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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:32:50 GMT -5
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:34:16 GMT -5
All-Star Comics
(Featuring Hawkman)
Issue #13: “Sins of the Father, Part Four”
Written by: David Charlton
Cover by: Craig Cermak
Additional Material by Ramon Villalobos and Adam Tupper
Edited by John Elbe |
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:34:39 GMT -5
He dreamed of dust and blood and war.
There was dirt beneath his sandaled feet, and a fallen short sword. In his ears was the roar of a crowd, howling a name, his name: “Mar-cus, Mar-cus, Mar-cus…!” The sun shone bright in the Coliseum that day, glinting off his golden breastplate, embossed with the image of a hawk.
He reached for the sword, noting the blood crusted on his hand. Was he wounded, or was it someone else’s blood…? A swell of noise in the crowd alerted him, and he looked up just in time to see the seven foot Scythian bearing down on him, his trident raised to strike.
Rolling to the side, he dodged the blow, scrambling in the dust and coming up with the sword. He stabbed out wildly, missing his opponent, but the crowed cheered again at the show they were getting.
His eyes scanned the rows and rows of faces, seeking the Imperial Box. He knew she would be there, watching, entreating the gods on his behalf. Poppaea Sabina sat by the Emperor, trying to look unfazed by the spectacle, yet all but clinging to the edge of her seat.
The mere sight of her caused his throat to catch. Her beauty was heartbreaking, so much so that Nero himself had put aside his lawful wife for her. But Poppaea belonged to Marcus, body and soul. Their union was decreed not by man, but the gods. They knew it from the moment they first saw each other, that somehow all their lives had been lived only to find one another. And for that, Nero had decreed that Marcus should die.
But Marcus had other plans.
He surged to his feet as the Scythian charged. Down came the trident, and Marcus caught the tines with the edge of his sword, and twisted, wrenching the weapon out of his opponent’s grasp. The Scythian barely had time for a gasp before the butt of Marcus’ sword came crashing down on him. The giant fell, twitching in the dust, and the crowd roared their favor.
Marcus spun towards the Imperial Box, with his sword pointed to his fallen foe, and yelled up to Nero: “Sic semper tyrannus!”
The Emperor of Rome drew himself up haughtily and said something to a slave that sent him scurrying. But Marcus hardly saw it. He only had eyes for Poppaea, who could only stare back at him, equally breathless.
In that moment, Marcus realized that he would do whatever it took to win her back from the despot. That he would fight against corruption and injustice, and make himself worthy of the love she bore for him.
He would be a Golden Gladiator, and let all tyrants beware…!
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:35:53 GMT -5
There never was a time when Hawkman was not a part of Norda Cantrell’s life. He knew the great man when he was a child. He and his mate, the flame-haired Shiera, would come every year to Feithera, bearing gifts and baubles from the outside world. Norda’s own father was a human, and thus could not fly--- it was Hawkman who took Norda into the sky for the first time, in the summer of Norda’s third year. That was always the memory he cherished the most when he thought of his godfather: riding the warm thermals over the Yucatan peninsula, exhilarating in the glory of flight with Carter Hall at his side, watching over him, guiding him…
The people of Feithera honored Hawkman as a savior; he had rescued them from the menace of the Feathered Serpent and the ravager Lion-Mane.
Fred Cantrell respected Carter Hall as a colleague and friend, the man who made his life’s work possible.
Norda loved his godfather who taught him to fly. Even when, in his tenth year, it became obvious to Norda that some evil had befallen the hero, every summer he would look to the sky, searching for that familiar figure.
When Lion-Mane had returned, Norda rose up in resistance, the example of Hawkman shining before him. That heroism of so long ago informed Norda’s whole life.
Now this Thanagarian Wingman claimed to be the son of Carter Hall. Aside from the arrogance, brash tendency to rush headlong into danger, and tempestuous nature, Norda could almost see it. His grandfather Worla had taught him to look beyond the physical and into the spiritual nature of a person--- and Katar Hol had his father’s spirit. If Norda had not joined the quest for Hawkman and Hawkwoman out of love for his godfather, he would have out of respect for the new bearer of the name.
That quest had led them to an abandoned mountain-top fortress in the Bavarian Alps, the last place on earth Carter and Shiera Hall had been seen alive. The doomed lovers had pursued their eternal foe, the villainous Hath-Set, there, where he had lain in wait with a forgotten Nazi doomsday weapon… The Hawks had disappeared, but the world went on. Like Katar--- and his other companion, the beautiful Kendra Saunders, cousin of Shiera Hall, and heir to her heroic legacy--- Norda needed to know their sacrifice had not been in vain.
The trio paused briefly before the door to the room that called to Katar. The closer they had gotten to the fortress, the more the Thanagarian had felt an overwhelming surge of power. It was coming from the room in front of them. This was the end of their quest.
Katar opened the door.
