“This will be a good day for men to die.”

Odd as the statement may seem, it was however true. Through the few gaps between the many leaves overhead, warm sunlight filtered down into the dense forest. The leaves themselves were a vibrant green of health, the trees tall with a crisp brown bark. Underfoot, the trampled grass was strong, straightening back up immediately. Soon to be trampled again, for a great number of horses were moving through the woods. Before riding into the dense forest, the men atop those horses, and the men marching along on foot, had all taken note of the clear sky above. A beautiful day, it was. Indeed, a good day to die.

Leading the march were three men, all at the front of the column. A good two dozen horses rode out behind them, with over a hundred men on foot surrounding. Some of these infantry men carried great long poles called pikes, used for fending off an enemy’s charge, while others carried great long bows as tall as a man. Those men also wore short swords hung on the belt, for when the fighting got close. The men on horseback all carried long swords, either strapped to the back or hanging on the horse’s saddle. They also carried small crossbows at the saddle, good for one quick shot, and a few carried poles with a foot of blade at one end. One more weapon these horsemen had. All of their steeds wore heavy horseshoes for crushing skulls. There were only two people on horseback that carried no weapons of any kind, and these two rode close to the three men at the front.

There was no mistaking that those three men were in charge of the small company. For protection, the soldiers wore simple skull caps and suits of maile covered by vests so as not to reflect the sun. Not so for the men leading the march.

The man in the center wore a black helmet, with a small strip of sheer black cloth that hung down over his eyes. He wore a dark blue coat over the maile and black vest, with light blue strips running down the sleeves and along the back. Hanging from each side of the saddle was a short sword. Because he was the unspoken heir of Lord Wayne, Sir Richard was often referred to as the ‘Gray Son’, though not in his hearing, nor Lord Wayne’s.

Riding to the left of Sir Richard was a much younger man, barely more than a boy. Like Sir Richard, this man wore a black helmet, though with a green strip of cloth over his eyes. The jacket was also green, and under this was a red vest with the image of a great bird stitched upon it. This bird was also engraved on the haft of the pole Sir Timothy carried, and was etched on the foot of blade at its end. It was not actually a bird, but rather a flying lizard known as a drake, which was the symbol of Sir Timothy’s family.

The man on the right of Sir Richard was also younger, though not so much as Sir Timothy. The man who’d spoken of the day, he wore no strip on his helmet, baring his face to the world. Like his vest, the coat was of deepest black, a dangerous thing to do. Unlike the other two, his weapon was a simple long sword. Everything about Sir Iason Todd suggested an arrogant and violent nature.

“So long as we aren’t those men,” was the reply Sir Richard gave. “In truth, I would rather no man died, that those we seek shall surrender peaceably.”

Sir Timothy shook his head. “It is not in their nature to submit. Make no mistake, Richard, they will fight us, to the death if need be. Men will die on this day, and it grieves me to say that our own comrades shall be among the slain.” To hear him speak, one would not believe that Sir Timothy was as young as he appeared. The times made a man grow up hard, particularly men of nobility. Sir Timothy’s time had arrived the moment his father was struck down while helpless, dying without honor.

“What say you, Oracle?” Sir Richard had turned his head to address the woman riding behind him and the other two lords. Just as they were, this woman was also young, if closer to Sir Richard’s age. Her hair was long, tied in a single braid that hung over one shoulder, and she wore a dark green riding dress. The most noticeable feature about Sister Barbara of the Oracle Temple was her legs. They were hanging limp down one side of the horse, lashed together at the knees and ankles. This was because Sister Barbara of the Oracle Temple had lost the use of her legs a little over a year ago, and very nearly her life as well. At Sir Richard’s query, Barbara lowered her eyes from the sky. Faint lines ran down from her hairline to her eyes, all across her forehead to teach temple, marking her as a disciple of the Oracle.

After peering at Sir Richard for several seconds, Barbara eventually gave as a response. “The events of the next few hours are…muddled. All that I can see for certain is that the sky will soon darken. How soon I cannot say.”

“Certainly not today,” Sir Iason interjected. He gestured upwards. “Not a cloud for as far as the eye can see.”

“This was true when we could last see the sky,” Sir Timothy replied. His eyes were also looking up for the sky, but unable to see it through the dense foliage. Much can change in a short time. Sister, you do not say this darkness will be a storm. Could it be a rain of arrows, perhaps? Sir Richard, she may be seeing signs of an ambush.”

“If anybody has the element of surprise, it’s us.” The three knights had to calm their horses, startled as they were by the man’s sudden appearance from the woods. Short and stocky, one never would have thought the ranger Bullock could have moved so silently. “Those scoundrels are so drunk off their arses; they wouldn’t hear us coming if we all sang the Battle Cry of the Canaries.”

