dochermes | Entries tagged with 1988

"Back To the Graveyard You Go"

10/29/1988

I.

No one was looking. Jimmy checked both ways again, the country road was empty as far as he could see in either direction. Right in front of him was a deep puddle a foot across. He raised his right hand and tried to focus every bit of his will power on the ruby-red gem inset on his ring, visualizing what he wanted to happen. What was that feeling of resistance? Try harder. Suddenly a sort of barrier in his mind yielded and a surge of intense heat rushed down to evaporate the puddle with a gout of steam. Only a dry pothole remained.

At sixteen, Jimmy Lawson was still a bit under six feet tall and gawky, with the long arms and legs of a growing boy. He had the family's dark auburn hair, a bit shaggy and untidy, but he had missed out on the green eyes his mother and sister were so proud of. Jimmy's eyes were a mundane dark brown. On this brisk October afternoon, he was wearing his favorite bright red jacket over a black T-shirt, matching the black jeans and red sneakers. Lowering his hand, he fought not to laugh out loud. Using the Flame Gem was getting easier all the time. Wherever he was summoning superheated air or actual fire from, he could call it easier every day.

Delighted with life in general and his new powers in particular, Jimmy started striding quickly down the road again. He couldn't understand why his family was so reluctant to use the Buliwyf talismans. Dad with the Earth Gem and Mom with the Water Gem both acted as if nothing had changed since they had come back from that cavern. His older sister Lisa did experiment a little with the Air Gem. A few times late at night, he had caught her rising up into the dark sky on a roaring column of hurricane winds she had summoned, but she was awful timid about fooling around with her gift, too.

What were they waiting for? Why were they so hesitant? He was going to put this incredible ability to good use, no matter if they cautioned him to be secretive or not.

Only another mile along the King's Highway and he would be at the convenient mart in Walston for some soda and chips, maybe a magazine. He didn't mind walking, Saturday meant all day to do whatever he wanted. In all fairness, he had genuinely put in applications for jobs all over Walston but no one seemed to be hiring. It would be nice to have some cash but he went plenty of places with his friends and it didn't cost much to go swimming or hang out at the Central Valley Mall. Always an excellent time with Gil and Fred.

When he came within sight of the One-Stop convenient mart, he cheered up even more at spotting the familiar white VW bug at the gas pump. Sure enough, there was the stocky form of Gilbert Ostrander, oldest of the gang at eighteen, with the taller skinnier Fred Bessolo next to him. And Fred's sister Grace as well, with all that strawberry-blonde hair down her narrow back. The expected hormonal surges rushed through Jimmy at seeing her. The past year, Grace had been turning up in some warm steamy daydreams even though he had to admit she had shown nothing but contempt for him since grade school.

"Jimmy! Hey, hurry up!" Gil said as he replaced to the hose to the pump and screwed the gas cap back on. "We're motoring out there now."

"We are? And where's that?"

"The cemetery. The one by St Anne's. Hustle it dude, get in." Gil went around to the driver's side. Just once, Jimmy wished that Fred would sit up front. That would leave him huddled in the back seat next to Grace. But no such luck. The unwritten rule of teendom dictated that girls got the shotgun seat whenever possible. Jimmy resigned himself to climbing in the back alongside Fred. Not that there was anything wrong with Fred, who wore black horn-rimmed glasses and had a pageboy haircut and was a total heavy metal head but leaning up against Grace seemed like a better deal any way you looked at it.

"Am I crazy or did you say we were going to the cemetery?" Jimmy asked at the VW rolled out onto the road.

"That's yes to both questions," replied Grace promptly.

"At least YOU'RE not driving," he snapped back. "Because then we'd be going to the cemetery to stay."

"Mellow out, you two," Gil broke in. "You mean you haven't heard the news? Everybody's talking about it."

"I didn't have the radio on today. What's the big deal?"

Next to him in the back, Fred intoned with enormous drama. "Dude! It's grave robbers. Ghouls right here in Walston. This morning, Father Salvucci arrived at the church and spied a big open hole where that fireman was buried Sunday. Whatzisname, Mr Schupp? Pile of dirt by the gravestone. No coffin, no body."

"No way."

"Way," responded Fred. "It's wholly bogus, right? Why would anyone do such a thing?"

Jimmy exhaled sharply. "Ummm, was he buried with anything valuable? No, he was just a local volunteer, he worked at Sears. I dunno, I'm stumped."

"That's nothing new. If you ever had an idea, it'd be lonely," Grace volunteered.

Despite the way she talked to him, Jimmy enjoyed watching her breasts bouncing under the thin calico-streaked blouse too much to get mad. "Well, what do you think happened?"

"How would I know!? What kind of stupid question is that?"

Gil shook his head. "Tell you what, how about I pull over right now and both of you can walk to the cemetery? We'll meet you there."

"We're here already," Fred said. "Throw an eyeball at the cars."

St Anne's Church sat at the bottom of Donnegan's Hill Road, a white-boarded structure more than eighty years old. The graveyard circled halfway around the church, some of the stones being too eroded for the inscriptions to be legible. There were indeed eleven cars lined up along the road and a considerable crowd near them but the police weren't letting anyone on the grounds. Two town cruisers and a dark blue and yellow State Trooper car had their lightbars flashing.

Slowing down to a crawl, Gil spun the crank down on his window. "Dammit, I can't see anything. Stupid Fuzz in the way, ruining the view. Maybe we can come by later and see if everyone got bored and went home."

"I can't figure this out," Jimmy said as they zipped around a turn in the road. "That's an odious lot of work, digging up tons of dirt and then hauling a heavy coffin away. Mr Schupp was a big heavy guy even without a coffin. No one would do all that just for kicks."

From the front seat, Grace presented her pug-nosed profile with a sniff. "It's obviously a sick twisted prank. Only two days to your favorite holiday, Lawson boy. Saturday's Halloween."

( the rest of the story )

fTHE NINE BEAST HELMETS II - BEASTS OF THE EAST

1. Frost and Burning Blade vs. Dragon

The oak door which blocked them was massive and intimidating, its thick planks reinforced with iron bands. The hinges and locks were not complex or modern, merely daunting. Two reluctant allies broke their uneasy silence as their progress was halted.

Slightly above average height, slender in her tight black field suit, Jessica Frost was strikingly attractive in a way she completely disregarded. Since the traumatic curse which had changed her appearance and given her the cryogenic power, nearly all of her emotions had been lost as well. The sole remaining tinge of feeling she retained was deep loyalty to the man who had kept her alive during that hellish ordeal, Jeremy Bane. It was to repay him that she had joined the KDF and become a knight of Tel Shai. Nothing else mattered to her. All attempts by her teammates to draw her out and to loosen her up with humor had fallen flat.

With her helmet held in the crook of her arm, Frost was revealed to have long fine-textured hair more silver than platinum blonde. If not for her eyes being saphire blue instead of pink, her flat white skin might have marked her as albino. When she turned those disinterested eyes on Dorgo, the Danarmyl felt an unreasonable irritation. Human eyes should show SOMETHING, they should not be as remote and frigid as doll's eye.

In contrast, the Seven Swords fighter wore only a loose mantle woven of stiff asbesto-like fibers, reaching to his knees and sashed at the waist. In the freezing hall, steam rose visibly from his hide. For Dorgo was a Danarmyl, one of the rare and little-known Cousins of Men who had been sorcerously modified to thrive deep underground. Dorgo's body was meant for high pressure and intense heat. His thick rugose hide was bright red, coarse-textured and thick as leather. His Race had neither hair nor external ears, the crimson-irised eyes were deepset and his mouth a wide toothy trap. It could not be seen easily in the dim light, but Dorgo had no fingernails and no separate toes.

This woman had done nothing overt to offend him, Dorgo admitted to himself. It was just her manner which infuriated him. He had wished to pair up with the Silver Skull, about whom he had heard many wild tales, but no such luck. With great effort, the Danarmyl focused on the challenge at hand and slid his sword from its sheath.

"In even normal hands, the Burning Blade can start fires and boil water," he rasped in a voice that sounded like rocks scraping together. "But in my grip, the sword can melt through steel walls. I will have this door down in a trice."

But Jessica Frost gave him a mere passing glance that stopped him short. She reached up, closed her hand on the lock and siphoned away every bit of heat in the metal. It cracked and fell into fragments without her even applying pressure. Frost swiped the broken apieces away and undid the hasp to open the door.

"Hear me!" he unexpectedly hissed. "I know your power has killed a Danarmyl like myself."

