The gray-haired man walked slowly, leaning heavily on his cane as he shuffled down the city streets. Periodically he paused for breath, and as he did so, he anxiously slipped a thick white envelope partially out of an interior pocket of his overcoat, peering at the contents as if ensuring they were still there.
He heard voices ahead. As he neared the source of the sound, he caught a glimpse of a small grouping of young men, sitting on the front stoop of a set of council flats. He paused, and then crossed the street to the other side, continuing on his way.
One of the men witnessed the evasive gesture, and nodded to his friends with a grin. As one they arose, crossing the street to follow the man with the cane. "Hey Pops, you're not being very friendly."
The man remained silent, as if trying his best to avoid confrontation. "What've you got in the envelope, Pops?" said another.
The man's fingers instinctively clutched at the envelope, but the third assailant's hands were faster. "Give it here, Pops. Hey, is that a silver head on that cane? Nice."
The cane smashed upwards, slamming into the other man's nose and then whirled around and crashed into his wrist, so he dropped the envelope. As the assailant fell, the cane whirled forward again, slamming one of the others in the throat.
The original speaker turned to flee, only to find the head of the cane loop around his ankles, and he tumbled to the ground. He rolled over, to find the gray-haired man lifting him up by the lapels and slamming him against the wall. Up close, he was able to note the gray-haired man's wig and the makeup which made him appear to be much older. "Oh no, oh no ... " he murmured.
The gray haired man snarled, "You ought to have been more careful around the man they call 'Captain Cripple' on the streets, eh?" He slammed the head of the cane into the young man's stomach, so that he fell to the ground, retching.
The man reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a spool of bailing wire, which he wrapped around the trio's hands and feet. From inside the envelope, he withdrew three business cards: white, with the insignia of a cane etched in black on each. He flicked the cards over the bodies of the injured men.
"Those Yanks may have made such a hurrah of their 'paranormals' but we've never needed anything special to keep our streets clean, have we lads?" He gave the leader another quick kick, and then proceeded on his way.
He heard a sound above him, like the fluttering of a great vulture. He looked up, only to see a crimson-scaled monstrosity, resembling nothing more than a humanoid dragon, descend down onto the streets. Flame from its mouth broiled the three men as they screamed, and then it began to feed.
"Oh ... "
Slayer Scotia in, "A Chamber of Darkness"
He did rule wisely and justly till the end of his days...and they were many.
In his youth, he had been known as Starr the Slayer. Now, a slayer no more, the king of Zardath felt the weight of his sword on his hip, and it was heavy. His hair and beard were grey with age, and his skin no longer possessed the suppleness of youth. He stood alone on the galley, looking forward as he sailed off into the unknown west, towards the legendary continent of Mayapan.
He knew that his exploits, particularly as exaggerated through song by Morro, the minstrel friend of his youth, had raised him in the estimation of his people to the point where he was seen as akin to one of the gods ... and people do not like to see their gods become frail and die. He thought to himself: while I am still able to raise my sword above my head, let them see this as one last adventure, one last conquering of an unknown land, perhaps even a search for truth, and let my name be added to the Chronicles of Zardath as a mere legend of old.
The seascape was quiet, the waters favorable. As the land of Zardath vanished into the horizon, he closed his eyes and inhaled the salt air. Suddenly, the smell changed, and he inhaled the rank scent of burnt oil. His eyes snapped open and his hand fell instantly on the hilt of his sword. The ship was surrounded by a smoky fog, one which seemed to leave a filthy resin where it touched his skin. Before him, he saw a familiar, and hated, visage. "Trull," he said.
"You've aged," said the wizard, whose many attempts to invade Zardath had been successfully repelled by Starr.
"You haven't," said Starr as he drew his sword, ""but if you think I am so old that I will be easy prey to your foul spells, think again."
"I am not so easy to catch as that." The wizard gestured magically as he walked through a portal he created which seemed to lead into a dark chamber. "Follow me if you dare."
"I dare," growled Starr, and leapt through the portal ...
... to find himself in an alien land. "By all the gods of the great abyss!" he exclaimed. The air stung his eyes and burned his lungs, full of the same noisome odor as the cloud the wizard had generated. The buildings, amazingly uniform in appearance, were taller than any similar cluster in his own land, albeit none as tall as his royal palace. The streets were made of some dark and gravelly rock, packed very densely, and when he leaned down to touch it, it gave off the same odor as the air. At regular intervals along the streets were a series of tall metal pedestals, which seemed topped by never-ending flames. For a moment disoriented, he suddenly realised he had been here before: when he had been summoned by the wizard Lencarson, and slew him in a battle to save his very soul. He reflected for a moment, discerning how many of his memories of the event were true and how many were distorted by Morro's endless recountings.
