Night of the Heroes

by Adrian Cole

  “I’ll tell you about it on the way. We have friends waiting.”

  Konnar turned again to Lentullus. “My thanks, centurion. From what you said to Artavius, it would seem your debts and those of your men are wiped out.”

  “There will be few men in this garrison who rue the death of that tyrant. He hid behind his office, but died fairly. It is true, our debts to him are no more. But I owe you a greater debt, barbarian. Forgive me, it hardly seems appropriate to call you that.”

  “I am Konnar. And I am a barbarian!” he laughed. “And this,” he added, indicating the huge form of the Mire-Beast, “is Cradoc. A man trapped by sorcery in this form. Respect his misfortune.”

  Lentullus bowed. “Friends of Konnar have my protection.”

  “As for debts,” said Konnar. “We’ll see. This is a strange world. My companions and I may need your help before too long.”

  “In the meantime,” said Darkwing, “we have urgent business to attend to.”

  Shortly afterwards they were being escorted on their way, back through the wide streets of the Roman sector, heading for its limits and the company that was waiting for them. Somewhere nearby, one with the night, an invisible flight of ravens and its mistress shadowed them.

  Konnar sensed their presence. “Who is the Shadow Woman you spoke of? You summoned her?”

  “Nope, I wouldn’t dream of it. She works for our other allies.” And we can all be thankful she’s on our side, Darkwing mused. That’s one lady who doesn’t take any prisoners.

  “Summon her from the darkness. I look forward to meeting her,” Konnar said, aware that he was being studying by something out in the night.

  “She’ll come when she’s ready. You don’t summon Shadow Woman.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Contact

  As Reverence sped through the nerves of the inner world, the sensation of movement was uncanny, as if he had become a ray of light, spearing across the whole canopy of heaven, racing with the stars, fast as thought, faster than astral projection. Only his knowledge of the latter enabled his mind to function and his reason to remain intact in a situation that would have sent lesser adepts tumbling into hysteria and madness.

  He was aware of thousands of other impulses surging along the metaphorical wires of the net but they were all bound to it, one with it. He, on the other hand, was unique, an astral force, with an independence that imbued him with the power to stay one jump ahead. Which was just as well. For he was hunted. He could feel the frustration of his pursuers, their figurative hands groping for him, but slipping off him.

  It bought him enough time to accomplish what he sought. Bannerman. Deep in the entrails of that system, Reverence found the American’s essence, the elements of mind that proclaimed him to be functioning on a mental level at least. He had clouded himself in secrecy, deflecting the energies of the system around him as if bending light. He had not yet been discovered, but dare not move.

  “Bannerman.” Reverence projected the word, and the American heard him. But there was no answer. “Bannerman, you must listen to me.” Reverence could sense the American coiling deeper within himself, like a snail within its shell, afraid of exposure. “I am an ally. You have friends.”

  Still there was no reaction.

  Bannerman felt the words like mental projections. Telepathic control. A trap. An alternative way to winkle me out of the system. Stay absolutely calm.

  “Bannerman. My name is Palgrave Reverence. I am here to help you. You must communicate with me.”

  Bannerman felt the stimulation of shock. Palgrave Reverence? He’d heard of him, of course. Who hadn’t? Although he’d never actually read any of the books. What the hell is this? Why should Fung Chang’s agents try to trick me with a fictional detective? Why not Robin Hood or Napoleon Bonaparte for that matter? It would have been just as dumb.

  The shock breached his system enough for Reverence to understand. “Ah, you know of me. I sense it. I also understand why you won’t communicate. Very well. I must assume you don’t know where you are. You’re in a place you may not have heard of before now. Its inhabitants refer to it as Pulpworld. The servants of Fung Chang brought you here by means of an electric storm of some kind. This storm brought others here, too, including myself.

  “One of the peculiarities of this world is that it confuses actual people with fictional characters, depending on which world they have come from.”