Frost turned her eyes toward him. "Hasak was a criminal mercenary working for Wu Lung. He had commited many murders."

"Even so. I understand you cracked him open with your gift as if pouring ice water on red hot iron. But do not think you could do the same to me. I am Dorgo of the Seven Swords. My core burns more intensely than that of my brethren. And I bear the ancient Burning Blade as well."

Jessica Frost lifted her helmet and brought it down over her shining head, fastening its lower rim to the high collar of her field suit. She had no reply to his comments.

"By Margoth, woman, you task my patience. Hagen has declared that the Nine Beast Helmets are an affront which must be destroyed. Shall such novices as you and your Dire Wolf, not even past a score and ten of years be taken more weightily?"

Without seeming to have heard him, Frost moved through the open door into the gloom beyond as if she were entirely alone. Dorgo shivered with repressed rage. So be it then. While he could with effort lower his skin temperature enough to contact Humans without harm, at the moment he had lost all control of that. His hide would have burned any bare skin touching it.

Following through the doorway, he saw the Tel Shai knight striding past a pair of narrow alcoves, not looking back to see if he was following. Dorgo fumed, physically and mentally. When this night's work was done, he meant to demand a reckoning. So worked up was he nursing his grievances that the thundering blow from that darkened alcove caught him completely unaware. A tight fist crashed against the side of his head and sent him reeling drunkenly. In an instant, he had regained his balance and the Burning Blade was ready in his grip. The Danarmyl rushed through the doorway and was ignominously thrown to the stone floor by a spinning kick that thumped violently across his back.

If Dorgo had been in a foul temper before, now he was on the edge of running amok. Nimble despite his peculiar traits, he sprang back up onto his feet and whirled his two-handled sword in a glittering circle that would have gutted anyone in its path. But the Dragon Helmet stood well out of reach.

He sensed Jessica Frost coming in close behind him, but at this point he hated her as much as he did the Nine Beast Helmets. Dorgo twirled the sword and assumed an on guard stance with its pointed half extended. He found himself facing an stout man whose coarse tunic was stretched uncomfortably over a round belly.

The man's helmet was crafted to resemble a Hurimi beast, one of the more familiar Breeds in the Midnight War. The horselike head showed a higher brow than such an equine must display. Two twisted horns stretched back from the brow, and a pair of short barbels hung from the chin. From within the eyeholes, nothing showed. Those openings were as black as if the helmet were unoccupied.

"Lay down your weapon, fool!" shouted the cultist. "There is still a bare hope that you and the colorless woman might live to see the dawn in your surrender."

"Empty words! It is know that NO other sect in the Midnight War has been humbled so often and so throughly as the Nine Beast Helmets." Dorgo extended his sword in front of him with a two-handed grip. "You have been beaten into laughingstocks."

"No! Wrong! We are a new sect, not the weak old witchmen who wore these helms. Atrumo has gathered the greatest warriors and assassins in the adjacent realms, now we are masters."

Dorgo laughed out loud, twirled his sword and lunged forward with the point extended. His attack was halted in mid-step by a roaring stream of white-hot force which shot from the Beast Helmet's open muzzle. That dragonflame rushed out fast and hard. The Danarmyl was flipped over backwards and slid ten feet across the stone floor.

"Do you sing different words to your little song now?" asked the Beast Helmet man.

Dazed and gasping, Dorgo rolled over and got up onto his knees. His hide sizzled in the cold night air and his sword glowed like a coal. In truth, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself alive. Any true Human would have been incinerated at once by that blast but he was only battered and singed. Being a Danarmyl was the main reason but he also realized that the heat-channeling properties on his ensorcelled blade had helped him survive.

Still, he realized as he struggled to rise, a second such blast would finish him. He used his sword as a lever to push himself up onto his feet.

"My name is Chimu, I was the undefeated wrestler of all Perjena. Even without this helmet, I could slay a Subterran such as you." The metal face swivelled to regard the other enemy in that room. "Ah, but it is you who are the real threat, aren't you? We have been warned of the new Tel Shai knights. You are Frost, the heartless ice maiden who causes rivers to freeze!"

"Accurate enough," Jessica Frost admitted. She did not need to gesture to use her power. Her mind drew on the transendental gralic force to siphon heat out of the area around her enemy. The path of this transference showed as a swirling column of ice crystals rushing toward the Beast Helmet man. Another fierce gush of superheated force exploded from the metal muzzle and both fundamental forces stalled in a gout of steam and spray.

For a full five seconds, bitter cold and intolerable crashed against each other in mid-air. Then both fighters let their attacks fade. Chimu stepped back, breathing heavily, gathering his will power for another burst.

Frost turned to Dorgo, sweeping in her hand in a forward motion. "He can't hurt you! Kill him."

The Danarmyl had been on the verge of rushing the enemy anyway. Prudence and patience were not his strongest attributes. At Frost's admonition, he closed in quick as a fencer, with the Burning Blade drawn back at head level in both hands. A sputter of hot air flurried in front of the Dragon Helm but faded out instantly, then the ancient sword wheeled around in a horizontal arc and lopped the cultist's head off with a geyser of blood from the base of the neck. Helmeted head and robed body fell in different directions, one hitting with a clang and the other a damp thud.

The Danarmyl braced himself with feet wide apart, needing a second to let his victory sink in. He saw the blood sizzle and burn off his blade, leaving it clean. "Tel Shai, you blocked his attack with your freezing power?"

"Yes."

Swinging around to stare at that pale emotionless face, Dorgo felt weary. He sheathed his sword and fell to his knees on the floor, beginning the unsavory task of removing a helmet from a severed head. "I must admit, that was quick thinking."

"I judged he could have overcome my ability with repeated attacks," Frost said grudgingly, as if explaining anything was an imposition. "You would have been killed as well. By shielding you, I enabled you to kill him. It seemed the best strategy."

Holding the cursed iron helmet in both hands, Dorgo glared down at it, strongly desiring to cast it into the river Evanyl outside or to hammer it flat on an anvil. "It was only chance that we ended up as the right team for this helmet, if chance it was."

"Our partners are even now fighting," Jessica Frost said, going to leave the chamber. "We must help. You may carry the Helmet."

"It has been a pleasure to work with you, too," muttered Dorgo, but not too loud.
( the rest of the story )

"THE NINE BEAST HELMETS I - BEASTS OF THE SOUTH

12/21/1988-12/24/1988

1.

Deep in the forest of Evaho, they found the old man lying in the dust. Blood was slowing to a trickle from the deep slash across his back. His clothing was simple homespun, coarse and undyed. Close to where he had fallen was a crude crutch made from the limb of an oak; his left leg ended above the knee.

Hagen signalled his league to halt their steeds, himself dismounting nimbly enough to crouch over the dying man. The leader of the Seven Swords was of average height, but wide-shouldered and narrow-waisted. He had dark brown hair cropped over a clean-shaven face, and his stern expression showed the force of will that made him leader of the Seven Swords. As a Melgar, even one in exile, he had both strength and resistance to harm greater to that enjoyed by Humans.

Riding through the this realm, the Seven Swords had left their plate armor at camp to be guarded by their squires. Hagen had on high boots, tight breeches and a white linen shirt covered by a vest of stiff brown leather. Of course, a baldric passing over his left shoulder supported the scabbard which held his Seeking Sword. None of his fellowship went anywhere without their specific ensorcelled sword.

Decades of questing had given the son of Ewan much knowledge of wounds. Nothing could be done for this poor soul. He dropped to one knee and gently laid a hand on that bony shoulder.

The old man's eyes darted about and widened. "Hagen? Is it you?"

"It is. Tell me who burned the village and mistreated such a greybeard as yourself."

"Nine men in black. They wore... helmets shaped like the heads of animals."

"Rest you well. Your village will be avenged," the Melgar said quietly. "By the White Horse, I swear it."

"Thank y.."

"Speed your soul to its source, grandfather," said Hagen even as he saw the light fade out in the old man's eyes. The Melgar rose smoothly to his feet and turned to face his comrades. "Barzun, you are our strongest. Dig this venerable one a grave and cover it well. I want no jackals to disturb his bones."

"It is a deed well worth doing," rumbled the Troll. He got down off the mighty plow horse which could bear his weight as lesser steeds could not. Barzun topped seven feet in height, massive and thick-limbed beyond proportions any Human could reach. He wore on a long tunic of heavy linen which reached to his knees, as well as his own Bludgeoning Blade. The tawny leathery skin marked his tunnel-dwelling Race, as did the conical skull and brow ledge which gave his features a misleadingly brutal cast.

