by Adrian Cole
Several dozen yards away, the assassins grouped for a few moments, closing the skylight and securing it. Their leader waved them away, but as they began to creep across the curve of the dome, Darkwing took the first of them out with a shot that was an instant kill. The shadow figure rolled aside, flat to the dome: the remaining four assassins crouched down, stock-still, waiting. Clad in jet black, they would have been impossible to see normally, but to Darkwing they were sitting ducks. Whereas he may as well not have been there.
He took out a second, another instant kill. The three remaining assassins broke across the dome, scattering like seed in the wind. Darkwing watched them go, waiting. Then, when they were out of sight, he launched himself, spreading his artificial wings and soaring up into the deepening night. It would only be a matter of time before he took the others.
Now, under the Paragon Building’s parapet, he heard the sound he had been waiting for. Helicopter. Coming down from high above, one jump ahead of the impending storm. Across the way, one of the assassins used a torch to identify his presence. Darkwing could have dropped him right then, but waited. He wanted them all, and the machine.
A thunderclap directly overhead rocked the buildings, spraying them with a first gust of rain. Under its shield, Darkwing went over the parapet, swooping down in a wide arc that took him to the edge of the opposite roof, thirty yards from his prey. The helicopter was buffeted by the gathering force of the wind, but it hovered just above the rooftop. A ladder unfurled.
Darkwing melted into the shadow of a ventilation shaft cover and took careful aim. The face of the pilot took shape in his sights. But, just as he had thwarted the would-be assassin of Randolph Harling, so he was cheated of his prey now.
A bolt of lightning fire ripped down through the upper atmosphere of Stark City like a shaft hurled by a demented god. Darkwing felt the massive surge of energy, his weapon torn from his fingers and flipped end-over-end out across the roof. He was smashed aside by the blast, drenched in a sudden storm of light. As he fell back, the roof seemed to dissolve like ice in a furnace.
He closed his eyes on that ferocious light, sinking, sinking. Outside the bubble of fire that engulfed him, he could hear a battery of thunderclaps and the abrupt rush of the rain, a monsoon-like deluge. Slowly his movement eased, the light tightening like a noose. It winked out, consciousness with it.
* * * *
Mears gazed at the last panel in stunned amazement. It was totally black. No words accompanied it. But that’s not right, he thought. There was no storm. He was about to take out the helicopter pilot. The last panel was a close-up of his mask, one eye closed in concentration. For years I imagined him squeezing off that shot, the falling ’copter, the fight with the last of the assassins.
He turned to say something to the archivist, but he was not there. Mears sat back, perplexed. Outside the room, as if in the remote distance, he heard a bellow of thunder, a reminder that a storm still boiled around this building. He looked through the comic again, ending with a prolonged study of the last panels.
With a grunt of puzzlement, he set it aside and picked up the paperback. Warrior Breed, proclaimed its cover. ‘He crossed a world of terror to win the Dragon Throne,’ was the legend that ran across the dead reptile men. Mears began flicking through it, picking out a paragraph here, a section there, smiling at the energetic mayhem in which the hero seemed to be constantly embroiled.
Another distant crash of thunder underlined the storm’s refusal to abate.
CHAPTER THREE
The Barbarian
Among the heaps of slain, a small group of warriors, knotted together for self-preservation, lowered their swords and drew breath. Their leader, a huge, scarred mercenary, his harness torn, his chest streaked with blood, studied the battlefield. The dead were countless, on both sides, but the ragged flags of the king were being raised to the sound of muted cheers. It was his day and the tide of destruction that had been the hated Dragon King’s crusade had been smashed, albeit at a huge cost in lives.
Smoke drifted over the field, mercifully smothering its hideous images, though not its smells or shrieks of the maimed and dying. The barbarian dug his blade into the earth to clean it, pulled it free and sheathed it.
“It’s over,” he said grimly. “Numaston is still king of these lands.”
“I’ll be glad enough when I see the Dragon head on a pole,” growled Turone, one of his band. “These lizard-men breed like flies.”