He was distracted from his reverie by a pair of immense, glowing eyes, bearing down at him at an amazing pace. They were close to the ground, as if belonging to a charging bull, and the beast seemed to growl interminably without taking a breath. He drew his sword in readiness, but at the last minute the beast swerved to one side, and emitted an ear-piercing screech. Stunned, he realised that the beast had crashed into what appeared to be a large metal box by the side of the road ... and that it had a girl in its maw.
He leapt forward, hands gripping what appeared to be the mouth of the grotesque creature, and tore it asunder like parchment. The girl gave a cry, but he reached in and took her around the waist; she seemed to weight nothing more than a feather. As he pulled her free from the beast, it burst into a hellish flame. "Knack aglay aye fane ta be," he sneered, and tenderly set the girl down on her feet. "Th' gromer wurragh gaggie?" he enquired.
She shook her head as she watched the taxicab incinerate. "You saved my life," she said. "Thank you. Uhm, are you all right? You were just standing there in the middle of the street; I barely saw you in time and then I careened into that trash bin."
He blinked at her. "A div na unnerstand yer blether, quine", he said. "Div ye spaek th' leid o Zardath, ur uv ither civilised lans?" Seeing her blank expression, he attempted a few other phrases at her.
She scratched her head, and then looked him up and down. She pointed to the emblem on his chest. "The way you took apart that car was pretty amazing ... are you one of those paranormals, like back in the States?"
He looked down to where she was pointing, and took a step back in shock. The passage to this strange world must have addled his senses, or else did a spell of the wizard Trull, for he hadn't even noticed that his clothing had changed. His helmet, amulet, and other ornamentation were gone, though his sword still hung at his side. His legs were encased in sheaths of leather, which matched the fine leather boots he wore. Covering his upper body was a jacket, made from the same material and color. It was an outlandish getup, completely unlike anything he had seen in his travels. Underneath the jacket was a finely woven shirt which fitted itself to his torso, and the front of the shirt bore a curious design: four crimson lines radiating out from a central point on his chest, each outlined in white, and all against a midnight blue background. "Expone thees claes, quine?"
She sighed, "You sound even more out of it than I am ... maybe you're just coming down from that adrenaline rush ... I know I am." She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering despite the heat. "Come on, big guy ... I live near here, and have to call the fire department and my insurance company anyway, I think we could both use something hot and strong to drink."
She took him by the arm. He smiled softly down at her, "Be na afeerd, quine, A ken thonder be daemans anent thon dark lan, but A sal na leev ye."
Quickly, they walked through the city streets. "In here," she said, unlocking the front door into her flat. He entered the strangely decorated room, and picked out what was evidently a large chair to rest in, while she picked up a small metal tablet and began speaking into it. He heard her occasionally pause and nod, and then resume speaking ... what sort of strange religious icon she was praying to he could not guess, but her ritual seemed to lack the singsong fashion of most prayers. Little matter, she was doubtless still upset over her narrow escape from the demon.
The girl sighed, and put down the tablet. "Can I get you some food?"
He looked at her blankly, "Me gay ay sligh an' pockerin'?"
She smiled, "Don't worry about it," and put on a water to boil. He narrowed his eyes as he watched her in her kitchen ... the girl was obviously some sort of minor sorceress, he ought to stay on his guard. Still, he had known some of that ilk who were inoffensive, and even fought alongside a few ... and she was a comely wench. He chose to retain his grip on his sword, nevertheless.
A moment later, she came in with two plates of what appeared to be tangled white grass. "Pot noodle ok? Sorry, I wasn't really prepared." She set a plate down in front of him, along with a miniature pitchfork. He picked it up and stared at it, and then noticed that she had inserted the twined end into the grass, and then twirled it around, so the material looped into a knot on the pitchfork, before inserting it into her mouth. He had entertained and been entertained enough foreigners to be flexible in his manners, so he imitated her.
He inserted the plants into his mouth, only to spit them out immediately back onto his plate. They had a bitter, nauseatingly strange taste he had never encountered before. "Eneuch, ar ye ettelt ti poison me, quine?" He grabbed a pitchfork-full of her grass, over her objections, and inserted it into his mouth ... only to find it had the same repellent flavor.
He stood up and strode into her larder. He opened the cabinets, only to find they contained nothing but strangely colored boxes and small metal tubes of incomprehensible purpose. There was one other cabinet, differently colored from the rest, which seemed to hum silently with magical energy. "Sae be hit," he said to himself, drawing his sword and opening the door, preparing to encounter whatever mystic beast existed within to do battle ... only to be rewarded by a rush of cool air, as if a small piece of his native land in winter had been contained within.
