Night of the Heroes

by Adrian Cole

  “I’m afraid you may be wrong there. The Shuddermen — is that what they’re called? — have tried to get hold of me a couple of times.”

  “Vraiment? Then we must be careful,” said de Gilbert with ill-concealed horror.

  “It seems to me,” said Reverence, “that we cannot afford to let Fung, as you put it, Mr. Mears, get hold of the others. How soon can we find them?”

  Rocklyn, who had been studying Bannerman’s photo, gave it back to de Gilbert. “Maybe I can help. You said two of us are in a place called Meridian Park. Is it far?”

  “No, but we need to act quickly,” said Riderman.

  “Can you go in daylight?” said Mears to his American companion.

  Rocklyn clapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, you’d be surprised. I prefer the night, but I’ll get by.”

  “Do you need support?” said Riderman.

  Rocklyn was grinning. “Not yet.”

  “Grimsfeather is in constant touch with the network.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Rocklyn. “For the moment, I’ll do a bit of lone scouting. I’ll need to get up to the roof.”

  As he was preparing to go, he leaned over to Mears and said quietly so that no one else heard. “Listen, buddy, a word of warning. I’ve seen the way you keep glancing at Miss Timkins.”

  “What do you mean?” muttered Mears, as if he had been slapped. God, is it that obvious!

  Rocklyn grinned hugely. “I know, I know. She’s a nice girl, very plain, down-to-earth, practical. Sort of girl a normal guy like you could easily get mixed up with. Not too involved in all this yellow peril crap. But, in this world, things are very definitely not always what they seem.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I told you, I used to read comics when I was a kid, like everyone else. Miss Timkins may be Miss Timkins, just like I am Craig Rocklyn. Then again, she may have another side. You tread carefully. A nice guy like you could get hurt.” But he said no more, merely winking and making his way with de Gilbert to the stairs.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Devil’s Surgeon

  The Temple of Seven Winds rose up in a series of brightly painted tiers, overlooking a congested part of Pulp City where the buildings squeezed up against the thirty-foot wall surrounding the huge temple. The temple itself dominated this sector of the city, its tallest roofs and ornate dragons towering over the urban landscape, drawing the eye for miles around. To the extreme west of the temple, a single volcanic crag broke through the line of outlying wall, its sheer sides topped by a stone building as old as time. Wrapped in unnatural fogs and perpetual low clouds, it alone challenged the dominance of the Temple of Seven Winds. No houses, stores or constructions of any kind lapped at its black base and not even the inmates of the Temple’s grounds ventured near the path to its solid metal door. Inhabitants of the city pulled their collars tighter and bowed their heads if they chanced to come near its outer roots, passing by as quickly as possible. An aura of darkness and deep unease permeated the very stone of the crag. This was Sorrow Keep.

  Within its solid confines, Fung Chang’s team of scientists had set up their base and it was here that they went about their experiments and dubious engineering in rigid privacy. The eyes that watched over the city from Sorrow Keep’s highest vantage points were not human eyes and they saw more than human eyes could see, into regions most men had never suspected existed. In its very heart, deep inside the hollowed stone of the crag, the main laboratory hummed with quiet but busy life.

  Hwang Ho opened his eyes slowly, mind and vision taking time to focus. Have I again been across the Bridge of Light? was his first thought. He was in a tall room, the ceiling above him lit by a score of long strip lights, the curving walls lined with equipment and wiring. It was like being in the hub of a spaceship.

  He could not feel his body, but he knew instinctively that he was stretched out, possibly on a bed. My arm! He thought. The Bowman — But he could not move a muscle.

  Presently a face appeared in the glare above him, lower half masked, the eyes that studied him cold and clinical. “Ah,” breathed the voice softly. “You are awake.”

  Hwang Ho attempted to speak, but his voice box would not permit it. He tried to nod his head, but only his eyes moved.

  “Just relax, Hwang Ho,” said the man. “You are among friends here. I expect you are wondering what has happened to you. You lost a lot of blood before we were able to bring you here. So you feel very tired. Soon it will all have been replaced.”

