by Barry Reese
“Master, there is a problem.”
The Warlike Manchu looked up from the meal of noodles and chicken that he was having. The boy, William, was sleeping in the next room, so the servant was whispering as he knelt on the floor before the Manchu. The servant’s name was Rai and he was Japanese with a deadly talent for knives. He stood just over five foot six, with jet black hair that was cut short above the ears. His eyes were perpetually sad, the result of a difficult life, one filled with violence and death.
“Tell me what troubles you so,” the Manchu said, setting aside his food and rising gracefully from the floor. Though he was very, very old, he retained the vitality of a man in his thirties, thanks both to the life-extending serum he regularly ingested and a vigorous training regimen.
“Our security has been compromised,” Rai stated. “One of our men has informed me that the lower levels of the hotel are now empty. Apparently, a man named Leonid Kaslov has evacuated the building.”
The Manchu’s face did not change expression. He had expected his enemies to come to him eventually. “Is Kaslov here now?”
“We don’t know. We only know that he was here earlier—several of the men and women who have been evacuated are now down the block and are conversing about having seen him.”
“He is quite famous,” the Oriental mastermind said sagely. “Bring your men to the child’s room. That will be their goal.”
“Do you wish for me to assign someone to guard you?” Rai asked.
“I am capable of taking care of myself,” was the terse reply and Rai bowed low, hurrying from the room lest his words be taken as an insult.
The Warlike Manchu put his hands behind his back, standing where he was for a long moment. Soon, sounds began to reach him… sounds that spoke of combat and men in tremendous pain. He reached up finally and began stroking his long moustache. “Welcome, my student.”
The Peregrine emerged from the shadows, his body tensed and dangerous. He held a pistol in each hand, fingers locked in the firing position. From behind his domino-style mask, eyes as black as coals blazed with righteous fury. “I should have killed you years ago,” he hissed between clenched teeth.
The Warlike Manchu smiled like a cat examining its prey. “I could have taught you so much more than I did. The disappointment that you were to me… it is almost indescribable. But your son shall be everything that his father could not be. I will make sure of that.”
The Peregrine let out a guttural snarl and raised both barrels, pointing them directly at the Manchu’s chest. He fired, filling the room with the staccato sounds of lead-laced death.
* * *
Leonid Kaslov was a blur in motion. The Russian had come upon the assembled warriors, perched as they were in a semi-circle around little William’s crib. The men wore identical black leotards and were bare-handed, each crouched low for a quick assault. As soon as Leonid entered the room, he was greeted by William’s cry of recognition and by the simultaneous uproar from the guards.
They came at him in a mad rush, not allowing him time to formulate a strategy for battle. In truth, he was very much at home in situations like this, when mind and body had to meld together in formless unity.
His left hand shot out in a karate chop that nearly snapped one man’s neck in two. His right hand balled into a fist that drove hard into another’s midsection. He ducked beneath another assault and knocked the attacker’s legs out from under him. This foe was dispatched by a hard knee to the head before Kaslov was up and out of the mad throng. He ran full-tilt towards the wall, throwing himself up against it. He did an acrobatic twist through the air, propelled by the soles of his feet against the wall. This maneuver allowed him to crash hard into three of the men, knocking them onto their backs.
Rai watched this with clinical detachment, reaching down to the belt he wore. He came back with two knives, which he spun in his fingertips with practiced skill.
Kaslov knocked out the last of his opponents by smacking the man’s skull into the floor. He then looked up to see that only one of the guards remained, the master of the knives. “Surrender and no harm will come to you,” Kaslov stated. He was not out of breath at all, having grown accustomed to much harder exertions during his own physical training.
“This child belongs to the Warlike Manchu,” was the Japanese man’s only reply.
“You truly believe that one man can own someone?”
“The world is made up of masters and servants,” Rai answered. “To think otherwise is to be naïve.”
Kaslov stood tall, staring into the other man’s eyes. “I sincerely regret that your life has led you to that conclusion. I believe that every man has the right to choose how he wants to live… and that all men are inherently free.”
Rai hesitated, realizing that the Russian was not going to attack without provocation. “If you’re thinking to turn me against the Warlike Manchu…”
“I’m not.”
Rai frowned slightly. “The child must stay.”
Kaslov put his hands on his hips, studying the Japanese. “Why? So that your master can corrupt him? So he can try and teach him that the only way to succeed in life is through hurting other people?”
“That is the only way!” Rai shouted, angry at himself for even listening to the man. But there was something in Kaslov’s certainty, in his very manner, which seemed to take root in the killer’s heart.
“Stand down. Let me take the boy. If you want a chance to begin again, to be your own man… I can introduce you to Benjamin Flynn. He’s an agent of mine. Not a servant. Not a slave. I pay him for his services and treat him well. He can find a use for you and your skills. You won’t have to kill ever again. And you won’t ever be a slave.”
Rai lowered his weapons, the blood rushing in his veins suddenly growing louder, drowning out even the screaming of William and the sounds of gunfire from the next room. “I… will give you a chance,” he said, his voice sounding low and uncertain.
