dochermes | Entries tagged with 1986

"Ivory Crowns"

2/27/1986

I.

"How'd you get in here?" squawked Joey Albertini in alarm. "Hell, how do you get in anywhere? You look about twelve."

At midnight, Tang Ming was keeping her rendezvous with one Joey Albertini, a borderline character of the underworld who served his purpose as a messenger and courier who was no threat to anyone. The dive was almost empty on this freezing winter night where few went out unless compelled to. Two sots at the bar were arguing with the bartender about some sporting event on the tiny black and white TV up by the ceiling. None of them even noticed the young Chinese girl walk in from the cold.

In her loose white windbreaker and black pants, Ming did indeed look even younger than her eighteen years. The glossy black hair was cut short to her jawline, and the huge dark eyes were never still. The newest KDF member and Tel Shai knight, she had a quiet confidence that even hardened old thugs recognized.

"Timing and precision," she answered with the faint British accent of her Hong Kong childhood. "I am ready to listen, Mr Albertini."

Joey Albertini was never an impressive figure but he looked even more insignificant than usual. His skin was an unhealthy hue from the dehydration of longterm alcohol abuse. His eyes were bloodshot and his bony fingers shook as he fumbled with a bit of paper on which was drawn a peculiar design.

"Somebody planted it on me," he chattered. "Right after I phoned you. In the crowd on the uptown train, someone stuck it in my coat pocket. Me, Joey Albertini! They plant it on me and I don't even know it. Only one gang in this town handles dips that slick, as if I didn't know already. Look! It's the three toed bird foot! The symbol of the Red Crane! They're after me! They've been shadowing me, tapping wires, watching at windows. They found out I know too much..."

"First, tell me about George Murray" demanded Ming "You said you had a tip about the thugs who tried to eliminate on George Murray. Come right out and tell me."

"The gang behind it is led by Choy Sing, also called Red Crane."

Ming raised one eyebrow in surprise. "I didn't know they had made it to America."

"Wait!" Joey babbled, so terrified he was scarcely coherent. "Choy Sing is head of the branch of the Red Crane establishing themselves in this country. He's not Chinese-American, though."

"He is from Chujir," Ming said, folding her arms across her chest. "The adjacent realm. You know about Chujir?"

"Aw, it's some crazy legend. Supposed to be a magical dimension or something where the ancestors of the Han people came from. I don't have time for that stiff. Listen, have you heard about Richard Keller?"

"Yes. He died in an auto wreck by a hit-and-run a week ago," said Ming. "Keller stayed unidentified in the city morgue all night before they confirmed who he was. The rumor is someone tried to steal his corpse right off the slab. What's that got to do with Murray?"

"It wasn't an accident." Joey was fumbling for a cigarette. "They meant to kill him, that is Red Crane did. It was their assassins after the body that night—"

"How do you know this? Chinese Tongs don't take Americans like you into their confidence."

"I got my sources!" insisted Joey. "It's how I make my living if you can call it that. I tell you, Red Crane was after Richard Keller's corpse, just like he's sending his mob after Albert Harman's body tomorrow night—"

"What?" Ming responded despite herself. She had shown no inclination to sit in the empty chair at Albertini's table in that dim far corner.

"Don't rush me," begged the messenger, striking a match with unsteady hands. "Gimme time. That death notice has got me jumping sideways. I'm jittery—"

"I'll say you are," observed Ming. "Your heartbeat is dangerously fast. Your sweat is heavy with adrenalin. I can tell. Why is Red Crane commiting these crimes? That's all I want to know. Calm down and give me facts."

"Alright," promised Joey, sucking avidly at his cigarette. "Lemme have a drag. I been so upset I haven't even smoked since I reached into my pocket and found that damned notice. This is straight goods. I know why they want the bodies of Richard Keller, Job Travers and James Murray—"

With appalling suddenness his hands shot to his throat, crushing the smoldering cigarette in his fingers. His eyes distended, his face went purple. Without a word he swayed and fell face down on the table. Tang Ming bent over him and ran skilled hands over his body. Her gift of enhanced perception constantly fed her information not available to normal Humans.

Poisoned, she thought, and not any conventional poison known to the badlands of crime and espionage. She lifted the half-finished cigarette and took a cautious sniff. It was an Alchemical scent she had detected before. The assassin who slipped that death-notice into his pocket must have switched packs on him at the same time, she thought. He was well known for chain smoking Lucky Strikes and bumming cigarettes off anyone in sight. Preparing a seemingly unopened pack would not be hard for an Alchemist.

Glancing around, she watched the three men at the bar. None seemed interested in the little drama in the rear of the dive. Albertini was slumped forward with an empty shot glass near at hand and he had been drinking for hours. Even when the bartender spotted him, it would not be an immediate cause for concern that needed checking.

The argument over a boxing match was still going on. As the bartender strode over to the little TV and rapped angrily on its screen to make a point, the full attention of all three men was focused. Tang Ming drifted silently past them and out the door without being noticed. As far as she could tell, no one had even known she had been in the bar except Joey Albertini. And he would never tell.

( the rest of the story )

"Golden Sun"

8/28/1986

I.

Blue light flickered for a second over the wide stone flag road which led up the hillside to the castle in the distance. Three figures appeared in that pale flash who had not been there a moment earlier, three people who instinctively formed an outward-facing circle and stared around them cautiously. It was late morning, the sun was nearly overhead and they were fully exposed and vulnerable.

The being was called itself Leonard Slade was tall, an inch over six feet in height and athletic in build with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. He looked vaguely of Latin origins, with short black hair, dark brown eyes and an olive-skinned handsome face which was calm to the point of being almost expressionless. The Trom wore a dark skin-tight outfit fitted with many pouches and pockets to hold numerous small devices. Strapped between his shoulder blades was a round dull grey disc the size of a dinner plate.