The barbarian nodded, his thin hair plastered to his brow. A trumpet call out in the field drew his attention and instinctively he pulled his blade free again.
“What is it?” snapped Turone. “More of them?”
There were several soldiers coming, riding carelessly over the fallen, friend and foe alike, so urgent was their message. One of them reined in before the barbarian, his face ashen, eyes wide in consternation. “The king!” he gasped. “Taken at the very last.”
“Dead?” cried Turone.
“No, but a captive of the Dragon Lord’s protectors. They flee yet, to the place of serpent monoliths. If they open the gate there, Numaston is lost and with him the war.”
The barbarian swore crudely. “Give me your horse! And these men, see them provided with mounts. Turone! Follow with all speed. We’ll see if this war is won or lost!”
It took no more than a few moments for the exhausted riders to dismount and hand over their steeds to the mercenaries. No one doubted their loyalty to the cause, nor their fighting skills. But the rewards of victory would be vast; Numaston had told them they would never need to fight again if they helped him destroy the Dragon King’s vermin. He’d make rich princes of them all and they knew he had the means to do it.
Racing across the killing fields, the barbarian kept that thought in mind. He was too old at forty to keep on fighting. He needed a last triumph, a rich one, and success in this carnage would have given it to him. But not if Numaston fell. The Dragon King would have him and any of his followers gutted if he lifted the victory banner this day. Behind him he heard the cries of Turone and a dozen others as they, too, gave chase. They were younger than him by a dozen years at least, and they lacked his resolve, thinking, as young men do, that they could always move on to richer pickings if they failed here.
But the barbarian knew that his own time was limited. He was much slower these days, having to pace himself. He had been fighting today since daybreak, and it was long since noon. His sword arm was weary. What he needed was a scalding bath, a good meal and a long sleep. Instead there was the prospect of another battle. He forced aside the doubts, the fear that numbed a fighting man and rendered him useless.
Three miles from the battlefield he came to an open plain and saw beyond it the curved mound that was the place of the monoliths. These huge blocks, raised in the dim vistas of a bygone age when Serpent Gods were said to have ruled the world, dominated the landscape, casting their forbidding shadows over it. Few humans dared venture near them, sure that ancient magics and curses protected them. It was to this place of ill-omen that the fleeing servants of the Dragon King had come. Behind and above it, thick banks of grey cloud were massing, like the ships of gods, keels bulging with potential rain.
The barbarian drew closer, seeing shapes among the great menhirs. A dozen of the lizard-men waited, protecting their lord, who had gone into the heart of the stone circle. As the warrior drew in reign and studied his enemies, the other riders reached him, faces grim, though their resolve firm.
“How many?” said Turone.
“I’ve seen a score at most. My guess is they’ll try to hold their line while their leader performs whatever ceremony he has in mind. He’ll have his sorcerers with him.”
“The Dragon Gate?”
“Why else would he come here?”
“If he opens it,” muttered Turone, “the way to the Gods know what worlds will be wide. Who can tell what he will unleash?”
The barbarian studied his men. They were the best of the
m, but the day’s work had worn them all down. He had lost a dozen others, good men all. It brought a grimace of anger to his face: he had not had time until now to reckon up the losses. “If we let them go,” he called out, “we may as well ride to the barren northlands and look for our next meal in the forests, with bow and spear. Live like animals again. If we stay and fight —”
“And win,” snorted Turone, “we live like kings for the next year or so. But there’s the rub. We have to win.”
The barbarian’s deep blue eyes flashed. “Aye. We have to win. So, what’s it to be? Win, die or flee?”
Turone laughed. “What’s a few more lizards this day?”
The others shouted agreement. They were young, with the confidence and exuberance of youth. At their age, the barbarian would already have been racing over the plain, shrieking his defiance of the lizard-men and their accursed gods.
“Very well,” he said. “But don’t lose your formation. Be a wedge. Enough room to swing, but close to one another. Remember everything I taught you. And save your breath for the doing.”