Untying a spade from their pack horse, the Troll stepped over behind an ancient oak and commenced to digging, throwing huge amounts of earth behind him with ease. The others knew to simply stay out of his way when he tackled such tasks.

Remaining in their saddles, the other Seven Swords regarded their leader with expectation. It was Perendir the Eldar who broke the silence, "The Nine Beast Helmets have indeed surfaced after all these years, Hagen. Many hoped they had been lost and would never be seen again."

"Such good fortune is not given to us," Hagen replied. He stood with hand on hilt, gazing up at his teammates. "The rumors and whispers which led us here to Evaho were well-founded."

Astride his chestnut mount, Dorgo the red-skinned Danarmyl rasped, "Where you lead, we will follow, son of Ewan. Seven swords, nine helmets. Shall we not ride after these villains?"

"We will. The Nine Beast Helmets are not foes to be taken lightly, but then neither are we."

"When your people conquered this realm, they established fortresses at key points," Perendir continued. "Once their rule had been firmly established, the Melgarin stayed as farmers and miners but their strongholds were in time abandoned."

"All this is true," their leader replied. He saw that Barzon had already placed the pitiful corpse into the newly-dug grave and was filling it back. Hagen seized his saddlehorn and swung back up.

"I believe the nearest such castle is four days march from here," added Perendir. The tiny Eldar swept back her gleaming hair to reveal the pointed ears which marked her. "It will be harder to strike them down once they are behind stone walls."

"Much can happen in four days," growled Hagen.

2.

Standing at the head of the long oak table, Jeremy Bane gazed out over his friends and partners. Three generations of Tel Shai knights had assembled at that table, and he was proud he had been able to assemble so many worthy new knights. The seven who sat there offered a useful assortment of strengths and skills. The Dire Wolf felt confident about this mission.

"This council is open," he said, pulling back his chair to sit down. "He can't be here today, but Garrison Nebel informs me that he senses the presence of the Nine Beast Helmets active in the realm of Evaho. We've learned to trust his perception. For those who aren't familiar with them, these are a set of talismans from the Darthan Age that give gralic enhancements to anyone wearing them. When an person puts on one of the helmets, they're given extra strength and resistance to injury, but when a mystic wears one, the helmets endows them with special gralic abilities. The Eagle helmet gives flight, the Dragon helmet gives flame breath, or so the lore tell us. Our mission is to claim these helmets and turn them to our own purposes."

"Whoa, captain," interrupted Stephen Weaver, a tall lanky American black man. "I'm not the greatest expert on how these things work, but if they're Darthan, aren't they inherently destructive? Clear that up for me."

"I think they can be cleansed and repurposed," Bane said. "They were made by Humans, not by the Darthim, and they're made of iron instead of Gremthom. So, even if they use gralic magick from Darthan sources, I hope they can be salvaged."

"If you say so," Weaver responded with clear reservations. "I dunno. My instincts are that this could go awful wrong awful fast."

Sitting opposite the Black Angel, Kwali spoke up in his resonant baritone. "Perhaps not, Stephen. I myself wear the Cat's Claw of the great Wakimbe. Although its influence can draw one to sudden rages and rash actions, I have been able to bear it well through discipline. If we can channel the Nine Beast Helmets to a more noble use, I feel it is worth the attempt."

Bane nodded. "My hope is that we can find nine people we can trust to wear the Beast Helmets as a new team. I was thinking of some of our associate and reserve members stepping up. If not, in the Vault the helmets go. There at least they won't do any more harm."

Further down the table, the Melgar champion Sulak spoke up, "I say it is worth the try. If nothing else, we will at least be ridding the adjacent realms of a menace that has caused so much death and misery."

"A vote, then?" asked Tang Ming.

A simple show of hands decided the matter in favor. The negative votes were from Weaver and Jessica Frost, but both agreed they would go along with the majority decision.

As Bane rose again to end the meeting, he said, "Luckily, modern technology works well enough in Evaho. We found that out with the Ship of Skulls last year. Steve, help me do a rundown on the CORBY. Shiro, I'm afraid you get stuck here on standby duty this time. We need someone on base in case some of us come back wounded or if we need back-up and we all take our turn. Everyone else, you have forty-five minutes to get ready before we leave."

3.

By the steep banks of the River Elavyl, fourteen warriors faced each other in opposing line-ups. Overhead, a full moon in a cloudless star-blazing sky gave ample light to make out details. One hundred yards away, the black stealthcopter CORBY was tethered down beneath a camouflage tarp. Behind the Seven Swords were their horses, tied to a single line which ran to a tree overhanging the water.

Hagen's team were a striking variety of Races and sizes and shapes, counting a Troll, A Danarmyl, a Yugen and an Eldar among them Each bore their individual swords sheathed at their sides, and each had a symbol painted on the scabbard.. numbers ranging from one to seven.

The leaders of each team stepped forward to stand within arm's reach of each other.
"It's been a while," the Dire Wolf spoke first. "We haven't met since the Siege of Androval."

"...When you Tel Shai knights fought alongside we Melgarin against the hordes of Ulgor," Hagen responded. "Your knights' courage and sacrifice have not been forgotten, Dire Wolf. You dared everything for a fight you had no stake in. I take it your fellowship and mine are on the same quest tonight?"

"Yeah, we're definitely not here at the same time by chance. That would be stretching coincidence way too thin. It has to be the Nine Beast Helmets. My source indicates that the cult is using that abandoned castle downriver for the headquarters."

"There are other causes for you to embrace, Bane, other threats to bring down," Hagen said. "The Beast Helmets have been slaughtering and enslaving Melgarin in this realm. I take that personally. It shall be the Seven Swords who strike them down!"

Behind him, Bane sensed his team bristle. "We haven't come to this realm to leave without accomplishing our mission, Hagen. I want those helmets. They are a possible resource too valuable to pass up. I intend to have them cleansed and put to good use."

"Never shall that come to pass. Not that I doubt the strength and courage of your knights. That is mighty Sulak I see standing with you, and Kwali the Cat's-Claw and the Silver Skull. But the Nine Beast Helmets are powered by vile Darthan magick. They would corrupt the purest heart. No living being is noble enough to wear one and stay true."

"Only one way to find out. We're going after them," Bane announced, "Whether you get in the way or not."

The leader of the Seven Swords raised an open hand in conciliation. "Let no hasty words trap us into positions we will regret. Sulak! You are a loyal son of Androval, even as I. What say you?"

"Hagen, I have a thought," the Champion said. "We are both seven warriors. Why contend against each other when we share a common enemy? To quarrel is to do our cause an injustice. I say, let us pair up. One Tel Shai knight with one of the Seven Swords, invading that castle by twos. Let us work together for the greater good."

"You always bring good counsel," replied Hagen. "Dire Wolf, that would be an arrangement we both could honor, yes?"

For one long, unbearably tense moment Bane did not reply. "All right," he agreed at last. "It makes sense. We can figure out how to handle the helmets after we claim them."

"Both our Races share a wise saying," said Hagen. 'Before you begin to cook rabbit stew..'"

"'First catch the rabbit!'" finished the Dire Wolf with relief in his voice. "Let's do it. I guess random teams are as good an arrangement as any. Everyone, introduce yourselves to your opposite standing across of you right now. Our mystic Tang Ming here will perceive the best routes to sneak into the castle without being detected."

Hagen grunted in agreement. "As will my own Seeking Blade. It leads me to whatever I search for. Very well, Dire Wolf. Let justice be served."

In the moonlight, a thin wry smile could be glimpsed on Bane's face. "The Nine Beast Helmets will be sorry that our two teams met!"

( the rest of the story )

"Dancing On Quicksand"

(1988)

4/20-4/23/1988

I.

Deep in the hills of Virginia was a complex of modern office buildings forty miles from the nearest town. The security was intense but not obvious. The observation cameras and armed sentries watched from behind one-way glass panels, and an untrained eye could not have detected the microphones, pressure-sensitive road plates, proximity alarms and heat-detecting sensors built in the grounds. Cheval saw all of them. She turned up the corners of her mouth in a tiny smile, and her huge dark eyes reflected her amusement. Gadgets. But, to be fair, she admitted to herself that it was only her inborn gralic power which put her in a position to scorn gadgets. These people were only Humans trying to win against long odds.

The black limousine DRAGONWING rolled silently onto the mile-long driveway. Behind the wheel was Cheng Wong-Lai. He wore his traditional chaffeur uniform, complete with flap-front coat, gloves and billet cap. The young Chinese warrior glanced at the complex instruments on the dashboard and said, "We are being probed, captain. Electronic sensors at state of art level." A lifetime of travelhad left him with no accent.