Beside him, somewhat shorter and slighter in build, Toshiro Mitsuru made a dramatic contrast. He was wearing low slippers, baggy black trousers and an open black vest which revealed incredibly defined muscles in his arms and torso, muscles developed in a lifetime of martial arts study. The Tiger Fury had coarse black hair which was a bit shaggy at the moment and eyes with a double eyelid fold. Right now, these eyes scanned the area around them intensely before he visibly relaxed a bit and lowered his arms from their defensive pose.

The third traveler was a young Asian girl barely eighteen, just old enough to have been accepted as a Tel Shai student and a KDF member. Tang Ming stood just an inch over five feet tall and weighed only one hundred pounds. She had long glossy black hair tied back in a ponytail, huge thoughtful eyes in a delicately-featured face which revealed none of the iron will and discipline she had shown all her life. In contrast to Shiro, she wore Western clothes.. white sneakers, denim jeans, a dark blue pullover and a light blue windbreaker.

"Chujir," she said quietly, the first of them to speak. "Homeland of my ancestors. I have always wanted to visit this realm. Already I feel like I would be at peace here."

"Easy for you to say," snorted Shiro. "You're Han through and through. I'm half Chinese and half Japanese and both races regard me as a halfbreed who belongs to neither of them..."

She smiled tolerantly at him. "A man with your skills and abilities makes a home for himself wherever he is."

As the Tiger Fury made a scoffing noise, Slade spoke up in his usual confident tones. "Our mission here is urgent, my friends. We have two days, give or take a few hours, before the gralic charge in our body fades and we return to the real world. In that time, we must recover the page from the REVELATIONS OF TOLLINOR and either destroy it or bring it back with us. Anyone who manages to translate that page will learned knowledge forbidden since the Darthan Age."

Shiro frowned at the Trom Monitor. He had always seemed to resent Slade for some unspoken reason. "Well, you're the designated leader of this squad, oh Trom. What's your first move?"

"Wait," interrupted Tang Ming, raising a small hand. "My awareness warns of hostile beings approaching. From there, by those trees. Yugen! Yugen from Chyl."

Both Slade and Shiro had learned to trust the Chinese girl's powers of perception. They turned to see a dozen men in brightly colored tunics emerge from the forest not one hundred yards away. They were armed with three-foot curved swords slung across their abdomens, making them as Zoku-Ya warriors. As soon as they spotted the strange intruders, the Yugen began striding quickly toward them with muttered curses.

"They intend to kill or capture us," Tang Ming warned. "I see anger shimmering over them like heat on a summer road."

"Let them try," Shiro chuckled, curling his hands into fists harder than rock and digging his toes into the ground experimentally. "I've taken Zoku-Ya before and made them eat their precious swords."

"There may be a more productive approach." Leonard Slade stepped between his teammates and the approaching swordsmen. This close, the bizarre Yugen could not be mistaken for members of any other Race. Their tawny, lion-hide skin and hairless heads and oddly colored eyes with black sclera and red irises, were distinctive enough. But Yugen literally had no noses. There was only a faint bulge between eyes and mouth, and they breathed in through that mouth in a way reminiscent of fish in open air.

As the Yugen came within hailing distance, Slade called out in perfect Chylan, "We come in peace! We mean no harm to anyone." Since the swordsmen seemed unmoved by this and even quickened their pace, the Trom repeated himself. This close, it could be seen that the Zoku-Yas' red and green tunics bore the emblem of a white crane. The swordsmen wore tight leggings under the tunics and short thick boots. All of them had their hands on the hilts of the swords but none had drawn as yet.

Moving around to stand beside Slade, Shiro raised his arms with his hands tensed into claws, apparently not just ready to fight but eager. Slade took a small round disc from one of the pouches on his suit and held it up in his palm. "I suggest you both look away," he whispered to his teammates. "Cover your ears as well."

When the apparent leader of the Zoku-ya, marked by a black skullcap on his bald head, started to slide the Zoku blade from its lacquered wooden scabbard, Slade triggered his device. It was as if lightning had struck directly overhead. Intolerably bright light flashed and turned the world solid white for a second, while a sharp detonation of sound cracked so loudly that it knocked the Yugen off their feet entirely.

"Damnit, Slade, that almost blew my head off!" Shiro grumbled.

"I did warn you."

"Well, next time warn me harder, mister!" the Tiger Fury snapped, shaking his head and blinking at the spots which blurred his vision.

"These men will recover their bearings in a minute," the Trom continued as if Shiro had not interrupted. "Hopefully we will be able to have a useful discussion when they can see and hear again."

( the rest of the story )

"Those Who Remember"

11/2/- 11/3/1986

[REVISION: The origin of Simon Cohen has been completely changed and all mentions of it have to be rewritten. He actually was an aging Kabbalist and disgraced Rabbi who with Alchemist Lee Hutchins' help, permanently placed his consciousness into a stone Golem of their making. He became his own Targhul.]

I.

Even before the door had slammed fully open, the Dire Wolf was in the smoky room and attacking. The nearest thug opened his mouth but didn't get a chance to yell. Bane threw a left backfist that spun the man completely around and dropped him to his knees. A second thug rushed right into a side kick to the stomach that doubled him up and made him retch. On the other side of the dingy room, one of the goons snapped off a shot but it got nowhere near its fast-moving target. The Dire Wolf swerved and lunged, closing fifteen feet in a split-second. Left forefist to the jaw, then a right sidefist to the chest connected almost at the same time. The guard crashed back against the wall behind him so hard that a framed picture fell to the floor.
.
That left only one thug still on his feet in that room. His expression was complete dismay and fear. A few seconds ago, he had been arguing listlessly with the other hired help about sending one of them out for sub sandwiches and beer, and now his three pals were on the floor. Standing in front of him was a gaunt man just six feet tall, dressed all in black, with cold grey eyes stabbing out at him from a narrow feral face. The gunman knew who this had to be.

"Forget about going for your gun," Bane said quietly. "Keep your hands where I can see them. Good." Behind the Dire Wolf, the thug who had only taken a backfist groggily managed to get to his feet, one hand reaching into his waistband where the butt of a .38 showed. Without showing how he knew the man was up again, Bane whirled on his right heel, whipping his left leg around in a reverse roundhouse kick that cracked his heel to the goon's jaw. This time, that man would stay down.

