Entry tags:
"DUSTY HEROES: Hellspawn"
"DUSTY HEROES: Hellspawn"
9/25/2000
I.
Warren Vidimar's suite suggested a good deal of money had gone into refurnishing it. The counters were marble, those were original oil paintings on the walls, the carpet was lush and deep, everything was co-ordinated in restful dark browns and rust colors. An elaborate stereo played Vivaldi with amazing clarity. None of this was any comfort to the sorcerer now.
He was bound unnecessarily tight with fishing line to a solid wooden chair, his arms pulled back behind him. Sensation had long ago been lost in his lower arms and hands, and he feared he would deal with gangrene and amputation if somehow he survived this night. The signs of a brutal beating showed in his left eye being swollen shut and in the dried blood caked under his nose. Vidimar was not tough by personality or body, and his defiance had been broken quickly. Head ringing with pain, he only heard vaguely the words of the man he had brought back from the outer darkness.
Igor Segeivitch Petrov loomed up four feet over six inches tall as he sneered down his nose at the Preincarnation master. Stalin's most feared spy had black hair brushed straight back off a high forehead, a sharp beak of a nose and a thin-lipped mouth that hinted at great cruelty. Deepset black-irised eyes gleamed with an inexplicable glint of the red that the room's amber lighting could not be responsible for. Petrov wore an old-fashioned single-breasted suit of dark grey tweed, with a light topcoat over that. His hands rested on the crosspiece of a huge two-handed broadsword, the point of which pressed down into the carpet. The blade and hilt were crafted of a strange red metal that shimmered hotly as if just taken out of a furnace. Hellspawn, the Blade Which Drinks Life, the vilest creation of Tollinor Kje himself back before recorded history reached. It was the sword Hellspawn which had given Petrov his feared code name the Red Blade.
Raising his bruised face, Warren Vidimar summoned what resistance he still possessed. "Raising you was a mistake, Petrov. Your spirit belonged in Hell and I should have left it there."
"So you say," the Red Blade snorted. "You are too late wise as we say in the motherland. But raise me you did, Dr Vidimar, and we all must deal with the conseqences of our actions. I am in control now. With your hands tied and your followers unavailable, your witchman skills are denied you. I will keep you alive a while longer, I think. Your cult of Preincarnation is a useful asset. There are other old comrades that I wish for you to bring back to life. Hitler's Hangman. Morgil, the Death's-Head. Perhaps Karl Eldritch will work for us again. Oh, and the Red Widow of course. From what you tell me, the Soviet Union has broken up. No matter. Mother Russia will always endure and always need those who work for her."
Vidimar could not repress a groan as he tried to flex his fingers but couldn't feel them. "Petrov, please. Listen to this offer. Instead of being an unwilling prisoner, I will work with you. Why not? My family is from Estonia, we have no reason to love America OR Russia. With my cooperation, we can resurrect the greatest criminals from any era. You can lead an army of pirates, Samurai, Vikings...."
"A tempting thought," said the Red Blade. "Of course I would have a loyal lieutenant or two keep watch on you for backsliding, but I sense your proposal is sincere."
"It is! I'm not the mastermind my father was. I don't have his ambition. Working with you would mean protection from my enemies in the Midnight War." Vidimar let his head dropped to his chest. "But please, please untie my hands before I lose them permanently."
"It is unfortunate that your father met an untimely end at the hands of his own creation." Petrov shifted his grasp on the menacing sword and leaned forward to scrutinize his captive's face. "From what I gather, Leopold Vidimar was a true genius at gralic sorcery and you his son merely carry on his work with some refinements."
"Yes, yes, I admit it. What do you say? Do we have a deal?"
"Perhaps. I will think it over. In the meantime, I will indeed free your hands but hear my words... any foolish attempts at escape and Hellspawn will suck your lifeforce right out your body."
