dochermes | Entries tagged with 1977

"Damned If You Do..."

11/3-11/5/1977

I.

In the New York City area, Harak had been robbing occultists of various Midnight War talismans and rare grimoires. In doing so, he had unnecessarily decapitated two of them. This had attracted the attention of Kenneth Dred, who in turn informed his new protege Jeremy Bane all about Harak the Damned.

In an estate overlooking the Palisades of New Jersey, Janos Harak lived with his two murderous sons (in their 40s), his two devious daughters (in their 30s) and his third wife (a decrepit 70). Yet he himself looked to be no more than 25. Harak was a short brawny man with a shaved head, thick black mustache under a hooked nose and thin white scars over his arms and hands. He wore expensive tailored Brioni suits, had a gourmet chef on the premises and collected both vintage cars and classical statuary.

Harak was in fact 180 years old. The cursed Gremthom hatchet he wielded was a Darthan talisman which siphoned lifeforce from its victims to give him extended longevity and vitality. He had always been a mercenary on the battle fields of Europe and a hired assassin in the New World. Harak and his wife consciously raised their children to be heartless psychopathic killers as well. The two brothers and two sisters constantly plotted against each other, which Harak exploited to his advantage. All the intrigue and double dealing was worthy of a royal court.

Dred had other work at that time for Katherine Wheatley, who was in Massachusetts. Bane was sent alone to bodyguard the next likely victim. That night, he stretched out on the roof of a cottage on the outskirts of Wappingers Falls in upstate New York. The overnight vigil had him excited since at this point he was still eager to prove himself to Dred, who was the first person to really show trust and respect for the young street orphan. In the middle of the night, a strange figure emerged from the shadows below. Wearing a black leather outfit, carrying a round silver shield on his left arm and a straight sword in a scabbard at his hip, the intruder had on a gleaming silver helmet crafted in the shape of a human skull.

Leaping down from the roof the roof, Bane pounced on the man but found for once he was equally matched. He was much faster and more experienced at fighting, but the intruder was not a novice either and had the protection of a shield, helmet and breastplate under the uniform. Minutes flew by and both men began to tire from the all-out exertion. They stepped back and, watching each warily, both dropped to the ground to catch their breath.

Almost simultaneously, Bane and the stranger threw insults at each other and swore they would protect the man in the cottage. This made them stop and re-evaluate the situation. When Bane mentioned he was working for Kenneth Dred, the stranger laughed. In a flare of blue gralic force, the black uniform and weapons vanished to leave him in simple slacks and a white dress shirt. He gave his name as Larry Taper, the latest to wear the Silver Skull.

At this point, Bane still knew little of the Midnight War. Taper gave him a brief explanation of the Silver Skull role in the Darthan Age, of its ensorcelled armor and shield, of the sword Chalcemar with its chips of Ensalir in the blade and of the helmet which stored memories of the hundreds of men who wore it over the millennia.

Taper's habit of using unnecessarily long and obscure words annoyed Bane, who asked him to knock it off and speak English. The sound of a car approaching made both men rush into the shadows at the far side of the cottage. Its headlights dimmed by tissue paper taper over them, the long gleaming Mercedes glided up to the house, parking exactly where Bane and Taper had been fighting a few minutes earlier. A tall man and a buxom woman, each wearing simple dark clothing, emerged with a canvas bag and silently crept around to the side of the house.

With a flash of blue light, the uniform of the Silver Skull reappeared on Taper. That flare alerted the Haraks and the son snapped off a single shot from a small Beretta. The bullet grazed Bane's ribs but it wasn't enough to slow him down as he crossed twenty feet in a blur and blasted out a savage left cross which dropped the man straight down in a heap. Bane wheeled sharply and was surprised to see Taper thrust his sword entirely through the woman's body.

The Silver Skull pulled his weapon free as the Harak daughter sagged to the ground.

"You shouldn't have killed her yet," Bane snarled. "We need them to answer questions."

"You observe my blade was unsullied by her crimson fluid?" replied Taper. "It's the Judgement of Chalcemar. My trusty weapon was ensorcelled by the Eldanarin themselves so it passes through antagonists without doing any permanent trauma. I assure you, this malefactor is merely enjoying a refreshing siesta."

"You're full of surprises, all right," the Dire Wolf snapped. "I can see I'm going to have to carry a dictionary when dealing with you." He examined the Harak son and decided the man would be likely be all right.

After some argument, Bane and Taper agreed to take the Haraks to Kenneth Dred to see what he wants to do next. They tied and gagged the prisoners, placed them in the back seat of the Mercedes and drove off, then quickly stopped to remove the tissue paper from the headlights. When they got to where Bane had left Dred's old Pontiac, they transferred the prisoners and abandoned the Mercedes.

Taper's own MG hidden not far away was a two-seater, so it would obviously not be practical to put the prisoners in his car. He agreed to meet Bane at the building on East 38th Street; Taper had been there twice before, before Dred had hired Bane.

Not long before dawn, the two Haraks recovered to find themselves in a guest room at Dred's building, securely tied to sturdy chairs. There was some negotiation back and forth before they were allowed to call their father. Harak was eager to fight a Silver Skull hand to hand. He wanted to claim the sword Chalcemar and the helmet with its store of memories. An agreement was reached. Everyone would meet at midnight on the empty grounds next to Harak's estate, where a duel between Harak and Taper would decide what would happen next.

( the rest of the story )

"The Mountain of Iron"

7/4-7/5/1977

I.