Instantly, Katar and Kendra threw up their hands and turned away their faces, as if shielding themselves from a blast of light. A fact which greatly puzzled Norda as he saw nothing at all. The room beyond was just as dark as the Grand Foyer they had left behind. He had to squint to make out the ruins of an old laboratory, consoles of primitive computers covered in dust, tubes and machines covered in cobwebs. It appeared to be otherwise empty. He stepped into the room slowly, glancing back at his companions in confusion.
“Seven Devils, Norda, get back!” Roared Katar, in a voice pitched to carry over whatever noise both he and Kendra seemed to be hearing.
Norda shook his head, as if to clear it of any interference. But another glance around the room showed that it was still, quiet and unremarkable. Why wasn’t he seeing or hearing what they were? What was going on?
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:36:32 GMT -5
He lay upon the hard, cold earth, the snow around him crusted with his own blood. A groan escaped him as a crow fluttered near his head; he thrashed weakly, startling it away. The battlefield was quiet except for the sounds of carrion wings and the howl of a chill Arctic wind.
Jon. His name was Jon, now. His father was a king in a land many days sail from this grim sight… A land Jon feared he would never see again. His hawk-winged longboat lay smoldering on the beach behind him, his crew slaughtered to a man. Putting in for the night, they had been ambushed by Thorvald the Reaver--- the All-Father curse him!--- as they slept. The outlaw’s laughter still echoed in the ears of the dying Viking prince…
Jon had prayed to the gods for a good death. He had lived a just life, striving against the outlaws who roamed his fathers’ rivers and fjords. When his time came, he wanted nothing more than to drink mead in the hall of heroes with his fathers and the Odinsons Thor and Baldur. He had fallen pierced with many arrows, his sword still in his hand, red from cleaving the skull of at least one foe. A good death.
“Save a seat for me in Valhalla!” He had exhorted his brother, Horik, who had gone on before him.
“Be still, warrior, your wounds are grave.”
The voice was warm, and a rich balm to his ears. He opened his eyes, and a vision of heart-aching beauty swam before him. Her eyes were as deep and as turbulent as the North Sea, and her hair was the color of pure honey and plaited into two braids. She leaned over him and dabbed at his head, where a wound bled down his face.
“Valkyrie!” He gasped. “Bear me away, Shield-Maiden! I am ready to take my place at Ragnarok! And let all the giants and evil things know me by the glint of my sword…!”
“Shhh…” She held a skin up to his lips, and with one firm hand behind his head, made him drink. The water was cold, but he drank deep, his eyes never leaving hers. “I am no messenger of the gods, Prince Jon. My name is Ylla, and my father is lord in Skane, across the river. I saw the battle, and came out in hopes that the foul wolf Thorvald had left survivors, but I fear you are the only one. Your wounds are grave, but not mortal. Gods willing, Valhalla will wait a few years more.”
He barely heard her, so enthralled was he by her touch, her voice, the mere look of her. A moment before, he had been content to die. Now, he wanted nothing so much as to live. To fight for her, to win her love and admiration… To rid the world of any injustice or wrong that might harm her.
“You know my name…?” He croaked, struggling to rise. She wrapped her arms around him fearlessly, supporting him. With her help, he stood. She gave him a smile that seemed to banish the encroaching darkness.
“Of course. Your heroism is known far and wide in these lands. Jon, the Viking Prince, protector of the weak, foe of the sea-wolves and reavers. And--- I have known since I first saw you sailing these fjords when I was a little girl--- the man to whom my heart belongs…”
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:37:49 GMT -5
The sheer amount of Nth emissions staggered Kendra and she was forced to fall back, flinging up an arm against the torrents of bluish-white waves that undulated across the room, obscuring her vision and roaring like a tidal wave in her ears. This must have been what Katar had felt, no doubt more sensitive to it due to his longer exposure to the Nth Metal--- but Norda seemed to be completely oblivious, moving deeper into the room and into the maelstrom that swirled within.
Katar called to the Feitheran, but Norda only shook his head, confused. Intuitively, Kendra sensed what was going on: the Nth Metal she and Katar wore allowed them to tune into what was occurring on a psycho-ethereal level. In the center of the room rose a pillar of pure, undiluted Nth energy, a physical manifestation on a scale not seen even on Thanagar, the only planet in the universe where the substance could be found. And while she had no idea what it portended, there could be little doubt that it was natural--- or good!
Pushing through the buffeting winds of Nth power, she grabbed Katar by the arm.
“What’s going on here?” She yelled over the otherworldly tumult, hoping he had some insight.
But the Thanagarian only shook his head and pointed to the pillar. Thankful for the hawk-mask she wore, Kendra squinted directly into the pillar--- and gasped when she saw what he was pointing to! There were figures moving within the pillar, blurred, indistinct and impossible to tell apart, but unmistakably human.
My god! Kendra thought. Something’s alive in there!
Just then, Norda raised an inarticulate warning. Newcomers were flooding into the room from other entrances, strange, misshapen creatures more beast than man, for all that they were clad in jackets and ties and carried sidearms. In their midst strutted Helene Astar--- and by her expression she was aware of the Nth chaos in the room.
“What the hell---?” Kendra gaped at this unexpected arrival.