"I won't try anything, I swear it." Vidimar watched as the spymaster went to place the sword on a low coffee table not far from hand, then returned with a pair of tin snips from a pocket and started to cut through the fishing cord around the sorcerer's wrists. At that moment, the door crashed inward so hard that one hinge broke loose. Lowering his leg from that kick, a gaunt man in black vaulted into the room and pointed a long-barreled .38 revolver at the Red Blade.
"Don't move. Don't even think about it, Petrov," said Bane. "Before you could reach that sword, you'd have five tunnels through your head. Raise your hands so I can see them."
"I don't know you, American," Igor Petrov slowly replied as he straightened up. He made no move toward lifting his hands. Perhaps he did not know who Jeremy Bane was, but the spymaster was a shrewd judge. He saw the steadiness of the hand holding the gun, he saw the calm deliberation in those cold grey eyes and he had heard a lack of tension in that quiet voice. Petrov knew he was facing a deadly enemy.
"Oh my God," said Vidimar. "The Dire Wolf! That's it. We're as good as dead."
II.
"Stay calm and don't force my hand," Bane said. "Warren Vidimar, huh? You're as bad as your father was. All this month, my team and I have been tracking down your Preincarnated monsters. The Monk, Atron Ke, Tommy Moon, Golgora, even Christopher Lincoln. The party's over, mister."
"And myself? You do me no honor if I remain unidentified even a half century later."
"Oh, I know you all right. Igor Petrov, the Red Blade. Well, a reasonable imitation of Petrov, in any..."
Bane's next word was cut off as a pair of tin snips came spinning like lightning toward his face. He had not seen them in Petrov's hand when he had entered and he had been expecting the spylord to pull a gun instead. With his enhanced reflexes, Bane was able to sway to one side and slap the sharp edged tool away, but this gave the Red Blade the opening he needed. In two quick steps, he had clasped his fingers around the hilt of Hellspawn.
Startlingly, the sword wheeled up into an on guard position, pulling Petrov's arms with it. The slight discomfort on the Russian spy's face revealed he had not been responsible. Now the heavy weapon twirled in a tight figure eight pattern and straightened with its point extended toward the Dire Wolf.
"The Blade Which Drinks Life," Bane growled. "Oh, I know about that cursed thing. But there's something you may not realize yet, Petrov."
"Indeed? Please enlighten me."
""That's not Hellspawn you're holding, pal. I saw Hellspawn broken by my friend Khang on the island of Maroch twenty years ago. The fragments scattered and were lost, and the Darthan spell animating it ended. You have an iron sword that looks like Hellspawn and maybe acts like it in some ways... but it's not the real thing."
The Russian warlock hesitated. For the first time, his certainty seemed shaken. His broad hands shifted on the hilt as he hefted the weapon and considered what Bane had said.
Lowering his gun slightly, Bane raised an accusing finger of his free hand. This was a distraction as he took a step forward at the same time. "Yeah, think about it. Vidimar's spell couldn't possibly match the gralic force that Tollinor Kje ensorcelled into the real Hellspawn. Tollinor Kje was the Firstmade of the Darthim, the most dangerous sorcerer in history. You've got a cheap imitation of his sword, which I suppose is only appropriate."
As Petrov stared with a dawning realization, the Dire Wolf took another step forward and raised his voice. "You are NOT Igor Petrov. He died in battle with Mark Drum back in 1957. Petrov is dead, gone forever. You are not him. You're a flesh and blood copy of his body, and your brain is working on a replay of his memories. But a photograph is not the object. A recording is not the orchestra. You're not Igor Petrov, accept it."
The Red Blade's face fell as he could not keep the realization at bay any longer. For a second, his thoughts turned inward and he was vulnerable. Thi was what Bane had been trying to provoke. With one leap, he closed the gap, chambering his leg up to his chest to drive a straight side kick directly into the center of Petrov's abdomen. The copper-colored sword wriggled around to try to impale the Dire Wolf but Bane smacked it aside with his gun to avoid having it make contact with his skin and he crashed a right hook that broke Petrov's jaw in two places.