Shiro Mitsuru was, if anything, even more ready for trouble than usual. Xiao-sing's narrow waterfront streets were still and shadowy in that hour before dawn when he left the docks. The widely spaced street lamps gave insufficient light. There was a clatter of feet on the cobblestones down an alley to his right. Then came the sounds of a heavy fall, scuffling, a choked-off scream for help.

Clearly, no one with any prudence would have not hurried away. But Shiro quickened his pace and raced around the corner to nearly fall over a writhing, struggling mass on the cobblestones. The dim light of a street lamp showed what was going on. Two men fought there in grim silence. One was a slim young Chinese in European clothes, pinned down on his back in the wet muck. Kneeling on his chest was an assailant in tradional knee-length robe over loose trousers. He was much bigger than his victim, with a grinning face like a demonic mask. One talon-like hand clutched the throat of the smaller man and a wavy-bladed knife flashed in his other hand.

Shiro had seen his type hundreds of times before. Since birth, he had been the target for assassins of the White Web. This was one of the bloody hatchet-men the Tongs and secret societies use for their deadly work. Without hesitation, the Tiger Fury plunged closer and knocked the man senseless with a front snap kick under the chin. The hatchet-man remained stretched out without a twitch and the young Chinese sprang up, gasping and wild eyed.

"Thank you, my friend," he gurgled in English. "I owe his life to you. Here, take this..." And he tried to stuff a wad of green banknotes into Shiro's hand.

"You owe me nothing," Shiro scoffed, stepping back. "I'm glad to fight scum like that."

"Then at least please accept my humble and sincere thanks," the victim persisted, seizing his hand to shake it. "I know you, do I not? You're the new Tiger Fury?"

"Not yet," Shiro answered. "I've just begun studying Kumundu. If Teacher Chael does give me that title, it's at least a year away." Despite his pretense of humility, Shiro had complete confidence he would succeed and he had already begun to think of himself as a Tiger Fury.

"I will not forget," he said. "I will repay you some day. My name is Fong Yung-Tao, of the prosperous family Fong. Be wary, the society will not forget you either. But now I must not linger. This is my one chance of escape. If I can get aboard the British ship that is anchored in the bay,I will be safe. But I must go before this animal revives. Better that you go too. May good fortune reward you. But now beware of STIGMA."

The next instant he was racing down the street at full speed. Watching in amazement, Shiro saw him sprint onto the docks and dive off, without the slightest pause. Surprised, the Tiger Fury heard the splash as the man hit the water and a little later he saw, in the brightening pale dawn, a widening ripple aiming toward the British S.S. RESOLUTE, which lay out in the bay. Shiro was wondering what it all meant, when the hatchet-man moaned scrambled uncertainly to his feet.

"Ashamed of yourself, aren't you?" demanded the Tiger Fury. "Any good assassin would have finished a mere office worker off before I showed up."

The only answer was a glare of such venomous hatred that even Shiro felt alarmed. The killer limped painfully away into the shadows. Watching him hobble out of sight, Shiro was tempted to grab the man and administer a thorough beating to make him harmless for a few weeks. But really, the whole business was not his concern. Shiro dismissed the affair from his mind and continued down the street.

He was so innured to danger that he took it for granted.

His father and mother had stolen a fortune from the treasury of the White Web, an act of either incredible daring or utter foolishness. That centuries-old network of assassins had immediately launched a hunt for the couple that lasted fourteen years. Their newborn son grew up hiding in motel rooms, rented apartments and in cars on the road, never knowing a real home. As soon as he could walk, the parents had spent their wealth on having Shiro train under every available martial arts master in every style possible. He never knew if this had been their goal for him all along or if they just thought it was the only way he could survive the unending attacks from everything from ninja to brumal to Dacoits to snipers.

Just before his fifteenth birthday, Shiro returned to a secluded cottage in the New Territories of Hong Kong to find the White Web had caught up with his parents at last. He had only been able to mourn them briefly because he still had to stay on the move. Then he had met an elderly sifu who had sponsored him to apply at the Order of Tel Shai. Shiro had been accepted as a student by the legendary Teacher Chael and broke all odds by successfully qualifying as the new Tiger Fury.

For the moment, he decided he would get a little sleep in preparation for the day. He had come to like the turmoil of this disputed island, and felt determined to explore it. He entered into a seedy boarding house kept by a Portuguese man named Pasqual, went into his rented room and flung himself down on the ancient single bed for a few hours slumber.

He was awakened by the faintest whisper of sound. Instantly ready for an attack, he glared at the locked door and saw something protruding under it. A piece of stiff paper the size of a playing card. Shiro used a washcloth to pick it up, not touching it with his bare skin. No message was written on it, either English or Chinese, just an inked drawing of a bright yellow human skull with an X through it. That was all.

Irritated at not getting a full sleep, Shiro rose, still dressed, and shouted for Pasqual. When the manager hurried up, the Tiger Fury said, "Look, Pasqual. Someone stuck this under the door. Do you know what the meaning of it is?"

He took a single look. Then he leaped back with a gasped, "It means Death. it's the murder notice of STIGMA."

"What do you mean?" Shiro demanded. "Who is this STiGMA?"

"A new secret society," gasped Pasqual, shaking visibly. "International criminals, murderers. They are tied to Winter Snow and the Black Mantis. Once I saw a men receive the sign of the yellow skull. He was dead before the sun rose again. Get aboard any ship you can, Mr Mitsuru. Hide aboard it, stay out of sight until she sails. Maybe you can escape."

"Slink away and hide myself like a kicked dog?" Shiro growled. "You still don't know me at all. I'm feared myself wherever fighting arts are practiced. I've never run from any man yet. Tell me where I can find STIGMA and I'll smash it flat."