It was enough. The decision was made. With a brief shout, the company rode off. Up on the hill, the enemy saw them, readying for a final conflict. Spears gleamed in the dwindling sunlight, shields locked. Within moments the mercenaries had ridden up the slope, but veered in a unit to one side, racing round the top of the wide mound, seeking out the line of least resistance. Once they had chosen it, they went in, swords whirling.
As if in approval of their assault, a distant boom of thunder rolled across the land, a forerunner, it seemed, of impending storm. Swords clashed, spears jabbed. Again the killing began. While the battle raged, the thunder closed in, the first blast of rain sweeping in like a sudden tide. It aided the mercenaries, for the lizard-men felt its cold, hampered by the pummeling of the deluge.
The barbarian took advantage of this. He had one aim: to break through the defense and drive on to the centre of the circle. It was a furious fight, the defenders determined to shield their master at all costs. But the barbarian hacked them aside like wheat stalks, his terrified steed lashing out with steel-shod hooves. Between them they cut a bloody path through the massing lizard-men, with Turone and the others closing the gap behind with their own web of steel.
It seemed like an hour, but it was no more than minutes before the barbarian had ripped through and on to the centre of the stone ring. A number of his men were hewn down, speared and gutted. At least it would be a swift death for them. Two acolytes, who swung clumsily at him with scythe-shaped blades, met the barbarian. He ducked them with practiced ease and made two lightning-fast jabs, one to the throat, one to the belly. The assailants fell, life-blood gushing.
A crescendo of thunder rolled overhead and in the lightning glare, the barbarian saw his goal. There were two central monoliths, daubed with garish symbols and glyphs. Between them, arms raised aloft, the Dragon King himself invoked the dark powers beyond the gateway. The space inside pulsed with its own darkness, alien and hostile, but a force that the lizard-men served and drew upon avidly. At the Dragon King’s feet, King Numaston sprawled, spirit broken. Beside him were the last two of his bodyguard, muscled warriors who had been brutally hamstrung, their hands chained up behind them. Sacrifices, the barbarian thought. Their blood will bring the evil powers through this foul gate.
He pushed forward, sensing Turone and at least three others behind him, shielding his back as the last of the lizard-men pressed in for the kill. The Dragon King swung round, his hideous helm limned in another dazzling bolt of light as the heavens warred. His sorcerers barred the way, lifting their staffs. The heads had come to life, serpent mouths gaping, fangs dripping with venom. The barbarian moved like a jungle panther, blade whistling in the still air of the circle. It sliced off the serpent heads in a glittering arc, their viscous blood drenching the sorcerers. Before either could react, the barbarian cut them both down.
Behind him Turone himself fell at last, three spears tearing into him. He howled like a dog, sword flailing as long as the life was in him, dropping to his knees. But there was no mercy: sword after sword stabbed at him, drenching the earth. And with him, the others died, too, their rain rain-washed corpses almost instantly forgotten as every eye turned to the remaining intruder.
The barbarian ignored the closing ring of steel, the pressing weight of the storm. Though the very gods reached down to invoke havoc on earth, he remained fixed in his purpose. Numaston’s pain-filled eyes looked up at him, but there was little hope flickering there. Even so, the barbarian rushed to meet the Dragon King. The latter swung a long broadsword of his own, but it broke apart as the barbarian leapt for him, sword thrust forward like a piston, ripping through breastplate, skin and bone alike, its point bursting out from the Dragon King’s back.
As he dropped to his knees, then fell back like an empty sack, the lizard-men themselves drew back from the circle, swords and spears wavering. The barbarian turned to face them, bloody weapon gleaming as if it were alive, demonic. Thunder crashed above him and new lightning drenched him.
“Barbarian,” he heard Numaston groan, lifting an emaciated arm. “I am dying. I am the last of my line. Take my throne. My people will follow you.”
Beyond the lizard-men, the sounds of more riders rose over the clamour of the storm. It was enough to shred the last resistance. Within minutes, the barbarian was alone with the fallen monarch. He bent to him. “My lord,” he said. “It is over. The day is won. Don’t speak of giving up your throne, least of all to me,” he grinned.
