Night of the Heroes

by Adrian Cole

  The missing five who are six are there. You must find them. It is of paramount importance. Others will be looking for them, attempting to keep them apart, thus keeping them vulnerable. You may have met those others by now. Avoid them at all costs.

  You must bring the five who are six together.

  Grimsfeather might be able to help.

  The scrawled signature, that of Guy Abbot, was in keeping with the bizarre nature of the note. Mears puzzled over it a number of times. The “five who are six” could only be a reference to the characters he had been reading about: Darkwing, the Barbarian, the Mire-Beast, Cyberwolf and Palgrave Reverence, with the sixth being the detective’s companion, Jameson.

  What did the archivist mean? Find them? The magazines, books and comics? The series? And who were the “others.” The freakish figures who had closed in on him? What had the guy in the street said? Shuddermen were about.

  Mears finished his beer, or rather, ale. A couple more pints of that and he’d be floating around somewhere near the ceiling. Might not be such a bad idea. But the best way to tackle this was to get home, have a hot shower and chew it over in bed.

  He sensed the barman close at hand. “Excuse me, but I’m not very familiar with the streets around here. How do I get to the tube?”

  The barman’s ruddy face contemplated him patiently, as if it had been an awkward question. “The tube?” He shook his head, as if the word were foreign to him.

  “The underground,” said Mears.

  “Ah,” the barman nodded, face changing. “Yes.” He tapped his nose. “Keep it down. Are you expected?”

  What the hell is he talking about? Mears wondered. But he decided not to antagonise the barman. “Yes. Actually, I’m looking for a chap called —” he glanced down at the note from the archivist “- Grimsfeather. Know him?”

  “I might. Does he know you?”

  “I don’t think so. But he’ll know Guy Abbot.”

  “Did Guy send you?”

  Mears guessed that a lot was riding on his answer. He had the feeling that a number of people in the bar were watching him, ears picking up each word of his conversation with the barman. He nodded.

  “Wait here. More ale?” the big man added, lifting a huge jug of it.

  Mears decided to let him pour. Then the barman nodded to his companion and shouldered his way past him and out through the back of the bar. Mears put the note back in the envelope and returned it to his inside pocket. If this man Grimsfeather appeared, what was he supposed to say to him? I’ve come about the “five who are six?” But then, what the hell else can I say?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Grimsfeather

  The first thing Darkwing felt was the hardness of the ground, pressed to his face. It was wet, the coldness spreading like a virus as consciousness returned. He opened his eyes. Murky, flickering light. The ground tilted away, uneven stone, unfamiliar. He lifted his head. The rain had stopped. Somehow the lights were crackling. Short circuit? But the sound was wrong. Not electrical.

  He pushed himself up, a foot or two off the ground, then saw the other bodies. There were two of them, both inert. The assassins.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he got to his knees, still a little groggy. Water dripped from him: he had been lying in a wide pool of rainwater. Somewhere a distant rumble reminded him of the storm, but it was fast disappearing. The lights: they were flaming torches, two of them set high up in cressets on the wall opposite, which looked incredibly old, like something from a medieval castle. Their flames sputtered, tossed off in an orange stream.

  So where the hell is this? If this was Stark City, it was a god-forsaken area of it he had never visited before. But he had no time to think about it. His first problem was the assassins. He reached for his gun, then remembered it had been thrown from his grip when the lightning bolt tore down from the sky. But he had other weapons, relieved to find that the short, curved knife tucked under his left arm had not been lost. He eased it from its sheath.

  He was about to slip forward and examine the two fallen men, when a sound behind him, a soft footfall in another pool, made him swing round, instinctively ducking off to one side. His eyes took in the scene in a split-second. It was the third assassin. The black-clad man, face hidden, all but the eyes, was coming slowly forward, crouched down, gun muzzle aimed at Darkwing’s head. And the killer wasn’t going to miss at this range.

  Inch by inch, sure of his prey, with the confidence of absolute certainty, the killer moved forward. Darkwing knew that, even if he flung the knife, he would be dead before it struck home.

