Night of the Heroes

by Adrian Cole

  He opened his eyes slowly. At first he could see only the thick tree roots between which he rested. Then beyond, the first dark shadows in the night that were other trees. Moving his head infinitely slowly, he studied the terrain. Forest. Small camp? Hunched figures near the fire. Dozen or more. Poorly dressed. No visible weapons. Scavengers?

  Cautiously he felt around under the blanket that covered him. Surprisingly, his sword was beside him in its scabbard. He would have expected these people to have robbed him of it. So where was this place? Had he gone beyond the gateway? Was this the Dragon King’s realm? But even in this light, it looked no different from the world he was used to.

  He sat up, shaking his head to clear it of the drowsiness. He kept one hand on the sword hilt, beneath the blanket.

  One of the men noticed him and came over, peering down at him, face blackened with grime, hair tangled, a white brush that trailed over his shoulders. He wore an unfamiliar coat that looked as if it had once been worthy of a lord, but which now was stained and threadbare. The Barbarian could still see no weapons, not even a knife.

  “You okay, feller?” growled the man through his matted beard.

  The Barbarian nodded.

  “You hungry?”

  Again the Barbarian nodded.

  “Fit enough to come to the fire? We got soup and wild hog.”

  The thought of food made the big man’s mouth water. Camp rations during the battle had been thin. He hadn’t realised how hungry he had been. He got up, pulling the blanket around him against the night air and buckling on the scabbard. He followed the other to the fireside, where he squatted down.

  There were a score or more of the clan, or tribe. Men and women, but no children. Their ages varied, but their tattered clothing and unwashed faces and bodies were common to all. Certainly a pack of scavengers. Such creatures often frequented the aftermath of battle. The Barbarian had little time for them, but they lived as they had to, on their wits.

  From a dented cauldron, one of them ladled out some stew on to a tin plate and handed it to him. The Barbarian took it with a grunt of thanks, forcing himself to eat slowly, using the odd utensil they gave him.

  “One bastard of a storm,” someone commented. It was an invitation to him to speak, he could see. He nodded again.

  Slowly he finished his soup. “Where is this place?”

  “Meridian Park,” someone else volunteered, though a swift glance from another of the men silenced him.

  The Barbarian had not heard of it. “Where is the gate?”

  They gave him a fatty chunk of meat and he chewed it with relish. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed roast boar. Maybe the creatures were plentiful here.

  “I came through a gate,” he said, but they didn’t seem to understand. “Who rules this land?”

  The man who had brought him to the fire squatted next to him, clearly nervous of him. “We don’t know. We come and go. People don’t much bother us. The generous ones leave us clothes, or food. Otherwise we’re left to ourselves. We have to watch out for the dog packs sometimes. If they get hungry, they track us. We’ve killed a few. And lost a couple of our own to them.”

  “You know of Numaston?”

  “New —?”

  The Barbarian shook his head. He could be anywhere. But these people were unlikely to harm him. Unless they had sent for someone to come for him.

  “What about the storm?” he asked. It had been a conjuring, surely the work of the Dragon King’s sorcerers.

  “Pretty bad. A lot of trees got brought down. A few fires. But the rain was that powerful, they didn’t last. Lucky we found you. You were out in it. Thought you was dead. We brought you under cover. You okay now?”

  “Yes. I owe you my thanks.”

  “You’re welcome to stay with us. We could do with someone like you. I mean, you look like a fighting man. That sword. Kill a few dogs with that! Wild boar, too.”

  The Barbarian nodded. “I’ll repay you with meat.”

  “Okay. We don’t have anything to drink, ’cept for some water —”

  “My thanks.” The Barbarian drank slowly. He would not stay here long. If this were the Dragon King’s realm, the Barbarian’s enemies would be seeking him, no matter how depleted they might be after the battle. He ought to look for Numaston’s people. The king had offered him the throne with his dying breath, but he had no desire for that! Gods, he’d fought for a dozen kingdoms, won and lost over the years. Once you were seated on a throne, your enemies had a habit of multiplying overnight.

  I’m too old for this, he told himself again. I just want to settle. The fights get harder, the knocks hurt more, it takes longer to stand up. I just want some land, a place to finish my days in peace. He thought of the treasures he’d won or shared over his life, all squandered or stolen. He’d always assumed there would be more. But he was running out of energy. The younger men were quicker. Sooner or later one of them would be too quick for even his experienced hand. Probably sooner. I don’t even have a horse in this place. Like being without an arm.

  “I’ll be moving on in a while,” he told the scavengers. “Soon after dawn.” He waited to see if there were going to be any protests. He owed them something, but he had no time to waste hunting for them.

  But no one demurred. “You’re welcome here any time,” said the man beside him.

  The Barbarian rose, studying the trees. Dawn light was filtering through them. Beyond it he could make out an open area. “What lies east of here?” In the world he had left, Numaston’s lands were east of the place where he had killed the Dragon King.

  “Pretty open. Some parts are the parklands. We don’t go there much, only to pick up stuff. We keep to the rougher ground and the forest.”

