dochermes | Entries tagged with ruffian

"The Sad Fate of Yokel Ono"

6/28-6/30/2001

I.

From the outside, nothing indicated the weathered old cinder block building was a bar. There were no signs at all, and the windows had been painted black. You had to know about this place beforehand. It was by no means the only such underground establishment in this part of downtown Manila.

Late in a miserable afternoon where the temperature and humidity were both high, Jeremy Bane made his way down narrow streets toward this nameless bar. Even the alleys were crowded with giggling half-naked children playing tag, sullen-faced women hanging up damp laundry that would take forever to dry, vendors trying to sell obscure snacks or cheap watches and jewelry. Ripped open plastic garbage bags were piled five high, after everything that could be of any use had been scavenged. Many people were just standing about in small clusters, not seeming to be doing much of anything in particular. Bane had grown up a street orphan in the poorer neighborhoods of Manhattan, and none of this was new to him.

Bane opened the unmarked door and met a big man taking up most of a vestibule. The wide acne-scarred face reacted with instant hostility and the man straightened up with his fists tightening. But then he hesitated.

He found himself facing an American in his late thirties, six feet tall and lean, dressed all in black. Under heavy dark brows, a pair of cold clear grey eyes stabbed out at him. Something in the stranger's quiet confidence was unsettling. Without a word, the guard pulled open the inner door and moved aside to let Bane enter.

Cigarette and marijuana smoke made the barroom as hazy as a foggy night. None of the scattered tables or chairs matched each other. In an instant, Bane's Kumundu training made him assess the situation... He spotted the doors, the exit, possible places where an assailant might be concealed. He took in the poses and body language of the men and women who were playing cards, arguing in low voices or drinking. Mostly, drinking. None seemed an immediate threat, although he could tell that some of them were armed.

One of the doors in the far wall opened and a barefoot woman in a flimsy sundress popped out to speak with the bent old -mustached bartender for a second before vanishing again. Bane knew that places like this had backrooms for gambling and prostitution, but they were not his targets today. He had Midnight War business on his mind.

Bane stepped up to the bar, put down a twenty and ordered a shot of Tequila, which he gulped down. He repeated the action and seemed satisfied. The bartender of course had no way of knowing about Bane's enhanced healing ability. Twenty years on the Tagra tea found only at Tel Shai had elevated Bane's recuperative factor so far that minor wounds or injuries disappeared within minutes. He could not be poisoned. Bane could safely drink pure alcohol and not feel any effects as his system easily processed it. But downing two shots like that made the bartender feel more at ease.

He placed another twenty down on top of the first one, drank another shot of Tequila and leaned forward confidentially. "You must know by now I'm here for information."

That produced a toothless grin from the old man. "It's the usual game. But, sir, I have to say you are not a policeman. Not a spy. Not an underworld killer, either, and we have enough of them here already. I cannot say exactly what you are."

"I have a sort of nickname, the Dire Wolf."

"Oh. Oh, I see...." The bartender had unconsciously stepped back a pace but he regained his nerve. "Of course. I have heard stories. Eyes the color of steel. Black clothing for hunting in the night. You are here to face the unholy creatures, then?"

"I'd like to talk with a man named Mikage. He's Japanese. He has a war name too, the Bronze Ronin. Can you give me one word to point me in the right direction?"

"No," said the bartender. "But I'll give you a friendly tip. Stay away from Bronze Ronin. He's not a kind or a gentle man, my friend."

The Dire Wolf decided against putting down more money. "Well, I've been all over Downtown today asking about him. By now, the whispers should have reached him...."

"Or at least the whispers have reached ME," said a husky female voice.

At that point, the barkeep decided that all the glasses needed vigorous wiping and he occupied himself with the chore. Bane knew a woman had approached him from behind. Even with all the heated conversations and arguments in that bar, no normal Human could set foot close to him without his being aware of it. The Dire Wolf seemed casual, but his weight was perfectly balanced to move in any direction and both arms and both legs were poised to block or attack.