But Pasqual was obviously gripped by intense fear. "I'll tell you no such thing," he gasped. "I'm risking my life talking to you at all. Get out, quick. You mustn't stay here. I can't have another murder in this house. Go, please, sir."

"All right," the Tiger Fury snapped. "Don't give yourself a heart attack, Pasqual. I'm going."

Shiro traveled light, with only a canvas knapsack holding some clothes and toilet items. Sewn into his loose trousers were various bank cards and bundles of money. He normally carried no weapons at all. Annoyed at the situation, Shiro stalked stiffly out into crowded streets to get some food. While he ate roasted meat on skewers from a street vendor, the Tiger Fury reviewed the situation and realized that he had somehow blundered into the sights of still another mysterious gang of shadowy cut-throats. As if being marked for death by both the White Web and Winter Snow wasn't bad enough!

Grabbing two oranges and an unbroken bottle of water, Shiro strolled out into the streets again, with their filth and glamor, sordidness and allure going hand in hand; throngs of people buying and selling, bargaining in a half-dozen languages, sailors and merchants and outcasts of all nations rolling through the crowds...

He began to have a familiar sensation that he was being followed. Again and again Shiro wheeled quickly and scanned the crowd, but in that boiling swarm, it was impossible to tell whether anyone was trailing him or not. Yet the sensation persisted. A life spent on the run had taught Shiro to trust his instincts. Where any normal civilian would have been frightened or at least uneasy, he was used to the sensation of being followed. Let killers do their worst, he thought. They would meet more than their match.

( the rest of the story )

"Game Recognizes Game"

11/13/1977

I.

"Ah, the English rose in early bloom," whined a nasal voice from right behind her.
Utterly surprised, Katherine Wheatley gave a start and whirled around. Was her telepathy failing her? How had this unimposing old man gotten up close enough to touch her without her detecting his mind? And why even now was she not picking up any thoughts at all from him? It was as alarming to her as suddenly going deaf would have been.

The man's apparent age and waistline were both about sixty, but at least he was reasonably well dressed in a lightweight white summer suit with a polka-dot bow tie that had been loosely knotted. He lifted an old-fashioned straw hat off thinning whitish blond hair and leered at her in a remarkably unsavory manner. Dominating his face was a bulbous nose as round and red as a tomato. "Forgive me if I startled you, my little crocus, but I seldom spy such a fair flower from the fair islands."

Even more perplexed, Katherine could not stop from asking, "How do you know I'm English? I didn't say anything."

"It is written on your piquant little face, sweetheart. Those cornflower blue eyes like gems catching the light, long straight hair as ebon as the raven wings of night, lips that curl up at the corners as if waiting for a chance to smile..."

"Oh, fuss and bother," she interrupted. Katherine was reassured that she was still picking up stray thoughts from the all the people going up and down the sidewalk outside Bryant Park, right behind the Public Library. Nothing was wrong with her gift, her telepathy was still functional but she could not pick up anything from this strange old man at all. This had never happened to her before. She was wearing a pleated skirt with her light maroon windbreaker and it wasn't reassuring how he was studying her slender legs with an interest not entirely avuncular. "Can I help you somehow or are you only remembering what it was like to flirt with teenage girls?"

"Zooks, you wound me to my very pith," he responded, twirling his hat and tossing it up behind him to catch it with his other hand. "I do believe I am the gentleman you are waiting here to meet. My name is Josiah Vandersanden. Mr Kenneth Dred has expressed interest in purchasing a rare item in my possession." Saying that, he held up a thin cylinder two feet long that had been neatly wrapped in brown paper.

Katherine raised one eyebrow, still worried about not being able to get a glimpse into this man's mind. Since early adolescence when her gift had first manifested, she had never had her telepathy fail her before. "Ah. Sorry to be so curt. My partner should be arriving directly, Mr Vandersanden, I was supposed to meet you here in case Jeremy was delayed..."

The old reprobate's response was cut short as they both spotted a thin young man in black striding across 42nd Street as if all the moving cars had paused for him. Jeremy Bane walked faster than most people could run. When he picked up speed as now, his movements seemed slightly unreal in their quickness. He was up on the sidewalk next to them before his arrival could quite register.

Barely twenty-one but already well-known in the Midnight War, the young Dire Wolf was wearing his trademark outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket which made him seem even more gaunt than he was. A narrow feral face and pale grey eyes under heavy black brows gave him a striking appearance. "Katherine. I got here as soon as I could. You must be the Vandersanden that we were supposed to meet?"

"Hullo, Jeremy. Yes. This is Jeremy Bane, he also works for Mr Dred and he is the one authorized to make the payment."

Vandersanden's extended palm was met with an unfriendly glare. "Let's see this blasting wand first, okay?"

"Of course, of course," the old man immediately replied. "Yet perhaps this trinket is best not glimpsed by the unwashed hordes of New Yorkers. Shall we find a table to seat ourselves?"

Along that wall of the park, two rows of booths faced each other across a paved promenade. Everything from tourist-oriented T-shirts and posters, scented candles and jewelry were available but the booths mostly hawked a wide variety of food. On this chilly dank November day, the area was not as packed as it normally was. The three of them found an unclaimed wrought iron table and dropped down into chairs designed to be uncomfortable so that people would not loiter but make way for more paying customers.

Bane was visibly reluctant to sit down. Katherine was used to the way he always tried to have a solid wall at his back, but in this case the best he could manage was to have to have the side of a booth behind him. She seated herself facing him so that she could keep an eye on anyone approaching from that direction and gave him a reassuring nod.