The man-animals spread out across the room, their weapons trained on Kendra, Katar and Norda, their tiger- and ape-like faces twisted into horrible leers.
Astar looked in triumph at the pillar of energy in the middle of the room, her eyes alight.
“At last, father, I’ve found you! I can set you free from this curse!”
Kendra and Katar exchanged a confused look.
Norda made a sudden, pre-emptive move towards one of the ape-men--- who aimed his gun and fired point blank at the Feitheran.
But the bullet veered off course, as if seized by a powerful magnet, and was caught up in the vortex than was still undetectable by Norda and the Manimals. Norda slammed into the surprised man-ape, pummeling him down and whirled to face the others. A brief volley of bullets followed, from the others, all of which were seized, and began zooming around the room in an erratic circuit.
“No firing, fools! The Nth storm is too powerful!” Astar cried, wild-eyed.
“Ms. Astar,” Kendra yelled, holding up one hand to hold off another assault by Norda. “Why are you here? Who are you calling ‘father’? And what the hell are those creatures…?”
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:38:34 GMT -5
It had been so long since he had heard the sound of his own voice… All he knew was the rise and fall of his sword arm, the clang of steel on steel, and the high pitched screech of his falcon as it dove for his enemies. Once he had been Sir Brian of Kent, but now he was only the Silent Knight.
The siege of Castle Bane would end tonight. He would have back his beloved, so cruelly reft from him, and the dastardly Sir Oswald would pay for his crimes.
Flaming missiles from Pendragon’s siege engines burst in a display of pyrotechnics against the stone walls of Castle Bane. Knights and men-at-arms, led by Sir Justin, stormed the front gate, but Brian had already scaled a siege ladder and hacked his way atop the battlements, Slasher circling above him and strafing his foes.
The carnage was terrible, but in the end, only the Silent Knight stood. Allowing the falcon to lead the way, he plunged into the depths of the castle, spurred on by the thought of fair Lady Celia languishing at the hands of his adversary.
More knights assailed him, but he laid them low, uttering never a sound. He would speak no more unless it was to utter her name. In the end, he found her in a chamber in the highest tower of Castle Bane--- in the clutches of the heinous Sir Oswald!
He held her before him, his sword poised at her throat, glancing desperately between the fearsome visage of the Silent Knight, and backward through the open window embrasure, and the forces overwhelming his bastion.
“Keep away, Silent Knight!” Sir Oswald spat. “I want passage through Pendragon’s army, or she dies!”
Squirming in his foul grasp, Lady Celia met the eyes of her paramour through the slit in his visor. They had had such a brief time together…
“My beloved,” Her voice was steady, but wrought with emotion. “This villain has brought much evil and darkness to Camelot… He has plagued our happiness, and will not rest until we are dead. I fear even in death he may chase us down…! End his terror here, now!”
So saying, she flung herself aside, uncaring of the blade that traced a thin, red line across her pale throat.
For the first time since he donned the hawk-shaped helm, the Silent Knight screamed in horror. He watched as his beloved went down--- clearing the way to Sir Oswald.
He charged the villain, his sword dashing aside his foe’s weapon. Their two bodies slammed together, propelling them towards the open window, and a hundred foot drop!
In the impact, the Silent Knight’s helm was knocked off, and for the first time, Sir Oswald saw the face of his enemy. Brian of Kent had his hands around Oswald’s neck, and bent him backward outside the window, his face a mask of pain and rage.
A familiar face…
Though his life was being throttled out of him, Oswald’s eyes went wide in stunned recognition.
“I know you!” He choked. “Brian! But also… Prince Jon! And Marcus… ”
Brian had no idea what his nemesis was babbling about. All he could see before him was a blood-soaked murderer.
“You don’t remember, do you? Die, Khufu!”
From his belt, the villain pulled a long dagger and jammed it into Brian’s side. His chain mail armor took the brunt of the blow, but Oswald did not stop. He plunged and plunged with the knife, and though Brian would not release his hold on the villain, he had been hurt badly, and was weakening. In a moment, Oswald would break the death-grip around his throat…
The villain slashed again with his strangely puissant knife, and at last Brian staggered away, clutching his bleeding side. Sir Oswald reared before him, a victorious gleam in his eye, the ancient knife raised high.
“I win again, my prince! The curse of Hath-Set triumphs--- arghh!”
His talons fully extended, Slasher hit Sir Oswald in the face. Blood and feathers erupted as a furious battle ensued. Screaming, Sir Oswald stumbled, blind--- and toppled through the open window, the falcon screeching defiantly as it glided away…
Brian crawled to the cooling body of his beloved. She lived still, but not for long. He gathered her to him, cradling her close, their tears mingling.
“My beloved,” He whispered.
She raised her eyes to him, and with her last breath, muttered: “Kha-Taar…”
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:39:19 GMT -5
Katar stared past the conflagration of Nth energies at the woman who called herself Helene Astar. There was more to her than met the eye, it was certain now. The way she had looked at him, like a predator sizing up her prey…
And she could see the Nth storm raging in the room. She had Nth Metal on her.
