dochermes | Entries tagged with garrison nebel

"Even a Crooked Stick Can Draw a Straight Line"

9/3/2022

I.

"This is weird," Bane said out loud. His surroundings made no sense at all. White mist swirled up to his shins, completely obscuring whatever surface he was standing on. Overhead was a wildly intense night sky with blazing stars crowding each other more closely than any sky he had ever seen. The effect was an eerie twilight. It was chilly but not unbearably so. The air felt brisk and refreshing

Looking down at himself, the Dire Wolf saw he was wearing what had been his trademark uniform all his adult life... black slacks, turtleneck and sports jacket. But the matched silver-bladed daggers were not sheathed to his forearms, which alarmed him. He never left his house without them. All the concealed pockets and slits built into his clothing were empty, too. Bane pulled up his shirt and felt bare skin beneath it. He didn't have the silk-thin Trom armor on, either. The situation made less and less sense the more he took it in.

Jeremy Bane turned slowly around, but there was nothing in sight other than the mist on the ground. No horizon as far as he could tell. Really strange. His prosaic, matter-of-fact mind immediately began ticking off possibilities. The last he remembered had been stretching out on the living room couch in his Forest Hills home. So, was he dreaming? Could be. There had been a few times where he had been aware of being in a dream just before it ended. Or was this one of the adjacent realms? Not one he had ever heard of, but then even Midnight War scholars admitted there were realms which had been forgotten over the ages and of which even the names were no longer remembered.

What other possibilities could there be? Maybe this was an illusion of some kind? Either a sorcerer using gralic magic or some spy group with advanced technology was putting this in his head while he was in a trance or coma or something. That had happened a few times to him and to members of his KDF team. Once, Karl Eldritch had put him into an artificial reality that had seemed completely real, one of the worst experiences of his life. He should resist the illusion and try to snap out of it.

Bane's survival training had included using constellations to determine his location and what time of the year it was. The sky was totally unfamiliar. He couldn't find any star groups he recognized, not even from the viewpoint of the Southern Hemisphere or the Arctic. Okay, then this had to be an illusion of some kind. He dismissed the vague thought that he had somehow been transported to another galaxy or something as so far-fetched it wasn't worth considering. His life in the Midnight War had taken him to bizarre realms but travel into outer space had never even been hinted at.

So far, he hadn't come up with anything useful to do about the situation. Instead of raw terror or panic, Bane felt annoyed.

Where had Nebel come from? Suddenly, the familiar form of the blind mystic was walking toward but Bane had no idea why he hadn't seen the man before. Maybe nothing would make sense wherever they were. Nebel was wearing the blue cotton pants and long-sleeved tunic of a Tel Shai student. Presumably he had on the soft black slippers as well, but the ground mist hid them. They hadn't seen each other in person for a few years. Nebel's hair was completely white now at seventy, his long solemn face more gaunt than ever. And the eyes with their opaque pupils still had the unsettling habit of moving as if he could see.

"Hi, Garrison!" Bane said. "You're exactly the one person I'd want to see turn up under these circumstances. Where are we anyway? Is this real?"

"It is more real than the mundane world you see around you every day," replied the Sorcerer of Truth. "You are getting a glimpse beyond the illusion of the world."

"If you say so. Honestly, you know I'm not a deep thinker. Whatever is going on is probably going to be beyond what I can figure out."

Nebel smiled and nodded, his voice reassuring. "You are what you are meant to be, Jeremy. I can not explain this test and must leave you again. All I can suggest is that you speak honestly and from the heart to the three visitations."

"You lost me already," the Dire Wolf admitted. "This is a test? Who's giving it? And what are the rules?"

The blind mystic reached over and rested a comforting hand on Bane's shoulder. "It is a classic rite of passage, old friend. You will experience three visitations who will reveal much you have forgotten or have not yet learned. I have faith you will do well and we will meet again one final time." Then, without a sound, Nebel was gone.

( the rest of the story )

"Blind Illusions"

4/11/1989

As he walked up the narrow mountain trail, Garrison Nebel was cut off from normal perception. He wore soft leather boots and gauntlets, cotton tunic and pants, all white. A full-length cloak of gold ensalir-fabric hung to his ankles and he wore a heavy helmet of ensalir metal which had no openings, just outlines etched where the eyeholes would be. Beneath the eyeless helmet, his own eyes were opaque and sightless. In a medical sense, Nebel was blind.

Yet, paradoxical as it might seem, he was more aware of his surroundings than a naked man with perfect eyesight would be. For he was a mystic of the Order of Tel Shai, and his discipline centered on perception. The pathway appeared to turn left past a sharp rise, but that was an illusion. So it seemed that the sorcerer Weng Chiang knew at least some of the forbidden arts. Nebel strode through the deception onto the real pathway leading up to the mountain home of Chujir's most secretive fang shih practitioner.

Nebel was touched by the songbirds, the early flowers, the small islands of snow scattered here and there. The crisp clean air made him breathe more deeply. Beauty was everywhere, he only wished he had more time to appreciate it. But, to be fair, malevolence was here as well... malice as dark as a well of black water.

When he approached within hailing distance of the small cottage, a young man stepped out onto the wide porch from within. He was short but athletic, wearing simple farmer's clothing. The people of Chujir claimed to be the ancestors of the Chinese of the real world, and although Nebel had doubts about that, he admitted it was difficult to distinguish between them. Sitting on the young man's shoulder like a parrot was a monstrous winged creature, spiky fur bristling as it dugs its talons into a leather pad on his shoulder.

"You passed through the barrier?" the young man said as if to himself, speaking in the Northern dialect.

Nebel did not respond. He stopped almost at arm's-reach, his cloak draped to conceal his body, the eyeless helmet gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

"What do you want here, stranger?"

"I intend to speak with Weng Chiang," answered Nebel. Strangely, his voice was not muffled by the helmet.

"The master will see no outsiders! I am his nephew and eldest student, Weng Lo-Sing. You will leave any message with me."

Faint golden light played over the ancient helmet, not a reflection of sunlight but of a force richer and older. The young acolyte felt uneasy and even threatened by the sight of that flicker. He gestured angrily, "Go! Begone from here!"

"I am Garrison Nebel," the blind mystic said. "Weng Chiang, step forth."

Behind Lo-Sing, a handsome middle-aged man appeared in the doorway of the modest cottage. He was sturdy if not tall, grim-faced at this intrusion. His black robe had an intricate pattern in red threads that ran up one arm to the other. "A wise man would not presume to hide from Sagehelm... if that is indeed the Eldaran helm you bear?"

"Yes. I have long respected you as fang shih, an alchemist and mystic of your ancestral way. But I come with a warning. The knowledge you now seek of the Five Forbidden Arts implies too much for Human minds to safely hold."

Weng scowled and waved his hand in contradiction. "You claim to be the Sorceror of Truth, Imthril. Is truth something you can hoard for only yourself, like gold or jewels?"