The sword was slid free of its sheath, and Sir Iason raised it high. “We shall roll over them, and leave nothing standing. The ground will be red with their blood before they even know what is upon them.”

“If they are smart, they will surrender the moment they realize our advantage,” Sir Timothy offered. “The death toll should be lessened by this, Sir Iason.”

“At least one man will die this day,” Sir Iason promised. “And should he surrender, I will cut him down and say he resisted.”

“Take hold of your words, knight!” warned Sir Richard. “Now you had best hope that Haevy survives the attack, or that his death is not of your hand. Even should he resist, none would believe your words after what you have just said.”

“They will if I back him up,” Bullock added. “Pardon me, your lordship, but you weren’t there to see what he did to little Rena. The only way I’ll regret that scoundrel’s death is if it proves too quick and painless.”

“I will not discuss this further with the men so near. Iason, sheath your blade; else it gives away our position too soon. Then there would be more blood than even you crave. Whatever Bullock says, we ride in silence.”

“There will be much death, soon,” Barbara whispered as the horses continued on through the woods.

The city of Gotham was not entirely walled, for it sat atop a high cliff, overlooking tumultuous waters that crashed against the rocky face. Nothing could approach the city from that direction, and so high walls did not run along the cliff’s edge. In fact, there were virtually no buildings within a hundred yards of the edge, and at fifty yards there was a fence built to keep children away. Only one building extended out into this area, to the very edge of the cliff itself and beyond. Wooden supports beneath the building’s foundations were braced against the cliff face to keep it from toppling into the sea below.

A great cathedral sat at the edge of Gotham, overlooking the vast sea. If a ship far out was looking towards Gotham, at night, and the cathedral was all lit up, that ship’s crew would behold a terrifying sight. Fiery eyes and a mouth of flame, topped with dancing red horns. The legend among seafarers was that the devil himself watched over Gotham, and they were not far off.

Inside, the cathedral was not much different. Cold walls of stone bore torch lights at every ten paces, illuminating the cavernous halls while throwing faint shadows to create a gloomy atmosphere. The torches that lit up the colored glass windows cast a faint red shade over the main chamber. Several stories high, this chamber was, with strong supports up top at sharp angles. At certain times of the day, the faint impressions of crosses could be made out on the floor of the chamber. It was at these spots that the cathedral’s inhabitants knelt during the daily prayers.

Making their home in the great cathedral was the Order of St. Dumas, a religious sect of warrior monks who worshipped the god of night and fire, Azrael. The superstitious and the cowardly whispered that the monks could vanish in shadows, and call forth fire with only a word. The Dark Knights and their armies protected Gotham from outside threats, but it was the Order of St. Dumas who defended the city from dangers within. They were Gotham’s avenging angels, dispensing justice at the command of Lord Wayne.

Several such angels were gathered in a chamber deep in the bowels of the cathedral, cut from the stone of the cliff itself. Angels clothed as three men in red robes that bore the markings of their order, all high in years. The elders, these men were famed defenders in their youth who had survived to attain the highest of ranking. But, as aged as they were, not one of these elders had lived during the Order of St. Dumas’ great hour of triumph. That was the moment that had led to the building of their cathedral, and the construction of the mammoth stone door before which the elders now stood.

“I hear nothing. Your ears are playing tricks in your old age.”

“Something stirs in there, Lehage. I heard it! Nomoz, can you not hear it as well?”

The mute little man shook his head. Lehage pounced on the small victory.

“There you have it, Jean Paul! A man who says nothing can hear everything. Nothing stirs in the chamber beyond. It is bound, and will remain so for all time.”

“That is not what the scriptures say. The dark side of man will return, and the demons of old will rise to its call. And I tell you that the time is nearly upon us! We must take this to Lord Wayne at once!”

“I will not bother the lord with the paranoid superstitions of old men! Even if there were something to your suspicions, it would be a matter for the Order. It was we who extinguished the dark side with our righteous fire, after all. Should the demon arise again, we can vanquish it quite well on our own.”

“Then you will not object to a guard being placed here?”

“Though I consider it a waste, it will be done. The Order must be ever vigilante, after all.”

On the other side of the stone door, it listened. And it stirred.

“Would you like a glass of wine while you wait?”

“Please, Alfred, the white from two seasons ago. My blood needs to be cooled.”

“Very well, Sir Richard.” Alfred Pennyworth, head servant to Lord Wayne, sent a page running to fetch the vintage. “I take it the excursion was a success?”