As if on cue, the woman drew an ancient-looked, curved dagger from a holster on her leg. Though worn by age, it glittered like crystal in the swirling rays of Nth energy.
“Hath-Set’s dagger!” Kendra called to him.
But Katar had already guessed that. This was the dagger, forged by the long-dead Egyptian wizard from the same Nth Metal that had empowered Khufu and Chay-Ara… the dagger that empowered Hath-Set’s curse!
“How did you get that?” Katar demanded loudly, his hand itching for the haft of his mace.
“It is my birthright!” Helene Astar shot back. “Before my father embarked on his last crusade against the cursed Champions of Horus, he gave it to my mother to keep for me. He said he would always find it, lifetime after lifetime, and thus would one day return to me!”
“Your father…?” Enlightenment dawned on Katar. “Anton Hastor!”
“Yes!” Astar hissed. “I am the heir of Hath-Set! And I have found him at last, here, trapped within the warp field of the Nth Bomb he created all those years ago for the Nazi’s, locked in eternal struggle with Hawkman!”
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:39:58 GMT -5
The panorama of his past lives sped faster by him, accelerating into a blur. He was Jon Valor, the dreaded Black Pirate and scourge of the Spanish Main. He saw himself swinging from the mainsail of the Vehement, his cutlass gripped in his teeth to do battle with the foes of Good Queen Bess… He was Tom Hawkins, known as Tomahawk to the Red Coats and Revolutionaries alike, and fought to preserve the ideals of liberty and justice upon which a new nation was founded… He was Hannibal Hawkes, riding the frontier of the Old West as the masked vigilante Nighthawk, finding respite only in the arms of his beloved Kate Manser…
And there were others--- many others. He relived them all, swimming in the memories, recalling the joys and the hardships, the trials and the tragedies. And always she was there. His immortal beloved, the soul that was bound to his, in a seemingly endless cycle of death and rebirth…
He had lived a multitude of lives, but he was only ever one person.
He was the lover of Chay-Ara, and he was the Champion of Horus, a crusader for justice and a protector of the innocent.
He was Hawkman.
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:41:37 GMT -5
Secret Headquarters of Project Fenris, 1951…
“It’s over, Hath-Set!” Hawkman dropped his last, desiccated foe, the cloth-wrapped bones bursting into dust on the floor of the cold Bavarian castle. “Your Sons of Anubis are finished, and your doomsday weapon is a fraud!”
Hawkwoman circled around the other side of their foe, swinging her morning star and looking to her husband for her cue. Between them, Anton Hastor, clad now in the robes of an ancient Egyptian wizard, held them both at bay with a strange-looking staff, burnt and cracked in places.
“You’re wrong, Hawkman.” Spat Hastor. “Dead wrong! Do you see this staff?” He jabbed it and lightning forked out, cracking the stone floor where Carter had been a moment before. “It was given to me by Adolf Hitler himself in the last days of the Third Reich. Legend has it that it was carved from the bark of the world tree Yggdrasil by Woden, the Father of the Gods, and is imbued with powers older than man! In the event that the Germany fell, it was the dying wish of the Fuhrer that I use the staff to bring about Ragnarok, the dreaded twilight of the gods! But Hitler was a fool, with no vision! The staff by itself is not enough; I needed a power source more potent than the walking stick of a forgotten pagan god! I needed the unlimited power of the Nth Metal you possess, my dear Carter and Shiera, to fuel this Nth Bomb! Thus not only do I encompass your doom, but make you the instruments of the apocalypse I have wrought! The world you labored so hard to save shall perish at your hands!”
Beneath his mask, Carter Hall’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened. He knew what he had to do…
“Shiera, get out of here!” He barked, and hefting his mace, he charged Hastor.
Hawkwoman hesitated for the briefest of moments--- how could she leave Carter?--- but spread her wings and took to the air. Only Hastor had expected that. He aimed the staff and unleashed a torrent of lightning at her, cackling madly. Hawkwoman lit up, screaming, her wings catching fire. She fell, smoldering and unmoving, to the floor.
But neither Hastor nor Hawkman saw it. Hawkman was upon his enemy, hacking down with his mace. Hastor just barely raised the staff, catching the mace before it made pulp of his head, snarling up at Hawkman.
“It ends here, Hastor.” Hawkman gritted through clenched teeth, bearing down on his foe. “For all time!”
“On that, we are agreed, my prince!” Snarled Hastor, his knees buckling under the pressure. Pushing back at Hawkman, he closed his eyes and began to chant. “In Ice creeps the Fimbulwinter, shriveling the sun! In fire walks Surtur, scorching the moon! Lo, Naglfar sails with death at the helm! The maw of the wolf gapes wide, the earth to swallow!”
Hissing through his teeth, Hawkman reared back and came back down, two-handed, upon the staff in Hastor’s hands. “Shut!” Despite its hoary, ancient might, the staff splintered, forcing Hastor to flinch and turn away from the shower of blue flame sparking from it. “UP!” Hawkman hit the staff again, shattering it.