"What you seek is denied to all. Not even the Teachers at Tel Shai delve into that knowledge gained on Ulgor so long ago. Let the Sulla Chun slumber in their chains beneath the world as long as they may. Weng Chian, it is folly to rouse those beings in hopes of gaining the knowledge they guard. More than your life would be lost."

"So you say! Would you contend against me then?"

"I will oppose black magic and forbidden arts wherever I find them. Your own life and spirit are yours to risk as you will. I will intervene only since your plan to rouse a Sulla Chun would mean the deaths and suffering of many innocents."

The sorcerer from Chujir snapped his fingers. "Kuo!"

Launching itself from Lo-Sing's shoulder, the scale-winged creature hurtled straight for Nebel. Fanged jaws gaped. In the instant before it could reach him, Nebel perceived it was an unnatural construct his power could heal. The eyeless helmet blazed up brighter than the sun, the creature shriveled and fell to the dirt as the ordinary bat it had been. In a few seconds, it scrambled up and flew off.

"I know your power is to undo spells and restore all things to their natural state," said Weng Chiang. "That is why the children of the night fear you, Imthril. But I have a thought. What can you do to a being who is what he should be. Lo-Sing!"

It was rare for Nebel to be taken off-guard but he was now. He had not expected the young man to lunge forward and drive a hard fist deep into the pit of his stomach, nor was he prepared for the spinning reverse kick which cracked a slipped foot to the side of his head. Nebel fell to an undignified seated position on the hard ground, and he felt an uncharacteristic surge of anger at the pain. Weng Lo-Sing moved in and threw a downward hooking punch to the sitting man, a punch which Nebel deflected with a slap. The blind mystic rose and threw his heavy cloak back over his shoulders.

Lo-Sing was well trained in whatever style his uncle had taught him. He threw a rapid flurry of alternating left-right punches which would have confused most opponents. Not one landed. With pinpoint accuracy, Nebel blocked each blow with an open palm or a forearm, as if they had rehearsed this like a dance routine. Stepping to one side, he seized Lo-Sing wrist and tugged, at the same time placing his foot in the back of the young man's knee. As his opponent fell face down, Nebel smacked a leopard's-paw strike to the base of the skull with just enough force to stun the youth.

"I don't brawl like that often," Nebel said in English, "But, better to know how and not need it than the other way around." Straightening up, he went back to the flowery Chujir dialect again. "He sleeps, Weng Chiang. His death is not needful this day."

The sorcerer had gone into his cottage and returned armed. In both hands, he held a slim ceremonial spear with a wide barbed blade and red ribbons running its length. "Fool! This spear is what it is. It is not unnatural and your power cannot affect it."

"It is not the spear which needs healing," Nebel said sadly. "I know where and WHEN you were born, Weng>"

Hearing those words, the fang shih shrieked in horror and drew his arm far back, but too late. The light which shines down on Elvedal itself focused through the Sagehelm. In a rush of golden radiance, Weng Chiang withered and died. The ritual spear rolled to one side.

Stepping past the moaning Lo-Sing, Nebel stood over what remained of the warlock. As dry and brittle as any mummy, the body had curled up almost in a ball. For seventy years after his rightful span, Weng Chiang had prolonged his life at the expense of others. That was over now. The eyeless helmet never blinked.

[6/20/1985- Rev 5/9/2013]

"Refugees of the Group Mind"

7/13/1981

I.

He walked to forget. For half his life, since he was barely out of his teens, Gitano had been wandering without a destination, putting one foot in front of the other to keep his mind distant while his body moved.

On an July morning already too warm for comfort, he strode steadily past Forsythe Park with its playground and a tiny zoo with the most prominent specimen a black bear. Gitano wore sturdy hiking shoes, jeans and a dark blue flannel shirt with a well-worn denim jacket over it. A nearly empty knapsack strapped to his back held some socks, a plain white T-shirt, scissors and comb, a washcloth and towel. In his pockets were a folding knife, handkerchief, two cigarette lighters and eleven dollar in singles. No wallet, no ID, no keys. All he owned in the world, this was more than he usually possessed.

Gitano walked on, seemingly tireless as ever. He was not remarkable looking. An inch under six feet tall, wiry, he had a thick black hair and a short beard. His most striking feature was the mismatched nature of his hands. The left was long-fingered and artistic, the right was broad and sinewy with thick nails that curled like claws. Once people noticed those hands, they could not help staring.

As he headed up the gentle incline of the street, Gitano began to remember a little about this city. Kingston, first capital of New York State, for some reason was a nexus for Midnight War activity. Many eerie and unexplainable events had taken place here that the general public never heard about. Some of the old buildings of cobble stone had been built by the Dutch and were said to be haunted for three hundred years. In his foggy memory, he realized he had not been in Kingston for years. Why? Who could say? Certainly he didn't know.

Wrapped in his timeless limbo of thought, the wanderer observed the neat, impeccably maintained houses with their lawns manicured as if about to be inspected. One of the better neighborhoods. Here were doctors, lawyers, minor politicians. And here he hoped to find Garrison Nebel before it was too late.

Traffic was sparse. He crossed over onto Plymouth Avenue, read the numbers on the houses and located number 92. This was a one-story white frame building like a shingled roof and a tiny round garden encircled by black stones. He had forgotten Nebel's number long ago, or he would have phoned as he had passed the Trailways station.

A short path of flat shale stones led from the sidewalk to the front door. As soon as he set a foot on the first stone, the insolid attenae of his senses screamed a warning. Gitano's dark eyes narrowed. He held up his brutal right hand, gnarled fingers clenching and unclenching in readiness as he stepped up and pressed the doorbell.

No answer came. He tried again, glanced up and down the street but saw no one watching. The feeling of imminent danger was overwhelming. Gitano pressed his right hand against the door and the lock snapped cleanly even though he had not applied any pressure. The wanderer moved quickly inside, closing the door behind him, his right hand swinging from side to side as if it were a weapon in itself.

Gitano stalked through unoccuopied rooms, not calling Nebel's name, tense and jumpy. No one was here. The double bed was neatly made, the kitchen was tidy. there were no signs of any violence nor of Nebel having left hurriedly or against his will. Reluctantly, the wander lowered his shoulders and stood frowning in the living room while he thought.

He had only one other possible lead to follow. A year earlier, Nebel had given him an address and phone number where he might possibly be reached in a crisis. The number was long forgotten but the address had stuck in his mind because it was unusual. 7766 Browning Terrace. Not only did Gitano have more gaps in his memories than actual memories, he wasn't even aware of it. Any time his thoughts tried to dig into the past, his mind recoiled violently.

Back outside, he took off at a trot just shy of breaking into a full run. Yes. He remembered Browning Terrace, only a few blocks away from Nebel's house. Here was a four story brick apartment building, with its own parking area. The ground floor apartments had small front yards no more than five feet to a side, the top floor apartments each boasted a standing platform outside the sliding windows. These were barely wide enough to qualify as balconies.