Watching Vandersanden place his bundle on the table, the Dire Wolf said nothing until the wrapping paper had been torn away. Revealed was a cylinder of dark coppery metal, shorter and thinner than a human forearm, with esoteric symbols etched into the surface. Capping one end was a faceted green gem.

"Crafted by those abominable Darthim on the island of Maroch itself," drawled Vandersanden. "In the hands of one who can wrest control of its magick, this wand can blow a hole through a brick wall you can poke your arm through. To be quite honest, it's rather like walking around with an unexploded bomb to carry this vile device."

Running his fingers along the rod, Bane made a satisfied sound. "Warm to the touch. What would you say the temperature is today, Katherine?"

"Forty at best, Fahrenheit that is," she said. "I do wish I had chosen a heavier jacket."

"And this talisman feels to be at body temperature. That's a sign it's genuine. All right. Mr Dred has authorized me to pay you this. Fifteen thousand dollars."

Accepting the thick business envelope, Vandersander riffled through the bills critically. "Crisp and fresh as autumn leaves underfoot. Well, young fellow, I believe we are both better off after this exchange."

"I can write a receipt if you want," Bane said, already tightening the wrapping paper up around the metal cylinder again.

"Sir! A gentleman's word is ironclad enough. A firm clasp of honest hands should suffice." Hauling himself up to his feet, Vandersanden extended his right hand, which Bane obligingly shook. Then, tipping his hat at Katherine, he waddled briskly away in the sparse crowd.

"There's a booth on the corner," Bane said. "We'll phone Mr Dred and report. But as long as we're here, we might as well grab some food."

Katherine gave a pleasant chuckle at his enthusiasm. "I swear, you have the metabolism of a hummingbird, Jeremy. If I ate as much each day as you, I believe I would weigh three hundred pounds, but certainly, I am a bit peckish. Bring me a smaller serving of whatever you are having."

"There's cheeseburgers on a grill right opposite us," Bane said as he rose. "Three for me, one for you. Keep an eye on this wand, though."

"Of course." Left for a second by herself, Katherine leaned forward curiously to stare at the end of the Darthan talisman protruding from the rewrapped package. That was curious. She picked it up, holding it closer and suddenly twisted the end counter-clockwise.

Holding a cardboard tray with their burgers, Jeremy Bane froze in mid-step. "What the hell?"

"Oh my goodness, it's a fake. Look at this. This is why it's warm!" The telepath held out her open hand and caught two D-sized batteries falling from inside the tube. "It's got wires inside that heat up."

Visibly shaken for the first time since she had met him half a year earlier, the Dire Wolf fell onto his chair. "He suckered me. And I fell for it."

Their dazed state only lasted for a second longer, because a heavyset man wearing a full-length winter coat approached them. He was holding a canvas bag the same general size at the phony talisman. "Jeremy Bane, I take it?" he asked cheerfully. "Vandersanden here, Josiah Vandersanden. I'm here to do business."

( the rest of the story )

"Llandeilo"

11/8-11/9/1977

I.

It was past two in the morning when Bane returned to Kenneth Dred's house on East 38th Street, coming back from an errand for the old man that involved delivering a mysterious package to the Pennsylvania border. Bane didn't mind. His early doubts about working for Dred as a live-in aide had quickly given way to excited loyalty toward the occultist. Learning about the Midnight War still astounded him. He had never dreamed such things really went on the world and he found in it the challenge he had always been unconsciously seeking.

At twenty-one, Jeremy Bane was so serious and self-controlled that he gave the impression of being older. Just over six feet tall and gaunt, he had already adopted the outfit which would be his trademark... black boots, slacks, long-sleeved turtleneck and sport jacket. In the January chill, he had given in to wearing a long cloth coat which he now hung on the heavy oak rack just inside the front door. The young Dire Wolf made sure the front door was locked as the door to the street already was, then turned off the outside light. He spotted a note lying on the round end table before him and saw it read, JEREMY - COLD CHICKEN AND POTATO SALAD IN REFRIGERATOR. SEE YOU AT EIGHT.

Bane allowed himself the faintest of smiles on his normally deadpan face. For once, the grey eyes softened. Kenneth Dred was the first person to ever really care if he ate or had a warm bed to sleep in or was even safe from immediate harm. An orphan with no memory of his early years, Bane was not used to knowing that someone was concerned about his welfare. He just barely recognized that the emotion he was trying not to feel was gratitude. Walking through the front hall, past the staircase leading up, he went through the kitchen door and flicked the light on. For the next ten minutes, Bane sat at the table in the corner and devoured half a leftover chicken and a huge bowl of potato salad, gulping down one glass of ice water after another.

His enhanced speed asked several prices of him, including chronic restlessness and a metabolism that burned calories mercilessly. Despite his lean build, he ate enough daily for two burly men. Bane threw the scraps in the garbage and put the dishes in the sink for later. It was close to three, he saw by the clock. Probably he should try to get a few hours sleep in his room on the third floor.

He heard something in the front hall. It could not be Kenneth Dred, who rarely left his suite of rooms after retiring for the night. The Dire Wolf shifted instantly into a full alert state, pulse speeding up and his senses sharpening. The matched silver daggers were already sheathed on his forarms as always, and the Colt 45 automatic was holstered behind his left hip. Opening the door just the barest crack, Bane peered warily out into the front hall.

>Standing just aside the front door was a tall man in a dark blue cloak with a high collar that rose up to the top of his head. As Bane watched, the intruder staggered and almost fell but caught himself against a bookcase. After a few deep shuddering breaths, the man straightened up and threw his cloak back over his shoulders. He rose to his full height but his head was still lowered as if in pain or weariness. The man was wearing a dark blue tunic and black leggings, both decorated with fine silver patterns, and his clothing was badly torn as if he had been mauled. As he lifted his head, Bane could see blood caked on one side of the man's saturnine face.