Cheval, on the other hand, still deliberately retained a faint hint in her vioice of her French-Canadian origins because many men found it appealing. "Can they penetrate, Chen?"

"No. Not this car, with our Trom shielding."

Cheval leaned back against against the deep leather of the rear seat. She wore a simple blouse, skirt and blazer of dark blue that flattered her petite figure withot being obvious. "So far, Trom have kept ahead of Human advances," she said.

Next to Chen in the front was Kwali, a big athletic black African. He wore a well-tailored European-style suit with crisp white shirt and solid maroon tie. His hair was cropped close to the skull, emphasizing the strength in his somber, unsmiling face. The Danarakan watched a sign on a post go past. ADVANCED SECURITY RESEARCH -NO ACCESS BEYOND THiS POINT and his bright green eyes narrowed.

"Cheval," he rumbled in his deep, sullen voice. "I have never been able to make distinctions between the American intelligence services. CIA, NSA, ASR, NERA, they all seem to be just arms of the same beast."

"Perhaps they are just that," she answered. "Many masks over the one face. We are facing masters of deceit and deception, my friend."

The driveway ended at a long one-story building, with other smaller structures arrayed behind it. Chen slowed as he passed between two head-high stone pillars and came to a stop in the center of an open concrete circle, brilliantly lit even in the dead of night. Spaced along the outer walls of the building were enclosed observation stations and each of the three KDF members sensed weapons trained on them as they got out of the car.

From mounted speakers came a pleasant, mellow male voice, "Welcome to Advanced Security Research. Please step away from your vehicle and identify yourself."

"Let's play their little game," muttered Cheval. Kwali towered over both his teammates, but he and Chen flanked their captain immediately. "Three members of the Kenneth Dred Foundation," she announced at normal conversational level. Cheval. Chen Wong-Lai. Bakwanga Kwali. We are here as requested."

"IDs confirmed," said the voice. "Please proceed through the gate to your left. Your vehicle may remain where it is. Thank you and have a nice day."

"Nice day!" grumbled Chen. "Four-thirty AM is hardly the usual time for briefings. Sunday morning, at that."

"Steady, little dragon," Cheval said, touching his arm lightly.

"Very well," the Chinese fighter complied. Removing his cap and tucking it under one arm, he thumbed a control patch of the door handle of the DRAGONWING and the car sealed itself. Let them try to get into my baby, he thought with satisfaction. They'd need cutting torches.

The three KDF members walked to a doorway which unlocked with a series of clicks and hissed open on its own. A man stood with folded arms in the antechamber. He was tall, sleek, with jet black hair and dark, watchful eyes. Even Cheval could not spot the gun which she knew must be concealed somewhere under that neat tan suit. The man did not offer to shake hands but his voice was polite. "Good of you to come. My name is Dennis Ortiz, First Assistant in Operations. Please come with me." He led them to a pair of doors, one of which opened as he slid a plastic card into a slot. It was an elevator, unexpected enough in a one-story building. As the door hissed shut, he tapped on the control panel and the cage descended. After a full minute of going down in the earth, they emerged into a white tile lobby, cool and dry and antiseptic. Everything in the ASR seemed to be too brightly lit.

Behind a reception counter sat a middle-aged woman with auburn hair and thick glasses, typing away on a keyboard. She gave them each a triangular ID badge, which they clipped on their clothing and Ortiz led the way through sliding door and down a corridor. finally taking them through yet another sliding door without markings into a large private office. White-walled and beige-carpeted, the office had slightly more subdued lighting than the usual ASR glare. The furnishings were ordinary, even bland. From behind a steel desk topped with computer monitor and bank of phones, a thin man rose and came around to meet them.

"Hello, Corrine," he began but she cut him off.

"Cheval, my dear, always Cheval."

"How are you this morning?" he continued as if she had not spoken. "It must be three years, far too long be inactive from the field."

She gave him her sweetest smile. "I've been employed in related work. Howard, I am certain you know all about my two partners, Kwali and Chen. This is Howard Lamb, Special Projects Director for the ASR."

Everyone shooks hands and mumbled the proper greetings. Kwali towered over everyone. He was four inches taller than the six-foot Ortiz and the others were shorter yet. Cheval was not much over five feet high. Lamb motioned his visitors to seat theselves in three plastic chairs which were arranged before a projection screen built into a wall. "Let me be honest with you from the start. Advanced Security Research is an agency of the federal government. That government and the nation which it serves are our concern."

Lamb came around to stand in front of them, hands behind his back. He was of medium height and build, perhaps a bit too thin to be healthy, in his late forties. Two things kept him from being handsome. His nose and long and pointed enough to be distracting and he spoke from the corner of one mouth as thought his face had been hurt at some point. "Cheval, I have to admit that we were told not to call the KDF in on this. Higher-ups in this agency warned that your group is a loose cannon on the deck. A wild card in the deck. But what I know of you convinced me that you and your team were the best possible choice to bring in as consultants."

He continued, "I will say that the various agencies do not have much information on the Kenneth Dred Foundation. We know who Kenneth Dred himself was, of course. A well-known author on the occult who wrote more than forty books in his lifetime and who did work for the OSS during the war. We know his protege, a man who calls himself Jeremy Bane, inherited Dred's fortune of two hundred million dollars and established the KDF in September 1979. Now, on the surface, the KDF is non-profitmaking research organization investigating the paranormal. Strange sightings, wild talents, that sort of thing. But it has always been more than that. All along, the KDf has been asked to help apprehend dangerous criminals. Bane personally has apprehended serial killers like Samhain and Seneca. Andrew Steel and the late Michael Hawk vouched for the KDF and their considerable clout helped give the group great independence to operate freely." He paused.

Cheval said nothing, listening politely. She did not intend to correct his misconception, but Cheval was neither an official KDF member or a knight of Tel Shai. She had met and worked with Jeremy Bane, who respected her enough to hire her to train new KDF members. When they were ready, she went back to her own affairs. Dennis Ortiz had come to stand where they could see him.

Beginning to pace slowly, Lamb continued, still speaking from the left corner of his mouth. "What concerns intelligence agencies is all the mystery surrounding the KDf. Bodies turn up wherever your group is active. There are many reports of unexplained phenomena wherever your group appears, too bizarre to believe but too documented to just be discounted. The real purpose of the KDF remains a tantalizing mystery." He took a deep breath. "As a colleague and friend, Cheval, allow me to give a word of advice. Get clearance for your group. Have your Director, Jeremy Bane, establish a working relationship with the proper authorities before there is trouble. We know that you have tangled with Intercrime, with the empires of Wu Lung and Arem Kamende. I fear the KGB or other foreign services will step in, too."

She gave one of her rare laughs, a low pleasant chuckle. With her gamin haircut and large eyes, Cheval often seemed like a teenager although she was in her thirties, "I will discuss it with my captain, Howard. But now you must get to why you have asked my team of drive out here before dawn on,lj-cut a Sunday morning."

( Read more... )

THE NINE BEAST HELMETS III - Beasts of the West

I. Black Angel and Returning Blade vs Eagle

Spreading his artificial wings, Black Angel glided up to stand on top of the main wall around the fortress. He turned, knelt down and grasped Magulu's upstretched hands to give an assist. When the armored warrior was ready, they both leaped down into the courtyard, breaking the fall with bent knees and fingertips touching the stone flags.

Magulu of the Seven Swords was encased in a long tunic of tough boiled leather covered with metal rings, his arms and legs left bare and his long sword sheathed at his left hip. In contrast, Stephen Weaver was a striking sight. His tight black flightsuit was contrasted with a red stripe running down the outside of each arm and leg, his own helmet was modern combat model with goggles and a respiratory mask.

Most dramatic were the two wings which stretched from head to heel, had a seven foot spread when fully open and were constructed of taut nylon over aluminum tubing. This made them look more batlike than avian. Weaver's levitation made him perfectly capable of flight by himself, but the wings added stability and tight maneuvering.

"How long has this joint been abandoned?" he asked in a voice made hollow by the speaker in his helmet.

"More than a generation," came the reply. "Melgarin still tend extensive farmland and pastures to the West, but most of Evaho has been reclaimed by the Cojobes."

"An experiment in colonialism that didn't work out," Black Angel grumbled. "Seems to be the way that empire building ends up."

The courtyard had piles of fallen leaves that wind had pushed up against the walls, great cracks ran across the masonry from exposure to the elements. In the center of the open space stood a fountain which had long since run dry, marked by a life-size marble statue of a rearing horse.