Inside the lobby was a bank of name tags next to white buttons. What the hell was the name again? Gilliard, yes. He pressed the button next to GILLIARD, M/DEWITT, J and a buzzer sounded as the inner door unlocked. From a speaker atop the tags came a young woman's voice, "Finally! Come on up."

Gitano swung open the inner door and rushed up the staircase beyond with such frantic haste that he was unaware of a hand catching that door before it could close and lock again.

( the rest of the story )

"Blinded By the Light"

11/22/1998

I.

As soon as Bane stepped out of the dark green Mustang and the headlights snapped off, he was attacked by a Mandinka warrior from 16th Century Mali. The West African was a wiry muscular man below average height. Instead of the tribal garb one might expect, he wore regular modern clothing... shoes, slacks and a white polo shirt. In his right hand was a war club of fire-hardened ebony with a curved handle and a round head that had a pick-like point on the business end.

Fast and stealthy as the Mandinka was, his onslaught had no element of surprise. The Dire Wolf's senses were sharpened by two decades of Kumundu training. He side-stepped just enough to let the war club whistle past his head and he met the man's charge with an elbow to the forehead that used the Mandinka's own momentum to add more impact. The Preincarnated warrior slumped to his knees, dropping his weapon and making an incoherent dazed noise. He fell onto his face and his outline shimmered as his body reformed into an older American black man with a bald spot and a pot belly.

Emerging from the passenger side, Garrison Nebel had fastened the full length cloak of heavy gold material to drape over his white tunic and pants. In both hands, he held the Eyeless Helmet. "The Preincarnation effect dissipated when he passed out," said the blind mystic. "He is no threat to us now."

"First, there was the Samurai, then the Viking berserker, then the Aztec with his obsidian knife," Bane grumbled. "These guys are getting on my nerves." At forty years old, the Dire Wolf was a gaunt active figure dressed in the all-black field suit with its waist-length jacket bristling with a dozen weapons in various pockets. He closed the car door and crouched over the stunned cultist for a moment. "Pulse is steady, breathing is easy. I don't think he's completely unconscious even now, only dazed. He should be all right."

Turning toward the long redwood house at the end of that gravel driveway, Nebel frowned. "I sense overwhelming gralic force up there, Jeremy. Malice and cruelty combined with powerful magick."

The Dire Wolf tugged under his sleeves to loosen the matched silver daggers sheathed beneath them. "That's what we're here for, Garrison."

Coming out of the back seat was a petite woman in blue work shirt and jeans, with a short denim vest. Her dark blonde hair was tied back in a thick ponytail. As she stood up, Cindy kept a hand on the car door. "Jeremy, something's wrong..."

Bane flashed over to take her arm. "Are you okay? What's going on, Cin?"

The most gifted telepath of her era shook her head and sagged back against the Mustang. "I couldn't pick up on that Preincarnator who jumped you," she said. "My powers are fogged up. I can hardly think straight. It must be the menace Gary picked up on... the gralic aura is so strong that it's messing me up."

"I've never seen you affected like this," the Dire Wolf said. "Get back in the car. We can take you back to base just to be cautious."

"No, no, I'll be all right," she insisted, "But I don't think my telepathy is going to be much help on this mission. I can still help."

"Garrison, what do you think?" Bane asked with a rare edge of indecision in his voice.

The blind mystic had lowered the Eyeless Helmet down over head. Forged ages ago by the immortal Eldarin, the golden Sagehelm had a featureless face plate with only outlines etched in the metal where eyeholes would normally be. With the helmet on, Nebel stood straighter and his voice assumed a deeper, more resonant quality. "She is in more danger than you or I, captain. Her mind is more receptive to malevolent thoughts."

"I can DO this," Cindy insisted. "Jeez. I was at the Invasion of Maroch. I stood up to Angdros. I put John Grim in a coma! You guys are going to need me."

The Dire Wolf was silent for a long minute, then sighed. "I wouldn't order any member to stand down without good cause. Cin, hang back a little. If you feel like you're going to lose it, go back to the car. We're dealing with a worse threat than we normally have to face."

"Don't I know it!" she replied. "Somehow Vidimar has ramped up his Preincarnation spell to ridiculous levels. In the past two years, we've fought Achilles, Prospero, Gilgamesh and even freakin' Aladdin. Each one he resurrects is worse than the one before. We have to stop him while we know where he is."

Bane turned back to his other teammate, "Gary, you've got the Helmet. Give us a status report."

"Truth is not a tool I may use," Nebel answered in his distracted way. "The light of Elvedal passes though the helmet and reveals what it will. I can detect that there are only two living beings in that house. One is near death, as we speak."

Drawing the anesthetic dart gun from its holster at the small of her back where the denim jacket concealed it, Cindy made a show of checking its mechanism. "Okay. I'm wearing the full suit of Trom armor under my clothes and I have a protective Eldar talisman on an ensalir chain around my neck. Good to go."

Watching her and Nebel, the Dire Wolf said, "I wish there was time to gather a few more of our team. We could use Sulak or Valera for some muscle. It's times like this I really miss Khang."

The hollow voice beneath the Eyeless Helmet offered, "You yourself have told us that we cannot accept only the easy fights, Jeremy."

"Heh. So I did. All right, let's go in there and nab Vidimar before he flees the country. Our contact told us he was seen buying a ticket at Newark Airport this morning." Strapping on his own visored black helmet, Bane started up the gravel driveway at a quick easy lope, with Nebel close behind him, gold cloak waving in the midnight breezes. Neither of them saw Cindy Brunner stumble and only catch her balance by holding out both arms.

( 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 )

"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 )

"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 )

"Mr Never"

4/30/2004

I.

William W Koskie grumbled to himself as he headed for the elevator. His assistant would be waiting outside with the limo. Just another week before he had to in for that surgery, and the prospect irritated him. It wasn't fear of dying on the table or even the uneasiness of living with a bad valve in his heart that troubled Koskie. It was the deals that would be missed, the money he wouldn't be making. He knew that his team was close to getting control of Swift Processing and once they did that, he could let the staff go and relocate the company to India. Too bad about the American jobs that would be lost, but that was their problem. The elevator door closed and he pressed the lobby button, feeling a painful twinge in his left arm that ran up to his shoulder. That operation would be none too early.

With an abrupt and terrible certainty, Koskie knew he was not alone. There had been no one in the elevator when he had entered, but he felt the presence of someone right behind him, almost breathing down his neck. With a sick sinking feeling, he turned around and saw a man just inches away. Despite himself, he screamed and jumped back. The stranger was bundled up in a trenchcoat and scarf, with a fedora pulled down low. A white cloth mask was fitted snugly over his face, with dark sunglasses covering his eyes.

"Where did you come from? How did you get in here?"

With a low whisper, the stranger answered, "I come and go as I wish, Mr Koskie." With that, he raised a Parabellum in a gloved hand and fired it at pointblank range directly into the CEO's left eye. Blood splattered over the inside of the cage as Koskie dropped straight down, and the stranger stepped over him. He shot twice more, both times into the victim's face and leaving very little of it intact. The elevator door dinged as it was about to open, but before that happened, there was a faint rush of air and the killer was gone as if he had not been there. Two techs on their lunch break stepped into the elevator and tripped over the corpse.