  Bannerman remained still. What kind of gibberish is this? Not only is this nut imagining himself to be Palgrave Reverence, but now he’s rambling about some imaginary world.

  “Since I was brought here, I have met people who have never heard of me, either as a real person, or as a work of fiction. But others know me only from the fiction of this world. And I regret to tell you that it is exactly as some of them see you. As a character from a book.

  “There is no time to elucidate now. We have to get away from this place, back to where friends await us. People who oppose Fung Chang. They thought you were dead. They have your body. If you can communicate with me, you must do so. If not, it will only be a matter of time before Fung Chang traps you here and draws you out.”

  He’s right, damn it, whoever he is. I can’t keep on hiding. The system is too good, too well policed. I may only have a few minutes left. Bannerman prepared for flight. If this intruder were a ploy by Fung Chang, he’d have to be ready to shoot off fast and find another bolthole.

  “So what do you propose?”

  Reverence was surprised at the proximity and clarity of the response. “We have to get back to Riderman and the others. How can I help?”

  “I can’t leave this system at will. Not in this form. How did you get in?”

  Reverence explained.

  “Astral projection? Yeah, well, I can’t see me pulling that off. Not like this. There’s only one way out for me.”

  “Through your body.”

  “Yeah. But the problem is, I need it here, plugged in to a machine.”

  “And if you had it?”

  “I’d download. You — know what I mean by that?”

  Reverence laughed, a short barking sound that came across, even in this bizarre form of communication. “Riderman explained all that. It’s refreshingly new to me, but yes, I follow you. So. You cannot download, as you put it, without your body being brought here.”

  “That’s it. So where is my body?”

  Again Reverence explained, adding the information that Mears had provided for them all at the hotel, of how Bannerman and the others had all come to be in Pulpworld. “Fung Chang’s agents have abducted Annabella Fortescue. I came here in search of her whereabouts. Fung Chang intends to offer her up in exchange for your body. So you see, it will be easy enough to have it brought here. I imagine Fung Chang would want to reunite you with it, if he knew you were alive. It is just possible that he does not realise that fact.”

  “Yeah, they’ve tried to pull me out. They know someone is here. But, maybe not me? That’s interesting.”

  “It’s clear to me why Fung Chang wants you, or indeed, any of us. He’s quite brilliant and fully capable of achieving his aims. So something must be done.”

  Bannerman chewed it over for a while. “If I remain in the system, they’ll flush me out and I’ll be completely at their mercy. My only chance is to get back into my physical form and maybe make a break for it. But in this place, even Cyberwolf will have a tough time getting out.”

  “The risks will be enormous. The odds against success huge.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  * * * *

  “We will leave you now,” said the sergeant that Lentullus had put in charge of their escort, a score of legionaries whose faces were masks, but in whom the adrenaline was pumping furiously. They were loyal to Lentullus, delighted at his promotion and the demise of the abhorred Artavius, but these people were like creatures out of legend. Especially the huge Mire-Beast. But mercifully they all seemed to be allies of Lentullu
s. Evidently, some of them were thinking, their new commander practiced sorcery, or allied himself to the Druids and other shaman of these lands.

  “Lentullus has released a pigeon. Word will go to your ally, Grimsfeather,” said the sergeant, pronouncing the name awkwardly.

  “Our thanks to you,” nodded Darkwing, and with no more ado, the soldiers turned and marched rhythmically back down the avenue towards the distant garrison.

  “We will be met?” said Konnar, looking around him at the buildings which here loomed up, a clear demarcation line between the Roman sector and a very different type of urban sprawl. Lentullus had given the Barbarian back his own sword and he fingered its hilt uneasily.

  “There’s your answer,” said Darkwing, pointing along the gas-lit street. Rumbling down it, groaning and protesting as its rickety suspension coped with the cobbles and skewed camber of the surface, came a vehicle, a cloud of smoke spewing out from its exhaust.

  “What by all the gods is that?” said Konnar, grimacing. But he could see that Cradoc recognised the vehicle and seemed relieved that it was coming.