As though nothing had interrupted him, Bane returned his full attention to the gunman in front of him. "Let's get this over with," he said in a calm voice that did not need to threaten. "You and your boys here have just re-entered the country. We know you were bringing supplies to Cohen, we found the van you abandoned. The question now is, where is he? Where is the Stone Man?"

"I can't tell you that! He'd break me in half."

"No, I am the one you should be afraid of. Cohen won't be in any shape to hurt you. Where is he?"

As the man hesitated, he suddenly felt a sharp stinging pain on the end of his nose. Somehow, a silver-bladed throwing dagger had appeared in Bane's hand and nicked him. The Wolf held the knife so the light reflected off it. The thug gasped and abruptly there was an identical pain in the lobe of one ear, and he still had not seen Bane move.

"Where is he?" repeated Bane in the same even tone of voice.

The gunman's nerve broke. "Are you sure you can stop him?"

"I know I can. Where?"

"Up in Canada. Toronto. 1138 Chichester Road. But... it's like a nightmare. He has a death squad of things that aren't human. And he's a monster himself! He ain't flesh and blood- he's made outta STONE!"

Bane smiled tautly. "I know he is. We've met. The cops will be here in a few minutes. Long before you and your buddies go to trial, Simon Cohen will be destroyed. That's a promise." The Dire Wolf's Kumundu training had long ago reached the point where he could strike from any position without giving any warning. Faster than a real wolf, he lunged in and his stiff open hand cracked down like an axe blade to the side of the man's neck. As the gunman dropped to the floor, Bane swung to survey the situation. This was the supervisor's office of a construction company in Jersey City, drab and sparse with a desk, some chairs, two filing cabinets and a bathroom in one corner. The four men sprawled where they had fallen. His best judgement estimated they would be unconscious for a few more minutes and not able to get up and walk around for maybe twenty minutes after that. Since the police were already on their way, Bane felt a certain satisfaction in getting here first and getting the information he needed. His informants had been reliable so far.

He was being watched. In an instant, Bane snapped to full alertness and whirled around, the dart gun appearing in his left hand. There in the doorway loomed a manlike figure that filled the opening. Wide batlike wings were folded, but even so it was obviously a Kulan. The beast from Fanedral had red leathery hide, talons and claws and a head like a hound with upright ears and lambent yellow eyes. Bane held the dart gun on the demon, even though he knew the anesthetic darts would not pierce that tough hide. "What do YOU want?" he demanded.

To the Dire Wolf's utter surprise, the Kulan answered. "Justice," it said and laughed wildly before leaping out of sight. Bane rushed to the doorway and looked up just in time to see the demon speed away over the rooftops, wings beating and tail whipping from side to side. He holstered his weapon and stared as the Kulan was gone in the distance. Seeing a beast from Fanedral here, following him, could only mean that Simon Cohen was aware he was being hunted. Cohen was known to command a small army of creatures from adjacent realms. He must have had this demon tracking Bane all the while. There was no time to lose.

Jumping down the metal stairs to the gravel, Bane got in his car and fired it up, pulling out of the construction yard and out onto the highway. Before he had gone more than a mile, two New Jersey State Police cars sped past him toward the construction site. That was close. Maybe the thugs would tell the cops who had thrashed them but he doubted it and he certainly wasn't going to volunteer the information. Bane raced toward the George Washington Bridge just below the speed at which he would get pulled over. It was just getting dark.

( the rest of the story )

"Brightbolt"

12/1/1986

I.

With one red boot on the lowest step, Valera paused. The interior of the abandoned house was lit only by starlight through the uncurtained windows but her eyes had adjusted to the gloom. Chairs and tables were shrouded in dusty sheets, the granite fireplace had been cold for years and the smell of must hung heavy in stagnant air. From the moment she had easily broken the lock on the front door, the Melgar woman had heard nothing... until now.

This was to be her first mission as a KDF Associate Member. Being Princess and third in line to the throne of Androval, it was only her extreme willfulness and determination that had allowed her father to venture to the real world without an escort of guards. King Holmir had told Valera that she had the family's stubborn streak to an extreme degree. But, since she also bore the Legacy of Malberon granting her superhuman strength and near-invulnerabiltity, he grudgingly admitted that she was in less danger seeking adventure than any normal Megar. Joining the KDF meant being sponsored to Tel Shai as a student, and she had long yearned to delve into the secret history only Tel Shai knew.

An inch under six feet tall, slim and athletic, Princess Valera was a gorgeous young woman with bright gold hair reaching past her shoulders and clear blue eyes in a clean-cut face. She was wearing the blue cotton tunic and tights, with red leather boots and gloves and belt, and the wide white mantle around her shoulders bore three vertical red bars. This marked the rank she had earned in the arenas and tournaments. What was it she had heard? The faintest whisper of feet stealing along the bare wooden floor? The soft intake of breath from someone trying to be absolutely stealthy.

"Do not skulk and think to hide from me!" she called out. "Show yourself, I say."

Her answer came in a silky, mocking laugh from the other side of the vast drawing room. There was the scratch of a match being struck and the flame lit four tall candles in a silver candlelabra standing on a burnished pole. The intruder posed for her in the light, bowing slightly and holding up his free hand in a sweeping gesture. "May I presume to introduce myself? Basilor of the Dawn Folk, honored to greet your highness."

The man seemed at first to be a Dartha, with their milk-white skin and fine-textured straight white hair, as well as ears that rose to distinct points. But he was not as delicately built as that dainty Race of sorcerers was. Basilor had broad shoulders and a deep chest, and the black silk shirt bulged with hard muscle. At his left hip was sheathed a slim-bladed dueling sword and he held something wrapped in cloth in his right hand, something straight and tall as he was.

"Dawn Folk," sneered Valera. "A bastard Race founded by Darthan warlocks forcing Human women to bear their whelps. I'd not boast of such lineage if I were you."

