Night of the Heroes

by Adrian Cole

  Cradoc, wrote the Mire-Beast.

  “Cra-doc,” pronounced the Barbarian. “I am Konnar. And I am in your debt. That serpent would have finished me.”

  They wanted you alive. Me, too. Safe here for a while.

  The Barbarian nodded. “How is it you are as you are?”

  Cradoc was about to scribble something about scientific experiments and the modern technology that had gone awry and led to the chemical accident that had resulted in his ‘birth.’ But he realised that Konnar was from a society, world perhaps, that could not possibly understand such things. Instead, an alternative suggested itself to him.

  Sorcery, he wrote. I was transformed by its evil power.

  The Barbarian was nodding. “I thought as much! I have seen such things before. Who were you, before they did this?”

  Again Cradoc had to think. Difficult to admit that he himself was a biologist. I was a mage, though an apprentice. Not black arts. Worked with herbs and medicines. You understand?

  “Yes. Such things have saved my life more than once. You see this scar?” The Barbarian indicated a long white line across his belly and right side. “This sword cut should have killed me. I lost much blood. But a witch used herbs and spells and other things I was too delirious to know about. Some men call it magic.”

  In a way, it is. But it draws from natural forces.

  “I believe that,” nodded the Barbarian again.

  Cradoc realised he was dealing with an intelligent man, who may be from a relatively underdeveloped society, but whose wits and understanding were very keen.

  “Did this happen here? Your transformation?”

  No. This may not be my world. It was an idea that was persistently nagging at Cradoc. Initially, he had assumed that he had simply been moved across England again, but now he was not so sure.

  “Indeed! Nor is it mine. It is the world of the Dragon King, or at least, I have supposed as much. I fought his armies in my own world and slew him at the Stone Gates. Then the lightning struck. If it had been a normal storm, it would have shrivelled me. But when I awoke, I was in these forests.”

  Storm? Lightning? Cradoc seemed agitated by the words as he scrawled them.

  “Yes. Bright, white light. I awoke in the forest. Men had found me. Strangers, wanderers. But they were kind to me.”

  In my world, Cradoc wrote quickly, there was a storm. White light. I, too, should be dead. But instead, I am here.

  “A strange coincidence?” said The Barbarian, but he was frowning suspiciously.

  No. Deliberate. More sorcery.

  “The same sorcerers who afflicted you?”

  No. I was their prisoner. They had no need to subject me to the lightning.

  “Why were you their prisoner? What did they want of you?”

  Not sure. Think they wanted me to act like a weapon. Very strong. Not like other men.

  The Barbarian grinned, his handsome features lit by the smile. “That is very true, my friend! I have seen evidence of that and thank the Earth Mother for it! Hah! So, yes, the sorcerers would have used that. In my world, such a thing would have been typical of their breed. They care nothing for the men they use.”

  Other sorcerers have brought us both here. Don’t know why.

  “The Dragon King’s sorcerers?”

  Perhaps. Possibly not. May not be Dragon King world.

  The Barbarian thought deeply about this. “Yes, you may be right. We have to keep our minds open. Those creatures that attacked me — I have never seen their like before. They were men, yet not men. Living dead. I have seen zombies, raised by deviltry. I fought with mercenaries against a zombie army in a city of nightmares once, years ago. But these creatures were stranger still. They were not men who had died and been re-animated by sorcery. They had been created as they were, and their arms, their hands were alien.”

  Cradoc appreciated the distinction Konnar was making, bizarre though it was to talk to a man who professed to have fought zombies. Although he knew of such things in the remoter parts of the Southern States, where voodoo was still practiced.

  “And what of the wolf-things?” the Barbarian added. “They, too, were not as other such creatures. I have seen werewolves, men transformed by the bite of these things. I cannot explain this, but these were new to me.”

  High sorcery, was all Cradoc could think to write.