  “A bus!” Darkwing laughed. “I can’t believe it’s come for us.”

  But as the spluttering single-decker lumbered forward, its door concertina-ed back and a single figure swung out on to the pavement. It was Grimsfeather.

  “Welcome back,” he said with a rare smile. “Lentullus’s pigeon reached me safely.”

  “You want us to travel inside that thing?” said Konnar.

  “I think he does,” Darkwing nodded. “Konnar, this is Grimsfeather, a good friend. And Grimsfeather, this is Konnar and Cradoc, both of whom are expected.”

  “Indeed they are,” said the little man with a bow. “Allow me to introduce my own invaluable friend, Montifellini.” He indicated a very large gentleman seated at the driver’s wheel. Wearing a light suit that was stained with the soot and oil of ages, and sporting a black mustache that hung inches below his several chins, Montifellini nodded and grinned imbecilically.

  “A pleasure to have you aboard,” he beamed, waving a massive, pudgy hand, the fingernails of which were black with grime, the result of a lifelong love affair with engines and all things mechanical.

  “And this,” said Grimsfeather, resting his hand on the rusting paintwork of the dilapidated omnibus, “is Montifellini’s Magic Bus.”

  Darkwing waited while Cradoc boarded, followed by the still hesitant Konnar.

  “No charge, signori! No charge,” boomed the enormous driver, revving the engine as if eager to be off into the night once more.

  Darkwing was watching the nearby street. “I think we may have one more passenger.” The deep shadows quivered and from them stepped a tall female figure. Like him, she was dressed in dark clothes, her face partially masked.

  “You seem to know me,” she said, amused by his frown.

  “Let’s just say I read about you.” In comics, damn it! Shadow Woman. Like Nick Nightmare. And how many others are there in this weird world?

  She looked at the bus with a brief shake of her head. Something flapped in the darkness beside her and a raven dropped lightly on to her shoulder. “No time to get acquainted just yet. Good to see you, Monti,” she beamed at the driver. “You look after these guys, you hear me?”

  “Whatever you ask, adorable lady,” he chuckled. But the night had closed in on her once more, as though she had never been there.

  Darkwing boarded and in a moment, with Grimsfeather pulling to the door, took his place with his companions. The engine growled like a beast in pain and the extraordinary vehicle rumbled forward on a bed of smoke.

  * * * *

  At the main gate to the garrison, the guards on duty could see down from the parapet above the open area outside to where a small group of figures had emerged out of the darkness. Three of them were dressed in what appeared to be long cloaks, though they were not Roman in style, and wore equally alien headgear, the brim of which dropped over their faces. Their leader, however, wore different clothes, tight fitting breeches and jacket. He came forward and bowed to the men on the wall.

  “Your pardon,” he said in a strange voice. “I am here to see the commander, lord Artavius.”

  The guards exchanged brief glances. This man must be one of Artavius’ dubious contacts in the city, probably a middle-man for any number of illegal enterprises run by the former commander.

  “Artavius is not available, nor will he be for a long time,” the first of the guards called down. “Lentullus is in charge now.”

  “Then it is imperative that I speak to him.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” The guard turned to his companion. “Keep an eye on him. I think it’s best that we let Lentullus know about him. Mars alone knows what trouble they might bring us if we don’t keep Lentullus informed.”

  The other grunted his assent.

  A short time later, the gates opened and the spokesman for the group was allowed in. He found himself ringed by steel, but Lentullus had been summoned.

  “I am in command. State your business.” He found himself gazing into the ice-cool features of a man who was possibly unique to this region, his voice strangely accented, his eyes narrow. But the city, especially beyond the zone controlled by the Romans, was full of anachronisms.

  “Artavius has imprisoned two barbarians from the forest. One is a tribesman, the other a strange creature, more beast than man.”

  “What is it to you?”

  “My master will pay well for them. Artavius is to name his price.”