The man raised his gloved hands and touched his bruised face gingerly, then took a step toward the staircase. That was the limit. Bane came out of the kitchen, 45 in hand and arm fully extended. "Hold it right there, buddy," he began. "You and me need to talk before you go anywhere-"

To the Dire Wolf's complete surprise, the man said, "Eryasha, aid me!" and merely made a dismissive gesture with one hand and something unseen yanked the gun away so hard his wrist nearly broke. Bane grunted at the unexpected pain. The heavy 45 spun through the air to be caught deftly by the cloaked man. This close, it could be seen that he had dark hair streaked with grey, and dark deepset eyes under heavy brows. A neat mustache under a beaklike nose and a firm trap of a mouth completed a face that was glaring angrily at Bane.

"A firearm?" he demanded in a cultured voice. "I don't know you, young fellow, and it's clear that you do not know Dr Mage!"

Bane abruptly blurred forward, faster than any normal Human, fist drawing back for the attack. Again, the man who called himself Dr Mage raised a gloved hand and Bane bounced back as if he had run headlong at an invisible wall. He skidded on his back across the polished hardwood floor. Rolling, leaping up again, he found himself unable to move forward. It felt as if he was trying to walk against hurricane-force winds but there was no wind. He braced himself and stubbornly took a step forward despite the resistance.

"Impressive," said the cloaked man. "I am not sure we should be clashing this way, young man. I am Dr Matthias Mage, an old friend of Kenneth Dred from many years ago. I have come here wounded and desperate, seeking sanctuary. Rest assured, I mean Kenneth no harm."

"All right," Bane grunted. "Let me go. Drop whatever trick you're using to hold me back. I'll listen to you."

"The Breath of Eryasha is no mere trick," Mage said but he lowered his hand and released Bane. "Please. Let me use the bathroom there to clean my wounds and see how badly I am injured. I lost a mortal combat early this night."

"Sure, go ahead," the Dire Wolf told him with a total lack of grace. "Maybe you can explain while you clean up."

In the bathroom adjoining the kitchen, Dr Mage unclasped his heavy cloak and hung it carelessly from a hook on the door. His tunic was shredded across the back and scorch marks showed in the material. The man wrestled out of that garment with some difficulty. His heavily muscled torso was badly bruised and scraped, and a gasp escaped him as he moved.

Standing in the doorway, Bane said, "Hey, you ARE banged up pretty bad." Starting to trust this stranger for some reason, he fetched a first aid kit from a cabinet and handed it to him. "Looks like you're still bleeding from the scalp there. Who were you fighting anyway?"

Starting to clean his face of the dried blood, Dr Mage examined his reflection in the mirror ruefully. "I was fighting the deadliest enemy the Human race has, youngster. The disciple of Draldros Himself, my despised rival Llandeilo. I failed. For all of us, it is later than you think."

( the rest of the story )

"Moth, Bat, Owl"

12/3/1977

I.

The freezing wind stung Bane's face but he had been walking briskly for fifteen blocks and his muscles were fully warmed up. As always, he was dressed all in black - turtleneck and sports jacket and slacks, but he had made a concession to winter and put on a long cloth coat and thin leather gloves. No hat, though. His fine black hair was stirred by the wind. At the corner of 23rd Street, he swung left and raced across the avenue to the building he had been looking for. Yes, 89 W 23rd, a white brick building five stories high. There was a mail drop on the door, with the tag FARROW RESTORATIONS- "By Appointment Only." Bane's pale grey eyes always looked sullen and unfriendly but now they narrowed even more with open suspicion. This was definitely the address Kenneth Dred had given him.

The young man who called himself Dire Wolf stepped up to that door and raised a finger to the bell. In the second before he could press the button, there was a loud crash inside and a scream. Bane had no intervals between thought and action. As soon as he heard those noises, he hopped back a step and threw a straight side kick that slammed the door inward with its lock broken loose and he rushed in. There was a tiny foyer, with a bench and coat rack and magazine table, with a door open to the show room beyond. Bane hurtled through into a huge open room lined with glass-fronted display cases, statues on pedestals and bizarre artifacts on the walls. In that instant, he had taken in the situation.

An elderly man was on the floor, being kicked in the ribs by a big guy in a suit. Another man and a woman were standing close at hand. All three of them were wearing full masks of dark cloth that covered the entire head except for eye holes. This was all he needed to see. Taking two quick steps forward, the Dire Wolf leaped in a flying tackle that slammed him right into the assailant. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, crashing into the second man and bringing him down as well. Bane rolled free and was back up on his feet instantly, fingers digging into the man's coat and hauling him up as well. In the same motion, the young Wolf snapped a hooking punch to the side of the man's head. This early in his career, Bane had no martial arts instruction at all, but he had been a street fighter since he could walk. His inborn enhanced speed would have made him dangerous in any case. That punch made a noise like a whip cracking and the hooded man's head swung around so he was looking over his own shoulder. As the thug staggered and fell, Bane swung to face the other two.