Even as the Red Blade doubled up in agony and fell to knock over a chair, Bane had whirled and kicked Hellspawn far out of reach. He stared as he saw that metal of that weapon had faded from a lurid hot crimson to dull dark grey. The suffocating sensation of impending doom faded from the room. Bane relaxed ever so slightly, then turned back to Petrov.
Where the Russian villain had fallen, a much smaller and softer man was stretched out unconscious on the luxurious carpet. His lower face was seriously out of shape. Bane exhaled sharply, "Damn. He reverted. I was hoping to get some information out of him. Petrov knew a lot of secrets about both the Cold War and the Midnight War."
"Help me, please," Vidimar begged. "He forced me to work for him. My life was in danger. Hurry, cut me loose."
Bane stepped over and regarded the sorcerer with a noticable lack of sympathy. "Yeah, right. You were running the Preincarnators just fine for the last year all on your own. Maybe I have to call an ambulance for your follower there, but first I'm taking you to KDF headquarters. You also have some answers to give out."
Warren Vidimar gave a weak chuckle that turned into a sob. "No. No. There's still one way out for me."
"Now don't try anything crazy," Bane began but even as he spoke, he saw the air shimmer wildly around the man in the chair. Vidimar's outline was lost in a flash of red gralic force and when the light faded, his body had dwindled and reformed.
The Dire Wolf's mouth fell open for one of the rare times he was completely flummoxed. He hadn't known that a sorcerer could turn the Preincarnation spell inward on the caster but there was the proof. Bane allowed himself a wide grin at the results. Maybe the spell wouldn't last long, it was hard to say. Sometime Preincarnated subjects remained that way permanently, sometimes the effect was only good for a few days ot weeks. Time would tell. For the moment, sleeping peacefully in the chair where Warren Vidimar had sat, a six month old baby boy dozed in its diapers.
9/23/2000 - Rev.11/14/2018
9/25/2000
I.
Warren Vidimar's suite suggested a good deal of money had gone into refurnishing it. The counters were marble, those were original oil paintings on the walls, the carpet was lush and deep, everything was co-ordinated in restful dark browns and rust colors. An elaborate stereo played Vivaldi with amazing clarity. None of this was any comfort to the sorcerer now.
He was bound unnecessarily tight with fishing line to a solid wooden chair, his arms pulled back behind him. Sensation had long ago been lost in his lower arms and hands, and he feared he would deal with gangrene and amputation if somehow he survived this night. The signs of a brutal beating showed in his left eye being swollen shut and in the dried blood caked under his nose. Vidimar was not tough by personality or body, and his defiance had been broken quickly. Head ringing with pain, he only heard vaguely the words of the man he had brought back from the outer darkness.
Igor Segeivitch Petrov loomed up four feet over six inches tall as he sneered down his nose at the Preincarnation master. Stalin's most feared spy had black hair brushed straight back off a high forehead, a sharp beak of a nose and a thin-lipped mouth that hinted at great cruelty. Deepset black-irised eyes gleamed with an inexplicable glint of the red that the room's amber lighting could not be responsible for. Petrov wore an old-fashioned single-breasted suit of dark grey tweed, with a light topcoat over that. His hands rested on the crosspiece of a huge two-handed broadsword, the point of which pressed down into the carpet. The blade and hilt were crafted of a strange red metal that shimmered hotly as if just taken out of a furnace. Hellspawn, the Blade Which Drinks Life, the vilest creation of Tollinor Kje himself back before recorded history reached. It was the sword Hellspawn which had given Petrov his feared code name the Red Blade.
Raising his bruised face, Warren Vidimar summoned what resistance he still possessed. "Raising you was a mistake, Petrov. Your spirit belonged in Hell and I should have left it there."