A week later, in Bambino's, a restaurant on Central Avenue in Albany, the Esposito brothers were sitting glumly in a booth at the back. Eating dinner had been a chore this time, and half the veal remained untouched. Joe rubbed his face wearily. "He's not coming, Ray. I told you he wouldn't show up."

Ray did not answer immediately. He stared into his empty coffee cup as if there was a message in it. "Why wouldn't he come? Money talks, Joe, everybody knows that. Even someone as mysterious as Never."

As he said that, a man stood up from the booth behind him. The Esposito family owned this restaurant, they had searched it thoroughly and no one had come in. All that evening, Joe and Ray had been sitting there waiting for their visitor, and now, somehow, he had appeared from nowhere.

Nothing could be seen of Never. Between the hat and the gloves and the cloth mask which covered his entire head, not a bit of skin showed. The nearly opaque sunglasses hid his eyes. As he rose unexpectedly, Joe Esposito gave a twitch and knocked over what was left of his glass of wine. "Whoa! What the hell...?!"

Ray Esposito took a deep breath. "There's no need to do that, Mr Never. We can do business like civilized people."

"One has to be careful," replied the masked man in a barely audible voice. "You saw about our friend in the paper?"

"Yes. Excellent. Well done. Perhaps we can do business again."

"Perhaps," said Never, holding out a gloved hand. Taking the cue, Ray reached inside his suit and took out a white business envelope that bulged. The masked man did not glance at it, he thrust it inside his coat and raised one finger in warning. "I am glad you honor your agreement, sir. If you wish my services again, let the manager here know and I will drop by at some point to ask him. Then we can arrange a meeting."

"Suits me. Listen, Mr Never, we've played fair with you. We are men of honor, our word can be trusted. How about letting us know how you pulled that off? A guy has natural curiosity."

Never shook his head. "Allow me my privacy, sir." He pointed at the front door with a sharp gesture. Joe and Ray both looked up and when they turned back, their visitor was gone. "How does he DO that?" growled Joe, not expecting an answer.

The next sighting of Mr Never was at the Chase National Bank on State Street. When two armed couriers came in with locked canvas satchels of cash, the masked stepped around a corner where no one had seen him second earlier, gun in hand and ready. He shot both guards dead, Knelt to pick up the satchels and was gone from sight. The alarms went off, the doors locked automatically and the bank's own security guard came running up. But the killer was not found.

After that, the masked man seemed to up the stakes. An Army colonel with twenty years in service was found dead in his office in the Pentagon. The hard drive on his computer was missing, and with it, the real names of a dozen undercover agents who had infiltrated Mideastern terrorist groups. The door was locked from the inside and the sentry down the hall by the stairs swore no one had been seen entering or leaving. Rumors started within hours that the hard drive was being auctioned off to enemy nations for the highest bid. And still, no one had a face or a name to attach to this strange criminal. He became known as Never.

( the rest of the story )

"Eyes Forced Open"

5/9-5/13/2020

I.

Skinny as he was, Carlo Ventura squeezed through the bathroom window without trouble. When he and his gang had investigated the cabin out in the Catskills the night before, they found both the front and back doors locked. The windows were locked as well. The only exception was the small square window at the rear through which they had peered into a bathroom. This slid upward without resistance. Carlo had mentally rehearsed his next moves. Under the window was a white wooden cabinet. He placed his hands on it and slid smoothly in to stand up on the tiled floor.

Tied to his wrist with a short cord was his dimmed flashlight. Carlo had taped a piece of tissue paper over the lense to emit a vague diffused light that hopefully would not give him away. The door was open, showing a short hallway with a floor to ceiling bookcase. That made him laugh to himself. Everyone knew the old geezer who lived here was blind.

A few inches under six feet and thin, Carlo was wearing a dark sweatshirt and tight jeans, with black cross-trainers. He had wiry black hair that hadn't been cut in too long and a vestigial mustache that showed no signs of ever filling in. It was three-thirty in the morning. He and his gang had watched this cabin since nightfall.

Heading into the living room, he moved as slowly and as silently as possible. To his left, the bedroom door was closed and no light showed under it. Carlo turned in a slow circle and began picking up likely items to swipe. The tablet and Iphone sitting on the table first. He took them with their chargers attached and handed them through the bathroom window where Stacey and Dylan were waiting to receive them. Then some nicknacks that looked like genuine silver, including a ceremonial plate of some sort on its own stand.

The constant anger boiling just under his surface grew worse. This wasn't as big a haul as he had hoped. He was sure that his partners would be laughing at him and saying he was a loser, and just the thought was enough to make him fume. If he didn't find some decent swag, he was tempted to drag the old blind man out of bed and give him a stomping.

On a shelf in the kitchen, he found a wallet. Maybe this would help. There was a debit card, two credit cards and some bills... four twenties and a ten. Damn it. For the risk he was taking, he deserved more. He pocketed those items and moved back to the living room. Carlo was shaking with rage at being cheated this way. On a shelf were some nice-looking gems, including a geode that he knew was worth some bucks. That was a big ol' opal set in a silver frame. Better than nothing.

Almost hoping that Stacey and Dylan would dare mouth off about the meager haul so he could yell at them, Carlo was ready to bring the stones to the window when he paused. What was that thing sitting on a stand by itself? He moved closer, still placing his feet down with care, not brushing against anything, breathing slowly. On a carved wooden stand sat a metal helmet. What the Hell? He examined it closely. It was made from a single piece of metal and would cover the entire head, with a ridge running from brow toward the back in a low crest. The face plate had no openings for mouth or nose, so breathing might be difficult while wearing the thing. And there were no openings for vision, just the outlines of two eyes etched into the surface.

But it seemed to be gold. Real gold. Maybe not 24 carat but pure enough to be worth a fortune. This helmet alone had to be more valuable than everything else he had stolen put together. Carlo hurried to hand the gems to his pals outside, then came back to the helmet.

Why was his heart pounding? Why was it hard to breathe? This was just another gig. Carlo Ventura had only the vaguest intimitation of what a fateful moment this was for him. He picked up the helmet and hissed through his teeth in surprise. Even though the living room was chilly, the metal of the eyeless helmet felt warm to the touch... warm as a living thing.

In a sudden panic, he hurried back to the bathroom. Carlo passed the weird helmet out to Dylan, then scrambled outside himself. He pulled the window shut, tugged off the thin cotton gloves and grabbed the helmet out of Dylan's startled grasp. They ran across the lawn to where they had parked their clunker on the side of the dirt road. Stacey and Dylan had already stowed what he had given them.

As Stacey got behind the wheel and started the old Hyundai up, with Dylan in the passenger seat, Carlo dove into the back seat and clutched the eyeless helmet to his chest.

"Dude, what's with you?" demanded Dylan. "Did the sucker wake up or what?"