To any observer though, Bane merely turned around to face a woman standing just behind him. She was apparently not a Filipina. The oval face was very pale, accented by delicate red lips and rich glossy hair that was so black it had a blue sheen. Her eyes were deep green, shaded by heavy natural lashes. A black dress, classic in its simplicity, fit snugly without being too obvious.

Most people would guess her age to be in her early twenties, with that clear skin and taut figure. But Bane glanced at her throat, the backs of her hands and the whites of her eyes and judged she was a well-tended forty years old. A small brown canvas handbag hung lightly enough from one shoulder that he decided there was no gun in there.

"You were speaking of Mitsuo Mikage, of the Winter Snow school?" she asked.

"Yeah, I was," Bane said, neither his neutral tone nor his impassive expression giving away any of his thoughts.

"And you are the notorious Dire Wolf, I believe?"

"My actual name is Jeremy Bane."

"And you hate this Mikage?"

"No emotion involved," Bane replied. "It's not personal. He knows something I'm trying to get some information about."

"Wild stories say you are faster than any mortal Man. They say you have been seen clapping shut the mouth of a cobra without being bitten. That you can catch thrown knives by the blade. That you can overtake a deer running for its life."

Bane scoffed. "Come on. People exaggerate."

She studied him for a minute, showing she was one of the few who could meet the glare of those grey eyes without being uncomfortable. "Come with me into the business back room," she said, and added to the bartender, "Send us a couple of whisky-and-sodas."

( the rest of the story )

"The Crimson Pearl"

11/11/2003

I.

"This is not a partnership. I'm in charge. You're going to go through with it or else!" Alvarado smirked cruelly as he delivered his ultimatum. Across the table from him Ruffian clenched her white hands in barely repressed rage. Alejandro Alvarado was tall and darkly handsome in a ruthless way. Many women looked on that hawklike face with its thin mustache with appreciation. Ruffian hated him, with as good reason as she feared him.

But she had been an independent adventuress since her teen years, and could not repress a flare of rebellion. "I've decided against the impersonation! It's too risky!"

"Not half as risky as defying me!" he reminded her. "Your safety is hanging by a thread, Ruffian. How would you like to have me tell the police why you left that apartment complex in such a hurry? Or tell them my version of what happened that night in Duffault's apartment—"

"Hush!" she begged. She was trembling more from repressed anger than fear as she glanced uneasily about the little curtained alcove in which they sat. It was well off the main floor of the Bordeaux Cabaret. Even the music from the orchestra came only faintly to their ears. They were alone, but the words he had just spoken were dynamite, not even safe for empty walls to hear.

"You know I didn't kill him," she snapped.

"So you say. But with your reputation, who'd believe you if I swore I saw you do it?"

She bent her head in defeat. This was the price she must pay for a single moment of bad judgement. In Marseille she had been indiscreet enough to visit the apartments of a certain important Ministry official. It had been only the harmless escapade of a thrill-hunting girl who loved building connections with people who might be able to help her larcenous career.

She had found more thrills than she wanted when the official had been murdered, right before her eyes, by his servant who she was sure was a Russian spy. The murderer had fled, and so had she, but not before she had been seen leaving the house by this Alvarado, a henchman of the slain official. He had kept silent for the moment. But the murderer had taken important documents with him in his flight, and there was hell to pay in diplomatic circles.

It had been an international episode, that almost set government upheaval roaring in troubled Europe. The murder and theft remained an unsolved mystery to the world at large, a wound that still rankled in the capitals of the Continent.

Ruffian had fled the city in a panic, realizing she could never prove her innocence if connected with the affair. Alvarado had followed her to this town of Benoit and laid his cards on the table. If she did not comply with his wishes, he'd go to the police and swear he saw her murder the minister. With sinking certainty, she knew his testimony would send her to a firing squad, for a various government was eager for a scape-goat with which to conciliate the wrathful French public.