“I’ll only speak with Lord Wayne about the matter,” replied Sir Richard. “Forgive me, Alfred, but he would never forgive being the second man in Gotham to learn the news. The army is camped outside the city, with strict orders not to disburse until my return. I even forbade Sister Barbara from returning to the temple. If Lord Wayne does not see me soon, I fear there could be a revolt.”

“Men are always eager for companionship after a battle.” With this remark, Lord Wayne strode into the sitting room. There was no such thing as a throne room in Wayne Manor, the great fortress which took up much of the wall separating Gotham City from the rest of the world. For as long as anyone could remember, the Wayne family had ruled Gotham as a monarchy, but all the while refusing to be named as kings. Kings ruled over their subjects, Lord Wayne had once said, while a lord was ruled by his subjects.

Certainly, Lord Bruce Wayne could fit the part of a king. Tall, with broad shoulders and a massive build, the lord of Gotham City was a more than handsome man with a natural charisma that could turn even the most fervent opponent. Another factor in this could have been Lord Wayne’s reputation on the battlefield, one that Sir Richard had seen earned firsthand. A charismatic leader who was willing to do anything for those he’d sworn to protect. That was the definition of Lord Bruce Wayne.

As always, the lady Talia was at her lord’s side. As the daughter of Ra’s al Ghul, immortal sorcerer and ruler of the nation Lazarus, her marriage to Lord Wayne had initially been about politics. Before long, however, the two had grown deeply in love, and Sir Richard was one of the few fortunate ones who knew that the rumors of Talia’s pregnancy were true. A child produced from two such remarkable individuals would indeed be a fine thing.

“Feel free to speak now, Richard,” Lord Wayne assured the young knight. “You know that Alfred and Talia are held in my deepest confidence. How went the attack?”

“That fat merchant’s information was fact.” This initial news came as no surprise. Cobblepot had held a reputation as a coward. Once it’d been discovered that he purchased stolen goods from Bloodhaven to sell at a profit, he knew that only the absolute truth would save him from the hangman. “Sadly, an arrow struck his horse, and Cobblepot was thrown off. He died instantly of a broken neck. There wasn’t a thing anyone could do.”

“A pity,” remarked Lord Wayne in a dry tone that said nothing of the kind. Sir Richard did, however, detect a hint of satisfaction. “What of the other scoundrels?”

“It gives me pleasure to report that the majority were taken alive. However, Haevy is not among them. Like Cobblepot, he too died in a fall, from a tree house following a struggle with Sir Iason, who was in the process of apprehending him. Begging your pardon, lord, but I don’t entirely believe Sir Iason’s story that Haevy had slipped.”

“But you agree that there was a struggle?” Lord Wayne did not wait for Sir Richard’s response. “I think that, considering Iason’s history with the fallen, we should let the situation rest as is. You know what is truly important here, Richard. What of the Joker?”

“As soon as I give the order, Sir Timothy will reveal the head. He is only one in the camp who knows it is painted, I assure you.”

“You have my permission to give the order. You have something to add?”

Before he asked the question on his mind, Sir Richard hesitated. “I know it’s not my place to question you, my lord, but I feel this must be said. What is there to gain from displaying a man’s head and proclaiming it to be the Joker’s? There is a chance he still lives, and should he return the consequences would-”

“The Joker is dead,” Lord Wayne said, his tone forceful and perhaps a little harsher than he had intended. “That the body couldn’t be found changes this not in the slightest. The people need to be assured that his reign of terror is ended. Even were he alive, I would still act as I am, granting the people of Gotham a moment of freedom from the fear he gripped us in. Give Timothy the order.”

“Though I would have done as you commanded, I would have been with a heavy heart had you not convinced me so ably.” Sir Richard’s words were true and sincere. In his mind, Lord Wayne’s wisdom and compassion knew no bounds. “I suspect, however, that Sir Iason might pose a problem, as may the Oracles. Both he and Barbara Gordon suffered greatly at the Joker’s hands, and may not be so fooled by our charade.”

“Were the Oracles aware of the Joker’s present condition, I would trust them to approach me with the information. As for Iason, I am inclined to agree. The man is clever, and hot-tempered enough to mishandle the situation.”

Lady Talia placed her hand on Lord Wayne’s arm. “Forgive me, my lord, but the both of you seem too close to look at this problem objectively. I see two solutions. You may trust Sir Iason with the truth, as you have Sirs Richard and Timothy. Or, you can simply kill him now to avoid any future risks.”