"Aw, shut up! Keep running your mouth like that and I'll shut it for you." Curled up in the back seat, Carlo cradled the strange object tightly. He was terrified and could not have said why.

In the cabin, a fully-dressed and alert man in his sixties emerged from the bedroom. He could hear the car engine start up not far away. Garrison Nebel had grown more gaunt over the years, and his brown hair had turned to a solid white. His eyes still had opaque pupils from the gralic blast that had blinded him so long ago, but he moved about his cabin with the surety of a sighted man.

The gems that had been stolen had been purchased only a few days earlier at a crystal shop. Both the tablet and Iphone were old and had been erased of all data. The accounts on the credit cards had been closed and replacements were on the way. He had left all that out as bait. His real treasures were locked in a box beneath the bedroom floor.

Nebel stood before the empty post where Sagehelm had sat untouched the past few years. A deep sorrow dragged his spirit down and he tried to rise above that. It had been time to pass the talisman. He accepted it. Nebel only hoped that the Eyeless Helmet knew what it was doing.\

( the rest of the story )

"The Eyeless Helmet"

11/2/1982

I.

On a raw wet November morning, a tall man walked quickly past Forsythe Park. Even on such a gloomy day, he wore opaque sunglasses... not for his own sake, but as courtesy to spare others the sight of his blind eyes. But even though he could see nothing in a literal sense through those eyes, Garrison Nebel paused at the intersection and crossed over to Browning Terrace without hesitation. No one driving past would have given him a second thought.

Nebel strode into the courtyard of the Browning Terrace Apartments. He was a lanky man in his early forties, with a long somber face and light brown hair that was brushed back over a high forehead. He wore a simple dark business suit, with a light blue shirt but no tie and he carried a large gym bag in his left hand. THe calm, thoughtful expression was misleading because his mind was working furiously. So much had changed. Was it really only a few months ago he had been happy and ignorant? Yes. Not far up the street was Plymouth Avenue, where his old apartment still carried the psychic residue of his encounter with the Group Mind and his betrayal. Nebel did not break his pace to remember. He had his cause now, there was work to do.

He did not see them but he could feel the row of doors, all identical, with their small rectangular glass panels at face level. His perception was enchanced by gralic force and he could not have explained it to a normal Human. The best analogy he could have come up with was that it was like waking up in the dark and reaching to turn on the lamp on a nightstand.. you knew it was there without looking. To him, it felt as if he just knew somehow where everything was. Nebel reached out to take hold of the doorknob of Apt 11, and a click sounded as the lock opened itself. In a presence of a seeker of truth, everything made way.

Nebel stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The police had not been here, he could feel. Mrs Choi had been missing for two days, not showing up for a lunch date with her sister and then not answering the phone. The sister, Su-Na CHoi, had been concerned but hesitated to report the disapperance to the police. Her family hated scandal and wanted to see if perhaps she had just gone off on her own, as she had been known to do. Yung Choi was a strong-minded independent woman who did not like to account for herself, even to her own family in this country.

When the sister had called on him and ask for his help, Nebel had wanted to decline. "I am just a writer myself, as Yung is. Why do you think I can be of any use, when you should be going to the police?"

"Because Yung spoke of you often," the sister had said sternly. "You both have published books on the supernatural. The occult. The spiritual meaning of the world. Yung told me you were dedicated to learning the truth and cared for little else." Su-Na Choi leaned closer. "My little sister said you had integrity. You could be trusted. So I come to you now."

It was true. Since he had been betrayed by the love of his life into the hands of his enemies, since he had been cruelly blinded by a Colony of the Group Mind, Nebel had passed through a crisis. He was now obsessed with perception. Facing Su-Na, he said quietly, "I decided I would not be fooled again. I do have means to find out what has happened where eyesight can be deceived and trust can be betrayed. Very well. I will look for Yung now, and I swear I will find her."

After she left almost in tears, Nebel had sighed deeply and moved about his small house. He made enough as a writer for his modest needs, alternating serious books on mysticism with exciting adventure novels which sold well. Now he stripped down and pulled on simple white cotton tights and tunic, then put his regular clothes on over them. Into his gym bag went the length of gold-inlaid fabric, the faceted blue crystal on its chain, and the golden helmet without eyes. This would be all he would need. Outside it had stopped raining and a cold breeze made people tremble and get off the streets as soon as possible, but he set out with a determined step to walk the mile to the apartments where Yung Choi lived.

Now, standing in the living room, Garrison Nebel did not turn on the lights, nor did he walk around. He searched with other senses. This room was tidy, everything in its place. A light folding table next to the window held a battered portable typewriter, envelopes, stacks of papers. Nebel stepped closer. There on the floor was a pale blue gem in a gaudy setting filled with ornate swirls. A travel crystal but not one made by the Eldarin. No. He held the sigil in his hands and let his perception probe into its nature. This had been crafted by a Human wizard, made with skill and care but still falling far below the art of the Eldarin. Such an imitation could be neither reliable nor easy to use accurately. Yung Choi had vanished through a god-gate and, since the travel crystal had remained here to drop on the carpet, she would have no way back.

It was well that the police had not be called here, he thought. They would know nothing of the meaning of this gem. The Midnight War was not even a phrase they had heard. Nebel went to lock the door and pull the curtains. He would have to act quickly. In the gloom, he took off his outer garments, standing in the white tunic and tights. In place of his black dress shoes, he drew on white leather boots from the gym bag, and white leather gloves that reached to mid-forearm. His own travel crystal had been crafted the immortals of Elvedal and next to the one that Yung had used, it gleamed with a clean bright light of its own. Nebel unfolded the length of heavy cloth and fastened it around his neck; it was an ankle-length cloak of interwoven with fine threads of ensalir. Even in the dim light of the apartment, that cloak shimmered hotly like the air over a highway under the summer sun.

He drew out the final item from the bag. This was his most precious possession, the major talisman of the Midnight War entrusted to him by the Eldarin under condition he use it well. It was a metal helmet that covered his head completely, reaching almost to his shoulders. The featureless face place had no opening for eyes. This was Sagehelm, devised before the Corruption thirty thousand years earlier, worn by Eldar mystics in service to their Race. Never before had it rested on the head of a mortal Man. Never had Human head worn the Eyeless Helmet, but then there had not been one whom the Eldarin thought worthy to weild it. Made of ensalir, metal ensorcelled by the Eldarin with an art above magick, the helmet seemed to be a rich gold in color but it too had a faint shimmer at its edges.

With that helmet on, Nebel's gralic perception swelled out like a wave to take in the apartment around him. Everything seemed clearer. He could read patterns of movement and understand them. A strange figure of white and gold, the Sorcerer of Truth reached out and lightly touched one gloved finger to the crude travel crystal left behind by Yung Choi. A swirl of beautiful pale blue light flared silently to illuminate the room and, when it faded, he was gone.

( the rest of the story )

"Growls From Nowhere"

2/21/2013

I.