The fortress itself was a simple three-sided structure, rising up ten stories high in the freezing night air. Each wing was topped with a cylindrical guard tower, but not a single light showed in any of the narrow window slits. "If I stumbled over this without knowing better, I'd figure this place is empty," Weaver said.

"Three wings of a castle, three ranks of the Helmets," Magulu responded. "Beasts of the East, Beasts of the West, Beasts of the South. We do not know which we will face."

"Might as well get this party started," the Black Angel said. He walked boldly up to the massive front door made of oak planks braced with horizontal iron bands and found it was ajar. "Oh man. Well, not the first trap I stuck my fool head into." As his gloved hand pulled the door open, from the roof of that wing a red firebolt shot upward to explode in a thunderous burst of light. Both the echoes and the flare hung in the air.

"We know no one in this stronghold is still asleep," Magulu remarked as he followed Weaver into the building. That drew a snort from the Black Angel. They entered an open chamber with a ceiling so high that the staircases on either side rose to a second floor showing open doorways. Torches flickered in wall brackets, revealing not a bit of furniture or furnishings. This entrance hall had been stripped down to bare stone floor and walls. Dust covered every surface, and the lack of footprints made Weaver lower his guard a bit too much.

For the occupant of that room did not need to walk across the floor.

A sharp twang sounded overhead and a thick arrow thumped against the Black Angel's chest, bouncing back off without doing any damage. Under the tough material of his flightsuit was a layer of the flexible Trom armor. It would take more than even a skillfully shot arrow to make Weaver even feel an impact.

High up near the vaulted ceiling hovered a muscular figure in coarse robes belted at the waist. He had a cylindrical quiver across his back and was fitting another arrow to the string of his short recurved bow. The iron helmet he wore was fashioned in the semblance of a fierce Eagle head. This was one of the three Beasts of the West.

With a crack, Weaver extended his wings their full spread and hurtled upward. The Eagle had placed himself in a strike position and loosed an arrow that pierced the tough fabric of Weaver's artificial wings, pinning them together like a needle sewing two pieces of cloth shut. Black Angel lurched as his balance was thrown off. He hovered uncertainly. The Eagle came in fast in a predatory dive and kicked Weaver squarely in the head, his boots smacking against the rigid flight helmet with gusto. Unsteady to begin with, Black Angel spiralled in a rough circle to the floor.

The Eagle Helmet wearer laughed heartily, notching another arrow to his short bow. He swung around to look back at the Seven Swords fighter and received an agonizing surprise. The Returning Blade had spun end over end to sink its point deeply into the Eagle's right thigh, touching the femur. The Beast Helmet man screamed at the unexpected pain, dropped his bow and grabbed the sword with both hands.

Standing thirty feet below, Magulu of Danarak held out his open hand and summoned the weapon to him. This was the special property of the Returning Blade, infused in the sword ages ago. Slowly, despite his enraged resistance, the Eagle Helmet man was tugged downward by the blade embedded in his leg. Fighting the pull only made the wound worse. He shouted both from pain and anger, reached to his belt and drew a long narrow-bladed knife, thinking how it was just the thing to slide through the Seven Sword's face.

Stephen Weaver twisted the round buckle on his chest and let his wings fall to the floor. He did not want to waste time trying to free his wings and then fastening them back on to their harness. Even without their help, he was still the most gifted levitator in the Midnight War. He took three running steps and launched himself upward from the floor exactly as if he had used a springboard. Accelerating as he rose, Black Angel swung his body around and drove both feet deep into the Eagle Helmet's stomach. That doubled the already distressed man up, making him lose the last vestige of concentration.

Without his conscious mind controlling the helmet's gift, the cult member dropped straight down and landed poorly. The thump of impact had a grim finality to it. Even with the Eagle dying, the Returning Blade still dragged his body across the floor as it strove to go to its master's hand.

This fight at least was over. Weaver alit, picked up his wings and began disentangling the arrow from the nylon. "Drat darn heck," he said mildly.

Magulu had tugged his weapon free from the Eagle's corpse and cleaned it before returning the sword to his scabbard. He had the face of a typical Danarakan... very dark-skinned, strong-jawed, with the distinctive hooked nostrils that had always been prevalent in that realm.

"Seeing this man dead gives me great satisfaction," Magulu told his new colleague. "Danarak has suffered much from the Nine Beast Helmets. They have pillaged and looted, they have slaughtered entire villages, except for young girls that they sell as slaves to the Darthim and Nekrosim."

Holding his folded wings under one arm, Stephen Weaver said, "I just realized there's something you don't know about me." He unclasped his own modern helmet with one hand and pulled it up off his head. Weaver was an American black man, lighter in tone than Magulu, with a thick mustache and friendly expression. He grinned now as he saw the Seven Swords' reaction.

"Ah. I see we have more in common than I thought," Magulu said.

"Always glad to help a brother out," Weaver responded.

( the rest of the story )

"The Mongoose Hunts Alone"

8/31/1988

I.

When he heard the gunshot from inside the house, Jeremy Bane broke into a full sprint across the huge front yard. He was not wearing the field suit with all its gadgets tonight but he still carried several concealed weapons and wore the full body armor under his black slacks, turtleneck and jacket. And of course, he seldom went anywhere without the matched silver daggers sheathed under his sleeves.

As he vaulted up the front steps onto the porch, a second shot sounded within. The Dire Wolf flung the screen door open, swiveled his body sideways and blasted out a straight side punch that snapped the lock and slammed the door inward with one hinge torn loose. In that same continuous motion, Bane leaped through the opening in a crouch, the dart gun swinging in his left door in an arc from side to side. In a tiny fraction of a second, he took in details of everyone in that room and was ready to deal with them. The room itself was almost bare, with only two chairs, a coffee table and single lamp standing in one corner.

There were three dead men on the floor. Bane knew from their postures and the arrangement of their limbs that two had been shot while trying to run and the third had been struck down with lethal impact.

Four living people were beginning to react to his sudden entrance. One was a woman in her mid-twenties... thin, red-haired with a white Stetson pushed back on her head and sporting a twin-holstered gunbelt holding Colt .45 revolvers. One was an Asian man about thirty, probably Korean, short but sturdily built, no visible weapons. The third was a black man, West African and not American judging by his facial bone structure and skin tone. He was immense, at least six feet six inches tall, lanky with long arms and legs.

The fourth man was elderly, at least in his seventies, with a thick mane of silver-white hair over a proud hawklike face. Bane's instant analysis warned him that this man was possibly even more dangerous than the other three. All these impressions raced through his mind almost instantaneously and he was moving into action before the four people began to respond to his appearance.

He had decided to take out the redhead first, because her guns were the most immediate threat and because of the implication that she had been the one who had killed two of the corpses on the floor. The Dire Wolf extended his arm full-length and triggered the air-powered gun with its soft coughing retort. To his complete surprise, the young woman was already hopping to one side and the dart missed her entirely. This caught him off-guard. All his life, Bane's enhanced reflexes had given him an advantage over normal Humans and he had not expected her to be moving at his rate. Far too fast for any normal quick-draw expert to match, the redhead whipped up her right-hand Colt and fired twice with bright white flashes from the barrel. The shots were deafening in the enclosed space. Bane took both bullets high on the chest, and although the impacts stung viciously, his Trom armor under his clothes dispersed the force enough that he remained on his feet.

She did not get a third attempt. The Dire Wolf bracketed her with two quick shots and one of the anesthetic darts pierced the thin flannel of her work shirt right below the sternum. The woman felt a sharp sting and a burning sensation, but the Trom-formula drug dazed her instantly and within another second she was sagging to the floor with the Colt falling from a limp grasp.

An enormous dark hand clamped tight around Bane's extended arm with agonizing tightness, cutting off the circulation. The dart gun dropped as Bane's grip was loosened. The Dire Wolf swung his body toward his attacker, slamming the heel of his free hand up under the man's chin so hard that the jaws clapped audibly shut. At the same time, Bane had hooked his foot behind the African's ankle and tugged sharply to throw the man off-balance. As his opponent lurched to one side, the Dire Wolf threw a backfist that cracked like a whip. The big man's head twitched but he did not fall as Bane had expected; instead, the African fighter rumbled deep in his chest and clutched at his much smaller foe.