  Lentullus knew that Artavius had been in the habit of selling and trading slaves to the men of the city. “Artavius is away. For a month at least.”

  “Surely you are able to make a decision on his behalf,” said the stranger, no trace of emotion in his voice, though in his eyes there was a suggestion of annoyance.

  “Yes, and I will do so. The men you have described are not for sale.”

  “You have only to name your price. The resources available to my master are extraordinarily vast. Your men would lack for nothing.”

  “I am sorry. The men you speak of are beyond price.”

  “I beg you to reconsider. It would not be wise to refuse Fung Chang. The repercussions would be quite severe.”

  “The matter is closed,” said Lentullus, holding down his own anger with difficulty.

  “I assure you it is not. I will call again tomorrow.”

  Lentullus ignored him and gestured to his men to escort the stranger off the site. The man bowed, still exhibiting no trace of frustration. When he had gone and the gate was closed, Lentullus called to his sergeant of the watch.

  “I know this will be unpopular, Decimus, but you had better double the watch. Artavius’ death will bring its own kind of retribution.”

  * * * *

  Jameson jerked awake, almost falling over where he had been dozing up against the chair where Reverence had been slumped all day and half the night. What had woken him was a spasm of coughing from the detective, who leaned forward, hand over his mouth.

  “Reverence! Thank God!” said Jameson, getting to his feet and easing his friend back into the seat. “Just take it very slowly.”

  In another of the chairs, Mears stirred, quickly awake. He almost leapt across the room. “Is he all right?”

  Reverence held up a hand, wiping his mouth with a large white handkerchief. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Water, Jameson. A drink, for mercy’s sake.”

  “Of course.” Jameson reached over and poured a tumbler of water from the jug that had been in readiness since Reverence first entered his state of trance. Jameson gave it to the detective, who downed it steadily.

  “Ah, nectar, Jameson! Thank you for that.”

  Riderman had heard the voices and entered from the library, his face clouded, though he was clearly relieved to see the detective himself again.

  “Ah, Sir Henry. We don’t have a great deal of time. And I fear that you are not going to like what I must impart to you now
. You’d better arm yourself with some of that excellent brandy.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  The Gathering

  Mears could see that Reverence was recovering quickly, waving aside the fuss that Jameson was making over him. Clearly the resilient detective would relate whatever news he had in his own good time, in spite of the apparent need for urgency. Reverence could not resist an element of showmanship. Mears smiled to himself: Reverence was undoubtedly nettled at hardly being known in this world. He was unused to a low profile, nor did he warm to one. Mears left the group and slipped quietly and unnoticed into the office.

  Miss Timkins was, to his relief and delight, stretching her arms, waking out of her own peculiar sleep. She pushed her glasses into place and observed him from the seat, stifling a yawn. There was an odd expression on her face, and somehow it reminded him of the cat who got the cream.

  “Miss Timkins! You’re all right,” he said, leaning over her, his face nevertheless creased with concern.

  “Why, yes, Mr. Mears. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? Do you want a drink?” he blurted, taking her hand without realising it.

  She smiled, slightly embarrassed. “No, no. I’m fine, really. It’s sweet of you —”

  He dropped her hand and straightened up. “I’m sorry —”

  “It’s nothing. I do this sometimes. It’s a way of relieving stress, you know. Just a form of deep relaxation.”

  He nodded. “You just looked, well, a bit pale —”

  “You mustn’t worry.”

  “Well, I do — did. Miss Timkins. And this is silly. I can’t keep calling you Miss Timkins.”

  She looked up at him, but then away. “No. I’m Megan. Though to be honest, it isn’t very often that anyone remembers to call me that,” she smiled.

  “Daft, isn’t it? Anyway —”

  But whatever he had been about to say was brushed aside as Riderman burst into the room.

  “Mr. Mears!” called Riderman, his face flushed with excitement.

  Mears straightened up guiltily. “She’s all right,” he said. “I was a bit worried —”