Sunlight coming in through the motel window woke him. Jeremy Bane stretched, sighed and jumped out of bed with that restless energy that had burned in his body all his life. Now fifty-six, there were gray hairs scattered on his full head of black hair and faint lines at the corners of his mouth. But he was still trim and athletic, he still moved with quickness and balance. The famous pale grey eyes that had frightened so many enemies were not as cold and angry as they once had been, but they still were alert.

Even semi-retired, even wandering lazily from town to town, he was still the Dire Wolf and he knew that the Midnight War was still never far away from him. Bane went into the bathroom for a quick shower and shave, then began to get dressed.

He no longer wore the silk-thin flexible armor under his clothes all day every day, nor did he carry an arsenal concealed on his person... although most these items were still in his luggage, close at hand. He pulled on black slacks and a long-sleeved black dress shirt (trying to drop his trademark turtleneck after so many years had been more difficult than he had expected). Under the sleeves of his shirt, he strapped a leather sheath onto each forearm, and into them he slid the twin silver-bladed throwing daggers that were the most precious possessions in his life. They had been a gift from his mentor and father-surrogate Kenneth Dred, who himself had used them in his own battles long ago.

He did not call room service. Breakfast could wait until he stopped at some diner. Bane loaded his pockets with the usual keys, wallet, cards that almost anyone might be expected to carry but he paused to look at a slim dark metal device that seemed like a small remote control. The popularity of smartphones amused him greatly, because the technology available to the average person was catching up to what he and his Tel Shai knights had used forty years earlier. The Link in his hand could perform every function a smartphone could (although he never used it for entertainment), but it had many esoteric uses still beyond the capability of Human science. Well, for now, he thought. Who knew what the future held? Some of the advanced gadgets the Trom had supplied to him early in his career now did not seem so futuristic. Shrugging on a black sport jacket, Bane dropped the Link into its side pocket.

He had already packed his knapsack and shoulder bag, and he gave the room a long searching look before leaving. How strange not to feel he needed extra security, that he could rely simply on a locked motel door and window without elaborate traps and alarms to be checked frequently. But then, his major enemies were mostly dead now, and those that remained alive were in other realms from which they would not be returning. The Dire Wolf could relax as much as he was able to. He left the room and walked briskly down the corridor to the front desk, where the young auburn-haired woman gave him an appreciative glance as he approached. Bane was not exactly good-looking, with his narrow feral face and heavy brows over startling pale eyes but he had confidence and self-assurance and people responded to it.

Checking out only took a few seconds. Then he stepped out into a cold February morning, with the clear air biting into his face pleasantly. There was his car. He was currently driving a dark green Subaru Outback, he was fond of the way it handled and it was all he needed when traveling alone. Despite his desire to remain peaceful and even stodgy in his retirement, Bane had asked his team do some modifications on the car, mostly armor panels and improved efficiency and some concealed hiding places. He chirped the doors open, placed his gear in the back and started it up, pulling out onto the road leading up into the Catskills.

He was about two hours north of his apartment on 47th Street in Manhattan, heading further north with nothing definite in mind. The wealth that Dred had left him, and which he had increased during his years in the Midnight War, let him wander at will. He traveled light, not needing much, just driving and thinking. He had been spending more time lately at Tel Shai visiting Cindy too, and each time he was more tempted to stay there permanently.

Bane was still licensed as a PI by the City and State of New York, and he had kept his concealed carry permit, but he seldom took a client these days. His work as a detective had been a useful cover for his real work, not an end in itself.

After half an hour, he pulled in to a roadside eatery for scrambled eggs, hash browns and toast. Cranberry juice and ice water to drink. He ordered a second serving of everything, which got a faint quizzical look from the waitress as he was lean to the point of looking gaunt. But the enhanced speed and reflexes which Bane had been born with carried drawbacks. A ferocious appetite and an inability to sit still were the price for being quicker than normal human fighters. Finishing up, he was back in his car and cruising north again. The miles rolled behind him, the parade of woods and creeks and foothills was all the entertainment he needed for the moment.

He glanced at the sign that read WINCHELL CORNERS 11 MILES and argued with himself about stopping to see Garrison Nebel. His former teammate lived somewhere around here, or did the last he had heard from him. Maybe it would be good to check in on Nebel, catch up on Midnight War gossip and reminisce. Nebel's powers of perception and insight made him a great source of information. If only the guy wasn't so downright creepy... Bane slowed and pulled over to the side of the road. Standing at the end of a path leading out of the woods was Garrison Nebel himself.

II.

"What the hell?" asked Bane, as he jumped out of his car. "This can't be chance, Garrison."

"No, Jeremy, when have we ever been led by chance?" Nebel was several years older than Bane, and looked it. He had a long, furrowed face and hair more white than brown at this point. The mystic wore simple cotton work shirt, jeans and boots, and his sunglasses had opaque lenses. He had been blind, if that was the right word for it, for many years. "I felt you would be passing by."

"Oh, you did?" said Bane, not unkindly. He had come to expect the inexplicable with this man. "I didn't know myself I was heading this way until last night. I was thinking about heading over to Boston and checking out its Chinatown. You didn't call me here somehow, did you?"

Nebel shook his head and gestured back toward the trail. "Indeed not, my captain. I know you do not accept it, but you are drawn to the occult and the unnatural like a wolf scenting prey. Your war name is well chosen, Dire Wolf."

"Right. Well, I guess I can't argue with that. We've known each other too long. You look okay, Garrison, how are you doing?"

"I have not changed much since we last met. The Eyeless Helmet still waits for a new wearer. My time to wield it has passed, but I have not found a worthy successor. It is well that you have come here. There have been events here suited for your abilities. Let us sit on this log, if you will, and I will unfold..."

"Whoa, whoa. Hold it." Bane held up his open palms. "You know, I HAVE been thinking of retiring. I have done enough chasing monsters and psychos for one lifetime. There are younger knights carrying on the fight." And then, without realizing himself what he was doing, he said, "But it wouldn't hurt for you to tell me what's on your mind."

Did Nebel smile ever so slightly? It was difficult to read that solemn face. Turning, the mystic stepped over to a huge log that had fallen parallel to the road during some storm, and he sat down on it without hesitation. In medical terms, Nebel was indeed blind. His eyes had been irreparably burned by gralic force long ago and would never heal, but he had found other ways of perception. Bane glanced over to make sure his car was far enough off the road and then dropped lightly down next to his old teammate.

"You know I can sense gralic energy, captain," Nebel said quietly. "Many people have a trace of such ability, without their ever knowing it, but occasionally I pick up on a person with a greater gift. Someone who might develop strong powers, given the right circumstances or teacher. I have felt such disturbances lately, and in association with crime.

"There have been some burglaries and robberies in this area. Mostly large sums of cash were taken from homes and businesses, but also a High-definition TV, a few laptops, some fishing gear. Twice, someone has nearly caught the thief in the act but were frightened away by some large wild animal. No one has seen this animal, there are no tracks. One person saw an intruder in his neighbor's house, while he himself was outside and as he moved toward the door to enter, a growling of a huge dog alarmed him and he ran away. The home was robbed of a thousand dollars in cash and two credit cards. Soon after, a shopkeeper arriving early caught a glimpse of someone moving around behind his store and, as he moved closer, the shriek of a bobcat came from nearby and he also was alarmed enough to seek shelter in his car until he saw it was safe. No sign of the cat was found." Nebel paused to glance over at Bane. "But, am I wasting your time with this, Jeremy?"