  Sorrow Keep! I am in its laboratories. Panic threatened to black him out, but he clung dizzily to consciousness.

  “If we had not operated when we did, you would not have survived,” said the observer impassively.

  Hwang Ho felt his throat easing. He managed to gasp. “Mr. Fujimoto?”

  The Japanese surgeon made a slight bow. “It is. I have worked on you myself, Hwang Ho. I hope that you feel honoured. Dr. Fung was insistent that I attended to you personally.”

  “My thanks,” Hwang Ho breathed, but a crawling dread was spreading through him with each twinge of returning nerve. The surgeon was the single most powerful man in Fung’s regime, second only to Fung himself. The tales of his strange skills and bizarre tamperings with nature were almost legendary. “My arm —”

  “Ah, yes. An unpleasant business. I fear you underestimated the enemy. This Black Bowman,” said Fujimoto, lacing his soft voice with contempt. “He has embarrassed us, but there will be time for retribution.” He made it sound like a death sentence.

  “My arm —”

  “Restored, Hwang Ho. Though not as it was. You have greater powers now. Shortly these will be enhanced even further.”

  The words filled Hwang Ho with foreboding. With a huge effort, he turned his head, trying to see the arms that stretched out alongside him. He could not lift them.

  “We have created a powerful army,” Fujimoto said dispassionately. “Our enemies call them the Shuddermen. I find that amusing. But they are only the first stage of what we will develop. Similarly with the wolf-beings. A prototype, no more. Both clumsy, with minimal effectiveness. The final product of our work will be far more efficient.”

  Hwang Ho could lift his head enough now to see the shapes that stood beyond him on both sides. At first he assumed them to be Fujimoto’s surgical team, but as their faces came into focus, he realised what they were. The shambling, zombie-like Shuddermen. Their dead eyes and empty expressions gave them a dreadful lifelessness, though he knew well enough their grim strength.

  “Not things of beauty,” commented Fujimoto. “Easy to produce, useful in certain situations. But recently they have demonstrated their limitations. Every one of the five who are six have eluded their grasp.”

  Hwang Ho’s eyes fixed on the arms of the Shuddermen, those grotesque hands, miniature tentacles. Only then did the truth begin to dawn on him.

  “Fung Chang is not pleased,” went on Fujimoto, the timbre of his voice never changing. “He is, naturally, particularly frustrated at the loss of the American, Bannerman. The man who you were charged with bringing to us. The Cyberwolf.”

  “But he was dead! He came over the Bridge of Light as a corpse!”

  “So I understand. No fault attaches to yourself for that, Hwang Ho. But even his body will be useful. And soon: we must recover it soon.” Fujimoto held up a test tube. Its dark red contents moved sluggishly as the surgeon gently shook the glass. “This is the last of Bannerman’s blood.”

  Hwang Ho stared at it. His own men had withdrawn it in Bannerman’s world.

  “We used some of it to create the wolf-beings. Now we need to conduct the next phase of our experiments. It will be your privilege to help us in this, Hwang Ho.”

  His fear had tuned icy now. Hwang Ho raised his head again, further this time. At last he saw his arms, what dangled limply from their ends. He tried to scream, but again his throat closed and no sound came out.

  “The first stage,” said Fujimoto,
as if dictating rudimentary notes to a student, “is the conversion to the basic form. The Shudderman. Already you are beginning to feel the effects of this. Partial sensory deprivation. But we are ready now to move on to the next stage of development. A combination of Shudderman and Manwolf. I am sure our enemies will devise a suitably melodramatic name for it.”

  Hwang Ho tried to writhe on the table, but could not move.

  “Be content, Hwang Ho. You will serve Fung Chang well. Not only will you atone for your failure, but you will spearhead the next phase of our mission.”

  The surgeon lifted a syringe and gently inserted it into the test tube, filling the syringe with the last of Bannerman’s blood. Emotionlessly he gripped Hwang Ho’s right arm and pushed home the needle, injecting the fluid. Hwang Ho felt nothing, but his eyes filled with tears.