Kaslov smiled, glad to have avoided the physical side of conflict for once. “You won’t regret it, my friend.”
* * *
The Warlike Manchu moved gracefully to the side, effortlessly allowing the bullets to pass him by. The Peregrine threw himself to the side, continuing to fire, but the Manchu treated them as if they were in slow-motion, his aged senses reacting with a superhuman ability.
Max tossed aside one of the guns, drawing forth the Knife of Elohim. He rushed forward, hoping to catch the Manchu by surprise but once again the teacher was wiser than the student. He caught hold of Max’s raised arm, holding it upwards while delivering a powerful blow to the Peregrine’s chest. For a moment, his entire body seemed to seize up as his heart skipped a beat, but the Peregrine managed to yank himself free. He spun about, kicking with his left leg. His foot caught the Manchu in the hip, knocking him off-balance but the Oriental refused to fall.
The Knife of Elohim skidded out of the Peregrine’s grasp when the Warlike Manchu suddenly slammed his forehead into the hero’s chin. For a moment, Max was unable to focus clearly and his enemy delivered several powerful chops to his head, making the confusion worsen.
The Peregrine managed to throw up his hands just in time to block another attack and he then threw himself back into the fray, the two men moving so quickly that they almost seemed to shift into another mode of combat altogether, one reserved for only the truly great martial artists.
Again and again the two men managed to sneak past the other’s defenses, leaving terrible bruises and cuts on the other’s body. But neither would yield, not even when the Peregrine’s nose was shattered nor when the Warlike Manchu’s left wrist was broken so badly that part of the bone protruded from the torn skin.
After what seemed to be an eternal struggle, the two men came together, both with their hands and arms tangled together. Beads of sweat and blood dripped from their faces as they strained to drive the other to their knees.
“You learned my lessons well,” the Warlike Manch
u whispered.
“I took what I could from you and perfected it elsewhere,” the Peregrine retorted.
“Don’t fool yourself into thinking that your family gives you strength. They are a weakness!”
“Says the man who’s obsessed with gaining a son. So obsessed that he brought about the death of his own daughter!”
The Warlike Manchu stared into the Peregrine’s eyes. “My daughter is dead?”
“Killed by your pet, Shinigami. By the way, he’s dead now, too.”
“My daughter was a disappointment.”
“She struck me as your superior in every way that matters,” the Peregrine said. He struggled to maintain his grip on the Warlike Manchu, summoning the mental powers that had served him so well over the years.
Slowly, the anti-serum filled weapon lifted out from his coat pocket, telekinetically moving through the air. It circled around behind the Warlike Manchu, who sensed that his opponent was faltering. He assumed this meant the Peregrine was weakening, never suspecting that it had to do with his attention being diverted to the use of his mental powers.
“I do not wish to kill you,” the Warlike Manchu whispered. “Even now, I will forgive you for your transgressions against me.”
“You’re the one who needs forgiveness. I just hope God’s wise enough not to waste it on you,” the Peregrine said, smiling coldly. The sudden grin on the vigilante’s face made the Oriental’s eyes widen. He sensed that something was amiss and turned his head, just in time for the weapon’s blade to plunge into his neck.
The anti-serum worked quickly and the Peregrine relaxed his grip on the man, allowing him to stagger away. Blood was oozing from the wound in the Warlike Manchu’s neck and he stared at the Peregrine in mounting horror. His skin grew flaky and dry, beginning to fall off in ever-widening pieces. His skin began to sink in upon itself, sealing tight against the bones. He became a mummified monstrosity, falling to the ground as even the bones began to crumble from the weight of age.
The Peregrine stood panting over the desiccated corpse, marveling at how much the man before him had squandered. All those years… a daughter he’d never loved… it seemed so pointless. He prayed that he’d never lose sight of those things that mattered most in life.
The sound of little William’s cries reached his ears for the first time and he sprinted from the room, nearly running into Kazlov in the hallway. The Russian was holding William, an unfamiliar Asian man trailing along behind.
“He’s perfectly fine,” the Russian said, smiling as he handed the boy over to his father. “But your nose looks simply awful.”
Max laughed aloud, wincing a bit as his son reached out to touch the fractured bones on his father’s face. “Losing my good looks is a small price to pay, my friend. Very small, indeed.”
William buried his face in his father’s shoulder, safe and content.
THE END
BLOODWERKS
An adventure starring the Peregrine
By Barry Reese
CHAPTER I
A Multitude of Sins
June, 1940—Styria, Austria
Sally Wingforth blinked against the harsh light, her head pounding. The girl’s lower lip was puffy and split, a trickle of red moisture running down her chin. She wore a white peasant blouse, off the shoulders, and her long reddish hair hung loosely. Her skirt, a bold shade of crimson, was matted with mud and dirt.
The girl struggled against the bonds that held her firmly to a chair but found her movements only caused her more distress. The heavy ropes with which she was tied pulled against her skin and threatened to tear it in two. She wasn’t sure where she was and the powerful surgeon’s light that shone directly into her eyes made it impossible to tell what the room was like.