  “You better have this,” he said, taking the blanket off. They looked at him in amazement, seeing how unusually muscled he was: even in the thin shirt and trousers he was exceptional, as though he had spent his lifetime training.

  “No, no, it’s yours,” demurred their leader. “Only too glad to help.”

  With a final nod of thanks, the Barbarian left them, striding up into the last of the trees. He shifted his scabbard to his back, slinging it and the sword over his shoulders. It was not a bad blade, serviceable and well balanced, though he had fought with superior swords in his hand. Like everything else, he told himself with a wry grin, the best seemed to be behind him.

  Even so, it looked like being a bright day. The clouds had melted away and already the temperature was rising. Without a backward glance, he came out of the trees and looked across a wide expanse of meadow. It dipped down for several miles towards more forest, apparently ringed by them. There was a small river meandering through its heart and a lake, fringed with reeds. The thought of a plunge into those waters spurred him on. He strode through the waist-high grass, watchful for any serpents or other predators. This land seemed gentle, but often such places spawned the worst kind of pitfalls.

  Half a mile across the grassland, he knew he was no longer alone. Instinctively he dropped down into a crouching position, hidden by the tall grasses. He scanned the skies, but, apart from a few birds that seemed no more than common creatures, the heavens were empty. Looking over the top of the grass, he studied the edges of the nearer forest. At first he saw nothing, but his eyes were keen as an eagle’s.

  There were men there. But they were not the scavengers. These had a strange appearance. They wore long coats, unfamiliar to him, just as the clothes of the scavengers had been, and their faces were obscured by hats that dipped over their eyes. Five of them moved forward in a line, entering the grassland like beaters chasing their quarry. The Barbarian knew this game well enough. They were intent on driving him into the grass, not away from it.

  It was not long before he knew why. He heard sounds a hundred yards ahead of him, muffled snarls, the padding of huge feet. He guessed there were three or four of the beasts, either large cats or hounds.

  His sword hissed easily from it
s scabbard as he moved at right angles to the strange oncoming men. It was impossible to tell from this range if his oblique movement nonplused them. But their own movements tilted, as if they could sense him, no matter how well he tried to conceal himself.

  Twenty yards further, he saw the grasses ahead part to reveal one of the beasts that tracked him. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end, for it was no common hound. It stood semi-erect, man-like, yet more wolf than human, its naked hide thick with hair, its elongated arms clawed. But the head was lupine, ending in a long snout and the eyes were feral, widening as they caught sight of their prey.

  No time to run. There were others nearby. He must face this one’s attack. He braced himself for the spring that must come, sword ready to split the beast.

  But the wolf-thing paced to and fro, standing off him as if afraid of him. Had it been a jackal or wild dog, he would have understood it, for such creatures were cowards, only coming to snatch the leavings of a battle. But this huge beast should have been a match for most men.

  The Barbarian moved forward and the beast padded back and forth, trying to drive him first one way and then the other. Out in the grasses, he could hear the others arriving. It was a moment before he realised what they were trying to do. They were herding him! It was not the strange men who were trying to force him into the path of the wolf-beasts, but the latter were trying to drive him towards the men.

  Very well, he would put this to the test. Gripping his sword firmly, he gave a great shout and ran directly at the first beast. Its lips pulled back from yellow teeth in a grimace of anger, spittle flying, but the Barbarian closed with it. It clawed at him, but he slipped aside, cutting at its belly. But the beast was extraordinarily fast, moving almost in a blur. The blade merely snicked it: to his horror, the Barbarian rolled to one side, knowing that the beast had only to adjust its balance, spring and be on him.

  Yet it did not. It simply swung round and faced him, slowly padding around to his back. He did not believe that it was afraid of him. It was far too powerful.

  He attacked it again, feinting before driving his sword into its guts. Except that he struck only air: the creature was faster than the eye. Gods, but it was too quick to see! Again, it did not attack, forcing him to back up, though. Towards the oncoming men. It did not want him harmed.

  They must be servants of the Dragon King. And he dared not fall into their hands. His one chance was to break through the closing ring of wolf-beasts. If he were right, they would not kill him.

  Slowly he moved forward, singling out the beast at the edge of the semi-circle. He again feinted, making to run up the slope towards where the figures would be coming towards him. But he veered off and ran straight at the last wolf-beast. It reared up, huge as a mountain bear, but it had to leap aside to avoid the swing of the sword, which, had it landed, would have cut deep into its chest. The Barbarian corrected the swipe so that it didn’t overbalance him. He was past the creature and its snarling companions.

  Their rage was furious as they gave chase. He was thankful for the sleep and the meal he’d lately had, for they leant strength to his legs as he sprinted down the grassy slope. But the wolf-beats were behind and alongside him, trying to turn him. He swung his blade to and fro to keep their jaws at bay.

  One of them came at him, trying to knock him off his feet and he drove his blade into its ribs. This time its own momentum proved its undoing, for he felt flesh and bone tear and crunch. The writhing of the monster almost tore the weapon from his grasp, but he dragged it free, hot blood gushing over him.