The two halves of the staff were clutched tightly in Hastor’s hands, sputtering like flares--- it may have been shattered, but the spell had already been invoked!
“Come, Fenris, your time is come at last!” Crowed Hastor, triumphantly.
Suddenly, a whirlwind of magical energies arose around the wizard. Soon he was encircled by a cocoon of coruscating might. Hawkman staggered backward, his strength sapped. Hastor was draining him somehow, sucking the very vitality and life-force from him.
It was the Nth Metal. Hastor was using the staff to hijack the psycho-receptive power of the Nth Metal, and he would use it to trigger Ragnarok!
And they had delivered it right into his hands.
With a cry, Carter dropped his mace, and began unbuckling his wing harness. He had to get the Nth Metal as far from the madman as possible. His hawk-shaped amulet, Claw of Horus and mail hood followed--- and then he saw Shiera! She lay still on the ground--- far enough away so that Hastor was not drawing on her Nth Metal to fuel his Nth Bomb, and too far for Carter to reach her. But he had to stop Hastor.
Not again, Carter wailed inwardly. Please, not again!
With hot tears in his eyes, and for the last time, he flung himself at his ancient enemy.
Not expecting a frontal, bare-fisted assault, Hastor quailed before the look in Hawkman’s eyes. He lashed out with the blazing halves of the staff, narrowly missing Carter whose wide right hook sent Hastor sprawling. Divested of the trappings of the hero, the Champion of Horus and the chairman of the JSA, Carter Hall snatched his foe by the front of his vestments and rained blows down at him, seeing not only Anton Hastor, but Emperor Nero, Thorvald the Reaver, Sir Oswald Bane, and countless others--- all of them staring back at him with the malignant eyes of Hath-Set!
“Too late!” The wizard chortled through a mouthful of broken teeth. “It has begun: the wolf is at the door!”
It was true. Carter could feel something intrinsically different welling up around him. Hastor had harnessed the Nth Metal, and somehow the energies were building up for a detonation that would make Hiroshima and Nagasaki look like a hiccup; this explosion would blow a hole in the side of the world and crack the very planet apart!
Ragnarok.
From somewhere came the laughing of a wolf.
No. Carter could not allow this to happen. Would not! He had long known that the abilities of the Nth Metal were largely untapped, that its limits were unknown. On Thanagar, he was hailed as Kar’Taral, a savior and master of the Nth Metal. He had never really put that to the test… He did now.
Using every ounce of his will, and taking advantage of the connection he had with it, he reached out to the Nth Metal. No, not merely to the metal, but to the wellspring of unquantifiable cosmic Nth Force beyond and within it.
When Hastor saw what Carter was doing, he roared a challenge and sprang at him. The two old enemies grappled together, physically and on another plane entirely: Hastor used the power of the staff to ignite the Nth Bomb, and Carter struggled with his own innate affinity with the Nth Force to wrench it from Hastor’s control. Hastor was weaker than Carter, but the Staff of Woden more than made up for it. He battered Carter with wave after wave of arcane power, snarling and slashing at him. Carter felt his control of the Nth Force wavering, slipping away from him…
Then, impossibly, Shiera was there, her hand slipping into his, lending him her strength, her will. She had crawled across the floor to him, and as weak as she was, had divested herself of her Nth Metal as well, to keep it out of Hastor’s grasp. She looked up at him now, with faith and love.
It was all Carter needed. With a supreme and paradoxically effortless flexing of his will, he simultaneously seized control of every last ounce of Nth Metal in the universe! Hastor screamed, the power of the staff rebounding on him, piercing him on a molecular level. Carter and Shiera ignored him. The Nth storm still raging around them, he lifted her up, holding her close in his arms. Their hair whipped about them in the maelstrom, and Hastor continued to unravel at their feet, but they only had eyes for each other.
With Shiera’s help, Carter had broken the power of the staff and defeated Hath-Set--- but the event their foe had set in motion still loomed. The wolf still howled at the door. Ragnarok was still at hand.
“Do it.” Shiera whispered over the storm, clinging to him. “Finish it, my darling! Save the world.”
Carter’s heart and soul was full, and tears unabashedly moistened his cheeks. “You made it worth saving.”
Then, gathering the Nth Force to him like blooms in a flower garden, Carter Hall challenged destiny and began slowly, inevitably, to push the door closed on the wolf…
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:42:31 GMT -5
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:43:54 GMT -5
All her life had led up to this point. Helene Astar had finally found her father.
She had been a child when he had left, going off to meet his destiny, to free himself at last of those who had constantly denied him his rightful place in history… He told her about the Nth Metal, and the curse--- and much else. He spoke about them to her in bitter whispers and in anguished tones. They had cost him so much…!
When Helene had realized her father wasn’t coming home, her course in life had been set. He wasn’t dead. She was sure she would have known that. No. Somehow, Khufu and Chay-Ara had once again defied and defeated her father, but she, Helene, would redeem him.
After all, was she not heir to the curse?