Despite himself, Bane grinned. "Go on."

The blind mystic said, "That is all I know at this point. Bobcats are not unknown here, and there are many dogs. It is just the strange happenstance of a thief escaping twice because of such an animal warning him or protecting him that interests me. I have talked to the people involved. As you know, my perception makes it easy for me to ask questions without being misled or without raising suspicions in those I question. If you like, I can provide you with the names and addresses of these people, should you wish to investigate."

"Hah! Oh, you know me too well, Garrison. This is so tempting. Let me think about it." Bane leaped to his feet and walked a few feet away. "It doesn't sound like any big threat to the people here. Nothing has done any physical harm. I used to get involved if there had been a death or near death, if there was something that needed fighting. But still... this sounds interesting. I think I might look into it. Do you want to come with me?"

Nebel also rose and said, "No, my captain. I was never the warrior you are, and years of peace have not made me any more formidable. Without Sagehelm to wear, my own abilities are also lessened. Best that I stay out of your way and do not hamper you with trying to protect me if there is any danger."

"I suppose. Okay, Garrison. I'll let you know how it turns it. Tell you what, I'll spring for a dinner at the best restaurant up here and we can talk all night about old times. But first, give me what information you have about this mystery big cat and big dog."

III.

Leaving Nebel just before noon, Bane spent an hour driving around and familiarizing himself with the area. Houses were scattered with some distance between them, and Winchell Corners itself consisted of a crossroads with a post office, a gas station convenience mart, and a roadhouse called the Hitchin' Post that featured a promise of live music on Friday nights. Further down the road was a Harley shop, and beyond that the Pines Motel. Bane registered there, brought his gear inside and looked over the room. Not too inviting, clean enough but threadbare and the wooden floor creaked.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over the dresser and was tickled at the excited glint in his eyes. The hunt was on again, he thought. Oh well, probably nothing will come of this. From his pack, he took a gunbelt that holstered behind his left hip (Bane was left-handed) and he checked his Smith & Wesson 38 before loading it. Not so long ago, he had used exotic handcrafted weapons like the airguns that fired potent anesthetic darts, but he hadn't needed such gimmicks for a while. There were still some special weapons and tools in the trunk of his car, but he was reluctant to haul them out. This was probably going to be a dead end anyway.

Suddenly, Bane decided he needed to check himself. Stripping down to his underwear, he stepped into the middle of the room. Stretching a bit, testing his balance, he launched into his Doh Ra form. This had been planned for him by Teacher Chael specifically for his own particular strong points and flaws. Starting off slow, gradually speeding up from a series of poses and stances into a flurry of kicks and combination punches, the form tested him. He wound down, found he was breathing a bit heavier than he would have liked. Bane pressed his hands together and bowed to Teacher Chael, further away than mere miles. He wasn't completely satisfied. Yes, he had stayed in good shape and kept up his training, but he wasn't sure if he still had that intensity, that focus of concentration that had made him dangerous enough to survive the things he challenged.

And too, he thought, he WAS getting old. He looked and felt much younger than his years, but Bane knew the hazard of thinking he would always be what he had been at twenty-one. Even the thought was unsettling to him. He had always seen himself as invincible. Dressing again, he went to his car and drove to the convenience mart for a couple of sandwiches and something to drink, then to begin his investigation. The place looked normal enough, with a Ford pickup and a Harley parked outside, two old men standing by the door talking. Bane got a ham and cheese sub and a bottle of seltzer, went back outside to eat and look around.

As he was finishing, a beat-up dark Chevy Malibu pulled in and a fat man got out to slam the door behind him. All of Bane's instincts kicked into gear. He could smell trouble, not through any weird mystic senses like Nebel had but just through long experience. The man lumbered into the store with body language so truculent, so antagonistic, that Bane almost moved to cut him off before he realized it was no longer his place to butt into everything.

From where he stood by the door, he heard loud voices arguing. Bane threw his wrapper and empty bottle in the basket, rubbed his hands together and stayed where he was.The two old men stopped talking as they heard the angry voices, and they glanced over at him uncomfortably. A few minutes later, the fat man came out, still yelling and cursing heavily. He was a big guy, Bane estimated him at six feet one inch and easily two hundred and eighty pounds, solid and still muscular. Age, late forties. Short brown hair, dark eyes, no visible scars or distinguishing marks, bad teeth. He wore faded jeans, work boots, a white T-shirt under a dark blue hoodie.

In those few seconds, Bane's training had him noting every characteristic that could be significant. He was standing in the open doorway, cursing loudly at the person inside the store, gesturing with one heavy finger. As he swung away, one of the old men stepped closer and raised a hand as if to put it on the angry man's shoulder. "WHy don't you mind your OWN goddam business?" shouted the big man, yanking his fist back behind his own ear and shooting it forward at the old man's face. From a yard away, Bane stepped in and caught the man's fist the way he would catch a softball in his open hand, a loud smacking noise startling everyone. As the big man grunted in surprise, Bane squeezed and felt the bones in the guy's fleshy paw move a little.

"Settle down, you." The Dire Wolf held that fist motionless as the man tried to tug it free. The guy then hauled up his other hand into a wide roundhouse punch at Bane. Long before it could connect, Bane had released the man's fist and blocked the blow downward and to one side with the same hand he had been using to stop the first punch. The big man looked into Bane's calm pale eyes and saw no anger, no fear... just the deadly look a cat gives a mouse. "This ain't over!" he yelled. "It ain't over at all!" He swung around and jumped into his car, started it up.

As Bane turned to the two witnesses, the older man who had been about to get punched in the face said, "Why.. thanks, mister. He was gonna deck me. I never saw anyone stop a punch like you did."

"Once a boxer, always a boxer," Bane replied. "Glad to help. What's his problem?"

"Aw, he got fired from there two days ago and he's taking it bad. Lucky he wasn't fired long ago, you ask me, what with that attitude of his."

"What's his name?" Bane asked.

The old man didn't hesitate to answer, hearing quiet authority in the stranger's voice. "Tommy. Tommy Hardin. He's always had a bad temper."

Bane nodded. "Well, glad no one got hurt. See you around." He had seen which way Hardin had headed, and now Bane slid into his Subaru and headed out, turning in the same direction. It wasn't the near fight which had his pulse speeding up a little, it was the feeling he was onto something. There wasn't much traffic on the country road, and Bane sped up well over the posted speed limit. In ten minutes, he shot past a small white house with a gravel driveway, spotting the rusted Chevy and seeing the front door of the house just close. A wicked gleam came in the Dire Wolf's eyes. He made a quick three-way turn in the road and slid into the driveway next to the man's car. He leaped out as the screen door slammed open and Hardin appeared.