  But it had bought him a little time. The river was still half a mile away. Behind him the wolf-beasts paused, sniffing at their fallen companion, whose death howls diminished gradually. If the men who were pursuing had seen the killing, they were undeterred. The Barbarian could see their shapes against the skyline as they came inexorably down into the valley. And there were many more of them now. The only way he could hope to avoid them would be by crossing the river, or the lake.

  Behind him, the wolf-beasts tracked him once more. He wondered if they could swim. If so, it was doubtful that they could dive. The lake was partially covered in reeds, its surface matted with plants.

  He came out of the tall grass on to a flatter, exposed area that stretched down to the lakeside. He ran on and for a moment turned to study the pursuit. Three of the wolf-beasts emerged from the long grass and spread out in an arc. Beyond them a wider arc of figures drew closer to the edge of the grass.

  The Barbarian could see that to break through their lines would probably be impossible. There were too many of them. They seemed to have discounted the lake. Perhaps they thought he would be afraid of it, or too hampered by it to choose it as a means of escaping them. He turned and studied it. Beyond it, its far bank rose up in yet another long wedge of grassland, its horizon more forest. But nothing stirred there. No wolf-beasts, nor figures. If there had been any, they would not have been able to disguise their presence.

  On this side of the lake, the wolf-beats inched forward. The Barbarian saw their masters properly for the first time. What manner of men were these? Apart from their unusual garb, they seemed oddly wooden, moving like men raised from the dead. He had seen such sorcery before. Their arms were thrust into their coats, but as they pulled them free, he saw not hands but elongated fingers, worm-like tentacles. His skin crawled at the thought of their touch. And the men moved ponderously, though confident of their success.

  Swiftly he ran to the lakeside, looking for the best place to launch himself into the water. He sheathed his sword, but as he approached the spot he had chosen, the waters broke and a huge shape erupted from the lake’s surface. It seemed like some kind of serpent, its massive head opening to reveal circle upon circle of serrated teeth, yawned cavernously. The immensely bloated body wriggled on to the shore, head bobbing and weaving, eyes focusing on the Barbarian, who barely braked his run in time to avoid sliding into that very maw.

  The thing was as fat around as two men, and thirty feet long, a pale, hideous travesty of a giant worm or maggot, probably the spawn of the Dragon King’s vile sorceries. Unlike the wolf-beasts, it seemed set on attacking him. And the only way to avoid it would be to turn back directly into the closing net of figures. They were not as mindless as their awkward movements suggested.

  The Barbarian again pulled his sword free. He knew they wanted him alive, but he was determined to kill as many of them as he could, rather than fall prey to them. As he strode forward to meet them, he felt the hot wafts of the serpent breath on his shoulders.

  This is no place to die, he told himself. After all the battles, the killing. Is this how it ends? He let the berserker anger fill his veins, the frustration of a lifetime. But against these odds, he’d need it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Creatures from Hell

  Cradoc spat out a mouthful of brackish water. It left a bitter taste. He shook his head, eyes focussing on his arms: arms that were not arms. Arms that were grotesquely thick, hardened like gnarled boughs, yet pliant as earth, the colour of slick mud. The long nightmare wasn’t over then. The Mire-Beast lived on. He — it — shambled to its feet, again shaking its massive head.

  Lightning. White light. I remember it. And falling. To where? This isn’t the place I found myself last time.

  Cradoc looked around. No, this wasn’t the remote English airstrip. This was a city, or a big town, at least. The grimy walls of its packed buildings rose up on all sides, still dripping with the last downpouring of the torrential rain. Vague light seeped from around a corner, a faded yellow that suggested decay.

  Where the hell is this? More drug-tricks? What had they pumped into him before they put him on the plane? Enough sedatives to knock an elephant out, sure, but what else? But he felt awake, alive. One aspect of this altered shape of his, this mire creature, was that it pulsed with life, raw elemental forces, powers from which it had been distilled. And here, wherever this was, he felt as much alive as he had ever
done. So it was no dream. But why would they dump him here? The storm, that bolt of white light, must have knocked him out. But why hadn’t they put him back in a crate, or a steel cell?

  Unless this place itself were to be his new prison.

  He shambled down the street, aware that it was cobbled, apparently very old. There were few windows in the leaning buildings, which could have been anything, his best guess being that they were warehouses or stores. The elemental part of him crawled with unease: it belonged out in the wilds, not in this labyrinth of brick and stone. He sniffed the air as a huge cat would. But there was no indication of vegetation nearby, no trees. There was earth under the street, a long way down.

  For a while he stumbled through the narrow streets, which were devoid of life. It was still some hours before dawn. Was he being watched? Surely he must be. They would never let him loose, least of all in a city. But what the hell did they want with him? He knew the answer, though. It didn’t take a lot to work out. They’d accidentally created a freak; now they wanted to study it, use it to develop God alone knew what. Weapons? New viruses? A new strain of life?

  One thing was sure. Those bastards had no intention of reversing the process. Alex Cradoc was still buried inside this thing. And they were in no hurry to get him out.

  He was crossing a cramped courtyard, when he paused, listening. He had no visible ears, they were merely slits along the sides of his globular head, but his hearing was extremely acute. Water! Yes, now he could smell it, too. Flowing water. Far below. Of course, it would be the drains, or sewers.