And so she devoted her life to finding her father and finishing off the Hawks once and for all. In fact, she devoted more than one life! Her mother, never more than a casual lover of Anton Hastor, was none other than Sara Descarl, the supremely gifted and utterly diabolical neural surgeon and villainous foe of Hawkman known as Satana. Helene inherited her mother’s gifts as well as her father’s, and soon was experimenting with transplanting ape and tiger brains in the bodies of hormone-injected humans, creating cross-species monstrosities her mother would have been proud of. She even had her own body cloned and her brain moved to it when the original had started to break down.
Relocating to St. Roch, she changed her name, established her bona fides, and settled down to her life’s work.
It was before her now. She clutched the Nth Knife tightly, squinting into the crackling kinetic field of Nth energies between her and the heirs of the Hawks. Her nimble mind was racing, struggling to grasp what was going on. Her father had planned on using an ancient, Germanic artifact to bring about a prophesied end of the world, and needed the Nth Metal of the Hawks as a power source, but what had occurred was some kind of Nth Force eruption, gushing endlessly through some sort of time/space wormhole. This massive summoning of Nth power had obviously forestalled the apocalypse--- being in its presence, Astar could not imagine a more puissant force in the universe!--- but it seemed a wild and untamed thing, raw power barely contained and straining for release. She felt connected to it by virtue of the Nth Knife in her hand… It just needed a disruption, something to upset the balance, to spill the Nth power like water from an overflowing cup.
Then she would set her father free.
With a gurgling cry, she rushed towards the eye of the Nth storm.
“Norda, stop her!” She dimly heard the Thanagarian whelp bark.
Her faithful servants converged upon her, clearing the way for her with their claws and paws. The room shook with the cacophony of their warning growls. The Feitheran waded into their ranks, swinging with a quarterstaff and scattering her precious ones. No matter. He had only caused her to shift direction, the Manimals keeping him at bay. There was no way he could stop her from reaching the core of the Nth field with the Knife…
There was a ‘whoosh’ of air, and a fist to her face sent Astar sprawling backward. Hawkgirl landed feet first in front of her, rubbing her knuckles, her upper lip curled.
“You’ve been using me.” She accused as Astar regained her feet, wiping a trickle of blood from her own lip. “Everything was a lie, wasn’t it? This is just about revenge, and that stupid curse!”
With an audible snarl, Astar slashed at Hawkgirl with the Knife, who side-stepped and spun away, interposing herself between Astar and the Nth storm.
“Of course it is, you silly girl! It always is!” Astar advanced on Hawkgirl, jabbing with the Knife, but Hawkgirl avoided it deftly. “We are all of us caught up in its damned web! You can no more escape your fate that I can!”
“No.” Came the voice of the Thanagarian. In shock, Astar looked over Hawkgirl’s shoulder at him. He was poised at the edge of the Nth field, grimacing against the horrendous feedback, his Nth Mace held in both hands and cocked to swing. “I will not be a slave to destiny!”
With that fierce declaration, he swung his mace into the eye of the Nth storm…
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:45:16 GMT -5
The resultant concussion blast hurled every body in the room through the air and against the stone walls. The silvery-blue fountain of light that was the physical manifestation of the Nth Force flared so bright Katar could not even bare to look at it through the lenses of his mask--- but it did not last long, sputtering fitfully for a few seconds, and then guttering out, dissipating into a subatomic aether all-around them. Where the pillar of power had been, was now only a single figure, standing with his head bowed.
Now there was only silence in the room. Katar stared, disbelievingly, at the man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and seemed to be at the peak of physical condition. He was not young, but the only concession to age was the slight silvering at the temples of his straw-colored hair; his eyes were a clear, sharp blue, his jaw firm and set.
For a moment, and Katar thought he might have imagined this in the afterglow of the Nth storm, there seemed to be other figures swirling around this man, dozens, hundreds, even… but they dissipated as the Nth energies had, fading to invisibility.
The man looked around the room, taking in the scene with grim aplomb. His glance went from the stunned, stricken expression of Helene Astar, slumped up against a far wall, to the twisted creations of man and animal scattered about the room. He lingered on Kendra, and the uniform she wore, and recognition seemed to flicker on the man’s face when he saw Norda. Katar dragged himself to his feet, tore off his helmet, and looked into his father’s eyes.
A voice cracked and dry from decades of un-use rasped: “You’re Shayera’s boy, aren’t you?”
For the first time in his adult life, Katar felt a catch in his throat. He knew. Somehow, he had known after all...
He nodded, the emotion in his chest too thick for him to speak.
The calm stillness was broken by a shrill scream from Astar. All eyes turned to her as she scrambled to her feet and charged the returned Carter Hall, the Nth Knife stabbing for his heart.
But the hysterical woman was no match for Carter. He easily seized the wrist of the hand that held the Knife, uncaring of her other fist pounding his chest. He twisted, and it fell from her hand to clatter on the stone floor. Sobbing, Astar collapsed at the feet of her father’s nemesis, Carter releasing her with a gesture of disdain and pity.