Something unforseen was going on here, Bane thought. He knew his capabilities and he was at peak tonight. To match his speed and strength, as these characters were doing, was unexpected. But there was no time to think it over. As those huge open hands reached for him, the Dire Wolf chambered his left leg and drove his boot deep into the man's hard-muscled abdomen. The black man doubled up as air was forced from his lungs and this brought his head down to where Bane could belt a hard left hook to the cheek. As his opponent fell to one knee in dazed confusion, Bane swung around to check what the others were about to do.

He turned barely in time to roll with a high kick to the head that might have killed an unprepared man. As it was, that slippered foot grazed his jaw. It was the young Korean, spinning to throw a reverse roundhouse kick with the other leg. Bane swayed his upper body enough that the blow passed by him a hair's width away, and he immediately lunged in to catch the Korean with an uppercut that connected perfectly. The young Asian dropped back a step. Bane began a front shin kick that abruptly changed a high reverse crescent which smacked against his opponent's temple like a hammer. The Korean reeled back, raising his hands in automatic defense.

From the corner of his eye, Bane saw the big African coming at him again. This was getting annoying. The Dire Wolf met him with two left-right hooks that sounded like gunshots but still the giant did not fall. Bane lost his temper at the stubbornness of these two fighters. He exploded a wide roundhouse blow that spun the African entirely off his feet to crash onto a coffee table and wreck it. The Korean was attacking again. No ordinary Humans, no matter how tough, could shrug off blows the way these two were doing.

Normally, Bane restrained himself slightly in fights to keep from killing everyone he faced. With these two, however, he seemed to be facing his peers and he could cut loose. The young Asian threw a straight right. Bane stepped past it, seized that wrist with his own right hand and yanked the man's arm out straight, pulling him into a left backfist that smacked right above the eyebrows. The Korean's eyes rolled up to show only whites and he fell backwards without trying to catch himself. The other man was stirring feebly amidst the wreckage of the shattered coffee table and he was not going to be a threat for a few more minutes.

Who were these people, he wondered. They couldn't be Melgarin, not an African and an Asian. Not Gelydrim, either. But then what was their secret? How had they been meeting him on equal terms? Even as these thoughts crossed his mind, Bane wheeled to see the white-haired man pointing a small .25 Beretta Brigadier right at him. Against any common thug, the Dire Wolf would have been inclined to trust his body armor would protect him and a head shot was unlikely considering how quickly he moved. But with foes of this caliber, he didn't think the risk was justified. He stayed where he was and awaited the next move.

The old man was well-dressed in a lightweight white summer suit with a bolo tie. The dark blue eyes were sharp and alert under spiky white brows. His gunhand was perfectly steady. "Even for an Amrath, you're exceptional," he announced. "Still, no Snake man has ever been able to escape a shot from Jefferson Aubrey Pierce!"

( the rest of the story )

"Project Regulus I - The People Breeders"

11/1-11/4/1988

I.

After the guard passed around the corner, Chen emerged from the wall. He passed through the concrete and tile of the wall as if it was just an image cast by a projector, but the truth was the opposite. It was Chen who had become unsolid through the effect of the ensalir Dragon Pendant he wore beneath his black tunic. As soon as he was clear, the young Chinese exhaled and took a deep slow breath. When he was unsolid, he could not breathe and this limited how long he could remain in that state. Now he flattened up against the pastel green tiles and listened acutely for anything to indicate he had been detected. There were wooden doors with frosted glass panels at intervals along the hall but nothing else. No signs, no diagrams of fire exits, not even an arrow to indicate where some specified location might be. Only the dimmest possible illumination came from nightlights set at intervals down by the floor.

At twenty-six, Chen Wong-Lai was the only living master of the Fang Lung martial art his father had created. Some of that art had been taught to Shiro Mitsuru and some to Chen's lover Tang Ming, but most still remained only in the elder Chen's notes and in what the son had learned. Fang Lung was an art which emphasized stealth and misdirection, it stressed timing and cleverness over sheer strength in a fight. Chen slid down the brightly lit hall so silently that it seemed unnatural. He was wearing the rubber-soled slippers, snug leggings and tunic of his Dragon of Midnight role, with the long sleeved tunic ending in thin cotton gloves. The hood of the tunic had been drawn up, and under it Chen hid his face behind a full face black mask which was thin as gauze. On the brow of that mask was an outline of a rampant Imperial Dragon in thin white lines.

All of this, from the outfit to the mystic Dragon Pendant to the martial art, had been passed down from his father, Chen Lee-Sun. So far he had not added anything of his own, but he intended to. The new Dragon of Midnight moved quickly down the corridor and froze into position as his enhanced hearing detected someone breathing just ahead. The hallway widened into a lobby, with a pair of elevators visible. A closed-circuit camera swivelled slowly high up in one corner, but Chen knew he could disregard it. The gralic force of his Pendant blurred photographs and made video images grainy and unreadable. Anyone watching the monitor of the camera would think something was wrong with the equipment and start fiddling with the controls for a while.

Peering around the edge of the wall, Chen saw a lobby twenty feet by forty, with a pair of elevators and a stairwell behind a door with a clear panel. Two benches, a few plastic chairs and a table with some newspapers. Behind a simple metal desk, a heavyset middle-aged man in a bright Kelly Green security uniform sat and studied a slim paperback. He wore a billed cap and an automatic was in a flap holster on his right side. Beneath the black mask, Chen smiled. He reached inside his sleeve and drew a thick metal dart from the leather wristband.

( the rest of the story )

"I Teach You the Superman"

5/28-5/30/1988

I.

Folding the artificial batlike wings of red silk over aluminum tubing against his back, Stephen Weaver dropped his legs beneath him and landed lightly next to his teammates. The Black Angel stepped closer to Bane and Sulak, keeping his voice low. "There's some weird Zhune mechanism in the back yard, all right. I didn't spot any sentries."

Watching the cottage halfway down the hill from where they stood concealed in the trees, Jeremy Bane did not answer at once. "I haven't seen any movement down there either. I hoped we would get here before Avathor returned."

The third member of the Tel Shai knights loomed up over his friends. Sulak of Androval was only an inch or two taller than his partners, but he was an imposing mass of hard-defined muscle with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. The Melgar was wearing his traditional arena uniform of Royal blue tunic and leggings with white gloves, short boots and sash around his waist. He looked like the gladiator he was. Impressive as he appeared, even that did not hint at the superhuman strength in his body... the Legacy of Malberon.

"We should simply march down there and claim the Zhune apparatus," said the big Melgar. "Avathor being here is bad enough but if Karl Eldritch should show up...!"

Bane made an angry snort. "Our biggest fear, all right. Eldritch has been searching for Zhune relics for years. Every time he locates one, there's a disaster we barely survive." The Dire Wolf was a lean, taut man in the black field suit fitted with a dozen weapons and gimmicks. His grey eyes were unsettling at best but now they were actively intimidating.

Standing next to him, Weaver had unfastened his crested helmet and lifted it off for the moment. He was an American black man with a rather friendly, open face and thoughtful eyes. A thick mustache was his attempt to draw attention away from a slightly large nose. "I've never met this Avathor, captain. As I understand it, he's a Gralic Leech."

"He was a Melgar," Sulak grumbled, "But he was disowned by our King. Now he is a renegade and outcast without honor. Avathor is a living shame to my Race."

The Dire Wolf began moving toward the edge of the hill. Behind them, the remote back road was empty at four in the morning. They hadn't seen another vehicle pass in the hour they had been here watching the cottage set halfway down the hill. To their side was a walk made of flat shale slabs set in the ground, but Bane stayed well away from it. "Sulak, I want you with me. Steve, you should get in the air again and circle around to watch us from the opposite side of the yard. If there's trouble, you're back-up."

"Got it, captain," replied the Black Angel. He lowered the helmet on again, fastened its latches and checked the 45 automatic in the flap holster at his belt. At a command electronically relayed from the muscles in his back, the artifical wings rustled open to their full eight foot span. Without crouching or seeming effort, Weaver shot silently and smoothly straight up into the night air. He was the most gifted levitator known. The secret USAF Black Angel Project had never located another person near his level. Most levitators could barely rise an inch or two off the ground. Weaver could fly.

In the open back yard, where the grass had not started to grow yet after a long winter, a raised round plate of some coppery metal had been set up. It was three feet across and had a single vertical pole rising up to end in a round knob at chest height. The plate itself was incised with intricate patterns that seemed almost like a diagram. From one side of the apparatus, two thick cables of the red metal stretched across the yard to end with a small raised stand from which an identical rod stood up.

"Careful, careful," Bane grumbled. "Stay alert. Let's not jump into this. We'll inspect this outer control first." With Sulak beside him, the Dire Wolf stood near the rod which rose by itself away from the ground plate. "This knob on top activates the mechanism, I guess...."