Inside were a series of items on racks, some of which he recognised as foodstuffs. He immediately understood the purpose of this minor magic: his own people stored meat underground in winter to preserve it; he actually appreciated the cleverness of the spell. His eyes fell upon a leg of chicken on a small plate, and he reached in and took ahold. "Hey, you only had to ask ... " said the woman behind him. He took a bite, and found it to be bland and tasteless, with only the barest suggestion of the flavor that any fowl he had eaten at home would have. And, underneath the blandness, was the same bitterness he had sensed in the grass she had fed him.
He turned around, and looked at her sympathetically. "Na wunder ye ar sae pale, thay mek ye aet poisoned fuid ti keepit ye weak?"
She understood the conciliatory nature of his tone, if not his meaning. "Sorry I don't have anything you like, maybe we can order out?" He had an odd charisma which drew her to him, despite his baffling and impulsive behavior.
"Niver ye feer, quine ... aet mair gin ye wishet. A sal fin us baith some rael fuid on th' morn." He walked back to her living room and returned to his chair, patting the place she had formerly been sitting with his hand.
She furrowed her brow, and on her way she pulled out a copy of the 'London A-Z' from her desk. She handed it to him. "Can you tell me where you're from, at least?"
He looked at the booklet curiously, rifling through the arcane maps and hieroglyphics. He shook his head, utterly bemused, and handed it back to her. "Ta wiggie ail wha' haint boyee."
She nodded, "I'm not surprised somehow. Let's see ... I think I have a real map somewhere around here." She walked a few steps to her bookcase, running her fingertips along it until she found what she was looking for: a book of geographic maps of the British Isles. She sat next to him, opening up and flipping through it experimentally.
His eyes lit up, as he recognised the book's intent immediately. He skimmed backwards and forwards several times, amazed at the quality and accuracy of the maps. Finally, he settled on a page and pointed. "Zardath! Aglack 'e gay te Scarpie!"
She peered over his shoulder. "That's in Scotland ... I guess I ought to have recognised that accent, though I don't know Gaelic ... maybe because you haven't said 'Och Aye' even once." She laughed and gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow, and he laughed in return. She sat down opposite him. "I just realised we haven't even exchanged names. She pointed to herself and said, "Danette Reilly ... well, just call me Danette."
He grinned and nodded, pointing to himself, "Starr."
There was a knock at the door. "Just a moment, Starr," she said, and opened it up to see a pair of bobbies. "Good evening, officers," she said, and stepped outside, closing the door softly behind her.
He stood up as she spoke to her visitors. He didn't understand their language but he recognised the tone of soldiers or palace guards introducing themselves. Had the girl brought him here in order to lull him to sleep, and then turn him over to the authorities? He waited to see what returned through the door, his hand resting on his sword's hilt.
After several minutes, she returned, alone, looking slightly harried. He grinned at her, "Kepit th' sodgers awa, eh quine?"
She sighed heavily and sank down onto the sofa, a fretted look on her face. He put a tender hand on her shoulder, "Ye be gallus, Danette."
She looked up at him, a pained smile rising on her face, then she sighed again. "I don't know what to do with my taxi gone ... the accident was obviously my fault so insurance won't cover much. Thank god I hadn't gone on a pub crawl with some of my mates earlier, like they'd asked me to ... at least I didn't have alcohol on my breath." She wrinkled her nose, "although if I had gone out I wouldn't have been in the right place and the just the right time to almost slam into you in the first place, wouldn't I?"
He knelt down by her side, "Danette, A sware ti ye, gif ye hiv fankled yerself, ye sal be weel rewarded. A sal tak ye back ti Zardath wi me ta bide, an ye sal be first amang ma guidwifs, or ye sal hiv yer freedom, if ye wishit."
"That sounds like a very sweet thing to say." She squeezed his hand, wetting the back of it with tears. "I don't know if I'm going to homeless next month or what ... well I suppose I could move back in with mum. Get a job at Tesco's or something."
His hand moved to her face, a thumb wiping away her tears. "Divna greit, quine, the Slayer stands bi ye." Impulsively, she turned her face to kiss his hand, her lips soft against the calloused palm. He tilted her face up til her eyes peered into his, and she kissed him again.
The next morning, as sunlight came through the window shade and made soft patterns on Starr's bare chest as he lay beside her, she decided to be chipper. "Wake up, Starr," she murmured, kissing him on the lips. He opened his eyes easily, and she realised he had probably been awake for some time, as he was immediately alert. "Guid morn, wee ane. Did ye sleep weel?" He reached out and caressed her right breast in a casual, affectionate manner.