"So you say," the Red Blade snorted. "You are too late wise as we say in the motherland. But raise me you did, Dr Vidimar, and we all must deal with the conseqences of our actions. I am in control now. With your hands tied and your followers unavailable, your witchman skills are denied you. I will keep you alive a while longer, I think. Your cult of Preincarnation is a useful asset. There are other old comrades that I wish for you to bring back to life. Hitler's Hangman. Morgil, the Death's-Head. Perhaps Karl Eldritch will work for us again. Oh, and the Red Widow of course. From what you tell me, the Soviet Union has broken up. No matter. Mother Russia will always endure and always need those who work for her."
Vidimar could not repress a groan as he tried to flex his fingers but couldn't feel them. "Petrov, please. Listen to this offer. Instead of being an unwilling prisoner, I will work with you. Why not? My family is from Estonia, we have no reason to love America OR Russia. With my cooperation, we can resurrect the greatest criminals from any era. You can lead an army of pirates, Samurai, Vikings...."
"A tempting thought," said the Red Blade. "Of course I would have a loyal lieutenant or two keep watch on you for backsliding, but I sense your proposal is sincere."
"It is! I'm not the mastermind my father was. I don't have his ambition. Working with you would mean protection from my enemies in the Midnight War." Vidimar let his head dropped to his chest. "But please, please untie my hands before I lose them permanently."
"It is unfortunate that your father met an untimely end at the hands of his own creation." Petrov shifted his grasp on the menacing sword and leaned forward to scrutinize his captive's face. "From what I gather, Leopold Vidimar was a true genius at gralic sorcery and you his son merely carry on his work with some refinements."
"Yes, yes, I admit it. What do you say? Do we have a deal?"
"Perhaps. I will think it over. In the meantime, I will indeed free your hands but hear my words... any foolish attempts at escape and Hellspawn will suck your lifeforce right out your body."
"I won't try anything, I swear it." Vidimar watched as the spymaster went to place the sword on a low coffee table not far from hand, then returned with a pair of tin snips from a pocket and started to cut through the fishing cord around the sorcerer's wrists. At that moment, the door crashed inward so hard that one hinge broke loose. Lowering his leg from that kick, a gaunt man in black vaulted into the room and pointed a long-barreled .38 revolver at the Red Blade.
"Don't move. Don't even think about it, Petrov," said Bane. "Before you could reach that sword, you'd have five tunnels through your head. Raise your hands so I can see them."
"I don't know you, American," Igor Petrov slowly replied as he straightened up. He made no move toward lifting his hands. Perhaps he did not know who Jeremy Bane was, but the spymaster was a shrewd judge. He saw the steadiness of the hand holding the gun, he saw the calm deliberation in those cold grey eyes and he had heard a lack of tension in that quiet voice. Petrov knew he was facing a deadly enemy.
"Oh my God," said Vidimar. "The Dire Wolf! That's it. We're as good as dead."
II.
"Stay calm and don't force my hand," Bane said. "Warren Vidimar, huh? You're as bad as your father was. All this month, my team and I have been tracking down your Preincarnated monsters. The Monk, Atron Ke, Tommy Moon, Golgora, even Christopher Lincoln. The party's over, mister."
"And myself? You do me no honor if I remain unidentified even a half century later."
"Oh, I know you all right. Igor Petrov, the Red Blade. Well, a reasonable imitation of Petrov, in any..."
Bane's next word was cut off as a pair of tin snips came spinning like lightning toward his face. He had not seen them in Petrov's hand when he had entered and he had been expecting the spylord to pull a gun instead. With his enhanced reflexes, Bane was able to sway to one side and slap the sharp edged tool away, but this gave the Red Blade the opening he needed. In two quick steps, he had clasped his fingers around the hilt of Hellspawn.
Startlingly, the sword wheeled up into an on guard position, pulling Petrov's arms with it. The slight discomfort on the Russian spy's face revealed he had not been responsible. Now the heavy weapon twirled in a tight figure eight pattern and straightened with its point extended toward the Dire Wolf.