Abruptly, Sir Richard rose up from his chair. “I cannot listen to another word. Iason has served you faithfully, my lord, and I believe he will continue to do so. With your permission, I shall speak with him in private. Try to make him see that you are doing the right thing.”

“No, Richard. It’s best that I speak with him. The two of you have fought together for years, and that may cloud your senses. I will speak with Iason, and should there be something off in his manner, I will do what would be required.”

She was smiling, now.

In the course of their interaction, he had noticed something remarkable about her nipples. They resembled eyes, brown and wide with happiness. This meant that her belly button was the mouth, locked in an ‘o’ of surprise. This wasn’t right, he decided. Mouths should be wider, so that they can smile. Everybody deserved to smile, he knew. Even whores.

Now, thanks to him, she was smiling. A wide, red smile spread across Selena’s middle, the flaps of skin - her lips - flipped back to reveal more of her beautiful pink teeth. Some had spilled out while she writhed, despite his best efforts, and he’d done his best to stuff them back in. Big toothy smiles were best, after all.

A basin of water at the washstand is colored red. More red water drips into it, as a wet cloth is run over his hands. A face is reflected in the water, unrecognized. A moment ago, a smiling face had been there, as pale as the water. The red has made the face darker and it no longer smiles. Thoughts of his father can have that effect. A sad and broken man after the death of his wife, the only other emotion he’d shown had been anger. There had been many tears in that house, and none were of laughter.

Now that he thinks about it, the first time he could remember smiling had been at the sight of his father’s dead body. Not out of a sick hatred, no. Because his father had also been smiling, a wide grin that would last forever in death. The woman on the bed had the same thing, now. An ever-lasting smile brought on by the end of her sad existence. This was his gift to her.

Done with washing his hands, Sir Iason Todd dropped the cloth into the basin. Nobody had seen him enter the room with the whore. There had been the conversation they had downstairs, but afterwards he’d left from the front only to return unseen through the rear. It is necessary to be careful. Though Iason sees nothing wrong in his actions, he knew that others would not understand. Their lives were full of smiles brought on by life itself. His world was alien to them, and to try and educate them would be pointless.

Only one other man knew how Iason felt. The man that had killed his father knew. Perhaps he himself was dead. Iason hoped that that was the case. A man who had brought smiles to so many deserved one of his own. In any case, with the Joker gone, it was Iason’s turn to make those unhappy in life smile in death.

As he moved to leave, Sir Iason passed the window. Outside, it was night in the city of Gotham. Many of its buildings soared at over ten stories high, so even in bright daylight the streets and smaller buildings below were shrouded in darkness. At night, however, the streets were lit up. Lanterns hung at every corner, forcing the shadows to retreat up from the earth. Except for the occasional candle burning in a window, the higher stories were encased in darkness. And there was the clock, of course.

The Temple of the Oracle was the tallest building in Gotham. At it’s top was the great wonder of the world, a massive working clock - four clocks, actually, one on each side- that could be seen anywhere in Gotham. The mechanisms controlling the clocks were a work far ahead of it’s time, conceived of by the first Oracles to build the temple. At a specific time, lanterns in the clock were automatically lit, so that all Gotham could see what time it was, even in the dead of night.

The private quarters of Sister Barbara Gordon were several stories beneath the great clock. Like all sisters in the temple, she had grown used to the rhythmic running of gears, so that was not the cause of her wakening. All like all the other sisters, Barbara had been taken into the temple because she possessed remarkable abilities. Some could perceive events that occurred in far off places, while others could touch an object and see that past associated with said object. Only a few, to which Barbara was one, were capable of seeing beyond the veil of time, receiving flashes of events that had not yet occurred.

There was a crash in Barbara’s skull. A great building fell into the sea. The sound of flapping wings was soon followed by flesh tearing and a man screaming. Then there came the event that forced Barbara awake, soaked in the cold sweat of fear. Darkness would envelope Gotham, allowing nothing through but the familiar laughter of madness.

There were several events of note that occurred on the following day. A white head was paraded through Gotham, and there was much celebration on the people’s part. Lord Wayne himself rode through the streets, his beautiful wife at his side. His proclamation was that Gotham no longer had anything to fear; that their children were safe.

The body of Selena Kyle was discovered, but few took notice of a dead whore. That her middle had been split open and intestines strewn out were taken as what the killer had intended. Nobody noticed the smile, and so it was written off as an argument over payment that had gone too far. The constable on the scene dismissed the case as unsolvable, and ordered the body removed while he went to sample the services of another woman in the profession.

And had not Sir Timothy Drake been passing the cart as it rolled toward the cliff, things would have ended at that.