Basilor's cat-like green eyes narrowed as he smiled. "Are you Melgarin so very different? Your kind sprang from the union of Humans seduced by the golden glamor of the Eldarin. Indeed, one might say that our peoples are kindred. We Almadim descended from Humans and Darthim, Melgarin descended from Humans and Eldarin."

"You are nothing like my Race," Valera responded, "And if you have come to the world on orders from your vile masters, you will soon realize the gulf between us."

The Dawn Man stepped away from the candles and toward the open space in the middle of the drawing room. He displayed a swagger which infuriated Valera and she struggled to control her famous short temper. Seeing his smug expression made her head swim with anger. "Even the best Almada is no match for any Melgar, and you must know that I carry the Legacy of Malberon."

"Oh, that name again. Truth be told, your highness, Malberon cast many spells and crafted many talismans in his long life. I do not intend to brawl against your unnatural strength when I have THIS."

It was the triumphant emphasis in Basilor's final word which warned Valera to be even more on her guard than she already was. She saw the Dawn Man tug at the concealing cloth and cast it aside to immediately fling a seven foot spear with deadly accuracy. The weapon hurtled at her far faster than merely being thrown by any arm, not matter how strong or how skilled, could explain. Indeed, although Valera could not detect it, the spear accelerated as it neared its target.

Reacting quickly, Valera had stepped to one side and raised an arm defensively. The spear swerved in its trajectory to hit her.

With a sharp cracking impact, the ancient weapon struck her full in the face and Valera stumbled back to fall to a seated position on the cold bare floor. The spear rebounded and whirled back end over end to thump into the open hand of the grinning Basilor. He gave a short triumphant laugh.

Struggling back to her feet, the Melgar champion pressed one hand to her left eye, which hurt worse than anything she had endured in years. Hot blood trickled down beneath her palm. It was the realization she had been wounded which shocked her the most; since the Legacy had manifested itself in her body, Valera had seldom encountered anything that could cut her skin. But then, she recognized the talisman that had struck her down was not common weapon.

"Shai Tazam!" she gasped more in anger than pain. "In the hands of... the Dawn Folk."

"Yes, dear princess. The greatest weapon of the Melgarin, Brightbolt! And it belongs to the hand that wields it best."

( the rest of the story )

"Golgora"

1/21/1986

In the moonless overcast night, Jeremy Bane was almost invisible in his black suit. Within the visor of his helmet, though, light enhancers gave him a good enough view to step silently through the woods. Silent with the stealth of long years of training, he made his way past anything that might make a noise underfoot. There was little snow, just patches here and there. It was close to midnight and he felt the usual feral excitement. The Midnight Wars, the secret wars he fought in, raged most fiercely in the dark when the powers of evil peaked. This was also the hour he lived for. The Dire Wolf slowly circled the two story white frame house that stood at the end of a long driveway. A beige Honda Accord sat before the front door, and two lights burned on either side of the front door. In the house itself, only one window on the ground level was on.

Bane spotted the watcher from a distance and crept up on him, unseen and unheard. ( the rest of the story )

"Rumours of War"

(5/25/19777)

3/25/1986

Three men and two women stepped out into the courtyard of the new complex on Hawk Island. Construction was finished, all the utilities were working and the facility was open but some rooms were still empty. Before them was a hangar with its wide doors slid open to reveal one of the CORBYs, sleek black stealth helicopters which used technology beyond Human knowledge. The team had finished their training schedule for the week and were ready to go off-duty and scatter. Overhead, a gull shrieked and wheeled in the sun. There were in fact no hawks here; the island was named after the family which had owned it.

In the lead of the group was the newest Tel Shai knight, a small slim Chinese woman with short glossy black hair and huge dark eyes. Tang Ming had just turned eighteen, she could not have joined while still a minor despite the adventures she had already experienced. Ming wore simple cotton slacks and long-sleeved blouse, all navy blue, with soft slippers. She carried no weapons as a rule. Normally reserved, she had an impish grin now as she listened to the conversation close at hand.

A few steps behind her was a tall, powerfully built gladiator of a man with a shock of black hair and blue eyes in a craggy face. He wore slacks and white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled back. This was Sulak, the Champion of Androval and he was arguing with an American black man who had medium length hair and a thick mustache. He was wearing black sweat pants and a blue T-shirt with a picture of a sunburst on it. Stephen Weaver was going on at length about what women really wanted as opposed to what they said they wanted. The two of them stopped to argue and Tang Ming smiled over one shoulder at them.

Bringing up the rear, silent and unsmiling, were Jessica Frost and Ethan Petrov. This was their normal attitude. Frost was a pale young woman with hair that was almost white and light blue eyes. Her expression was always serious and withdrawn. Walking beside her was a thin man with a hard, spare musculature. Ethan wore denim jeans and a nylon warm-up jacket. In contrast to the serene expression of Frost, he usually looked grouchy and annoyed and today was no exception. All he thought about was weapons.

Watching the four of them, Ming felt more excited than ever. So much to learn. She was still giddy over being accepted as a knight of Tel Shai and a member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Both Sulak and Weaver were already holding those positions. Jessica Frost and Ethan Petrov had been granted some Tel Shai training and both had applied to be reserve KDF members, serving as needed. Now, as she listened to Sulak and Weaver debate how to get along with women, it was all she could do not to laugh.

"See here, you two," she said as she swung around to face them. "Speaking AS a woman, I have to inform you that you're both so wrong it's not even funny-" Ming broke off as she sensed something. Everyone was alert at once. They knew her powers involved perception and they knew she was picking up on some presence they themselves could not detect as yet.

The young Chinese girl turned, arms whirling up in a defensive pose. A red gralic gate burst almost within arm's reach, and thirty invaders appeared with water dripping off them. They wore shark-hide armor, dyed bright red and green, with wide shoulder pieces and crested helmets. All were armed with short swords and tridents. In the silence which followed their sudden arrival, the sound of water falling off them to the concrete was loud.