IV.

"What the hell do YOU want? Get off my property this minute!" he shouted. The house needed paint, the yard needed work. It didn't reflect well on Hardin. Bane stepped away from the car and walked steadily toward the big man. There was a faint smile on his face as he reflected on some of the opponents he had faced in his career, and now this fool was trying to scare him away.

"You've got some temper there, Mr Hardin. Enough to get you in more trouble than it already has."

"How do you know my name? What do you want?" Without waiting for an answer, he lunged the last few steps and grabbed out with a meaty paw. Again, Bane blocked down hard with his left hand but then he immediately whipped out a backfist with that same hand that caught Hardin square on the chin. It wasn't hard enough to kill- Bane could easily have dropped the man where he stood, if he had wanted to- but it was enough to hurt. Without warning, a roar sounded immediately behind Bane, the deep unmistakable roar of a bear, and the Dire Wolf dropped into a crouch, spinning around with his pistol appearing in his hand like a conjuring trick.

Nothing. There was nothing there. Even as he saw this, he swung around and caught a hard blow on the side of his head. Distracted by the animal noise, he didn't roll with the punch and it sent him staggering a step back. Before the follow-up could hit, though, he had regained his footing and Hardin walked right into a straight side kick to the chest that threw him on his back as if he had been dropped from the roof of his house. He would not be getting up for a minute or two.

Turning, Bane searched the area but saw nothing. There couldn't have been a bear right behind him. He would have heard its approach, felt its breathing, its body heat. Hardin could not possibly have spotted a bear at close range without giving it away in his face. It had to be a trick of some kind. He holstered his gun and put the backs of his fists at his hips in puzzlement.

A few minutes had passed before Tom Hardin grumbled, sat up and got to his feet, rubbing his chest. Bane had used only part of the impact he might have thrown that kick with if he had wanted to, but to Hardin it had felt like getting hit with a sledge hammer and the breath had been knocked out of him.

Bane said, "Time to settle down and answer some questions. You're the one behind the robberies. Those animal noises happen when you want them, don't they? It's a gift you have."

From directly behind Bane's shoulder, a deep male voice said, "Hold still, mister, I'll blow your head clear off."

"There is no one behind me," Bane said calmly. "No one could have approached in those few seconds. No, you have a gralic power. You don't understand it yourself, huh?"

Hardin grinned. Genuine thunder cracked right overhead, so loud and sudden that Bane jumped in spite of himself in a reflex action. In that second, the big man ran right at him in a flying tackle and Bane quietly stepped to one side, tripping the brute into a stumble. The Dire Wolf's elbow came down hard at the base of the man's neck and Hardin snorted loudly before collapsing. "You don't learn easy, do you?" said Bane.

Stepping away from the dazed man, Bane looked up at the clear winter sky. Of course there were no storm clouds. The thunder had been a construct thrown by Hardin. Did he actually move the air to create these noises? Or, more likely, was it a telepathic effect that he projected into peoples' minds, so realistic that they did not doubt it. Keeping a wary eye on where Hardin lay sprawled in the gravel, Bane walked over and peered into the window of the man's house. A second later,he moved around to the side and looked in a different window. There. The living room had two TVs, a computer, other loot sitting in plain sight. Great, he thought, that is all that would be needed.

Moving back toward Hardin, who showed no inclination to get up, Bane started to call the sheriff's office. He had his license with him, and there was a good chance the local police might remember him from cases he had handled years ago in this area. Then he hesitated with a sour half-smile. Explaining the suspect's literal ventriloquism was going to be tricky.

2/21/2013

"Lost Science of the Ancients"

4/12-4/13/1978

The guard had been found frozen solid on a beautiful April afternoon, a day with a high of sixty-one degrees and a sunny sky. His body lay on the floor next to his overturned chair, the keys had been taken from his shirt pocket. Frost covered the man's skin and hair, and his dark blue uniform was white with hard ice crystals. Inspector Wollheim tilted his battered fedora back on a balding scalp and exhaled sharply. He felt he was getting too close to retirement age to be given this sort of assignment all the time. Somehow all the weird and creepy crimes were dropped in his lap. He knew this unofficial procedure was his fault in a way because he had been bringing such cases to Kenneth Dred.

Wollheim looked around at the shelves which lined the long, high-ceilinged room under bright fluorescent lights. There were many locked drawers and many glass-fronted cabinets holding particularly rare volumes, here in the section of the New York Public Library dedicated to the occult.
Of course, one cabinet was hanging open, keys still in the lock, and a gap where books leaned on each other showed where a few had been taken.

As the forensics squad had finished their measuring and photographing and sampling, they faded out and two paramedics got the frozen body on a stretcher. Covering the bizarre sight with a sheet, they headed out the door, leaving Wollheim alone with Sgt Yeager and the strange young man he had brought here.

Wollheim took a sidelong glance as Bane studied the scene. He had an odd kid, no more than twenty-one if that, six feet tall and gaunt at barely a hundred and seventy pounds. Jeremy Bane dressed all in black.... slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. He had short black hair, a narrow intense face and the palest grey eyes Wollheim had ever seen. Under heavy brows, the sharp stare of those eyes was unsettling.

( the rest of the story )

"Give in To the Group Mind"

5/8-5/11/1982

- MAN FOUND DEAD IN FIRE; HIS IDENTITY IS UNKNOWN

May 7 - Kingston police late Monday night are seeking the
identity of a man found dead the night before in what was
thought to be a vacant and abandoned house. Firemen found
the body in the attic of 44 North Front Street when they
entered to fight the blaze shortly after 9:30 PM. The man
was pronounced dead on arrival at Benedictine Hospital at
10:15 PM. Cause of death is being withheld pending an autopsy. -

Jeremy Bane read the clipping through more slowly, with a suspicious attitude. He turned his cold grey eyes up at the man who had handed it to him. "Okay, I'm probably missing something but I don't see how this is KDF business. Where's the supernatural angle?"

Standing next to the conference table, Michael Hawk smiled and took the clipping back. He was in his early sixties and looked it, with a wide weathered face and deepset eyes with bags under them. The brown hair was liberally flecked with white now, and the drooping mustache was all grey, but the body under that white dress shirt and black pants was still hard and muscular. "See, the clue is not in the clipping, my friend. The autopsy was held this morning and since I know the chief of police, he called me about the results."

At just twenty-five, Bane had much to learn about criminology from the famous manhunter. He felt he should be picking up something but had no idea what, and it annoyed him. "Still not seeing it, Mike."

"You'd think he died of burns or smoke inhalation. Right?"

"Sure. Wait, I got it. This was a mob-style execution, it's a mob case you want us to work on. You know the KDF doesn't do standard police work."

"Nope. Jeremy, the man died of exposure. He was frozen to death."

The Dire Wolf sat up straighter at the conference table and a new gleam came in his eyes. "Oh, now I'm interested. It's May. How does a man freeze to death in New York in May. Inside a building, no less?"

( the rest of the story )