“Hold!” he ordered at seeing the cart. For obvious reasons, the driver complied, and Sir Drake dismounted his stead to approach the cart on foot. The body of Madame Kyle was on top, naked. From where he’d seen the body, high up on his horse, Sir Drake had been able to see what nobody else had seen. From the woman’s torso a face had been made, bearing a great smile.

In order to understand how Sir Drake would immediately be interested in such a thing, one must know the young knight’s story. His father had been Sir Jack Drake, once a brave knight of much renown until a fall from his horse in the heat of battle had left him barely able to walk or hold a sword. Bitter about being cut down in his prime years, Sir Jack pushed his young son into following in his footsteps. For days on end Timothy would be pushed harder and harder, not just physically but intellectually as well. In spite of his pride, Sir Jack was also conscious of the fact that his condition may lead to an early death, and so he sought to teach Tim everything he would need to know about being a leader before it was a too late. There are times when Sir Tim wonders why his father never thought to simply spend more time with his son.

Unfortunately, Sir Jack’s end did not come from a deteriorating condition. The hands of a madman choked the life of the helpless knight, and then shaped the death mask into a smile for Timothy to find upon returning from his studies. That had been the day when Timothy chose to fully immerse himself in the training his father had prepared. A few short years later, he was knighted by Lord Wayne, and became an active hunter of the Joker.

With his obvious feelings towards the killer, one might think that Sir Drake would have objected to the current farce as Lord Grayson did. But Sir Drake believed wholly that the Joker had died in that terrifying fall. Body or no body, there was no way he could have survived. The head was simply for the benefit for those who had not witnessed the scene themselves, and so had doubt where Sir Drake had none.

At least he didn't until he saw a smile on the body of a dead woman.

Minutes later, Sir Drake was galloping towards the manor of Lord Wayne. Lain across his pommel was a long shape wrapped in cloth, roughly a woman’s size. Minutes after that, carrying the same wrapped object in his arms, Sir Drake kicked against the door to the manor. It was not long before Alfred responded to the noise and opened said door.

“I must insist you cease at once or I shall…” At seeing one of the Dark Knights when he opened the door, Alfred trailed off and changed his tone without missing a step. “Ah. Hello, Master Drake. Please forgive the manner in which I just spoke. It’s just that, well, you’re leaving marks in the door which shall be dreadfully hard to remove.”

“Right now, that’s the least of our problems,” Sir Drake explained as he shoved past the manservant. “Where’s Lord Wayne? I need to see him at once.”

“He and the lady are out in the city, personally informing the public of-”

“Send out a messenger for him at once.”

With the package in his arms, Sir Drake hurried down the main corridor of the manor, ignoring Alfred’s cries behind him. Soon, he came across another, lesser servant.

“You, go ahead of me to the lab in the lower level.”

Taken aback, the servant was momentarily lost for an answer. “Um, well, I’ve never been there, sir.”

“One level down, take a left from the stairs, the fourth door on the left. Unless you want to explain to Lord Wayne why I had to break all his locks and ruin all his doors with my foot, you will move!”

The servant did so. Thankfully, he knew where the stairway to the lower level was. Sir Drake only had to yell at him one more time, and that was when he stopped at the third door. Soon after, the door to the lab was opened, and Sir Drake shoved the servant aside to lay the package on the large stone table in the center.

Though it was not a great lab such as those in the Opal City, the term was accurate. Like his father before him, Lord Wayne was intrigued with the sciences, and often dabbled to expand his knowledge of the unknown, particularly when it came to the human body. When Sir Drake began to unwrap the corpse from it’s wrapping, it was not the first time such a stench filled that room.

The servant, straining not to gag at the sight and smell, made a hasty exit. He was soon replaced by Alfred.

“Sir, I feel that I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t inquire as to - oh my.”

“Does this answer your question?” Sir Drake asked with a dark grin.

“Actually, it's quite the contrary. I now have several others.”

“Well, I’m afraid that you won’t get any, Alfred. This is something that I will only discuss with Lord Wayne.”

“Very well. I’ve already dispatched a messenger. Though I suppose I shall have to send another, now. Lord Wayne may require some convincing if he is to return before he’d intended.”

“That is fine. She won’t be going anywhere.”

“No, I imagine not. In the meantime, would you like to wait for Lord Wayne upstairs? I can have any number of refreshments made available to you.”

“That will do fine, Alfred. I’d prefer not to start without the lord’s presence.”

By coincidence, Sir Drake was waiting in the exact same sitting room as Sir Grayson had, just the other day. The younger man was not drinking wine however, but rather a small cup of brandy. The urgency of the situation had succeeded in keeping him calm, but now that Sir Drake was idle, he required other means.