The five KDF members formed a loose line facing the intruders, each picking a share and planning how to attack. The leader of the invaders was taller than the rest, wearing a bizarre horned helmet made of coral. He held in one hand a long knife with a bone blade and he seemed to recognize one of the KDF. "Can it be? Sulak!"

"I AM Sulak," the big Melgar announced boldly as he stepped closer.

"It is my happy duty to inform you that you and your companions are prisoners of war. Ulgor has come to avenge itself for the crimes which Androval did-" He was cut off as a knotted fist blasted against his helmet so quickly that no one watching was sure they had seen the blow. Fragments flew away from that coral helmet as the man was flung back off his feet. As Sulak struck, the Ulgoran warriors swarmed over him and went hurtling back from devastating blows that broke bones wherever they touched.

Jessica Frost did not need to move to use her power. Just concentrating, she glared at one of the Gelydrim and the water vapor in the air around his head froze instantly into an opaque shell that cut off all air and light. He struck out in panic as one of his fellows tried to seize him to chip off the ice before he suffocated. Turning her deadly gaze to another, she froze him completely, so he fell to the ground with a heavy thud like a statue being knocked over.

Stephen Weaver did not have the uniform designed by the USAF for its Black Angel project, but he could function well enough without it. The artificial wings helped guide his flight, but his levitating power was his own. As an Ulgoran lunged forward and thrust with his trident, the lanky black man levitated up six feet into the air and kicked the man square in the face. As the Gelydra dropped, Weaver tried to turn in mid-air by using just his arms and legs to guide his body. It wasn't easy. Most levitaphs feel successful if they can rise up off the ground at all. Without the artificial wings to help, any manuever took longer and was more work.

For her part, Tang Ming moved elusively among the invaders, tripping one so he tangled up another, striking with stiffened fingers where a windpipe was exposed, sweeping a soldier's feet out from under him. Every time she saw an opening, her hard tight fist cracked in to stun an opponent. Ming's gift of perception gave her uncanny timing and precision limited only by her physical capacity. She had been brought up in the Fu Jow Pai style and had not learned enough Kumundu yet to use it in a fight. The enemy seemed to be deliberately missing her but this was an illusion caused by her skill.

Ethan Petrov was for once not carrying a weapon, something almost unprecedented. Three Ulgorans charged at him. Two had short swords and one weilded a halberd. With a terrible predator smile, Ethan decided he would take the halberd. With a quickness none of his opponents could follow, the Weapons Master yanked his leather belt from his thin hips and lashed with it like a tiger swatting. It was a perfectly ordinary belt with a round metal buckle, but it cracked hard against one Ulgoran's face, blinding him and breaking his nose. The invader screamed and pawed at his face, releasing the halberd which Ethan seized eagerly. A strange gleam showed in the Weapons Master's eye as he spun the six-foot staff with its axe blade at the far end. This was what he lived for. If he had ever abandoned his discipline and ethics against harming innocents, Ethan could have been the most dangerous maniac in history.

The halberd's blade sliced through one Ulgoran's neck in a neat swipe. Ethan reversed the weapon and swung its butt to break the skull of another, then dropped into a crouch and shot the butt of the weapon forward like a pool cue to drive into the groin of a third. He struck again and again, and suddenly he was surrounded by a circle of dead or disabled men with no one left to strike at. Watching from a few feet away, Tang Ming frowned. Her teammate had a demon in him just beneath the surface, struggling to escape. She caught his glance and nodded solemnly.

Only one invader remain on his feet, the leader. It seemed incredible that any man could
stand toe to toe with the immensely powerful Melgar and survive, but the helmeted invader held his own. He fought with skill and ferocity, launching attacks that grew fiercer rather than less. He was not tiring. Sulak stepped in close, slapped his opponent's guard down and threw a simple jab that carried irresistable impact. The Ulgoran tumbled back to the ground, fought to get up on one knee, snarling in fury. His helmet had been shattered into a shapeless mess and he tugged it off to toss it aside.

The Ulgoran had pale sandy hair, light blue eyes that were burning with anger, and two curious bumps on his temples as if twin round objects were buried just under the skin. Even those of the five Tel Shai knights who had never seen him before instantly recognized the notorious berserker of the Midnight War.

"Atron!"

"Aye," growled the Ulgoran. "Atron Ke the Destroyer, Warlord of New Ulgor. It would seem you have bested these sorry excuses sent with me."

"Only them?" scoffed Sulak. "Have I not laid you low as well, Destroyer?"

"Not so easily. I am born to combat, a child of the Sulla Chun. I do not doubt that in time I can wear your brute strength down through superior skill. But Demrak Sum orders otherwise, and if I must use unmanly tricks as he orders, well I must."

"Orders? I thought you were a proud man, Atron." Sulak shook his head sadly. "Have you sold your arm for mere gold, then?"

"Nay! Never. But I am not here to justify my actions to a butcher like yourself." Atron acted with lightning speed, tugging a chamois pounch from his belt and flinging its contents at Sulak. Glittering golden dust swirled around the big Melgar in a haze. Shockingly, Sulak dropped to his knees, choking, visibly suffering. He could not rise. "Cyrinkyl.. but how?" he wheezed.

Atron Ke did not answer but he must have known what the Melgar was wondering. Cyrinkyl, the star-snow, was a vitality-sapping substance which did not lasting harm. It was the closest thing to a humane weapon possible. It was crafted only by two Races: the immortal Eldarin and their more aggressive offshoot, the Melgarin. That Atron should possess cyrinkyl could mean.. a Melgar traitor?

As Sulak fell, his four teammate surrounded Atron Ke and moved in. He grinned wickedly, curled his hands into fists and waited for the first to make a move. But a quiet, confident voice interrupted with, "Stand down, team. Step back away from him."

As the four KDF members obeyed that voice, the Ulgoran chieftain blinked. "Of course. Dire Wolf, I should have known you would be here."