Seeing no choice, Ruffian submitted to the blackmail. And now Alvarado had told her the price of his silence. It was not what she had expected, though, from the look in his eyes as he devoured her trim figure from glossy black hair to delicate feet in high heels, she felt it would come to that eventually. But here in the Bordeaux Cafe, a shabby rendezvous in the shadowy borderland between the respectable and the shady, he had reminded her of a project she had abandoned as too risky.

He had commanded her to steal the infamous Crimson Pearl, a rare gem belonging to the vile Alchemist named Courbet. That pearl had amsassed a long list of victims who had died violently trying to possess it.

"So many men have tried," she argued. "How can I hope to succeed? I'll be found floating in the river with my throat cut, just as they were."

"Your chances are good," he retorted. "They tried simple direct force. We'll use a woman's subtle strategy. I've learned where he keeps it. Informatiom from former employees can be bought. and he learned that much. He keeps it in a wall safe that looks like a dragon's head, in the inner chamber of his antique shop, where he keeps his rarest goods, and where he never admits anybody but wealthy women collectors. He entertains them there alone, which makes it easy."

"But how am I going to steal it, with him in there with me?"

"Easy!" he snapped. "He always serves his guests tea. You watch your chance and drop this knock-out pill in his tea." He pressed a tiny, translucent sphere into her hand.

"He'll pass out like a candle getting snuffed. Then you open the safe, take the pearl and skip. One reason you're perfect for this job is you have a natural gift for unraveling trick box puzzles. The safe doesn't have a dial. You press the dragon's teeth in some sequence. That's for you to find out."

"But how am I going to get into the inner chamber?" she demanded.

"That's the essence of the scheme," he assured her. "Did you ever hear of Lady Simone Beaufort? Well, every antique dealer in the Europe knows her by reputation. She's never been here to Benoit, though, and I don't believe Courbet ever saw her. That'll make it easy to fool him. She's a young Frenchwoman with esoteric tastes and she spends her time wandering around the world collecting rare Midnight War treasures. She's worth millions, and she's a free spender.

"Well, you look enough like her in a general way to fit in with any description Courbet's likely to have heard. You're about the same height, same color of hair and eyes, same kind of figure... And you can act, too. You can put on a posh accent that would fool genuine nobilty, and seem the high-born lady to a queen's taste.

"I've seen Lady Simone's cards, and before I left Paris I had one made to match. You see I had this in mind, even then." He passed her a curious slip of paper-thin pasteboard, embossed with elegant characters.

"Her name, of course. She spends a small fortune on cards like that alone. Now go back to your apartment and change into the clothes I know you had made up...scarlet silk dress, dark red hat, slippers with ivory heels, and a jade brooch. That's the way Lady Simone usually dresses Go to Courbet's shop and tell him you want to see the ivory Laughing Mask. He keeps it in the inner chamber. When you get in therem go into your act, but be careful! They say Courbet worships that Crimson Pearl in a literal religious way, and burns incense to it. But you'll pull the wool over his eyes, all right, if anyone can."

Ruffian made no comment.

"Go out by the back way. When you get the pearl, meet me at room Number 7, in the Rue Bon Fortune. You know the place. This town is already too hot for you, and we'll have to get you out into the countryside in a hurry. And remember, sweetheart," his voice grew hard as his predatory eyes, and his arm about her waist was more a threat than a caress, "if you double-cross me, or if you flop on this job, I'll see you stand before a French firing squad if it's the last thing I do. I won't accept any excuses, either. Get me?"

His fingers brushed her chin, trailed over the soft curve of her throat, to her shoulder, and as he voiced his threat, he dug them in like talons, emphasizing his command with a brutality that made Ruffian bite her lip to keep from crying out with pain.

"Yes, you've made yourself very clear."

"All right. Get going." He roughly pushed her toward a door opposite the curtained entrance beyond which the jazz music blared.

( the rest of the story )

"King Homir's Treasure House"

4/19-4/21/1987

I.

