed into his arena uniform of blue cotton tunic and trousers, with white boots and gloves and a white mantle around his shoulders with a single red bar to mark his rank in the Melgar hierarchy. The tight uniform showed impressive solid muscle.
In the rear compartment, Garrison Nebel sat with lowered head, meditating or lost in thought. The eyeless helmet was in his lap. He had not spoken since coming aboard and Sulak regarded him sourly. The Melgar was a blunt, straightforward type and had little admiration for Nebel's enigmatic ways. Turning back to his captain, Sulak said, "What do we know about this Vidimar anyway?"
Bane thought for a second. "Leopold Vidimar was born in Prague in 1931. His wife is dead. He has two sons, Warren and Scott. Neither is active in Midnight War. Vidimar was a respected scholar for most of his career but his colleagues agree he went off the deep end five years ago. His published papers got wilder and more speculative. Eventually he lost his position and made a living writing vampire thrillers. I haven't read them."
From the back compartment, Nebel said, "He found some pages from THE REVELATIONS OF TOLLINOR KJE and managed to translate them. This gave him the idea for the Preincarnation spell. I had been corresponding with him but this was when he dropped from sight."
"Well, you can see what he's been up to," continued Bane. "He found some volunteers to be Reincarnated as an experiment. Then the criminal possibilities occurred to him. I've been trying to get some solid information on the cult for months now. There aren't a lot of members, probably under a hundred. I guess most people don't have ancestors that Vidimar finds useful." He tilted the CORBY down. "There's Lake Placid. The Tappen Inn should be in the area."
Sulak was staring down at the forest. "It's just starting to sink in that Khang used to be Mark Drum. I worked with Mark for years, it's upsetting to think he was remade this way. Why doesn't Khang have Mark's memories and personality? What's the point of the amnesia?"
"Wish I knew," said Bane. "Garrison, any insight?"
"It is beyond Human understanding," Nebel answered. "Khang was created by the will of Jordyn and only Jordyn could say why."
"There's the Inn," said Bane, bringing the CORBY down a mile away. The Tappen Inn was a pleasant old building with stone walls and green shutters on the windows. A back patio looked out on the lake, and there were chairs and tables there for guests. The Dire Wolf landed the jetcopter in a clearing less than a mile away, taxiing under some elms to give cover. Bane popped the hatch and swung down to the forest floor. Sulak and Nebel followed.
As Bane peered through the trees toward the Inn, Nebel quietly said, "One of the Preincarnators is approaching. He is the semblance of Romal the Mongrel."
"WHAT?" exclaimed Bane in disbelief just as a big man leaped through an opening in the woods and knocked him down in passing. The stranger rushed at Sulak and walked into a simple jab that would have cracked a brick wall. The attacker was flung back, rolled and leaped up to his feet.
Now that they could see the man, all three Tel Shai knights were unnerved at facing a figure out of legend. Romal stood well over six feet tall, slim and fit rather than muscular in a weightlifting way. He wore a light blue long-sleeved tunic and black trousers and boots. Clasped at his neck was a short cloak of yellow silk. A sword hung in a scabbard at his sword. Romal had thick black hair bound at the temples with a metal tiara, and sullen eyes in a sullen face. Strangest of all, his ears rose to distinct points.
Bane and Sulak were dumbfounded by this, although Nebel's reaction was hard to read. Romal had been a major player in the Darthan Age. He had been created unnaturally by Tollinor infusing characteristics of the Seven Races into a Human infant. Romal had the strength of a Troll and the speed of a Snake men, gills like a Gelydra, resistance to magick like an Eldar. The tales of Romal were many, mostly tragic and violent. But he had been dead for thirty thousand years...
As soon as he had touched down, Romal was up again and hurtling toward Sulak. He was too shrewd to head into another punch like that, though, and as the big Melgar threw a quick right cross, Romal came up under it and smashed his fist to his opponent's jaw. Punching Sulak was rather like punching a marble statue, and Romal hopped back to rub his cracked knuckles. Enough of this, he seemed to think, and whipped out a straight sword with a three-foot blade of dark grey metal.
Sulak laughed and started forward, but Bane put a restraining hand on his arm. "Hold it, my friend. I remember Romal was supposed to have a sword made by the Trom. The edge was impossibly sharp and could slice through boulders. I think he could cut even your hide."
"We'll see about that," the big Melgar growled as he advanced with clenched fists.
But Garrison Nebel had lowered the eyeless helmet over his head. In the gloom of the forest, the golden helm shimmered strangely. Romal paused and seem to be trying to speak as he saw this, although no words came out from his Preincarnated mouth.
"You remember this helmet," Nebel said. "Fare you well, Romal, wherever your spirit is fated to dwell." A broad shaft of dazzling golden light shone from the eyeless helmet and fell directly on Romal, who shuddered and dwindled and changed. A mousy little man with a bald spot dropped senseless to the ground.
Sulak yelled, "Hey! I was going to fight him. I was enjoying it."
"We have more urgent business," Nebel said calmly. He pointed a gloved hand at the rear of the inn, where lights were going on. "Our greatest challenge awaits within."