"Hey, none of that now," she said, laughing. "I want to go out." She jumped off her futon and looked into her small closet, shimmying into a short pink dress.
Her grinned at her, "It dis ye weel ti dress lik wan o yer ain gender, quine."
"Get dressed yourself," she said, picking up his clothes and tossing them to him. "A walk in the park, and we'll worry about our problems later."
He struggled with the unfamiliar garments. He managed to get out of them (granted, with Danette's assistance), he knew he could get back into them. Why would anyone choose to encumber themselves with these leg sheaths, he wondered, when a simple loincloth or even a formal kilt is much more comfortable?
He finally completed the process, and began to strap his sword belt around his waist, when Danette ran over to him, placing her hands on the belt. "Oh no, no no no ... you're not going out in that, friend."
He scowled at her, and batted away her hands. "A shuid enter thon ceity o demons athoot ma soord, Calgbhior? A am nae semple, Danette."
She raised her hand in a hapless motion, and then suddenly kneeled down, reaching under her bed. She dragged out an ancient guitar case, and brushed out the dust. Opening it ... the latch was slightly rusted ... she removed the instrument she had not touched in years. "Look," she said, holding the case for him to see, "I think your sword will just about fit, okay? We can still bring it with us. Just don't board any planes, right?"
He nodded, "Ye propone A shuid masque masel as a makkar ... aa th' better to no attract yer liege's sodgers, eh?" He placed the sword in the case, and watched as she closed it. The purpose of the handle was obvious, and he picked the case up.
Exiting the room, he caught sight of himself in the mirror for the first time. He was clean-shaven ... Trull must have clouded his brain so that he hadn't noticed the night before ... but his visage was that of a man half his age. Another mystery, he thought to himself. I am becoming sick to my gut of mysteries.
She walked him outside and down the streets of her neighborhood. He started when he saw automobiles in the daylight, and then looked at her wide-eyed. "A am sooth in a ceity o sorcerers. Thees ar soom soort o cuddieless carriages, an no daemans, arna thay, quine? Did A slay yar mount?" She noted his conflicted expression and patted his arm reassuringly.
They entered the BritRail station, and took a seat on a bench while she waited for a train. In the far distance, he saw its arrival. He leapt to his feet, "A greet wurm! Stand ahint, Danette!" and reached for his sword but then, seeing her expression, sat back, abashed. "'tis anither wan o thees carriages, nae? A hiv muckle ti lairn anent th' ceity o sorcerers." His muscles remained tense however, until the train arrived, and he saw the people seated calmly within.
As they reseated themselves, the train jerked to a start and he ground his teeth, feeling ill-at-ease as it proceeded at an accelerated pace down the tracks. He looked down at Danette, and shook his head ruefully at himself. What strange land and people has Trull sent me to? and why?
As the train rounded a corner and began to edge into central London, he thought he might have seen the beginnings of an answer. A crimson scaled figure could be seen in the skies ... a figure he had battled many times before. "Mandraegan", he growled. Danette looked over at him, "Starr?" and then her eye caught the monstrosity as it headed towards the train. "Oh my god ... "
Starr tore open the guitar case and drew forth his sword in a second, and forced his way through the peering passengers to the door of the train. He easily forced his way out, ignoring the screams of the people around him as they huddled against the opposite wall. He heard Danette scream his name, but ignored it. This was the challenge for which he had been brought here.
He scrambled up to the roof of the moving train, the wind whipping through his hair. "Mandraegan!" he howled, "Trull's craitur! Th' Slayer haes sclimmed ti fecht ye ance agin!"
The creature swooped down and took him in its massive claws, pulling him into the sky. He struggled against its powerful grip, releasing a string of curses in all the myriad languages he knew. The creature hovered, edging Starr closer to its hungry maw, when it was knocked aside by an explosion.
It roared in pain, and Starr looked to see a figure clad in a close-fitting garment of brown and black, a skull-like masque upon his face. Starr initially took it for another demon, then realised it was simply a man in an outrageous disguise ... a man who was flying through the air unaided. Another sorcerer, perhaps?
"Roight then mates," said the figure, "let's see what we can do. Crikey, but you're an ugly bugger." The figure drew forth a lance from a holster on his back, and threw it at the creature. The weapon stuck into its thigh, and Starr saw miniature lightning bolts crackle down the lance's shaft. The creature roared in pain, and out of sheer frustration, threw Starr straight at the newcomer.
"Bloody hell," the man said, and braced himself to intercept. Starr's weight and velocity hit him like a cannonball, and the newcomer tumbled down. Starr howled in rage as he braced himself for the fall to his death ... and then as the arc of his trajectory hit its apex, he found himself suspended in mid-air. "Mitra," he said in wonderment, "haes thon lan majicked me as weel?"