The door opened, and Sir Drake immediately rose to his feet. It was not Lord Wayne who entered however. Instead, it was his and Lady Talia’s young daughter, Helena, who was no older than seven.

“Uncle Tim!” young Helena cried out, and she rushed at the knight with her arms spread out for a hug. Carefully holding his cup of brandy high, Sir Drake bent down and embraced the girl with one arm. “What did you bring me? The stable boy said you had something.”

“Forgive me, Helena.” Sir Drake said in an apologetic tone. “That is a gift for your father. However, I do have something.” Reaching behind the girl’s ear, Sir Drake pulled his hand back and showed a small piece of chocolate. “There you go. Made all the way from Gingott. Guaranteed to make you grow at least two feet!”

Laughing, Helena took the chocolate and immediately shoved it into her mouth. Standing nearby, Alfred frowned in disapproval. “Oh, thank you Uncle Tim!”

“You’re very welcome. Now, run along and play. When your father returns I need to speak with him about something very important. But I’ll be sure to tell him what a good girl his daughter has been.”

After giving her ‘uncle’ a quick kiss on the cheek - which left behind a smudge of chocolate, the young girl rushed out of the room. Standing straight, Sir Drake rubbed at the smudge on his face with the sleeve of his coat. Also on his face was a smile, for which he was truly grateful to the little girl.

It was after nearly an hour of waiting that Sir Drake was at last blessed by the presence of Lord Wayne, led into the room by Alfred. His traveling clothes were somewhat dusty, and it was clear that he’d been active the entire day. The weary expression on Lord Wayne’s face also portrayed a lack of patience.

“Tim, I hope that you understand the importance of today’s activities. My suddenly being called away is certain to bring about doubt.”

“Rest assured, my lord, that I would not have requested this audience had I not thought the situation warranted it.” In rapid fashion, Sir Drake explained the events leading up to the meeting. When he’d finished, Lord Wayne nodded.

“You did the right thing. I should be the one to apologize for taking too long in responding.”

“Lord, you had no way of knowing-”

But Lord Wayne raised his hand, silencing the young dark knight. “Take me to the body. We’ll need to examine it immediately.”

It wasn’t long before Lord Wayne and Sir Drake were in the lower levels of the castle, in the room where Sir Drake had placed the body over an hour ago. Alfred was not present with them, as he had other responsibilities to attend, and possessed no talents that could have aided Lord Wayne in the particular matter. Both lord and knight wore long drapes of cloth over their clothes to protect from fluids, and masks over their mouths and noses to filter out the stench. Though the room was cold, the body had been left unattended for over an hour, and had previously been in a warm room overnight before getting dragged about the city streets on a hot day.

With delicate instruments in his hands, Lord Wayne poked about the long wound in the prostitute’s middle. “Several feet of intestine are missing, severed in a crude fashion. Most likely from being mishandled in the meat wagon.”

“I feared that whatever clues her body could have provided would have been lost already,” confessed Sir Drake.

“She’d had sex recently, which is not surprising. A great pity that the room in which she’d been killed is likely back to being in use. Questioning the proprietors will not be much help either. Tell me, Tim, what do you think we should be looking for?”

“I do not believe that the Joker is still alive, my lord, if that is what you were implying. Although, it is clear that he had some influence in this. Perhaps this culprit is a former victim of sorts, at the least an individual who suffered a great trauma because of the Joker. Which - I beg your pardon, my lord - could be virtually anybody in Gotham. Including myself.”

“Yes, with the evidence at hand we cannot begin to narrow suspects. I have a theory as to motive, but I fear that more murders would be required in order to establish a pattern. I suggest you meet with the Oracles. There is a woman among them who suffered a great loss at Joker’s hands. She may be particularly...receptive to any visions involving him.”

“I know of whom you speak of, my lord. Should I inform Sirs Grayson and Todd of the situation?”

Lord Wayne shook his head. “This is a local crime, and so falls under the purview of the Order of St. Dumas. If you were not the only reason we are aware of this crime, Tim, I would try to exclude you from involvement as well. As it stands, you will need to take direction from the Order in pursuing this matter. They have already made vocal their displeasure at being left out of the attack on Blood Haven, and the last thing I need is-”

At that very moment, a great tremor shook the ground and very walls of the laboratory. Sir Drake had to step forward and take hold of the corpse; else it would have fallen from the stone slab. He also needed something to hold onto in order to remain on his feet.