  “I remember something the travellers told me,” said the Barbarian, with a snap of his fingers. “They called this place a park. I know of such things. Queen Mareba had one surrounding her palace on the island of Weeping Statues. This park here has a name. What was it? Mid —? Midian? Meridian. Yes. Meridian Park. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  No. But does not sound like Dragon King’s world.

  “No. Well, we may learn no more for a while. I need something to eat. What about you?”

  Fish! I hunt underwater.

  The Barbarian grunted. “I’ll catch something here on the island. And I’ll keep my eyes open for any visitors. They’ll be following us.”

  I think so.

  The Barbarian watched the huge creature slip back under the river’s surface. This was the strangest ally he had ever teamed up with, yet he felt a deep respect and sympathy for the man who had been Cradoc. Ironically, they had much in common. With a grunt of wry amusement, he set off into the undergrowth, looking for game.

  Cradoc, meanwhile, swam easily through the waters, catching fish with consummate ease and eating them raw as he swam. The very concept would have appalled him once, but in his current guise, he had become accustomed to it and even took pleasure from it. His odd conversation with Konnar kept coming back to him.

  Why were they both here? The Dragon connection was intriguing, if connection it was. Who had the Oriental been who had pursued him in the city? Had the organisation he served any connection with the abduction of the Barbarian? Was this the world Cradoc knew? What the hell did they do next?

  The immediate answer was swiftly forthcoming. Something in the river water itself communicated to him. Serpents! Several of them, as big as the one he had killed, were no more than a mile upstream, following them, swiftly.

  Quickly he went back to the island and searched for the Barbarian. He found him already skinning a rabbit. “Can’t take the risk of a making a fire to cook this,” Konnar said practically. He bit into the raw flesh. “Excuse my table manners.” Cradoc realised that it was about as close to a jest as the scarred warrior was going to get.

  He gestured back upriver, and the Barbarian knew immediately what he meant. Cradoc pointed out a narrow stream that fed the river, winding its way back up a gentle valley cut into the meadow to the forest. The Barbarian nodded, drawing his blade. He tied the rabbit carcass to his belt, clamped the sword in his teeth and lowered himself into the river without further ado.

  Over by the stream, the two figures emerged, took one brief glance up the river, then disappeared into the tall reeds.

  “There must be a city somewhere. There’s always a city,” said the Barbarian, tearing off another piece of rabbit flesh and chewing.

  The huge creature beside him was nodding and pointed beyond the forest.

  “We need information. The only way we are going to get it is from people. I’d better steal into the city. Or, if we’re lucky, find someone near its walls that can help.”

  Again Cradoc nodded.

  “You won’t be safe there, though.”

  Cradoc shook his head. But he gestured with his arms, using them as eloquently as he could to suggest that he could get into the city through its underground drains.

  The Barbarian understood at once what he meant and grinned wryly. “Of course. It’s the last thing anyone would expect.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Black Bowman

  Hwang Ho staggered, leaning against the brick wall to steady himself. This leap across worlds, the Bridge of Light, left you with the grandmother of hangovers. But mercifully it was not a lasting effect. H
is head began to clear rapidly. As he regained his wits, he suddenly found himself wedged between two raggedly dressed men, the lower half of their faces covered by black, silk scarves. Their eyes questioned him. He nodded. These were the assassins sent to serve him. Steel gleamed in their hands.

  He peered through the night, down the alley to the cramped wharf beyond. He could make out the grey silhouettes of two huge junks, a handful of sailors pacing the decks on watch.

  “The American?” said Ho. He reached instinctively inside his jacket, fingers closing on the automatic pistol.

  One of the assassins nodded, indicating that he follow. He led Ho down a side alley to where another pair of assassins was squatting beside a prone shape, dimly outlined by a lamp beyond. They turned at the soft pad of footsteps, curved swords partially hissing from their sheaths, but relaxed when they saw Ho and the others. They stood up slowly and drew back, faces betraying the hint of unease.

  Ho bent to the prone body. It was Bannerman. The American had thought to thwart them and indeed, had come close to success. But the Bridge of Light had taken him, brought him here.