She’d come to Austria with a group of friends, all of whom were equally interested in fascism and illicit good fun. Sally’s beau, a businessman named Carl Klemons, had set up the trip, which was to take them through the entire country, meeting with various fascist groups who supported Hitler’s basic economic plans, if not his militaristic movements. Sally herself had gained a new set of doubts about the Nazi regime since arriving in Austria… she was increasingly uncomfortable with the way the Jews were being treated and the way that Austria itself had been annexed in ’38… well, it all offended the young beauty’s notions about right and wrong.
Despite all that, Sally and her companions had drank and danced in too many towns to count. Carl had even managed to seduce Sally into breaking her vows of chastity until marriage. But it had all gone horribly wrong when the group had arrived in Styria. Carl had taken them to a small club known as Bloodwerks, an out of the way place that had seemed sinister and remote.
Sally had begged the others to go somewhere else, but Carl had teased her about being frightened and she’d succumbed to peer pressure in the end. The club had been smoky and filled with thin men who smoked too much and stared at Sally and her girlfriends like they’d been fresh meat in a butcher’s market.
Carl had introduced her to a German named Horst, who looked so cadaverous in his pressed black suit that Sally had scarcely been able to look at him. Horst had clutched her hand with cold fingers and remarked on how clear her skin was… making her notice the many pockmarks on the German’s in return.
Not long after, Carl had disappeared into the crowd and Sally had been left alone with Horst. She’d tried to politely ignore his small talk, nursing her booze instead. But then the world had begun to spin about and she’d passed out, falling to the floor amidst startled laughter from those around her.
And now here she was, tied up and scared half to death.
“Hello?” she asked tremulously, turning her head and squinting against the light.
“So pretty,” a man whispered and Sally recognized the voice immediately.
“Horst?” she said, momentarily forgetting her distaste for the man, grateful to hear a familiar voice. “Please… help me!”
The German moved into view, blocking part of the light. He wore a white smock over his black suit. The jacket had been removed and Sally could see how thin he truly was. He looked half-starved. He smiled at her, revealing rows of neatly aligned white teeth. “Carl told me you were lovely but I had no idea.”
“Where is Carl?” Sally asked, her eyes widening. She was beginning to realize that Horst would not be helping her after all.
“He is gone. Returned to America. He owed us, you see. We delivered something to him… a fantasy made real. In return, he has repaid us.” Horst turned from her, disappearing behind the bright light once more. He returned a second later, pushing a small cart upon which sat a number of painful looking implements. “I think you will do very, very nicely.”
Sally felt tears begin to run down her cheeks. “Please,” she begged. “I have money! I can pay you! Please don’t kill me… please!”
Horst looked shocked. He set down a small knife he’d picked up and knelt in front of the girl. He placed his hands on her face, holding it steady as she cried. “Kill you? My dear girl, I would never do such a thing!”
Sally blinked in confusion. “You’re going to let me go…?”
“I’m going to make you ever so much better. You’re going to become one of us.” Horst smiled again and it was so cold and merciless that Sally thought the devil himself would have recoiled at the sight. “Welcome to the Bloodwerks.”
CHAPTER II
When the Good is swallowed by the Dark…
August, 1940—Berlin, Germany
Germany was a nation at war, with all that entailed. Men and women scurried about with obvious optimism but with a gravity that sapped some of their goodwill from them. Though many, if not most, believed in their Fuehrer and his message that they were the chosen people of the Aryan race, it was still difficult to see friends and family sent off to die in foreign lands.
So far, the war in Europe had gone well for the German war machine. Poland had fallen to the Nazis, who had then marched through De
nmark and Norway. France had recently signed an armistice with the Germans, leading to the direct occupation of Paris. It seemed almost inevitable to some that Germany would come to control the entire continent within a few years. The only true threat that remained outside of the Russians was the United States, a sleeping giant who seemed incapable or unwilling to rouse itself for war.
The four people, three men and one woman, who sat together in the rocking train car represented very different parts of the globe. Their opinions on the war had been expressed harshly, brought about by a German gentleman’s evident desire to discuss politics. He was a thin man with very straight white teeth. He had introduced himself as Horst, a shipping expert who owned his own import/export business.
Max Davies didn’t like him. Davies was one of two Americans in the group and he was a dashing man with olive tinted skin and wavy dark hair. His eyes were of a penetrating style, with a keen intelligence that caused weaker men to cower before his gaze. He wore a dark suit and tie, an American newspaper folded on his lap.
Seated next to Max was the other American member of the group and the only female. She was almost painfully lovely, with long blond hair that curled at the ends, dreamy brown eyes and silky skin that seemed to beg to be kissed. She wore a form-fitting sweater that clung enticingly in all the right places and a skirt that stopped just short enough to reveal enough leg to distract any red-blooded male in the area.
Horst had caught her name—Ellen Patrick—and mentally filed it away for later review. He thought he recognized it from some old news files but couldn’t be sure she was the same Ellen Patrick he’d heard about. That one had been the daughter of Owen Patrick, a crusading politician in Southern California, whose drive to expose corrupt officials around him led to his untimely murder.