Standing by the stealth copter was a gaunt man all in black, with short dark hair and cold grey eyes under feral brows. As the KDF members backed up, Bane drew and fired his airgun four times but the soft cough of the propulsion was drowned out by sharp detonations against Atron's head. Four small explosions blasted against him in less than a second, spinning him around and flinging him onto his stomach. Holstering his gun, the Dire Wolf strode closer and slapped two pairs of handcuffs on his prisoner, binding his wrists and ankles together.

"Nice timing, captain," said Weaver with relief. "Are those bracelets gonna hold him?"

"They are not regulation cuffs," answered Bane. "They're designed for Melgarin." He examined the stunned Gelydra. "Atron again. Talk about a bad penny. Ming, Jessica... I want you to brush off the cyrinkyl from Sulak so he recovers faster. Steve, go into the facility and get the brig ready. Ethan, stand by for when these soldiers revive. Those two over there are stirring."

Kneeling in front of the cuffed Ulgoran, Bane said, "Well, Atron. Here we are again. What's the deal? Why did you attack my team?"

"It is war!" growled the Warlord. "Not against you Tel Shai dancers but against Androval. My orders were to bring Sulak back to stand trial for his crimes against my people."

"Well, you can't have him. He's our boy now."

"You know a little of our history, Dire Wolf." Atron tried to get up, pulling against the cuffs until his wrists bled. "Who was it that struck the first blow. Was it Ulgor? No. We were subjugated for twelve long years by the Melgarin. I was only a child but I remember the humiliation and the starvation. Demrak Sum is right. Androval must be sacked and its people punished before our own realm can live in honor."

Bane shook his head sadly, "War because of war. It could go on forever." He straightened as he saw Stephen Weaver returning. "Help me get this guy into the holding cell, Steve. We have some hard choices ahead."

( the rest of the story )

"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.

( the rest of the story )

"Barnabas and Ben Have the Best Summer Ever"

6/11-5/12/1986

I.

The black helicopter CORBY had no markings on it, not a single identifying number or logo anywhere, and no external lights. It dropped down from the cloudy early morning sky so quietly that the effect was eerie. Even though the rotors were turning normally, somehow there was none of the normal deafening whooping roar helicopters made. The CORBY touched down at the small private airfield outside Danton, Illinois and was met by the owner at the corner spot indicated. One of the row of hangars was open, and Weaver taxied the stealthcopter into it as the rotors slowed to a halt. There were no other craft in that hangar, just the grease pit and assorted benches crowded with tools and equipment. No one was in sight other than the man who had been waiting for them.

Following them in, Eugene Conzensa thumbed the button that started the segmented steel door descending. Only when the door was closed did he seem to relax a little. Conzensa was in his early fifties and so short and overweight as to be almost round. He was wearing a white jumpsuit with CONZENSA AIR SERVICES in big letters across the back. His last name was on a tag over the left breast pocket and he had a dark blue cap pushed back on a balding head.

The pilot hatch hissed open as air escaped from the pressurized cabin. A tall lanky black man in a dark field suit swung down to the concrete floor. Stephen Weaver had a friendly, accessible face with a thick mustache over an easy smile. His skin was medium brown and his hair cut short. Closing the hatch behind him, Weaver shook the broad hand which Conzensa offered and said, "Hey, glad to meet you. The flight from New York was nothing special but I'm glad it's over."

"So you're the famous Black Angel," Conzensa said. "I'm ex-Air Force too, but I did my four years without actually leaving the country. It was a big help getting my pilot's license and setting up this company."

"We appreciate you letting us stow the CORBY here," replied Weaver. He placed an affectionate hand on the matte black finish of the fuselage next to him. "You know this bird is not exactly legal, right?"

"Like I care. My field is closed today, my staff is all away until Monday. Listen, do you know how I met Jeremy Bane?"

"No," Weaver said. "I bet it's an interesting story."

"Damn straight. Listen. Three years ago, I got in trouble with some local gangsters. I owed them money and couldn't make the interest. They were working under a freak named Golgora. Five of them had me tied to a chair in a cellar, with my shoes and socks off. One of them had just lit the blowtorch when the door was kicked off its hinges and your boss came charging in."

The Black Angel laughed out loud. "Oh man! I can imagine what happened next."

"Yeah. I could hardly follow him, he moved so fast. Jeremy tore through five big tough bruisers as if they were puppies. Before I realized what was going on, he had them all stretched out on the floor. I found out later that one of them died on the way to the hospital and another one had blurred vision as a permanent after-effect. Not one of them laid a hand on him."

"That's my boy," Weaver said. "Dire Wolf, all right."

"Jeremy set me loose and explained he was on the trail of Golgora. He found out I had been abducted and set out after me immediately. Before he left town, he settled with the local kingpin that I would be left alone and in fact, I haven't been bothered since." Conzensa raised both hands in a helpless gesture. "I told him I owed him my life and my peace of mind, he could have everything I owned. And you know what he said? He said, forget it."

"There's only one Dire Wolf," Weaver said. "The more I hear about his past actions, the more glad I am to be his teammate. So, that's why you're letting us stow this bird here?"

"Yeah. Jeremy called me and asked if I would do him a favor. Of course I said, 'Hell yes.' As far as anyone will ever know, you were never here with this top secret chopper." Conzensa snapped his fingers as he remembered something. "And he leased a car for you in his name. Brand new Honda Prelude, sweet wheels. It's waiting outside with the keys in it and the papers all arranged."

"Great. I understand Jeremy will be here himself tonight or early tomorrow, he's in Nevada right now finishing something up. Oh, I don't think you've met my partner here."

Eugene Conzensa gave a violent start as he realized a small Asian woman was standing right next to him. "Goddam! Don't DO that! How long you been there?!"

Barely five feet tall, Tang Ming weighed an even hundred pounds on a good day. She was wearing soft slippers, dark brown slacks and an olive-green tunic with loose sleeves. Still a teenager, the young Chinese girl seemed embarrassed at having startled the man. "Sorry," she said. "I am naturally unobtrusive."

"Eugene, this is my teammate Tang Ming. She does that without realizing it," Black Angel apologized. Now, you realize we're looking for a bad guy who kind of stands out in a crowd, right? Six foot seven, shaved head, hazel eyes. Really dangerous. Do you have any sightings of a beast like that?"