  The eyes in the mask regarded him coldly. No hint of malice or smugness. Just here to do the job, professional. Darkwing was crouched, coiled for a roll that would unfold and spread his wings over him, possibly deflecting the bullet. But at this range, his chances were slim.

  As the gun lifted a fraction, its discharge imminent, the assassin jerked backward, caught up by something hitherto invisible. Arms from the shadows swung round his chest, banding like iron. The gun crashed off a shot, which whined away, ricocheting from the stone wall opposite. Darkwing went into an instant roll, tumbling into the shadows.

  The assassin’s gun fell from nerveless fingers as his assailant squeezed, the ribs in his chest crunching under the enormous pressure. He tried to scream with the agony of it, but only a faint wheeze came from his gaping mouth. He was lifted clean from the ground and shaken like a rat by a terrier.

  Darkwing merged with the darkness of another wall, watching. He could make out what it was that had gripped the assassin now, limned in the guttering torchlight. It was a tall man, garbed in a long trench coat, face obscured by a felt hat. But the arms that clung so tightly to the assassin ended not in hands, but in a tapering mass of fleshy fingers, almost like miniature tentacles. They had locked together, their grip unbreakable. The assassin dribbled blood, the light in his eyes dying.

  One glance across the small square showed Darkwing that the other two assassins were reviving. From beyond the other end of the square, more shapes were emerging. Three or four of them, more trench-coated figures.

  Something hissed at him from the darkness. He turned, knife poised for a thrust.

  “Save that for the Shuddermen,” a voice whispered. “Quickly, step backwards, before they scent you.”

  He had no time to deliberate, obeying the instruction. The deeper darkness closed in like a fist. There was an alley, pitch as a tomb. He could sense rather than see someone in its throat. “Follow me, quickly!” came its low, urgent voice.

  Darkwing did so, squeezing between tight walls. He could hear the faint sound of something behind him, scraping against stone, but the space he was in was too narrow for him to turn. In a moment he was shrouded in total darkness.

  Something gripped his arm and pulled him aside, into a branching alley. Light pressure on his shoulder indicated that he should drop down. He did so, crouching, his knife ready.

  Moments later, something invisible passed down the original alley, then something else, followed by a third shape. The figures he had seen. In moments they had gone on. His rescuer tugged at him and he turned, following whoever it was into the darkness.

  The way ahead was narrow and winding, but it debouched at length into another tiny square, lit by a single firebrand. Here, he could see who had helped him. The figure outlined by the torch-glow was hunched, little bigger than a child, though it was a man. Long straggles of hair obscured its unshaven, craggy face. Its eyes were buried in folds of wrinkle, but even in this dim glow they sparkled with a kind of determination. The tight mouth was fixed in a grim line.

  “You have to trust me,” the figure said, fingers spasming nervously as it gazed up at Darkwing, who towered over it like a huge bird.

  Darkwing nodded.

  “Follow.” The figure moved away, lithe as a shadow. Darkwing listened to the alley he had left, but it was silent. They seemed to have thrown off the pursuit.

  He was led through a maze
of alleys and slightly wider streets, until at last the little figure paused. It pointed to a narrow, curved bridge that spanned a bricked-in river. On the other side of the bridge, a jumble of buildings, fused together as if they had been heaped up carelessly by an architect too careless to think about safety, stood out against a backdrop of faint light, the glow of a city at night. But Darkwing was even more convinced it wasn’t Stark City. If anything, it looked more like Victorian London.

  “Need to cross. Little time,” hissed the hunched man.

  Darkwing nodded slowly. So who the hell was he? He guessed he had to trust him, given that he had pulled the fat out of the fire back there where the weirdoes were closing in. What had he called them? Shuddermen? Good name.

  He motioned his rescuer to lead on and, with a furtive glance up and down the banks of the torrent, the figure scurried across the bridge, its wooden floor creaking underfoot. Darkwing followed, his own hawk-like eyes scanning the bizarre surroundings. Once over the bridge, there were more alleyways, miniature gorges in a high labyrinth of tottering buildings. Chimney smoke clogged the air.