"Surprised?" he snarled. He saw now each of these attackers had a stylized emblem on the brow of the mask, stylized outlines of a bat, an owl and a moth. The woman had the Moth symbol. He had just slugged Bat and he saw the second man, Owl, was raising a handgun and extending it. Fast as he was, Bane barely dodged enough as the revolver fired and a bullet zinged past to smack into the wall behind him. The Owl took aim, and in that split-second, the Dire Wolf whipped out his own weapon. Silver glittered in the subdued lighting and a slim throwing dagger sliced across the man's forearm, leaving a deep trough. Owl yelped at the unexpected pain and dropped his pistol and grabbed at his wound. Bane had his other dagger in hand, drawing back his arm for the throw when the woman Moth took a shot at him. It was just luck he wasn't killed. The bullet passed so close to his head it sounded like a bee. The Dire Wolf dropped to the floor and rolled behind a heavy wooden stand which supported a stone head three times life size.

"We've got what we came for!" shouted Moth. "Owl's hurt, let's get out of here."

Bane started to peer out from behind the wooden stand but the woman fired again. That shot tore a corner off the stand and sent a big chip flying past his cheek. The door slammed. Silver dagger in hand, the Dire Wolf leaped up furiously but the three hooded people were gone. He rushed to the door and was just in time to see a dark blue Mercury Marquis roar away. Bane was shaking with anger. Deliberately starting to take deeper, slower breaths, he closed the door and went back into the shop. He wasn't proud of his handling of that situation. He felt he should have been able to handle any three normal humans, guns or not. Getting ahold of himself, calming down a little, he went over to the man who had been attacked.

Sitting up now, leaning back against a display case, the balding man groaned and rubbed his side. Going past him, Bane retrieved the dagger he had thrown, wiped its silver blade on a handkerchief and returned both weapons to their sheaths under his sleeves, hilts facing out near his wrists. He turned back to the moaning man. "Hey! You Wilson Farrow?"

The old man took a breath and managed to say, "Yes- yes. You stopped them from beating me, young man, and I'm grateful. I just need a minute..."

Bane helped Farrow up by pulling on the man's arm. "Here you go. Listen, you phoned Kenneth Dred an hour ago. You said you thought people had been following you, right? Mr Dred sent me here to check it out."

"Do I know you?"

"Nah. My name is Jeremy Bane, I've been working for Mr Dred for a couple of months now as his investigator. Sure looks like I got here just in time. Who were those three nuts in the masks?"

Farrow got over to a chair by the door and lowered himself down gingerly. "My God, my ribs hurt. No, I don't know who those people are. This was the first good look I got at them and as you saw, their faces are hidden."

"The masks had drawings on them," Bane said. "An owl, bat and moth. Really cute stuff."

"The symbols don't mean anything special to me. I need to see a doctor. I think that brute cracked a rib."

"An X-ray's a good idea," Bane said with a noticeable lack of empathy. "All right then. So you don't have a clue who these freaks are or what they want from you? Do you know what they took? The Moth lady said they got what they came for."

Farrowed glanced around the shop. "Oh. Oh, yes, that case. They took a Darthan wand, incredibly old and quite valuable to those who know about these matters."

"Fine," replied Bane with obviously no comprehension. "What does it look like?"

"Um, about a foot long. Maybe as thick as your thumb. Round knobs at both ends. It's carved with arcane designs along its length. It seems that's all they took."

Bane rubbed his chin and went over to stare down at the open case. "I guess. Well, it looks like you might want to go the emergency room. You gonna call the cops?"

"Oh, my no. I'd be here all day answering questions. I will call a taxi and get my ribs looked at."

The Dire Wolf headed for the door. "Fine. Listen, I'm going to report back to Mr Dred and see what he thinks. If I meet these fools in the masks again, I'll get your Darthan wand whatever back after slapping them around a little."

Farrow smiled. "You're an interesting young fellow. Not five minutes ago, two people shot at you at close range. You don't seem shaken up at all."

This seemed to surprise Bane. He glanced back as he went out the door. "I'm used to it, that's all."

( the rest of the story )

"Dee Nile and Her Voice of Doom"

9/24-9/26/1977

I.

Just as it was getting dark, Jeremy Bane found a parking spot on a residential street in uptown Silent Creek. It had been a cool, drizzly day with a good breeze, exactly his kind of weather. The young Dire Wolf got out of the rented Buick Regal and locked the door carefully. The past twelve hours had contained a lot of new experiences for the twenty-year-old. Arriving here from New York on a commercial flight, renting a car at the airport, driving into an unfamiliar city with just a few maps to guide him. Bane was born and bred in Manhattan and knew every block of that city, but here he was a bit ill at ease.

The Dire Wolf was wearing his usual outfit of all black- slacks, long-sleeved turtleneck and sport jacket. He was just over six feet tall, lean and muscular with the body of a runner. Even at a time when long blow-dried hair was the style, his black hair was short. Beneath heavy brows, cold grey eyes glared out, angry at the world. Bane surveyed the area as if he expected to be ambushed at any second. A life like his had left him permanently suspicious.

( the rest of the story )

"Bones Under Straw"

10/28/1977

I.

A cold wind swept the dry leaves in a swirl as Jeremy Bane stepped away from the big Buick. Only a few days away from Halloween, the scenery was perfect. Bare tree branches moving as the wind touched them, gloom as the sun grudgingly set and a chill in the crisp dry air. He seemed to be in his natural element. The all-black outfit of slacks, turtleck and sport jacket had a long topcoat added, and this whipped around his legs.

As he stared down at the farmhouse below him where the dirt road ended, the young Dire Wolf seemed more grim than ever. He was only twenty, but he acted so serious and so self-possessed that people reacted to him as if he was older. Under heavy black brows, a pair of unusually pale grey eyes watched the world suspiciously. Bane was slim to the point of being gaunt, moving with a restless impatience that came from an excess of nervous energy. He could not hold still for long.