“Where’s my father, you bastard?” She glared up at him, her eyes brimming. “Where is Anton Hastor?”
Carter Hall looked down at her with new understanding. “Anton Hastor reaped what he sowed. The only apocalypse he brought about was his own.” He released a deep, shuddering breath. “He’s dead. Hath-Set has been destroyed. The curse is done.”
This seemed to steel Astar. She pulled herself to her feet, her face a mask of banked rage.
“Not while I have breath!” She snapped. “My pets! Kill them all!”
Around the room, the dozens of Manimals who had been hanging on her command bared fang and claw, and began advancing towards them. Katar, Kendra and Norda reached for their weapons, but Carter only raised one hand.
“You don’t have to do this.” He said wearily to Astar. “The curse is not yours, and there has been too much bloodshed through the ages. Too much tragedy. Too many lives broken. Help me put an end to the cycle of hate and revenge, daughter of Hath-Set. Let the only hand that guides your destiny be your own.”
Astar was sharply taken aback by his soft-spoken words. For a moment, the fierce expression on her face wavered. Perhaps she had a glimpse of four thousand years of murder and obsession? Of love lost and destiny denied? Of being trapped and doomed by fate to endure the same hope and failure, lifetime after lifetime…? Whatever it was, it caused her to look down at the Nth Knife of the floor--- and back away from it as if it were a viper.
“Anton Hastor could have been a great man.” Carter told her gently. “But he was consumed by mistakes made four thousand years ago, and I think he knew it. He is granted some measure of peace, at last. I implore you: let him rest.”
Glancing between them, Katar, Kendra and Norda tensed for a fight. The man-tigers and –apes were poised, hanging on the word of their beloved mistress to begin the slaughter…
But Carter’s words seemed to have struck home. Astar stood stock still, her eyes filling up. The look she gave her father’s eternal enemy was inscrutable, but after a tense moment she whirled on her heel and stalked away, snarling for her pets to follow. Her creatures hastened to obey, leaving the Hawks with lingering looks of ferocious disappointment.
Only when the last of them had disappeared from the room did Katar, Kendra and Norda lower their weapons.
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:46:15 GMT -5
For a long moment, no one spoke. They all stared at him, the returned hero, the mythic archetype of a champion for justice, the man who--- with no one to fight now--- looked lost…
It was Kendra who took the first step. She approached him tentatively, taking off her mask--- Shiera’s mask, she realized--- as he turned to look at her.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the look in his eyes caused her to hesitate. She had never seen such sadness, such pain… She swallowed what she was going to say, and instead simply announced: “I’m Kendra Saunders. Speed Saunders is my grandfather… I---.” She trailed off, unable to find words adequate enough.
But Carter gave her a genuine smile. “I know how long I was in Nth stasis… and I’m thrilled to hear Cyril is still around.” He nodded, taking in her costume, and looked pleased. “She would have been very proud to see a cousin of hers wearing those wings.”
Kendra could only nod, not trusting herself to speak.
Carter’s eyes fell next upon Norda, and the two men stepped towards each other in a wordless embrace. Carter hugged his godson tightly, and said something to him in Thanagarian.
“What did he say?” Kendra whispered, sidelong, to Katar.
“You have become a great man. As strong and as true as the north wind for which you were named.” Katar translated, impressed.
Norda bowed gravely, and would have knelt, but Carter would not allow it. He stood, beaming at the Feitheran, then turned towards Katar.
For a moment, it seemed as if the two were the only two people in the room, so absorbed were they in the study of each other. It was Carter who broke the silence.
“When I was on Thanagar,” He began haltingly. “Your mother told me that a son of mine would one day find me when I was most lost and bring me home. As Shiera and I were never able to have children, I never thought…” His voice caught. He swallowed, smiled slightly, then carried on. “But I suppose fate--- and the High Priestess of Thanagar!--- always finds a way. Hail, Wingman of Thanagar, and well met on the field of battle. I am your father, Carter Hall of Earth.”
Katar nodded, his chest swelling. Fierce pride glowed in his eyes as he took his father’s arm in a bracing handclasp. They stood that way for a moment longer, then Katar broke off abruptly, and went to the duffle bag he had carried all the way from Mexico. From it, he withdrew the Nth Metal hawk amulet and the glittering Claw of Horus.
“I think these belong to you.” He held them out to his father.
At first Carter made no move to take them. His eyes lingered on the artifacts, as if to take them was to make an irrevocable choice. But, he realized, he had made that decision long ago. Lifetimes ago. Reaching out, he once again accepted his role. He was Hawkman.
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:47:40 GMT -5
Epilogue:
99 Rimble Road, Westchester County, New York…
After the disappearance of the Hawks in 1951, the Hall Estate had been purchased and cared for by Wesley Dodds, alias the Sandman. It had been maintained in the hope that the owners would one day return, so it was with great surprise and pleasure that Sanderson Hawkins, administrator of the JSA Trust, handed over the keys to a grateful Carter Hall.