Wearing Melgar clothes, Jeremy Bane is in Androval on the trail of the ancient Alchemist Melchius. By chance, he spots the renegade Avathor at a low tavern. Peering in through an open window befor entering, Bane discovers Avathor is meeting with high mountain bandit chiefs,and he finds Human adventurerss Ruffian spying there as well (and also posing as a Melgar, although she is Myrrwhan). Ruffian is tall, five feet seven and athletic. She has darkened her distinctive auburn hair to dark bown to fit in better. Over the previous five years, Ruffian has built a reputation as a bold and inventive thief with acrobatic skills

Identifying Avathor's fmous golden horse hitched to a fence by the tavern, Bane plants one of his tracking discs under the saddle. Then he enters, slugs some of the bandits and breaks up the conference. Avathor runs outside. While getting Ruffian ready to flee, Bane is knocked out by Avathor's Korean mercenary Bronze Ronin. This is Mikage Tstsuo, top street fighter with a healing factor. Bane recovers in time to follow the tracking signal to a shack a few miles away where he finds Ruffian beaten, stripped and bound, with the Melgar symbol for "dog" in shallow cuts across her body. He smashes Avathor's men before they can kill her and takes her to safety.

Ruffian explains to Bane about Avathor's plan to rob King Holmir's Treasure House. This is a single vast chamber cut into the side of a sheer mountain wall, with no known entrances or exits other than the massive woodem gate. staffed with a permanent garrison, it holds a vast treasure of gold, silver and gems. Holmir also is known to store valuable statues, paintings and chronicles there for safekeeping.

Following the tracer disc he planted inside the Melgar's saddle, Bane trails Avathor to a remote part of Androval not far from the Royal Treasure House, bringing along the bruised but furious Ruffian, who vows to assassinate Avathor. Both being extremely skilled in stealth, Bane and Ruffian sneak into Avathor's camp in the mountains and overhear him conferring with Dolomir, an agent of Melchius. Avathor is pleased with the compressed air bomb filled with Alchemical poison gas potent enough to kill an army. Modern technology will function perfectly well in Androval but it is taboo culturally and legally.

With Ruffian beside him, Bane overhears Avathor explain his plan. A labor gang of Trolls under Melgar supervision will be headed to the mines with their wagons to fill with ore. This is a common sight in the mountains. Avathor explains the Trolls will wheel away as much gold and silver as they can. But the two are discovered and Bronze Ronin kills Ruffian with his lethal fists. Avathor intervenes, using his electrical powers to stun Bane into helplessness. Bane is captured and strapped to a table with a sharp-edged cabre poised near his neck. A Gralic Leech, Avathor wants to siphon off Bane's speed for his own but has to wait a few days because his body is already holding as many powers as it can for one time.

While Bronze Ronin is busy elsewhere, Bane escapes his cell and witnesses Avathor's second meeting with the Melgar bandit chiefs, who are supplying horsemen to accompany the Trolls for the assault. Avathor plans to breach Treasure House by releasing a deadly Alchemical serum into the atmosphere, killing the personnel. This serum will be sprayed from the air by Melgar mercenary Beldor and her five Air Maidens riding rare winged horses from Okali. Then the Trolls will fill their wagons with as much treasure as will fit and hurry to their tunnels in the mountains.

The bandits scorn Avathor's scheme, particularly one named Khuthir who demands to be paid immediately so he can leave. Avathor admits that since the caravan of Trolls is already on its way, he doesn't need the chiefs anymore. Stepping into an airtight cell, he gasses them to death with an Alchemical potion and rants to himself that he will do the same to any who might tell his tale.. Bane is captured by Beldor and taken back into custody. Bane confronts Avathor over the logistical implausibility of moving tons of gold, silver and gems. The Trolls will only be able to carry off a fraction of the treasure. As Avathor laughs and says he has a more subtle agenda, Bane deduces from the presence of the minion that Avathor has been offered a deadly gas bomb by Melchius the Alchemist to detonate inside the vault and poison the gold for decades. Avathor doesn't care much for claiming the treasure, he wants revenge on King Holmir.

III.