  The figure led the way up a flight of rotting wooden stairs that threatened to disintegrate beneath them, but they held and via them they reached a landing and a low door. Darkwing’s rescuer entered and waved him inside impatiently, shutting the door with a muffled thud. In a moment or so, a candle was lit, throwing the cramped dimensions of the room into relief. Apart from a couple of simple chairs and a leaning table, the place was empty. No window, no carpet, a minute fireplace, but no fire. One other door.

  The figure made to go to it. “Wait here,” it said.

  Darkwing caught its arm. “Just one question, before you go.”

  His captive wriggled resentfully, face puckered up into a gargoyle-like scowl. “Time for questions later!”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “When I come back, I will tell you all that I know.”

  Darkwing let him go, nodding. “Yeah, okay.” He looked at his watch, but it had stopped. “I’ll give you half an hour.”

  The figure puckered up its face in another ghastly frown. Then it was through the inner door and gone.

  * * * *

  Mears sipped at the ale, careful not to take too much of it. It packed more of a punch than anything he’d ever had before, not that he was much of a drinking man. As he did so, he scanned the crowded inn. No one paid him much attention, for which he was thankful. Until he saw a face across the inn, near the door. Although the company in here was very mixed, this face stood out. It was Oriental, with deep-set, piercing eyes, and they were fixed deliberately on him. He felt like a vole beneath a hovering kestrel.

  The man began to shoulder his way through the crowd. Clearly he meant to confront Mears, who set his flagon down on the bar, looking around him for a way out of this dilemma. He had no wish to face this disturbing visitor. But there seemed to be no other way out. Another glance across the inn showed him that the Oriental was closing in.

  Panicking, Mears began to ease his way down the bar. He felt something huge loom up over him and swung round. It was the barman.

  “You want Grimsfeather or no?”

  Mears nodded his head frantically. Any port in a storm.

  The barman lifted a flap on the counter and ushered him through. “Out the back and up the stairs. You’d both better get out of here fast. I’ll see to the Chinaman.”

  With the cryptic words still ringing in his ears, Mears did as bidden. If the Oriental had been closing in, the huge bulk of the barman was going to be difficult to pass.

  There was one small flight of stairs and Mears went up it quickly, heart racing. He saw someone on the landing, ushering him into one of the rooms there. Uneasy, but committed, he followed. The door banged shut and was bolted by the figure. By the candlelight, Mears studied the man.

  He was hunched, barely five feet tall, his thinning hair straying over his gnarled features. He wore a torn jacket that was as creased and ripped as a tramp’s, his frayed trousers no better.

  “You asked for Grimsfeather?” the man grunted, regarding Mears suspiciously.

  “Yes, Guy Abbot sent me.”

  The man nodded, as if it was enough. “Can’t stay here. They seek you —”

  “Who are they?”

  “Tell you when it’s safe. Come.” He said no more, pushing through a door out on to a balcony. There then followed a bizarre journey across low roofs and along narrow parapets and stairs that made Mears’s head swim. Where the devil was he? He knew that there were parts of London that were pretty obscure, lagging well behind the modern world, but this area was like something out of a set for a Jack the Ripper movie. At least the storm had abated, though it had left everywhere soaked and slick, the journey doubly perilous.

  His guide paused on the roof of a crooked building, which they had reached by another precarious set of stairs. Then he dropped a few feet on to a landing and beckoned Mears to follow. He did so, uncomfortably, at last going inside again. The room they had entered was lit by a single candle and Mears realised that he had seen not a single electric light or lamp anywhere in this anachronistic realm.

  As the door closed, silence fell and all he could hear was the ragged breathing of the little man. The latter seemed annoyed by something.

  “What is it?” said Mears, keeping his voice low.

  “Gone.”

  “What is?”

  But the shadows at one corner of the room swirled slowly, as if something there uncoiled itself, somehow avoiding the glow of the candle. But as Mears looked, he felt a sudden stab of shock. There was another man here, sitting on one of the old chairs.

  “Are you…Grimsfeather?” he asked him, but something about the shape was uncomfortably familiar.

  “No, he is not Grimsfeather!” snapped the odd being who had brought him here. “I am Grimsfeather.”