Almost immediately after started, the tremor was gone. With a sigh, Sir Drake released the corpse and stood to his full height. A second tremor then struck and, thrown off guard Sir Drake fell onto his bottom. Lord Wayne remained on his feet, having not taken his hand from the workbench. As quickly as the first, this tremor was gone. Sir Drake didn’t even have a chance to rise when a third tremor shook the room and, presumably, the entire manor.

“Wh-what is going on?” Sir Drake stammered out at last.

“I don’t know,” Lord Wayne replied as yet another tremor staggered him. There was only one possibility that entered into Lord Wayne’s mind, and the very thought of it happening shook him to the core.

The source of the tremors was, as Lord Wayne feared, the cliff face on which Gotham City rested. If the cliff collapsed into the sea, so would much of the city, beginning with the Order of St. Dumas cathedral. It was here from which the tremors emanated, born from the chamber at which the elders were that night gathered before.

“It has awakened,” one of them said, giving voice to all their fears.

“But how?” Another asked. “None with the power could have gotten past our enchantments.”

“There is one who did have the power,” the first intoned. “And if he walks the earth again, this demon is the least of our worries.”

“Nevertheless, we must deal with it before it escapes. Or worse, sends us all into the sea!”

“And I tell you, we must inform Lord Wayne of this immediately! If he has awakened, then more than Gotham City is in peril! The call will be sent out, and our armies must be assembled for-”

“We will inform Lord Wayne,” Lehage told Jean Paul. “As soon as we have dealt the first blow, he shall know of our victory and the good omen for our forces. But first, we have the matter at hand. Nomoz, you’ve sent for her?”

The third elder nodded, and gestured at the cloaked female behind him. Priestesses of the Earth had become rare since the devastation of Markovia 300 years ago, and it was fortunate that one had been in Gotham when the tremors began.

The priestess threw the hood of her cloak back, revealing an exquisite face that could have been carved from a tree. Her hair was dark, and in the light of the corridor had a greenish tint.

“I am Pamela Ives, Acolyte of the Priestesses of the Earth. It is an honor, elders, to take part in combating this evil. As you know, the Priestesses were instrumental in his downfall all those years ago, though we paid a grave price for this.”

“Yes,” Jean Paul agreed. “We all grieve the loss of Markovia, once a stalwart ally to Gotham. However, the beast entombed within is not connected to that evil, though this may be responsible for its awakening. Once, the priestesses were able to trap it in a prison of stone, and we are hoping that you can do so again, before it breaks through.”

Ives nodded her head, solemnly. “I shall do my best, elders.” Flowing across the floor, the acolyte approached the great stone door and pressed her hand against it. Though tremors shook the entire hall, she appeared to take no notice. Feeling the door, Ives frowned.

“This is odd. As great as these tremors are, what I feel are not the beast’s blows.”

Lehage laughed at this. “Impossible. That door is the weakest part of the prison. If it is not striking at that, where could it strike?”

“This shaking, this is flowing down.”

Jean Paul shot forward past Lehage to take hold of Ives. “No, such fools we’ve been! We’ve been posturing for hours, during which time it could have broken through this door several times over!”

“Impossible!” Lehage cried out angrily. Jean Paul continued right over what he would have said next.

“You old fool, shut up and think! It’s been digging up! We must alert the rest of the order, evacuate before-!”

The sound of the crash was gargantuan, drowning out anything that Jean Paul could have been saying. Above the heads of the elders and acolyte, the hall ceiling buckled under the weight of what they all realized must have been the entire cathedral. This realization did them little good, as the ceiling came crashing on their heads soon afterwards.

Free!

Yes, it was a good feeling, to be free at last from that prison. No, not the stone shell. Of that beast’s mind nothing remains. The warlock that had invaded it, and shattered the spell that had previously contained it, was elated at freedom from the prison of death. In limbo it had walked for three hundred years, since the downfall of its master. But now it was free at last, and in a strong body that would enable it to enact vengeance.

And it would be a great vengeance that Warlock Hugo Strange intended to reign down on Gotham. He would begin with the Order of St. Dumas that he was dismantling even then. For hours he had dug, marveling at the strength of his newfound clawed hands. With unerring speed he tore through earth and stone, to finally emerge and soar free! Free to rip through warrior monks and smash wooden supports. Amidst the devastation, Strange was unfazed in his new body. The leathery skin and thick muscles shook off falling debris, and the great wings allowed him to fly clear of the falling structure. Great vats of oiling took flame, sending explosions off throughout the toppled cathedral. High over the water, Strange could see the fires still burning among the crashing waves, and he smiled with glee.

With joy his heart for the carnage he’d wrought, Warlock Strange directed his new body towards Gotham City itself, elated for the death that was to come.