The patio at the back of the Tappen Inn was in sight as the three KDF members hurried towards it. The door opened and a tall man in a neat dark blue suit emerged to face them. He had a craggy Scots face with deep lines in his cheeks. His black hair was short and thick, and he had cold grey eyes under heavy brows. As he saw the onrushing Dire Wolf, a faint frown lowered those brows. There was a distinct resemblance between this man and Bane, almost as if they were closely related. Mark Drum raised his hands and a blue halo played around each one. In a second, he would launch a searing gralic bolt at the oncoming strangers.
But Bane did not give him that second. Faster than a real wolf on its prey, he flashed across the intervening space and crashed a left backfist that caught Mark Drum squarely on the jaw. The Blue Guide dropped the gralic force from his hands and threw them high for defense, but an instant too late. The Dire Wolf drove out a right cross instantly that rocked Drum's head the same way, dazing him as his brain took the impact within his skull. Bane's stiff left hand blurred up and back, then came down like a hatchet where neck joins shoulder. The crisp sound of impact was decisive. Mark Drum fell to his side and stretched his full length on the patio stones.
"Quick, Gary! Change him back!" the Dire Wolf ordered. As the blind mystic stepped up and the golden light shone on the prone figure, a rumbling sounded in the air. They could feel the ground tremble under their feet.
"We need to get inside," Bane said. "The last time Khang was brought back, the change fused the ground into glass. Don't look at it, follow me!" Bane rushed through the open door, with Sulak and Nebel behind him. Dazzling white light was glaring in all directions and the air smelled of ozone. Bane slammed the door behind them as a shock wave hit the Inn and the windows crashed inward to send flying glass in a dangerous spray.
Bane led his teammates through a short hall and two swinging doors to what had been the main dining area. The tables and chairs had been taken away after the Preincarnators had taken over this inn, leaving the floor empty. Standing in their way was a stout middle-aged man with round wire-rimmed glasses. Dr Leopold Vidimar blocked their path as if somehow he could stand against warriors like these.
The eyeless helmet blazed, channeling the golden light which shone on Elvedal and playing it over Vidimar. The warlock froze in place, transfixed. Nebel said quietly, "You tricked Khang with misleading promises."
"Yes," came the single word unwillingly.
"You reverted him to Mark Drum, and in the process, gained control over his unstable union of minds."
"Yes."
"Using the Preincarnation spell, you turned a Dartha named Wilinor into the semblance of his distant ancestor, Rimnnor Kje. It was Tollinor who then reverted one of your cult into Romal, a feat beyond your ability," Nebel announced somberly.
"Yes," said Vidimar as the word was dragged from him.
"I see," Nebel finished. Abruptly, his helmet stopped shining as the blind mystic threw a perfect Kumundu backfist that dropped Vidimar senseless to the floor.
"Well struck," Sulak said in surprise. "I did not think to ever see you use your fists."
Nebel turned to his teammates and his even measured tones held new urgency. "The worst is yet before us."
From the dim doorway at the other end of the dining room, a slender figure emerged. This was a man in silk garments of green and white, draped in a cloak that fell to the floor. His body was slim but hard, as a swordblade is. His skin was white as an albino's but his slanted eyes were jade-green. Straight white hair fell to his shoulders. His ears rose to distinct points, his long face held the most wicked leer any of them had ever seen.
"What are we waiting for?" demanded Sulak. "He's just another of those filthy Darthim. We can handle him."
"Sure," said Bane. "Let's nail him quick."
"He is no ordinary Dartha." Nebel's voice was stern. "He is the malice and knowledge of the ancient Rimnor Kje."
Hearing his name pronounced aloud, the Darthan warlock bared his teeth and swept one thin hand in a horizontal arc. Red lightning exploded across the room with a deafening roar, hurling the three Tel Shai knights all the way against the wall behind them with bone-cracking force. Small fires started here and there. As Rimnnor shook with silent laughter, he spotted Vidimar rising behind him. The First Kje of the Darthim reached out and seized the warlock's clothing in his hand, yanking him to his feet. But then Rimnnor seemed to spy something outside that alarmed him. He vanished in a lurid scarlet gate of gralic force, taking Vidimar with him.
Slowly, painfully, the KDF members stirred. Sulak had taken the brunt of that blast, which spared the lives of his teammates. The big Melgar struggled to rise and could only manage to get on one knee. The front of his tunic had been burned away and smoke rose from his chest. Within his double layer of Trom armor, Bane had not been seriously harmed but he also was dazed. Nebel fared the best; his cloak was woven with ensalir-threads which dispersed malevolent force and he got to his feet first.
As Nebel helped Sulak to a chair, Bane stood up. "Whoa. I never saw a Dartha pack a clout like that. He almost fried us."
"I warned you," Nebel said. "That is Rimnor, one of the first Kjes, among the most dreaded of his Race."
"Rimnor Kje..." Bane said. "Preincarnated. We have got to track him down and stop him before he starts a new Darthan Age."
The door to the outside swung open and Khang filled it. The giant silver man stood motionless in the opening for a long moment before stepping into the room.
"Khang, are you all right?" asked Bane.
"You need not fear me, Jeremy," rumbled the deep voice. "I see now I must accept my duty and my burden. I was given this form for some reason, though I do not know yet what it might be."
"That's good to hear. We need you more than ever, big guy," Bane said. "Are you coming back to New York with us?"
"Where you lead, I will follow," said the silver man. "Until the end of our lives."
2/7/2014
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