Swooping down to join them, Black Angel brought his wings together at his back but did not cause them to fold up yet. "Say, Jeremy, I thought only Eldritch knew how to work these Zhune gadgets?"

"He's the only one who can charge them up," Bane answered, peering at the esoteric markings on the rod but unable to make any sense of them. "Eldritch learned the secret knowledge of Zhune and so far no one else has figured it out. But once a relic is charged with the primal atomic fire, anyone can use it."

"And Avathor, of all people, has recovered this one," Weaver said. "Bad news any way you look at it."

"Wait." Sulak was digging his boots into the loose earth that they stood upon. "Is it my imagination...?"

Bane swung around sharply. It was the first time his friends had seen him with his nerves obviously on edge. "What?"

"There's something under this dirt, captain," the big Melgar said as he rubbed his toe to clear away a gleam of the coppery metal. "By the White Horse, look."

In the instant that all three Tel Shai knights were staring in horror down at the ground, at the opposite end of the yard a huge dark figure leaped up from concealment near the metal plate. Avathor's hand clamped down on the control rod and twisted the knob atop it. The night vanished in a glare of intolerable white light that no living eye could endure, there was a roaring rush like a river around them, and the three men fell to the ground as it they had been struck dead. Then everything faded to normal.

Standing on the steaming metal plate, watching his enemies drop senseless, Avathor could not restrain his laughter. The Gralic Leech was several inches over six feet high, his powerfully built body concealed in dark tunic and pants, with high riding boots. His skin was so deeply tanned as to itself resemble copper, but short-cropped blond hair lowered to a widow's-peak over blue eyes. Finally, he managed to control his laughter enough to speak.

" 'I teach you the Superman,'" he quoted in his booming voice. "'Man is something to be surpassed.' Nietzsche was foretelling ME!"

( the rest of the story )

The Skull Mug of Ti-Yuan"

9/19-9/22/1988

I.

"Say, Jeremy, I was wondering why you still carry a revolver? Why not get up to date with a Glock or some other automatic?" Chen Wong-Lai passed a slow-moving delivery van and did not receive an answer for a second. Moving back into the right hand lane, he glanced over at his captain sitting in the passenger seat as they rushed through the night.

The Dire Wolf said, "Revolvers are less likely to jam than autos or semi-autos. Easier to clean and maintain."

"Yeah?" asked the Dragon of Midnight in a dubious tone. "That's the reason?"

"And I find they're more reliable in dusty or humid conditions. It's also easier to get ammo for that will fit. Since we are often in extreme environments and on the run, I find revolvers a better choice." He smiled in his barely susceptible way. People knew him for years before they could read his expressions. "What brings that to mind, Chen?"

"Hah. Nothing in particular. After driving for three hours, I'm just making conversation." Still under thirty, Chen was lean and fit, wearing a dark blue polo shirt and black trousers. He had been letting his hair grow out a little so it covered his ears and touched his collar, but an attempt to grow a mustache had been unsuccessful. Facial hair just didn't seem to be in his genes. The new Dragon of Midnight shrugged. "You seem perfectly comfortable to sit there in silence, Jeremy."

"I guess I don't talk much," the Dire Wolf admitted. As always, he was wearing what was recognized as almost his uniform in the Midnight War... black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. In the subdued backlight from the Dragonwing's dashboard, the pale grey eyes glinted. "Well, we don't have much information on the case."

"No, I guess not. We get a phone call from the Endicott chief of police and off we go. He must have given you SOME hints about what was going on, captain."

Leaning back in the passenger seat, Bane did not answer right away. This was a habit of his that many found infuriating. Finally, he said, "No. Just that there was big trouble in Endicott's Chinatown. Three weird deaths. He didn't want to say more over the phone."

"Well, we're on the outskirts of Endicott now," Chen told him. "I hope you know your way around the Chinese neighborhoods here because I have never been in this area before."

"I've been here. Just once. It's almost eight o'clock. Stay on this main drag for a while, I guess we will meet Chief Schumer at the police headquarters." Bane studied the scene as they rolled more slowly down the city streets.

"So typical!" snorted Chen Wong-Lai. "Look, two Szechuan restaurants or so they claim. A couple of gift shops. A nail salon... come on, it's so obvious."

"Well, it's a Chinatown," Bane said absently. "They give the tourists what they expect to find. Over there, Liu's barber shop really was a front for some gambling in the back room as I recall. Liu was close to seventy and that was ten years ago."

"There's the police station, captain. I'm going to park over by the exit in case we want to leave on the run." The Dragon of Midnight eased into an open slot and turned the silenced motor off. "I hope we get some answers."

It was a warm early September night, overcast and stuffy without a breeze. As they stepped away from the Dragonwing, Chen thumbed a button on his key fob and the doors of the gleaming black limo locked shut. "Alarms are set," he said.

"I'm curious about how much Len has modified that car for you," Bane grumbled. "It may have started as a Lincoln Continental but I guess there's not much left of the original car."

"Let the Dragon have his secrets," the young Chinese hero answered. He stepped up to the double glass doors of the white brick building and opened one to hold it for his captain. "Hope your friend is still here, it's getting late."

Inside was a small foyer with an enclosed booth to their right. Behind bullet-proof glass, a uniformed officer sat filling out forms. He looked like he was reaching retirement age, and he had grown more thick around the middle than should technically have been allowed. "Evening," he said in a neutral tone.

The Dire Wolf stepped up to the booth. "Chief Schumer asked us to come here. My name is Jeremy Bane. This is my friend and partner Chen Wong-Lai."

The cop did not ask for ID, evidently he had been given a description. He studied the two men for a moment, then depressed a switch on the intercom next to him. "Your visitors are here, chief. I'm sending them in."

A static-distorted voice answered, "Go ahead, Sam."

The old cop hit a white button on the counter in front of him and a buzz sounded to their left as the main door unlocked. "Go right ahead, folks. Chief's office is to your right as you enter."

"Thanks," said Bane. He opened the door and stepped through, holding it for Chen to follow. The Dragon came into the main room behind him as they were met by a short, wiry man with curly black hair and a thick mustache. Shumer had opened his shirt collar and loosened the knot in his uniform tie.

"Hi, Chief. It's been a few years," the Dire Wolf said as he shook the offered hand.

"I'm only sorry about the reason I had to ask you back here. Terrible, what has happened." The police chief smiled at Chen. "And you must be the new Dragon of Midnight? Some of the Chinese merchants here have mentioned you. You're quite a legend, son."

Chen Wong-Lai smiled almost in embarrasment. "It was my father who was the legend," he mumbled. "I'm just doing what I can to carry on."

Ushering them into a cramped office filled with detritus and equipment, Chief Shumer waved Bane and Chen to sit in two chairs facing a desk piled with loose papers and folders. "Sorry for the mess. Never enough hours in the day."

Settling in, the Dire Wolf got right to the point, "What happened that you asked us to come here?"

Shumer lowered his head and stared at his clasped hands. "Murders. Three murders so far in six weeks. Unrelated as far as I can see except what was done to the bodies. That's the bizarre part. Each of the victims had the skin on his forehead sliced so it fell down to cover his eyes."

"Ah," Chen muttered. "That is very old. It's so the victim's ghost can not identify and haunt the killer. It's a Northern belief." He met Shumer's startled expression with a wry hint of a smile. "I doubt if too many Chinese-Americans have ever heard of the custom."

Turning his head toward his partner, Bane asked, "Wu Lung back again?"

"Not Wu Lung. The Manchurian!"

( the rest of the story )

"Footprints In Red"

6/21-6/22/1988

I.

The last house had been left behind ten miles back and he had seen no man-made lights of any sort since then. Shiro Mitsuru rushed his bright red Mazda RX-7 along at a speed just a little too fast to be quite safe on the winding back roads. The moon was a thin crescent to his left, hanging over the gorgeous Blue Ridge Mountains with its subdued glow. He had never been in West Virginia before. The Tiger Fury smiled contentedly at the knowledge he was heading toward danger as quickly as he could. With all the windows down, the warm air swept up his face and ruffled his coarse black hair. Shiro's hazel eyes were almost gleeful.

At thirty, he was hitting his physical peak. A lifetime literally spent training under experts around the world had left him with zero body fat and incredible wiry definition in muscles shaped not by weight training but by movement. The Tiger Fury was wearing plain black canvas sneakers, slightly baggy denim jeans and a white T-shirt. An open black vest had two pockets on the left, but the throwing stars clipped to the inside were not apparent. He seldom carried more weapons than that, although a pair of nunchaku and a short staff were packed in the trunk of his car.