  “It will be a while before it takes effect,” said Fujimoto, swabbing the entry point and setting the syringe aside. “In the meantime, I will instruct you as to what you must do. The recovery of Bannerman’s corpse is paramount. At the moment it is held in the well-protected cellar of Armand de Gilbert, one of Riderman’s allies. To break into the place and abduct the corpse would require an army and I suspect that de Gilbert would use an army to defend it. Almost certainly a deadlock would ensue, gaining us nothing.

  “We will have to use a less direct approach. There is a woman, a doctor. She is protected by Riderman’s allies, but not sufficiently, we surmise, from what we have in mind. You, Hwang Ho, in your new form, will have something approaching supernatural powers. You must abduct this doctor and bring her to us.”

  Hwang Ho felt his lids growing leaden, Fujimoto’s voice drifting away as sleep flowed in like a soft tide.

  “We will then effect a simple trade. The doctor for Bannerman. Sir Henry Riderman is a creature ruled by his emotions, like most of our enemies. It is easy enough to exploit such things.” Fujimoto watched Hwang Ho’s eyes close, the body giving a last ripple before unconsciousness wrapped it. “And when we have the five who are six,” the surgeon breathed, his eyes momentarily widening, “then we shall begin the real work.”

  * * * *

  The Barbarian and his huge companion eased their way through the tall grasses. They knew that the city walls were under a mile away: they could both smell the place. There had been, however, no sign of human life, even along the edge of the stream, which they found strange. And the air was abnormally still.

  “I think we’re being watched,” whispered the Barbarian, himself studying the nearby trees. “Assume so, anyway.”

  Cradoc nodded, hunched down, trying to shield his bulk from view. His eyes indicated the clump of woodland to their left. The Barbarian focussed on it.

  “Not sure how many,” he breathed. “At least a dozen. But they’re not like the ones who tried to snare me before. These are men. From the city, I think.”

  Cradoc nodded again. He indicated longer grass to their right.

  “More of them? A trap, then. Do we go back, or fight our way out?”

  Cradoc pointed to the woods and made a thrusting gesture with his hand. Its meaning was clear to the Barbarian, who grinned mirthlessly. “Direct attack?”

  Cradoc nodded.

  “Break through their line. Kill enough to frighten the rest off, but take at least one prisoner. Prize some information out of him.” He tapped his sword edge meaningfully.

  Cradoc nodded again. This guy is something else! He really is from another world, another time. It’s second nature for him to go in and kill. But I suppose in his world, it’s either that or be cut down, eaten or sacrificed. Ironically, he has more in common with Mire-Beast than I do.

  Together they moved as quickly but quietly as they could through the grass, bent down, the Barbarian gripping his blade in preparation. Some distance before they reached the trees, the grass thinned out and they could see a group of men waiting up ahead.

  “Soldiers,” hissed the Barbarian. The men wore leather harnesses, steel helmets with earflaps and they carried short swords and long rectangular shields.

  Cradoc tried not to let his surprise get the better of him. Romans! He would have recognised their distinct uniform anywhere. This place gets weirder by the hour. But there was no time to deliberate. The Barbarian was about to launch himself at them. There were no more than six of the soldiers, which Konnar evidently thought of as excellent odds in his favour. Cradoc sensed that there were far more of the Romans around, closing in. Breaking through their cordon was the obvious answer, and yet —

  His anxiety proved well founded. As he and Konnar rushed toward the soldiers, the air was cut by the sound of something tossed through it. Instinctively Cradoc ducked, but too late to stop the mesh of steel that dropped over him. The ground beneath him sagged, just enough to make him stumble. As he did so, he rolled, but only to get himself more deeply entangled in the net. He felt the anger welling up inside him like magma, but a part of his brain flashed with warning. Steel! It’s steel mesh, and wire-thin. If he were not careful, it would bite so deeply into him that he’d be immobilised, trussed up like a turkey at a barbecue. Damn it to hell! It’s the one thing I can’t morph out of.