Numaston closed his eyes. “I’ll not last until twilight, believe me. They need a strong ruler. Your days in the saddle are over, warrior. Enjoy the spoils you have won.”
The barbarian stood over him, turning to face the first of the riders. At his back, the gateway yawned, though its darkness seemed to drain away to a greyness, replaced by a misted view of the stones beyond. Yet another crack of thunder sounded, coupled with another flare of light. It balled outwards, filling the circle of stones. As the riders pulled up before the lone warrior and the fallen king, both were silhouetted in its brilliant radiance. They shielded their eyes, some dropping to their knees as they dismounted.
When they looked up again, they saw only the dead king. Of the barbarian, there was no sign. Like the darkness in the gate, he had evaporated.
* * * *
Mears stared at the page. It was the last one in the book. Not untypical of a sword and sorcery yarn, it left the way for a sequel and probably several more of them. But as far as he was aware, none had ever been written. This was the only book that the author, Karl Dorain, had actually written. Had he, like Garrett Zeite, Darkwing’s creator, also died? But that wouldn’t necessarily follow: there were numerous instances of one-off writers. And Karl Dorain could well be a pseudonym.
Mears smiled to himself. He had thought about trying to write something himself, more than once. But he never had time, or so he told himself. The Civil Service kept him busy. And he wasn’t sure that Grant would have approved if he’d found out. Not on our time, Mr. Mears. Even if it wasn’t their time.
He looked again at the paperback. So the barbarian’s dilemma had never been resolved, just as the archivist had said.
Where was the old boy? There seemed to be no sign of him. Mears put the book aside and lifted the pulp magazine. Book of Super Shocks.
He leafed through it, nodding in recognition at the authors, most of whom were no longer alive. When he came to the Mire-Beast story, it had its own double-page artwork, a grotesque swamp scene, with the beslimed monster ducking down to avoid the rifle fire of a bunch of pursuers. The inevitable heroine sprawled on the bank, mouth wide in a silent scream.
Curse of the Mire-Beast, read the title, in suitably weird print. “It rose from the swamps, lusting for revenge on the warped scientists who had created it,” Mears said aloud. He had read the story before; it was an old favourite.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Mire-Beast
The twin-engine plane banked slowly in the smothering night, circling the small airstrip for the third time, its windscreen lashed with rain, its pilot glancing anxiously at the green nimbus of the control panel. Outside, the clouds were, if anything, thickening, restricting the visibility to a matter of yards. An occasional break offered some hope, but this was flying by the seat of the pants stuff. Tommy Hicks was good at it, but there was a worse storm brewing, he was certain, and if he was going to get this damned tub down in one piece, it would have to be soon.
“What do you think, Tommy?” said his co-pilot, Alec Holland. His face suggested that his own assessment of the situation was not good.
Tommy shook his head. “Our best bet is to turn tail and head for an easier landing due south. Before the weather breaks. But you heard Llewellyn. He wants the cargo landed tonight and here. It will mean a big bonus.”
“Or a big bang. The airstrip’s hairy enough on the best of days.”
Hicks laughed. He could land this old crate on a postage stamp. But he didn’t know what the cargo was. It was obviously precious: Llewellyn had told him to treat it like nitro. This was the sort of job he normally turned his nose up at. But the fee was too good to refuse. And he knew that Llewellyn wouldn’t be dealing in drugs or arms. The scientist was something to do with the Government, so the cargo was clean, or at least, approved by the authorities. Llewellyn had a lot of clout.
“I’ll take her in for a last run. Okay?”
Alec Holland grinned nervously. “What the hell. Like you said, it’s good money. And we’re insured, aren’t we?”
Hicks laughed again. “That’s all right then. Hold on to your hat, pal. Here we go.”
The landing strip was below them and if they were going to hit it right, they would have no more than a few feet to spare. Overhead, thunder rumbled, an ominous threat. Somewhere out in the gloom, lightning flickered.