"The Blade Which Drinks Life," Bane growled. "Oh, I know about that cursed thing. But there's something you may not realize yet, Petrov."
"Indeed? Please enlighten me."
""That's not Hellspawn you're holding, pal. I saw Hellspawn broken by my friend Khang on the island of Maroch twenty years ago. The fragments scattered and were lost, and the Darthan spell animating it ended. You have an iron sword that looks like Hellspawn and maybe acts like it in some ways... but it's not the real thing."
The Russian warlock hesitated. For the first time, his certainty seemed shaken. His broad hands shifted on the hilt as he hefted the weapon and considered what Bane had said.
Lowering his gun slightly, Bane raised an accusing finger of his free hand. This was a distraction as he took a step forward at the same time. "Yeah, think about it. Vidimar's spell couldn't possibly match the gralic force that Tollinor Kje ensorcelled into the real Hellspawn. Tollinor Kje was the Firstmade of the Darthim, the most dangerous sorcerer in history. You've got a cheap imitation of his sword, which I suppose is only appropriate."
As Petrov stared with a dawning realization, the Dire Wolf took another step forward and raised his voice. "You are NOT Igor Petrov. He died in battle with Mark Drum back in 1957. Petrov is dead, gone forever. You are not him. You're a flesh and blood copy of his body, and your brain is working on a replay of his memories. But a photograph is not the object. A recording is not the orchestra. You're not Igor Petrov, accept it."
The Red Blade's face fell as he could not keep the realization at bay any longer. For a second, his thoughts turned inward and he was vulnerable. Thi was what Bane had been trying to provoke. With one leap, he closed the gap, chambering his leg up to his chest to drive a straight side kick directly into the center of Petrov's abdomen. The copper-colored sword wriggled around to try to impale the Dire Wolf but Bane smacked it aside with his gun to avoid having it make contact with his skin and he crashed a right hook that broke Petrov's jaw in two places.
Even as the Red Blade doubled up in agony and fell to knock over a chair, Bane had whirled and kicked Hellspawn far out of reach. He stared as he saw that metal of that weapon had faded from a lurid hot crimson to dull dark grey. The suffocating sensation of impending doom faded from the room. Bane relaxed ever so slightly, then turned back to Petrov.
Where the Russian villain had fallen, a much smaller and softer man was stretched out unconscious on the luxurious carpet. His lower face was seriously out of shape. Bane exhaled sharply, "Damn. He reverted. I was hoping to get some information out of him. Petrov knew a lot of secrets about both the Cold War and the Midnight War."
"Help me, please," Vidimar begged. "He forced me to work for him. My life was in danger. Hurry, cut me loose."
Bane stepped over and regarded the sorcerer with a noticable lack of sympathy. "Yeah, right. You were running the Preincarnators just fine for the last year all on your own. Maybe I have to call an ambulance for your follower there, but first I'm taking you to KDF headquarters. You also have some answers to give out."
Warren Vidimar gave a weak chuckle that turned into a sob. "No. No. There's still one way out for me."
"Now don't try anything crazy," Bane began but even as he spoke, he saw the air shimmer wildly around the man in the chair. Vidimar's outline was lost in a flash of red gralic force and when the light faded, his body had dwindled and reformed.
The Dire Wolf's mouth fell open for one of the rare times he was completely flummoxed. He hadn't known that a sorcerer could turn the Preincarnation spell inward on the caster but there was the proof. Bane allowed himself a wide grin at the results. Maybe the spell wouldn't last long, it was hard to say. Sometime Preincarnated subjects remained that way permanently, sometimes the effect was only good for a few days ot weeks. Time would tell. For the moment, sleeping peacefully in the chair where Warren Vidimar had sat, a six month old baby boy dozed in its diapers.
9/23/2000 - Rev.11/14/2018