  “Where are the steel nets?” Ho snapped, suddenly remembering his orders. The assassins were supposed to have snared Bannerman the moment they had seen him. It would take steel and another drug to hold him, or what he could become.

  One of the assassins knelt down beside him. “Master, this man is dead,” he said bluntly.

  Ho felt a cold fist close around his heart at the words. Dead! This cannot be. Fung Chang will have me torn limb from limb! He gripped Bannerman’s shoulder and heaved the body over, revealing the face. It was set in a grim rictus. Ho felt for a heartbeat. There was none. Already the flesh was unduly cold. There was no pulse. Cursing under his breath, Ho took a small mirror from a pocket and held it to Bannerman’s mouth. Even in this poor light, he could see no condensation.

  Dead! The jump has killed him. But this is not a fault of mine. Unless — the drugs! Their effects may not have worn off. They could have effected his system, weakened it during the crossing.

  “Master, the Watch will make their rounds here soon,” an assassin reminded him.

  “Yes. We must move him. We must get him to the laboratory with all speed.” Ho stood up, mind working frantically at the problem. He dare not lose the Cyberwolf. It was vital to his master’s plans. To fail would be catastrophic. He must remain calm, not let these men think the situation was lost. Slowly he moved back, indicating that they take up the body.

  Two of them positioned themselves to carry out the silent instructions. As they bent down, the first of them abruptly swung up, as though kicked by something invisible and was flung backwards. A choked gasp broke from his lips as he hit the floor of the alley, writhing for a moment, hands beating at his chest.

  Ho gaped, unable to comprehend what was wrong. The air near him hissed and then the second assassin was down. This time, Ho saw why. A shaft protruded from his shoulderblades.

  With the speed of a cat, Ho flung himself to the ground and rolled under the black shadow of the nearest building, the gun coming out of his pocket in one smooth movement. He could see nothing up on the roofs, where the night was pitch, but he fired off three random shots in a fan, buying himself precious seconds as he scrambled for better cover. Even as he did so, he heard the air hiss again and another of the assassins died with an arrow in his throat.

  Ho ducked behind a pile of stacked chests, his breath ragged. He fought to control his nerves, regain control. Panic would undo him. He fired off another shot and by its cover, the last of the assassins tumbled into the alley and pressed himself up against the opposite wall, instantly invisible.

  “Who attacks us?” Ho called in a whisper.

  “Master, do not move. It is the Black Bowman.”

  Ho again cursed under his breath. There were various agencies working against Fung Chang, some of them organised, some of them alone. This accursed Black Bowman was an enigma, but he fought crime and was known to be responsible for the elimination of more than one leading member of the Tongs. But why had he chosen to involve himself here? He could know nothing about the American. Nor could whoever he served. Cyberwolf was not from this world.

  The assassin’s face showed briefly in the light from beyond the alley. He indicated with his eyes that he would go up on to the roof above. Lithe as a monkey, shielded by darkness, he climbed the wall as though the brickwork afforded ample finger and footholds. Ho listened rather than watched his progress. Then he pulled from under a crate a narrow strip of wood and slowly eased it out beyond the crate into the alley. But no arrow pinned it. Perhaps he was out of sight in here. Perhaps.

  Overhead, the assassin was on the opposite roof. Ho inched forward into the alley. Still no arrow. Crawling on his belly, his wriggled, spider-like, to the mouth of the alley and curled up against the wall again, shrunk down in as tight a ball as he could make of himself. He guessed that the Bowman could not see into the alley.

  Beyond, the three fallen assassins were as still as the fallen American. Ho had no doubt that his men were dead. He inched his gun upward, sighting the line of the eaves opposite. And waited.

  The night was deathly silent. Any slight sounds from the wharf were blotted out. The city slept on. Ho could barely see the skyline above the roof. But there was nothing to suggest a prowler, or where he was concealed.