  Meanwhile the Barbarian had run headlong at the group of soldiers, who locked shields and prepared to defend themselves. They needed to, for the human tornado that hit them exploded with devastating effect. The first of the soldiers was smashed back, clean off his feet and the Barbarian slashed to one side with his sword, the blade biting into the neck of another soldier. Shields rammed at him, trying to pin him and it was only when a javelin was used to trip him that the soldiers began to get the better of him. Even so, it took another six of them to reinforce the defense. The Barbarian was using his enormous strength to get to his feet, when something cracked him in the back of the skull. As he toppled, the last brief image he saw was that of the enmeshed Mire-Beast, ringed by yet more soldiers, their javelins pointing at him, their victory secure.

  “Decimus?” said a gruff voice. “Did I see Decimus fall?”

  One of the Romans was leaning over the fallen body of the soldier that the Barbarian had chopped down. “He’s dead, sir. But it was a clean kill. Gods, but what strength this man has! Without your help, he’d likely have gutted the whole group of us!”

  Quintus, the company sergeant, nodded grimly, studying the prostrate form of the Barbarian. “You’d better get him trussed up quick. If he comes to, he’s likely to start trying to kick his way out of this mess. Damn this Britannia and it’s lunatic barbarians!”

  Beside him another swarthy trooper frowned at the fallen man as his hands were secured behind him, with a noose about his neck. “Who is he?”

  Quintus shook his head. “The Gods know. There have been some damned weird things crawling out of the city these last few weeks. It’s bad enough having to cope with the Celts and their blood-mad gods.”

  “You better take a look at the other one.”

  Quintus followed him to where the Mire-Beast had been snarled up in the wire net. “Anything less than wire would have been no more effective than grass.”

  Quintus bent down. “What part of the Underworld did you crawl out of?” he grunted rhetorically. There are more demigods and demons in these forests than in the whole of Pluto’s dismal realm.

  The scarlet eyes blazed, and Quintus felt himself flinching under their baleful gaze. “You’ll get your chance to flex those muscles, don’t worry,” he grunted. “Cerion! You’re going to need a cart to get this one back to barracks.” He went back to the now trussed Barbarian. Amazingly the man was already coming round. Two guards had him on his knees, javelins digging into the small of his back.

  “You understand me?” said Quintus.

  The Barbarian nodded. The accent was unfamiliar, but the language no more than a variant on what he was used to.

  “Are you alone?”

  The Barbarian blinked away the last of the dizziness.

  “What, exactly, is that creature with you? Yo
u better tell me, or we’ll toss oil over it and set it alight.”

  “It’s a man,” said the Barbarian. “Though cursed with a demon’s form. Sorcerers did this to him. He does not deserve your contempt.”

  Quintus scowled. Cursed Druids, no doubt. “Does he understand me?”

  “He does. Release us both and we’ll do no harm.”

  “You like to fight? I’ve a dead man over there who knows that.”

  “I am sorry for his death, but you did not come in friendship.”

  Quintus grunted. “You owe me a life, Barbarian. I could execute you both. But I’m a lenient man. I’m willing to let you earn your freedom.”

  “In your army? I’ve fought in many armies.”

  “Indeed? Mercenary, eh?” Studying Konnar, he could see that, on reflection, he was a little different to the local tribesmen. “But no, we’re not at war. Not here. Here we fight for sport. Man, beast, it’s all the same to us. Your companion would make a daunting opponent. Can you control him?”

  “He is not a beast. He thinks and feels as we do.”

  “Does he indeed? We shall see. Now, you do exactly as my men tell you. Any trouble and I’ll have you hung up and opened for the buzzards. Tough as you are, I don’t need you. Do we understand each other?”

  “Perfectly,” nodded the Barbarian. He had tested the knots. They were the work of professionals. These people were exceptionally well organised. And I really am getting too old for this. What an idiot to fall for such an old trick. I should have known we were being diverted into a trap.

  Cradoc was very still. He had heard the conversation, but the language, which he took to be some form of Latin, was beyond him. Patience, he told himself. If they’d just take this blessed net off me…