Again trying to escape, Bane engages in a fight with Beldor that ends with them both battered and willing to talk. He tells her that Avathor killed the Melgar bandits and will soon have no use for her. The next day, on the rare winged horses, Beldor's maidens spray the gas over Treasure House, seemingly killing the guards and workers. The garrison is so surprised and fascinated by the flying horses that no arrows are loosed until it is too late. The heavier than air gas quickly forms an ankle-high mist that can be walked through safely for short periods of time. Wheeling overhead, the Air Maidens fly back in the directon from which they had come... except for Beldor, who suddenly breaks away and speeds off to the South.

Avathor's Troll press gang breaks through the outer gates of Treasure House and beats down the door to the inner vault as Avathor arrives with the poison gas bomb. In the vault, Melchius's henchman Dolomir, ties Bane down across the bomb with ropes. This gives Avathor great glee and he can't stop laughing. The Trolls and the bandits loot with frantic haste, loading crates of gold and silver coins, leather bags of jewels and some heirloom weapons on to the carts while also filling their pockets.

"Androval will fall!" gloats Avathor to the stoic Bane. "With no gold or silver that can be handled, with nothing to back it up, Androval's money will be worthless, the economy will collapse and this realm will collapse into raw panic. Holmir will be deposed as he deserves to... and a new, stronger man will claim the throne." Bane says nothing and Avathor leaves him. Bronze Ronin is ordered to remain behind until the last minute to be sure the well-known tricky Bane doesn't get loose somehow.

Unknown to Avathor, Bane's talk with Beldor convinced her to change sides. She diluted the Alchemical solution to harmless levels. So the Alchemical serum has knocked all the Melgarin soldiers out and left them sick but still alive. Avathor locks the inner vault leaving Bane and Bronze Ronin trapped inside. The bomb itself is still fatal and ready to blow.

IV.

As the Troll wagons roll away as quickly as they can manage, Avathor withdraws to a hilltop to observe from a safe distance. Bane frees himself with the razor blades hidden in his cuffs, but Bronze Ronin tackles him before he can stop the bomb. Bane quickly manages to defeat Bronze Ronin then forces the lock off the serum bomb and figures out how to disarm it. He sits down with a bad case of the shakes after realizing how close he came to being killed.

A deep rumbling outside draws him to the ruined gate. One hundred Melgar calvary on their great war horses thunder by in pursuit of the fleeing Trolls. Bane realizes that the fighting will be brief and merciless. Unarmed, facing mounted Melgarin with lances and sabres, even the powerful Trolls will have no chance. Some of the riders stay to safeguafrd the Treasure House. Their captain dismounts. He and Bane fill each other in on the situation, and the captain thanks Bane for saving Androval from ruin and a coup. Beldar is a prisoner at the nearby lancer fort. She had landed her winged horse and informed the officers in charge of the ongoing attack at Treasure House, so her life is safe for the moment.

For her service in preventing all the deaths, Beldor will be pardoned all her crimes by the King. Bane is told he will be the first non-Melgar to be awarded the Green Star medal for heroism. The poison gas bomb is hauled along until a way can be found to safely destroy it. Both are escorted by a squad of the calvary to the Royal Court for audience with the King, but Avathor and his surviving fighters attack the group. In the struggle, Avathor's sword chops open a seal on the gas tank and sprays Avathor with the gas. Bane and Beldor get back safely from the deadly fumes but the Gralic Leech withers into a mere mummy.

12/31/2022

"Search For the Tzumatli Wheel"

6/27-6/28/2004

I.

"I'm a reincarnated cowboy," said Johnny Packard. "And by that, I don't mean in any symbolic or metaphysical sort of way, you take my meaning? I truly am the Brimstone Kid from the Old West brought back into a modern body."

The jukebox in the corner was turned up much too loud. The voices of the Dixie Chicks were familiar and the tune was clearly "Traveling Soldier," but the words could not be distinguished at all. Perched on a stool next to the bar, Ruffian brought her flawless face closer to Johnny to hear him. She studied him intently. She saw a young guy in his mid-twenties, no more than five feet six, lean and wiry in boots, black jeans and a denim jacket buttoned all the way up even on a sultry night. Johnny's angular face under the shock of dark red hair was not good-looking so much as it showed strength and wry humor. The bright green eyes were amused at seeing her examine him so openly.