  Mears stared at him. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Not safe till now. Not out of danger yet.”

  Mears looked at the other figure, which was rising. Tall, athletic, it was dressed in an expensive dark suit. As the man straightened, Mears saw the face for the first time. He frowned, trying to place it. Television? The press?

  “Who are you people?” said the man in a cultured American voice. Mears guessed him to about his own age, the mid-thirties. “I think it’s time you gave me some explanations. Where is this place and what is going on?”

  Grimsfeather was scowling at the man with deep distrust. “Where is the other man? The one I left.”

  “I’m still here. I thought the suit would be less conspicuous. You haven’t answered my question.”

  “The Shuddermen are seeking you both,” said Grimsfeather.

  “The Shuddermen? You mean the zombies who killed the assassin?” said the tall American.

  Grimsfeather nodded. “There are many of them here.”

  “Who are they?” said Mears.

  “Bad people. Not sure who controls them.”

  “Just where is here?” said the American. “Is this London? I know it isn’t Stark City.”

  “Stark City?” gasped Mears. Another piece of the puzzle slipped into place. That face: he did know it. The strong jaw, the classic profile. But this was crazy.

  “That’s where I started out, before the storm. Is that it? The storm has triggered some weird space-time warp?”

  “You were caught in the storm?” Mears said to him.

  The American eyed him uneasily. “What do you know about this? You’re an Englishman, I take it? Is this your city?”

  Mears swallowed. “Uh, I think so, but it isn’t my time. Mine is much later, but something else is wrong. I was nearly hit by lightning. When I came to, I was here.” He was remembering the Darkwing comic. The storm, the final panel. But this was ludicrous. “You’re not Craig Rocklyn, are you? You can’t possibly be,” he blurted.

  “What do you know about Craig Rocklyn?” The piercing blue eyes were suddenly ch
illing.

  “You’re his double,” Mears grinned inanely. But it was true. The American was every inch the comic book character, the alter ego of Darkwing.

  “Something brought you here,” interrupted Grimsfeather. “Evil powers.”

  “You better explain, little pal,” growled the American.

  “You are one of the five who are six,” sniffed Grimsfeather insouciantly. “Someone has brought you here, as he has brought the others. Through the storm.”

  “What others?” said the American. “And who the blazes are the five who are six?”

  “I can tell you that,” said Mears, though his mind veered away from the concept. He felt the sharp gaze of the American on him, as though he were the nutter here. “The others are the Barbarian, the Mire-Beast, Cyberwolf and Palgrave Reverence. The five who are six. And the sixth is Doctor Jameson, the companion of Reverence.”

  “Never heard of them,” grunted the American. “And who is the Barbarian?”

  “I was told they would be brought here,” said Grimsfeather.

  “And I was told to bring you all together,” said Mears, shaking his head.

  “Told? Told by whom?” said the American.

  “The archivist. Guy Abbot,” said Mears, beginning to doubt his own sanity.

  “Another new one on me.”

  “You are Craig Rocklyn. Aren’t you?” Mears said, but his voice was so low that the words were almost lost.

  The American nodded slowly. “Do I know you?”

  “Uh, no. No, I was in the States not long ago. I read the papers. You’re pretty big in the business world, Mr. Rocklyn.” And you’re Darkwing, for Christ’s sake! His mind was shouting. You stepped out of a comic!

  “We must find better sanctuary,” said Grimsfeather. “There will be word of the others. We must find them before the Shuddermen. Whoever their master is, he means no good. He must not be allowed to seize them first.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Meridian

  The Barbarian was awake, but for the moment he kept his eyes closed. His senses, sharpened over forty years of life on a sword edge, served him well. He could feel earth beneath him, dry and packed with dead vegetation. Overhead, the soughing of branches, the stirring of leaves in a breeze. The storm was over. But he knew instinctively it was not daybreak yet. Something unfamiliar cloaked him, a skin, probably something woven. Some distance away he heard a fire crackle, the smell of its smoke reaching him over the other earth smells. And there was cooked meat. His hungry belly reacted to it.