It would still be many weeks before the elegant Knickerbocker estate was restored and made livable again, but one task took priority: in the gardens on the south lawn, in the shadow of an ancient oak tree, a memorial had been erected. Atop the marble headstone an angel spread her wings, looking to the heavens. The inscription read simply Shiera Hall, Forever Beloved. 1918-1951. She never flies alone…
Katar and Kendra stood by the bay window, looking out upon the beautiful summer’s afternoon, and the figure of Carter standing by the memorial.
His old friends had all gone, promising to meet up again later. They had much catching up to do and important plans to make. But there was time enough for that later. For now, Carter just needed to be alone with his grief.
“Well, we did it, Peacock.” Kendra turned a crooked smile on Katar, who shot her an annoyed look at the nickname. “We found your father. Against all hope, we found him. And brought him back.”
The two of them were out of uniform, and making ready to be on their way soon. Kendra was taking him back to St. Roch for a stay, promising to expose him to the best cuisine on Earth, but Katar was more concerned with cleaning up the hedonistic city. Maybe he would join an Earth police force, adopt a secret identity and attempt, at last, to make a home on this backward planet.
“Yes.” Katar mused. “Though I wonder if we did him a favor at all. There is a deep pain and sadness within him. The Nth Force kept him in stasis, but when it dissipated, so too did the last remnants of Hawkwoman.”
Kendra nodded, suddenly somber. “Carter says she was badly wounded by Hastor. That she gave the last bit of herself to help him reverse the coming of Ragnarok. He couldn’t have done it without her. She was a true hero.”
“She was more than that to him.” Katar muttered, uncharacteristically thoughtful.
They fell silent for a moment, watching the lonely figure outside. But the day was too bright, and too full of promise. Kendra playfully slugged Katar on the shoulder, and pulled him away from the window.
“C’mon, Hawkman, we’ve got a flight to St. Roch ahead of us, and I can’t wait to feel the wind beneath my wings.”
Making only a half-hearted effort to protest, Katar allowed himself to be dragged away. “I suppose we should get this over with. The sooner we can get back to Justice League Headquarters, and I can introduce you to the others, the better.”
Kendra stopped, floored. “You’d sponsor me for membership in the League?”
“Sure.” Katar shrugged, and gave her a wicked grin. “Batman and the Flash had a sidekick, why can’t I?”
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:48:26 GMT -5
The sun was shining gloriously down upon her monument, and the angel seemed poised to soar into heaven. Carter Hall stood there with his hands in his pockets, his hat shading his eyes--- but his mind was elsewhere.
He was recalling the time he had first seen her, in the lobby of Shepard’s Hotel, that sultry desert night in Cairo, back in 1938. Even before his memories had been awakened by the Nth Metal, he had known her. Known that she was the one and only person in the universe to whom he could entrust all that he was.
He was recalling their wedding night in Mexico, where they had faced the menace of the Feathered Serpent and saved Feithera from Lion-Mane. That had been the first time she flew at his side as Hawkwoman.
He recalled their idyllic sojourn on Thanagar, their many jaunts across the globe on archaeological digs, the villains they faced as a team: the Gentleman Ghost, the Thought Terror, Trygg the Sorceror…
They belonged together. He did not belong in a world where she was not. And now with the curse of Hath-Set broken… Was the endless cycle of death and rebirth broken as well? Was this a final farewell?
It made his heart ache to think about it. His time in Nth stasis had brought him even more in-tune with the power of the Nth Force, but it was still a mystery to him. Was Chay-Ara’s soul, like Hath-Set’s, at last at eternal rest? Was he truly and profoundly alone now? He felt certain that he would know if she walked the earth, reborn in the time he had lain in stasis…
But he felt no such thing.
Alone. No. He wasn’t exactly alone. He thought with pride on the heirs of his and Shiera’s legacy. Katar was a hero in his own right, fighting with the world’s greatest superheroes of the day. Kendra was much like Shiera herself, full of life and love. Norda was a leader of his people, and a shining example of what love had wrought against all odds… He was looking forward to getting to know them all.
And then, of course, there was Alan and Ted and Rex and the others… They had loved her as well.
Knowing full well what was at stake, she had given all to him. Finish it, my darling… Save the world…
If all he had left was to honor her sacrifice, her memory, than--- By God!--- nothing would keep him from doing just that.
He blew a kiss into the sky, holding in his heart a vision of her smile, then turned and started back towards the house. He hoped Alan and the others hadn’t gotten too far; they had some plans to make.
Hawkman would fly again.
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:49:15 GMT -5
Not The End...!  |
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Post by David on Jul 10, 2007 18:52:01 GMT -5
And as a special treat, this was to be the cover of issue 3 if my mini The Immortal Legend of Hawkman had become the projected 12-issue maxi-series it was originally conceived to be: The Golden Age Hawks and the Gentleman Ghost in a story called "A Night in Bleakhill Manor."  |
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Post by mockingbird on Jul 26, 2011 10:47:16 GMT -5
To let us know what you think of this issue, please visit the letters page here!
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