The small redwood farmhouse faced a barn, with a third structure behind that, a shed that seemed to hold tools. Two windows showed warm yellow light in the farmhouse and a light also burned on the porch. Next to the side of the building was an old dark blue Dodge Ram. Its hood was up, in front of it stood a red gasoline container and a few tools. From where he stood, Bane surveyed the farm. Acres of corn, harvested now, stretched out beyond the buildings with paths providing access. On a small rise stood a scarecrow. The Dire Wolf was a city boy and had never seen one before. He knew the forlorn figure propped up on a wooden cross was just old clothes stuffed with straw, with a burlap sack for a head and a battered felt hat. The strange construct was supposed to frighten crows away, but actually four of the black birds were perched on the scarecrow and seemed to be picking at it. Bane shrugged and dropped it from his thoughts.

With the layout of the farm fixed in his mind, he got back in Kenneth Dred's Buick and started it up again, rolling down the dry dirt road to come to a stop directly in front of the farmhouse. He had only been working for the old occultist three months, but so much had happened in that short time that his world had changed. He knew now of the Midnight War, and he would never be the same again.

As he closed the driver's door, he saw a curtain pull back in a window and a brief glimpse of a pale face peering out. Bane stepped up to the porch which ran the width of the farmhouse. A hanger on chains was empty, its potted plants having brought in and there was a long bench sat up so people could place their feet on the porch railing. As the young Dire Wolf put his boot on the porch, the front door swung outward and a bulky form filled it to block the light from within.

"What do YOU want?" demanded the man. He was wearing work boots, jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, all well-worn and not clean. Well over six feet tall and sturdy, the man had a round sullen face with dark blue eyes and untidy blond hair. He was glaring at Bane as if within an inch of attacking him.

The Dire Wolf did not seem to feel threatened at all. "I'm here to see August Windom," he answered calmly, stepping within reach of the big man.

"Well, he ain't here. Get lost!" The man started to yank the door closed but Bane had reached up and gripped the edge of it with one hand. Automatically, the man pulled hard to slam it shut, but the door did not move. He tried harder and his face dropped almost comically as he found this skinny young fool was effortlessly resisting his best efforts. The man let go and stared in disbelief.

"Wait a second, Alex," came a woman's voice from behind him. She put a hand on his shoulder and gently moved him aside enough to stick her head into sight. Long dark reddish hair swung as she peered out at Bane.

"My uncle really is not here, mister," she said sharply. "Not telling when he'll be back. He comes and goes as he damn well pleases, you'd best leave now."

"I need some answers first," Bane replied. "Mr Dred sent me to make sure Windom is okay. When did you last see him?"

"I don't reckon we need to answer any of your questions," Alex grumbled. "Are you a cop?"

"No."

"Then get off our property!" The big man slammed out a beefy paw to shove Bane away, but faster than he could follow, the strange young man in black had yanked that arm straight out and pulled him into an elbow that smashed directly between his eyes. Alex made a gurgling noise and fell to his knees, not unconscious but too dazed to stand. Bane pushed him over backwards so the big man fell face up inside the living room and stepped in past him.

"Oh my God, Alex!" shrieked the redhead, bending over the stunned hulk. "What did you do to him?"

"He'll be fine. I hardly used any impact." Bane started glancing around the snug warm living room, with its color TV and overstuffed armchairs. Newspapers were scattered over a coffee table, held down by a 12-ounce can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. "This isn't your house, Mr Dred told me Windom owns it."

Finding that Alex was regaining awareness and would be okay, the redheaded woman gave Bane a venomous stare. "Uncle August lets us stay here and we do the farm work," she said. "Not that it's any of your business."

"And you would be his niece, then. Kate Windom?" Bane went on as if her anger didn't register.

"Yeah, so what. Alex and I have had this arrangement with my uncle for a year now." She helped the big man up, and he swayed a little but stayed on his feet. "Who the hell do you think you are anyway?"

"I drove four hours up here to see Windom. He was suppose to meet my employer, Kenneth Dred, about a book they're writing together. Windom never showed, he can't be reached on the phone. The last time Mr Dred heard from him was three months ago." Bane was not putting any menace in his voice, yet somehow there was something threatening in its quiet confidence. "I intend to find him."

"And I'm telling you he ain't here!" shouted the big man. "By God, if you--"

The Dire Wolf ignored him and spoke to the woman. "You may not realize everything about your uncle," he said. "August Windom had been a leader of Red Sect. He dabbled in gralic sorcery. Mr Dred told me Windom had met with Darthim and even tried to summon the Sulla Chun." Seeing incomprehension on their faces, he added, "Your uncle is a warlock. A male witch. He has powerful enemies but I can say that anyone who attacked him would be in a rude awakening."

"A... warlock?" Kate repeated. "You know, Uncle August does have all those musty old books. He's had some mighty strange friends visit, that one freak with a face like a skull barely covered in skin."

"A Nekrosan. Look, I have to ask you again. Where is August Windom?"

Rubbing his face gingerly, the hulking Alex had gone to close the front door. He froze. "Hey, mister. What are you trying to pull?"

"Now what?" snapped Bane.

"Why did you move the scarecrow? What did you do with it?"

( the rest of the story )

"Two Silver Daggers"

5/19/1977

I.

Jeremy Bane awoke with a gasp and sat up in an unfamiliar bed. He felt so weak but at least he was more clear-headed. Whatever had been making him deathly sick was over. His memories were vague at firstw. What had been the problem? His arm. Yes, the bites on his arm, he remembered now. Infected. Swollen, red, burning hot to the touch. The young Dire Wolf raised his left arm and saw a poultice of arrowhead-shaped purple leaves taped to where his wound had been. He brought his arm closer and sniffed a pleasant minty aroma that made his head swim. What the hell?