  Instead, there was movement beyond the alley, from another dark recess. A group of men, entirely sheathed in black, insubstantial as shadows, almost flowed into the alley, making for the fallen American. Their intent was clear to Ho. They meant to recover the body for themselves.

  Lining up his sight calmly, he shot the first of them, the body catapulting back at the impact. The other three scattered with lightning rapidity and he followed one of them jerkily, trying to line him up for a second shot. But before he could fire, a blaze of pain seared up the length of his arm, his chest exploding in agony. The gun clattered to the stone floor of the alley as Ho almost passed out from the pain. He sagged to his knees, but could drop no further. His arm was pinned to the wall. Through hot tears, he stared up at it. An arrow shaft had gone in through his wrist and beyond, at least a foot into the brickwork. Waves of pain broke over him again and again. He flapped uselessly with his free hand, but felt his strength and his consciousness ebbing.

  He was vaguely aware of movement in the alley, of the American’s body being taken away by shapes fashioned from pure darkness. Then the darkness claimed him.

  On the roof, the last assassin heard the hiss of an unleashed arrow but saw nothing. Moments later, he heard the hiss again then felt the bite of the arrow as it took him through the chest. He was dead long before his body smacked on the ground below.

  When Ho came to, his mind was in turmoil. More waves of pain, which had been ebbing during his unconsciousness, flowed back over him and he cried out. Beside him, more of his own men had joined him. Two of them were desperately trying to free him from the arrow. They needed to cut it to do so, or tear it from the brickwork. They could do neither.

  “Master,” one of them breathed in his ear. “You have lost much blood. If we cannot cut this thing free of you soon, you will die here.”

  “Use — a — bolt-cutter —”

  “We have tried. The arrow is made of an alloy that is indestructible.”

  “What — are — you — saying?” Ho gasped, fearing that he was about to faint again.

  The man held up a long knife. “There is another way.”

  Ho felt himself going under, but nodded. The next wave of pain chased him into darkness and he embraced it gladly.

  * * * *

  Water played quietly in the fountain, beneath the thickly leafed tree that was the centre point of the garden. The garden itself was rectangular, a hundred feet long and half as wide and was closed in all sides by a high wall, topped with vicious spikes. It was a measure of the designer’s skill that no one had ever entered by climbing that wall. Apart from the c
entral tree, there were a score more and thick shrubs that themselves walled in smaller squares of lawn and flowerbed. Under the constant play of the fountain, the body of Bannerman had been stretched out.

  The woman who wiped his face with a cloth dipped in the icy water of the fountain, frowned. She undid the shirt and felt the chest, the ribs and other parts of him with the clinical efficiency of a surgeon. While she performed her skills, a single figure watched her from beside the tree. Dressed in a silk robe, the man was tall, thin but athletic, his eyes an unusually deep blue, his gaze piercing.

  “Is it as the Bowman feared, doctor?” he said, his voice bearing the hint of a continental accent.

  The woman leaned back with a sigh. “I am almost certain,” she nodded, face clouded. But then she smiled and looked up into the steady gaze. “Your unusual friend arrived too late to save him, Armand. Unless my forty years as a doctor have taught me nothing, he is dead.”

  “What else have your forty years as a doctor taught you, dear Annabella? For instance, how did he die?”

  She frowned again. “So far, nothing shows itself. I have found no sign of a knife, bullet or arrow wound. No bruises or burns. If he had been poisoned, there would be traces and besides, he would not be so serene in death. Have you seen what a poisoned man looks like?”

  “Mercifully, dear lady, I have not. Nor would I wish to.”

  “How did you come by him? Oh yes, I know, the Bowman’s squires brought him. But where did they find him? Who is he?”

  “I have had a picture of him circulated. If he is known in Pulp City, I will be told his identity. For the moment, we have no idea who he is, or indeed, from whence he came. There are no burns, you say?”

  “None. Should there be?”

  “Could he have been struck by lightning, in last night’s storm?”