Shiro glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 11:59. The Midnight War was well named, he thought. He went up a steep winding hill, shifting gears smoothly, and emerged where he could see down the other side. There! In his headlights to the left, a long white form shimmered on the ground alongside the road. Shiro braked hard, swung his car over and yanked the parking brake. He had been expecting something like this. Either it would be a person flagging him down for help or something blocking the road, whatever it would take to make him stop. He leaped nimbly from the car and hurried over to the prone form.

It was a young woman with curly black hair, lying on her side and facing away from the road. As Shiro approached, he knew he was surrounded. An average person would not have heard the breathing or heard the faint creaking of the earth as men shifted their weight. Nor would they have smelled the odor of Westerners who ate too much beef and sugar, nor would they have caught the vaguest peripheral glimpse of motion which should have been behind his line of sight. But Shiro was no ordinary man.

"You're not fooling anyone," he said with the slightest trace of a British accent. He had spent his childhood on the run with his parents, but they had been in Hong Kong and London more than anywhere else. "Might as well get up off the cold ground."

The woman rolled over abruptly, sitting up with a Browning 9mm automatic in her hand. Her face was furious, apparently at the ruse being detected. "Freeze! Don't you dare move."

All around him, a dozen shadowy figures closed in on Shiro. The woman was the only one with a gun, the others held axe handles or butcher knives or softball bats. They were men of average size, wrapped in loose robes that rose to pointed hoods. In the backflash from the MG's headlights, their garments were a flat sullen black. He had heard of this new cult but had never seen Ebonites in person before.

"Good work, Melinda," said one man, voice muffled by the hood. "You can get dressed now, he ain't going no where with us here."

The Tiger Fury stood in a relaxed stance, open hands down by his side, apparently unconcerned about the situation. "So, I guess you think I'm in trouble?"

"A Jap!" said the leader. "Wasn't expecting that. Guess it don't make no never mind, though, the ritual will play the same." A cultist stepped forward to hand him a length of clothesline. "Hold out your hands, son, don't make it harder than it has to be."

"You guys crack me up," Shiro said with a barely repressed chuckle. Without any preliminary signals, without setting himself, he smacked his right foot hard to the side of the head of the man directly in front of him, then reversed that leg to whip it backwards without setting it down. His heel smashed in the hooded face of a cultist behind him. Both men were still falling when Shiro took a hopping step forward and drove out a straight side kick to the chest of the Ebonite, knocking him off his feet and tangling him up with still another cultist. He was moving so fast no one had reacted yet.

A full second had passed. Expecting the woman with the pistol to have recovered her wits by now, he whirled and dropped to crouch with his fingers and toes touching the ground. The heavy automatic exploded twice, its muzzle flash dazzling everyone in the gloom. Behind him, Shiro heard a man scream, hit by a bullet that passed overhead, but he was already rushing forward to yank the woman's arm out straight, dislocating her shoulder and wrestling the gun from her slack grip. The Tiger Fury tossed the automatic far away into the darkness. Guns detracted from the purity of combat.

Now the Ebonites had grasped the idea that somehow, unbelievably, the victim had been fighting back. Seven men in robes rushed in at Shiro from all directions, raising their weapons and ready to beat him to death. The piercing shriek of a real tiger rang out in the West Virginia night, echoing from the hills, a ferocious snarl that brought half the cultists to a stop in confused fear. None of them would have believed a Human throat could have produced that roar. In the instant that they hesitated, Shiro plowed into them in a bronzed blur of fists and fist. Bones broke wherever he struck, sternums cracked and necks snapped and he moved on. The Tiger Fury was working with a smoothness and speed that made it seem as if the Ebonites were allowing him to strike them down one after the other. Only two were left, one with a crowbar swinging wildly. Shiro swayed a mere inch, just enough to let the crowbar whistle past, and he chopped down the edge of his stiff open hand at the base of that man's neck.

The final man standing dropped his baseball bat and folded his arms defiantly. "Boy, I don't know what you got, karate or kung fu or whatever, but obviously I cain't fight you. Do what you want, I ain't gonna beg."

Shiro was not even breathing hard. "I need two of you to answer questions," he said, "And you seem to be the reasonable one." Closing the gap before the man could react, Shiro slammed a heel palm to the midchest that forced the air from the cultist's lungs with explosive force. The man fell to a seated position, unable to think of anything other than desperately catching his breath.

Around him, some of the men moaned and some stirred feebly. Shiro reviewed his techniques for the previous few minutes and was not entirely satisfied. He felt he should have set the Ebonite members up so they were closer together. Next time he faced multiple opponents, he must remember that getting them into position made everything more certain. Still, he had done all right. He went over to the woman, reset her arm with a lack of gentleness that made her pass out, and lifted her easily in his arms to bring her over to his car. He tossed her in the backseat of the Mazda, went to get the gasping man and threw him in as well. He took a second to yank off the black hood, revealing a pudgy balding face that glared at him belligerently.

Taking handcuffs and duct tape from the trunk, Shiro spent some time making sure the prisoners were secured and could not make any outcries. He tossed a light blanket over them and arranged it to cover them. "Let's not have any trouble from you two," he warned sternly. "Knocking you both out would not be a problem." With that, the Tiger Fury started up his car and pulled out onto the road. In a second, the red convertible was gone around a corner and the Ebonites were just beginning to regain consciousness.

( the rest of the story )

"The Scroll of Final Truth"

4/28/1988

I.

"Professor Mercedes? Really? I've heard so much of you."

The white-haired old man smiled, showing the perfection of expensive dentures, and tilted his wide-brimmed fedora back on his head. His baggy tweed suit was old but still fit him well, and he stood as straight and at ease as a teenager. The slim ebony cane he carried seemed unnecessary. "I'm flattered, Oskar. I was referred to you by a mutual acquaintance, Daniel Wassermann. He suggested you might be holding something of interest to me."

Coming out from behind the glass-fronted counter, Oskar Jonescu was not an imposing sight. Only a bit over five feet tall with a fifty-inch waist, the scrub of curly hair only around his ears and thick-lensed glasses low on a beaky nose added nothing to his looks. His antique shop was also unimpressive at first, but closer inspection showed it had many unusual items. Genuine swords and daggers, small bronze statuettes of mythical creatures, an actual shrunken head in a leather display case, fossil bones that were hard to identify... it was a curio shop that was curious.

Mostly the shelves and cases were jammed with musty old books. It was these that Professor Ben Mercedes scrutinized as he sauntered around the gloomy interior. "You have some gems here," he announced. "The unauthorized biography of Mark Drum from 1954. All copies were supposed to have been destroyed. Kenneth Dred's guide to Fanedral. THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN. WHAT NIGHTFALL BRINGS. Oh, look... even Garrison Nebel's BLIND ILLUSIONS. Nice selection."

"And yet... nothing like this." Jonescu had opened a cabinet near the cash register and taken out a long cylinder wrapped in white leather. "One of the few items that survived when Malekoda's house burned down."

"Pity. Malekoda was a vile warlock but he had quite a collection. This is the Scroll I have heard of?" Mercedes leaned forward to get a better look as the antiquarian unrolled the leather covering on the scroll. The relic was only in fair condition, a tattered tube of yellowed papyrus three feet long. Each end was capped with a globe of red metal that had a hot shimmer to it.

"Gremthom," Professor Mercedes observed. "This is a Darthan artifact."

"The scroll is fastened shut by those caps and I have not been able to open it. I'm afraid of damaging it, to be honest." Jonescu handed the relic to Professor Mercedes, who inspected it dubiously.

"This is Darthan script, quite old," he said as if to himself. 'The Scroll of Final Truth.' And beneath it is the three-bladed knife that means 'danger' in Darthan. I believe this was crafted by Tollinor Kje himself." He popped the gremthom caps off the ends quite easily, as if they consciously wanted to be removed, and gently unrolled the scroll a bare inch or two.

"Amazing. And yet I should have expected no less from Tollinor Kje. The future revealed... tomorrow's news today. Astonishing. It takes my breath away."

Jonescu chortled happily. "You realize everything you have just said is only increasing the price I should ask for this?"

Professor Mercedes placed the scroll on the counter and sighed. He twisted the gold handle of his ebony cane and slid it back to reveal a hint of gleaming stainless steel. "Ah, Oskar. That would only matter," he said evenly, "if I intended to pay for it."

( the rest of the story )