Nearly twenty, Bane was a gaunt young man with short black hair and pale grey eyes set under heavy feral brows. He glanced down at his wiry muscular torso with its white scars from earlier fights and saw that his shirt was gone. He pulled the blanket out and found he was wearing only the pair of white underwear. His clothes had been taken.

Now he was really alarmed. Where was his knife? Or the thin steel chain he wore instead of a belt because it could be whipped off and used as a weapon? Or most importantly, where was his grouch bag, the small chamois bag that hung on a cord around his neck, crammed with every cent he had in the world? Bane started to swing his legs around preparatory to leaping out of bed, but he felt the world whirling. He couldn't do it. He sank back against the double pillows, unconsciously pulling the heavy comforter back up to his chin. Maybe in a minute he would try again.

Where was he anyway? A room maybe fifteen feet to each side, with real wood walls and a polished wood floor decorated with an oval-shaped rug. A heavily curtained window let in enough light to show it was afternoon. Opposite the bed was a massive oak dresser, a long mirror in a gilt frame running across its top. Over in the corner nearest him was an old-fashioned writing desk with its simple chair, and a telephone sat there temptingly available. The narrow door next to that desk was ajar, enough to give a glimpse of a sink with white enamel taps... a bathroom then.

As his head stopped spinning, the Dire Wolf still did not relax but he felt slightly less panic. This was not how Yorick's gang would treat him. If they did not let him die of the infection, they would have brought him to some damp sound-proofed basement far from anyone who could hear him scream under questioning. No, crazy as it was, somehow he felt safe here....

Then the door opened and a small bent figure entered. It was the same old man Bane had come here to rob.

He estimated the man was in his late seventies. Not more than five feet nine or ten to begin with, arthritis was making him stay slightly hunched over as he came into the room. Dred was well dressed in a dark brown tweed suit with a tan shirt and black necktie, even a vest. The old man had a gnomish, deeply lined face beneath grey hair that was receding well back on a high forehead. The dark eyes were shrewd and alert.

"Ah! Excellent," Dred greeted his puzzled guest. "Good afternoon, my name is Kenneth Dred. You are in my building. A few minutes ago, your fever broke. You broke out in a sweat and the shivering stopped. When I took your temperature, it was back to normal. Here." He held out a china saucer and a white tea cup with a thin gold ring around the rim.

Bane took the cup without thinking. When he smelled the same sharp fragrance of mint, he took a sip and then drained the cup in a single gulp. Immediately, he felt better. Relief seemed to flow through his body in a wave. "Thanks. I guess I was pretty sick."

"Oh, you were near death," Dred replied, taking the empty cup and placing it with the saucer on the writing desk. He pulled the simple leather-padded chair over by the bed and sank down onto it with a sigh. "Ow, my poor back will never be what it once was. Dragging you off the roof to the elevator and then in here took everything I had. Yes, my boy, the bites on your arm were more inflamed than I have ever seen before. But because they were inflicted by a Growler, taking you to a hospital would have done no good. They might have cleaned and dressed the wound, but that venom is not anything they would have recognized."

The young Dire Wolf exhaled, feeling almost giddy at having the pain and fear become only a memory that was already fading. He knew he had to get out of here. Yorick's goons would be looking for him. He needed his clothes, his weapons, but that seemed less urgent than before for some reason. "What is this stuff? That cup of tea, these leaves on my arm, what are they?"

"Ah, one of the great secrets of the Midnight War. Those are Tagra leaves, son. Almost impossible to obtain. I got hold of a tiny amount by chance when I was in the lair of a Tel Shai knight after he had died. I can't say why I didn't use them on myself.. their healing property is miraculous... but something told me to save them for an unexpected emergency. That was all I had."

"Yeah? Thanks again." Bane started to swing his legs around again, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He felt back to normal, maybe better than usual. "I appreciate it believe me but I have to get going. Where are my clothes, by the way?"

"Oh, they are in my dryer in the basement," Dred replied. "Between the blood and the sweat and general grime, they badly needed laundering. They should be ready soon. What was it you came here to steal?"

That stopped Bane short. For a long tense thirty seconds, he did not respond. "Hell. Yes, I'm a thief. I'll do whatever it takes to survive. I was gonna get paid enough to rent a room for a few weeks and eat some decent meals. The guy who hired me said this joint was packed with valuables and you were so rich you would never miss a few."

Oddly, Dred seemed more amused than angry at this. "Exactly what were you supposed to steal?"

"A sword, of all things. Six feet long, made of some red metal like copper. I was told to forget about snatching any cash or jewels or anything, all the guy wanted was that sword."

"Hellspawn."

"Yeah. That was the name. Hellspawn." The pale grey eyes were studying the old man's face. "You don't seem to be getting mad about it."

"No, not really. First, Hellspawn is secured beyond your ability to take. Even if you had come here with high explosives, you would not be able to reach it. More than that, something in your reactions hints your heart is not in your way of life."

"Look, I'd feel better with a pair of pants on," Bane said. "Then, if you're not pressing charges, I will be on my way."

Dred maneuvered himself up onto his feet with a subdued grunt of discomfort. He reached over for the teacup and saucer. "Your clothes should be dry now. But I saw your name on the fake drivers' license in your wallet. Not a bad fake, by the way. Jeremy Bane. Jeremy, think about the beast who savaged you, who left fang wounds on you that brought you within inches of death. And you should realize that the man who hired you still has that beast ready to finish you off."

( the rest of the story )