"No, no, I think I'd definitely remember seeing someone like that, for sure. What IS weird about this area is the Finkle family. Two boys about nine or ten, not bad kids at all but.. well, the things they get into...they're just bizarre. I dunno, I guess you just have to go investigate and see for yourself."

Weaver went to slide open a hatch in the rear of the CORBY and took out two bulky knapsacks and a metal equipment case. As he handed one of the knapsacks to Ming, he laughed, "Well, come on now Eugene, you can't just tease us like that. What are these kids up to?"

"It's too hard to explain," Conzena said, shaking his head. "Wait until you see their galloping tortoise."

( the rest of the story )

The Night Gorillas of Danarak
(original "Gorilla Warfare")
7/19/- 7/20/1986

I.

Bane had been well trained. He read the expression in his enemies' eyes, saw the degree of tautness in the muscles of their leader's forearm as his fist closed tight on the imported revolver. The three hulking warriors disguised in drab business suits were members of the Night Gorillas, a killing sect feared through half of Africa. To Bane, they were just three targets.

The biggest warrior's throat muscles moved and he took in a breath. He was going to say, "Now!" in Sawhili or English, and then all three would fire. Bane did not wait. In a split-second blur of motion, he had closed the distance between himself and the killers. His left backfist snapped out like lightning, dislocating the leaders jaw before he could even give the command. In the same move, his body pivotted sideways and his boot drove deep into the next killer's stomach. All this happened before the third fully realized something unexpected was going on. That final Night Gorilla had a fragmentary glimpse of chill grey eyes and the knuckles of a fist whistling straight at him.

Jeremy Bane stood over the three moaning men and kicked the gun away from their hands down the hall. He thought, I wonder how many teeth I've loosened in the past nine years. Swamps, deserts, alleys, glacial caverns, aboard ships and now, here in a swank hotel corridor in Honjabi. He wondered if there was a record for that sort of thing and if, before he was done, he would pass it.

The Dire Wolf's thoughts caught short as he heard the faintest of sounds. Cloth rubbing against cloth, shoe leather on carpeted floor. He spun in a crouch, the dart gun appearing in his hand quicker than an untrained eye could follow. Three more men were standing at the foot of the stairs which led up from this ground floor. It was too far for him to read their reactions. But one was bracing the wrist of his gun hand across his other forearm.

Bane decided to take a chance. The Trom-metal armor under his field suit would protect him from anything except a hit to the head, and those were unlikely against his speed. He called out without forcing menace into his voice, "Who sent you?"

The lead gunman seemed seemed hesitant, whether because the odd-looking dart gun was pointed unwaveringly at him or because he had just seen this stranger take down three of the dreaded Night Gorillas in less than three seconds. In any case, he shouted in English, "Are you the American?"

"I'm AN American, there's more than one. Now, again, who sent you?"

All three spread out, the leader's gun slowly raising. "We have only death to give you."

"That's too bad," said Bane with remarkable calmness. "What I want are answers."

"Don't worry!" boomed a deep voice from the stairs behind the killers. "I'LL get you answers!"

The Night Gorillas had barely begun to react to that voice when a huge dark figure hurtled down the staircase to dive right on top of them. Like a lion on its prey, the stranger sent all three tumbling to the floor. One had taken a knee in the small of the back and would not rise. The newcomer was a big man, five inches over six feet tall, powerfully built. He was African too, wearing a tight bodysuit of black cotton. One of the men scrambled to his feet and looked back to scream, "Kwali! Kwali Cat's-Claw." The scream was cut off as Kwali yanked the man up by one arm and threw him with backbreaking force against the wall.

A third Night Gorilla had managed to get his pistol raised when a big black fist exploded into his face like a hammer, smashing his nose and flinging him down, gun clattering away. The Cat's-Claw swung around, taking in his scene. He saw Bane holstering the dart gun.

"Jeremy? I did not expect to see you so soon." Kwali straightened. His face was square, massive, not so much handsome as impressive, like an ancient statue. His skin was so dark as to be almost opaque in the dim hotel light but his eyes were oddly light green and lambent, He spoke with a faint accent.

"I came in a Corby as soon as your message arrived at KDF headquarters," said the Dire Wolf. He had unfastened his helmet and now tucked it under one arm. "You're some fighter, Kwali. If you ever change your mind about joing our team..."

The African smiled and gazed down at the shorter man. "I am tempted, Dire Wolf. To have Tel Shai training would be a great advantange. But Danarak is my homeland and my duties are mostly here. Still, if you need me, you have but to call. I remember our battles with the Snake men and in Bruenig's cemetery with pride and excitement."

"Fair enough." The Dire Wolf gestured with his thumb at the seven stunned or unconscious men scattered around the hotel floor. "So, who are these guys?"

Kwali's face tightened. "The Cult of the Night Gorillas. Very old, very evil. I've been trying to stamp them out for a year now, but there is deep money supporting them. Two turn up for each I knock down. There is little point in turning them over the police, I have stopped trying. Whatever ridiculous bail is set, Kamende will pay."

"Kamende? AREM Kamende?"

"Yes."

"Finally," Bane said. "Arem Kamende, the Spear of Destiny. He's surfaced at last."

"Jeremy, I believe the Night Gorillas have become the assassin arm of Kamende's organization. The Black Fury has his hands in many sins." He looked up as faces started appearing behind barely opened doors. "Hah! Now they dare to show themselves. Come, let us go. Obviously the enemy knows I have rented a room here."

Bane went to the foot of the stairs as Kwali retrieved a bundle of clothing. He draped himself in a plain beige-colored robe that hung to his shins, and slung a leather pouch over one shoulder. The Cat's-Claw slid his feet into rope sandals and started moving. "Tell me, what do you know of Danarak?"