The other man flew up to join him. "Another parahuman then, is it?" His voice sounded sarcastic ... whatever he said to Starr, he was rather disgruntled about it. "Glad you didn't spatter on the pavement, anyway." He extended a hand, "They call me Skybreaker." Gesturing back to the Man-Dragon he continued, "I say we blow the sod to Ipswich an' back!"
Starr took the hand of a man he recognised as a fellow warrior, and understood the meaning of his gestures well enough. "It is ae when danger grows thon ma soord sal be strang", he said. "Come, ruler o winds, A see wir craitur mighty afore us!" As the Man-Dragon flew over to meet them, Skybreaker released a grenade launcher from its hip-swivel attachment, and fired at the creature. Starr laughed, and flew forward, his sword flashing in the sunlight as he struck across the creature's shoulder.
Skybreaker harried the creature, flying in and out of range as his weapons struck it repeatedly. He swerved to avoid a blast of flame from its mouth, only to fall prey to one of its massive fists. He crashed into a high-rise building, and started to flutter awkwardly as he began to tumble towards the ground.
Starr noticed, and soared over to assist him. "Ruler o winds, how be ye?" He settled the man on a rooftop.
Skybreaker grunted. "Bloody bastard broke my hip," he said. "''Ere, take this." He withdrew another lance, and pointed to the tip. "Neurotoxic, don't touch." He opened his mask to reveal his face and gestured, "right there in the thing's pie hole."
Starr nodded, "A sal hae yer sorcerous speer an Trull's craitur sall hae its daith." Again he rose into the air, and shot forward at the Man-Dragon.
As the creature clutched at him, Starr unleashed the lance straight into the creature's mouth. It roared its irritation, and its grip tightened on its opponent. Starr hacked at its wrist with his sword, and then he felt a tremor through the powerful arm. He watched as it began to twitch spastically, almost human groans of incomprehension springing from its throat as it sought to regain control of its movements. Starr burst free as it plummeted to the ground, crashing into the hard pavement below.
He watched it for a moment, and then felt himself being encased once more in a smoky fog, one that had the same oily smell as the one he had sailed into when he began this journey. Mid-air, he turned to see a familiar visage suspended before him. "Trull."
"I had hoped this new land would disorient you", said the wizard. "But I see you found allies who helped you to defeat the Man-Dragon. It matters not." He begins to gesture again, and Starr could see the energy pulsing in the other's hands. "I can kill you just as easily myself."
"Do you hear the voice of your king?" howled Starr. "No more shall you bedevil my lands." With a powerful motion he thrust Calgbhior into the wizard's heart.
Trull gasped, "I see ... I was too clever by half. I curse you, slayer." He clutched at the sword as a trickle of blood began to run down from his mouth, and his voice grew weaker. "I banish you to this terrible new universe, to be a king no more." The dark chamber closed, and the wizard vanished from the world of men.
Empty-handed, Starr descended to the ground. A crowd of people clustered around him, but amongst the unfamiliar faces he saw Danette's. He strode through them, wrapping a powerful arm around her waist and pulling her upwards into the sky as she laughed hysterically.
"A beam o joy doth come athin ma saul," he told her as they floated above the city. "A new lan, no ti be king ower, but ti mak ma hame aa the same. A sal mak a new name for masel, an ye an the ruler o winds sal stand bi me."
Later, or not, on an Other world:
"Really, father."
"Ouch."
Roma sighed as she carefully withdrew the sword from Merlin's torso. "Such theatrics."
"It was ... ouch ... necessary." He grunted in pain as she finally removed the sword, "Be careful with that."
She rolled her eyes. "Hardly your most distinguished appellation. 'Trull.' Really. What were you thinking?" She set up a miniature force field to stop the blood flow as the healing machines began their work.
"Earth-148611 needed a champion," he said. "But its distance from the Multiverse was too great for me to enter it on my own. When Len Carson somehow breached the barrier and allowed Starr in from our demesnes, I saw the possibilities. Remind me to research ... ouch ... whether Carson was another Jim Jaspers counterpart."
She sighed again.
Starr the Slayer, Trull, the Man-Dragon, and Skybreaker trademark and copyright Marvel Comics, Inc.
Captain Cripple trademark and copyright John Freeman.
Danette Thomas trademark and copyright Danette Thomas.
Much of this story was inspired by the work of Roy Thomas. For more info on the characters, consult the Marvel Appendix.
Excerpts from "A Sligh Gay A-Pockerin'" by Francis Flukes Veme