"I should laugh nervously, I suppose, and quickly make an exit," the woman called Ruffian said. "But I don't know... Something in your voice, in your eyes, tells me you believe what you're saying. I want to hear more."

"It's gospel truth, ma'am," Johnny answered. "It don't make no never mind to me what folks believe but my words are always straight shootin'."

Ruffian smiled with her lips closed. She was slightly taller than Johnny, a slender woman about thirty with smooth olive skin and gorgeous straight black hair that hung straight down her back to her waist. In this honkytonk, she was simply dressed in sneakers, blue jeans and white long-sleeved blouse with a folded collar. No jewelry beyond plain stud earrings and a silver chain necklace with a turquoise pendant no bigger than a coin. "I'm glad to hear that, Johnny. I've heard stories about you back East. Just now, I happened to see you ride up on your Harley. Doesn't the modern world with all its technology seem frightening to you?"

"Naw, I may be from a different era but that don't mean I'm stupid. Back in Manhattan, I took recent history courses at a community college until they was comin' out my ears. I learn fast. There's lots of things I don't much care for about this modern world but there's just as many that suit me fine."

Ruffian flashed perfect teeth at him as she lifted her empty glass. "Buy a lady a drink and tell me more?"

"I'd be pleased to do so," Johnny said. He got the bartender's attention and freshened both their glasses. After he took a contemplative sip and muttered, "Good bourbon. Anyway, ma'am. Miss Ruffian, if I might call you that, are you from these parts?"

"Oh heavens no, I've never been in Arizona before. I came here to write an article about Skinwalker sightings. Was this your hometown in your... your earlier life?"

Johnny raised his shaggy eyebrows and gazed down at the bar. "For a while. I spent better part of a year in this territory. Tell me, have you heard of the Tzumatli peoples?"

"Never. The name sounds sort of Aztec, maybe?" She lifted her glass and took a delicate sip that barely got her lips wet. Behind those huge dark green eyes with long natural lashes, a shrewd mind was watching Johnny, calculating, planning, but none of that showed.

"Far as I can tell, almost nothin' is known about them for sure," Johnny Packard said. "There's a tiny bit of evidence that they were one of the very earliest groups in Mexico and Central America, but that's based on some pottery and bits of jewelry you could fit in a shoebox. Scientists would surely love to learn more." He paused and drained his glass with a single gulp, then seemed distant again.

"Oh, don't stop there," Ruffian said. "There has to be more to the story."

"True enough. In the late spring of 1881, some folks found a curious trinket while clearing land. It was a wheel of beaten gold, too big to hold in your hand, with a funny-looking green stone in its hub. In a circle around the outer edge were thirty-six symbols. Just squiggles or the head of a cow or the open hand of a man or a sun with lines coming off of it. The farmer took it to the local schoolteacher who figgered it was not only really old but interesting. He bought it from the farmer without lettin' fall just how valuable this Wheel was. You see, the teacher decided that this was not only from the Tzumatli but it was their alphabet inscribed on the outer rim."

He paused long enough that Ruffian tugged impatiently at his sleeve. "Come on! Keep going."

"Sorry, I was ponderin' a mite. The teacher wrote to a university back East and they promised him a wheelbarrow full of money for it. So he packed it up real careful and put it on a train headin' to St Louis and from there up North to Boston. The train was held up by the Mullen Gang. Four people got killed, includin' the engineer, the mail car man and two reg'lar fellows who tried to stand up to the outlaws. They got holes through 'em for their courage. Along with the money and gold watches and such, the Mullen brothers took some packages from the mail that looked as if it might seem worth something. That was when the Tzumatli Wheel vanished for the first time."

She was leaning in toward Johnny Packard more closely than seemed necessary just to hear him. Laying it on thick at first always seemed to work in her experience. "The first time?"

"Yesm. First of many. But that was when I first learned about the Wheel, the first time I had to shoot a man who was trying to take it away but not the last...."

( the rest of the story )