"Not much. I've never been here before. Danarak exists on two levels. There is the real nation which lies here in Africa, but there is also the adjacent realm it's named after. The Danarak of the Midnight War. The main thing I remember is about the Corruption on Ulgor. A warlock from Danarak learned forbidden secrets from the Sulla Chun. Gralic projection, muscular tension and shape-shifting. His name was Wakimbe."

"Just so," said Kwali as he led the way through the lobby to the street. It was getting near dusk, and not as hot as Bane had expected as a stiff wind was blowing. Honjabi had interesting architecture, low stone buildings with arched doorways and shuttered windows. Many of the outer walls were painted in startling combinations of yellow and green. They walked past a bazaar that was winding down, with many of the stalls being closed up.

The Dire Wolf was not the only white man in sight by any means. Several Europeans hurried past with brief cases, a redheaded taxi driver rattled past and there were even two Japanese businessmen arguing in a doorway. The Danarakans themselves were very dark, rather thin and just of average height. They mostly wore Western clothes, T-shirts and trousers and sneakers.

Kwali went on, "Today, of course, much of that knowledge has been forgotten. Gralic projection survives only in a limited form as voodoo. Muscular tension is the basis of Kumundu and other martial arts. And controlled shape-shifting is mastered by a mere handful."

"You're in that handful," Bane interrupted. "I still remember you as that giant Black Lion I fought three years ago. That was no illusion. You actually turned into a cat the size of a horse."

"We were well matched the night we fought, you and I. The struggle could have gone either way. And yet..."

They were near the edge of the town, where a dirt road led out to a dry field. A row of workers' huts stretched off for the next half-mile. Bane stopped and turned to the African hero. "Something bothering you?'

"When we fought in New York, I knew that I was the stronger of we two, and you were the swifter. Yet we were balanced. But a minute ago, when you struck those men, I could hardly follow your movements. You have gotten much better in just a few years, Dire Wolf."

Bane smiled slightly. "Thanks."

"It is no idle flattery. Not only do you move more quickly in combat, but your bearing has changed. You're confident. Calm. Something has changed you."

In the growing gloom, Bane's grey eyes gleamed. "I'm still me. But I have been studying at Tel Shai. Does that explain it?"

"Tel Shai... Yes, I see." Kwali resumed walking.

"Let's get back to Kamende," Bane said. "You know he has taken over the Night Gorillas cult?"

"Yes. He is the spider, weaving his webs, planning and sending out his killers. They have a reign of terror in this city and the villages around it, demanding tribute. It is not just the strong arms of the Gorillas that strike fear, it is the knowledge that behind them is a warlock of dread power." Kwali spat into the dust. "I have not been intimidated. I will always fight them."

Bane said quietly, "Here come some now." He raised his helmet to his head.

Ten huge men came from the fields on either side, blocking the dirt road. None carried weapons. Tthey flexed powerful hands long exercised in strangling arts. Bane and Kwali stood shoulder to shoulder as the assassins drew closer.

Kwali growled deep in his throat and seemed ready to transform, but Bane placed a restraining hand on his arm. "Let me do my share."

Stepping right up to the closest Night Gorilla, the Dire Wolf said, "How about you take us to your leader and save some time?"

"We want the life of Kwali Cat's-Claw!" shouted the leader. "This is not your fight, white man."

"It's been my fight for years," Bane said. "I make it mine." With those words, he abruptly turned into an eye-defying blur of deadly motion. He took one quick hop forward like a fencer and dropped the nearest Night Gorilla with a high side kick to the jaw that spun the man completely around. It seemed as though the crack of boot hitting chin came from nowhere. The Night Gorilla fell face down in the dust.

And Bane said, "One."

The stranglers came rushing at him from all directions. Bane met one with a ride side kick to the lower stomach -"Two!" -, smacked another across the face with a roundhouse and backhand from the same fist -"Three!- and pummeled another coming directly at him with a flurry of alternating left-right hooks - "Four!"

Still the killers lunged at him. The Dire Wolf broke a jaw with a reverse crescent kick- "Five!", spun into a tight circle to smash a Gorilla sideways to the ground with a reverse crescent kick -"Six!" and grabbed the backs of two more heads to crash them together with a noise like two coconuts being broken- "Seven and eight!"

These were not barroom brawlers or cheap hired thugs but Night Gorillas, feared with good reason across half a continent. They were taken as children, often sold by impoverished families, and raised in training camps out in the wilderness. Each had to strangle a grown man before being initiated. They had been brought up without pity or fear, living for their trade. And yet, against the speed and accuracy of a knight of Tel Shai, they were helpless. With only two stranglers left, Bane decided to take one for questioning. He waited until the charging man was within arm's reach and then jumped straight up. In the second before he touched down again, he had struck twice. A left front kick to the solar plexus doubled the man up and a front snap kick with the right leg straightened the African back upright, to fall over backwards.

"Nine," said the Dire Wolf, swiveling toward the final remaining strangler. This man had just seen nine of his fellows mowed down by this strange white man with metal-gray eyes, but no fear touched him. Death before failure was the code he lived by. With a hoarse bellow, he leaped straight forward. Bane deftly side-stepped, kicking down at the back of the Night Gorilla's knee. The man dropped and Bane pounced with an open hand strike to the stranger's nape that sounded like an axe biting into wood. The Night Gorilla sagged to his hands and knees but could not rise.

"Ten," Bane said quietly, to himself. He looked up to see Kwali giving him a critical gaze.

"Showing off for my benefit, eh?" the African hero said.

"I guess I was," Bane admitted sheepishly. "I'm still trying to sell you on Tel Shai membership." He bent the Night Gorilla's arm up high behind the back and hauled the man to his feet."Time for some interrogation."

Kwali stepped over a groaning man. He reflected the cult was taking a beating tonight that would not do their mystique any good. "These are fanatics, American. He will not talk. The police have been several to death with no results."

"I wasn't thinking of torture," Bane said. "I have our own truth serum, veratilin, with us. Add some hypnosis and body reading, and we should find out whatever this loser knows. Before dawn, Kwali, I think we will have our showdown with Arem Kamende."

( the rest of the story )