The lights went out in Gotham City. First the great flaming skull of St. Dumas that looked out over the ocean. Into that same ocean it crashed, rousing the whole city and engulfing its citizens with a gripping fear. What, they asked, could have decimated the protectors of Gotham so?

Later in the night, they all knew, as the great Clocktower of the Oracles was shattered, sending shards of glass down into the streets. Homeless beggars died that night, their bodies pierced by sparkling motes of dust falling at high velocity. A rider and his horse were felled when the horse was struck by glass, the open wound on its neck spurting blood and its panicked death throes hurling the rider to the street. Knocked unconscious, the rider would not know for hours that this act had saved his life.

Still twitching in the street, the horse was still alive when a shape flew down and engulfed it. One of the surviving beggars witnessed the event, and was stricken still with fear at the sight. In the morning, those who first discovered the scattered remained of the consumed carcass would be affected in similar ways.

Back in the tower itself, madness was all-consuming. Priestesses rushed about in a panic, their gifts having provided no warning of the catastrophe. Those few who dared to venture high to the clock found a scene of horror. Gears twisted and pieces of glass hanging in their frames. One of the great hands was missing, but was found soon after impaled into the chest of the high priestess. The floor below was completed caved in, with much of the twisted metal having fallen through.

One man worked through the debris, eventually freeing himself and the room’s occupant, the woman he had gone to see that night. With the mysterious tremors going on, Lord Wayne had thought it prudent to consult the Oracles, and he'd requested that Sir Drake should head out there. But, deciding instead to visit the scene of the whore’s death, Sir Drake went to see Sir Richard Grayson and asked that he perform the task.

“Barbara…uhn, Barbara, are you all right?” asked Sir Richard tensely. Lying with him among the debris was the crippled oracle, covered in dust and bleeding from several cuts. Sir Richard rose to his feet, and bent over Barbara to remove bits of wood and stone. “I need to get you out of here. The gears of the clock could fall through at any moment.”

Taking Barbara up into his arms, Sir Richard stood to his full height. He took great care stepping over the debris that littered the ground, and going around the larger masses of wood and stone. In Sir Richard’s arms, Barbara writhed spasmodically.

“Dead are smiling smiling smiling dying and smiling,” Barbara ranted. Her eyes were blank, rolled up to stare back into her skull. “Day to die everybody smiling he’s there he killed them oh my god he’s laughing!”

“Barbara! Barbara, please be calm!” Sir Richard cried out. He struggled to hold onto her, which grew increasingly difficult. Barbara continued to struggle jerking in his arms, screaming bits of phrases.

“Laughing night and dark knight! Strange demon swallowing plague! Dark side spreading. Steel of man stands with spirit of bat! It hungers! My…my lady, no!” Barbara’s eyes widened in horror. Her mouth gaped open, and an ear-splitting shriek of deepest pain filled the whole of the tower.

In Wayne Manor, Lord Bruce Wayne watched on in horror at the scene unfolding before his eyes. Several feet across from him, the demonic man-bat was reared up on its hind quarters. Blood was spattered across the walls and floor of the spacious bedchamber, and had soaked the bed sheets to a deep crimson.

Lying on the bed she had for years shared with Lord Wayne was the Lady Talia, her dead eyes meeting Lord Wayne’s in what seemed to be an accusing stare. Where once her stomach had been heavy with a child, it was now a gaping hole of blood and gore. Standing at the bed over this dead lady, Warlock Strange was chewing with his mouth open.

“Your son…” Strange frothed at Lord Wayne with a bloody spray, “Was delicious….”

Lord Wayne said nothing in response. His eyes were blank, as empty as his soul had become. He’d tried to fight the monster when it had torn through the rocky wall of the chamber. But Strange had been too strong, had easily hurled Lord Wayne aside and taken hold of Lady Talia. She’d screamed in terror for the life inside her, and Lord Wayne had only been able to listen in despair.

Warlock Strange hopped over the bed, bent down to peer at the near-catatonic lord of Gotham. A laugh came up from deep inside his throat. “Oh, the taste of your torment is a fitting dessert. I shall drink long and deep from it, night after night. No, ‘my lord’, you will not join your wife and child in Apokalypse just yet. You will live, and each night I will take something else from you. A knight you love as a son. A handful of your precious subjects. Your daughter, her I will rape and devour before your eyes! I will drive you to madness, until at last you will die from despair itself, gone in body and spirit!”

The heavy oak door into the chamber was kicked open. Sir Tim Drake rushed inside, spear raised in front of him. The sight of Lady Talia froze him for an instant, which was enough for Warlock Strange to register his presence.

“Ah, one of the Dark Knights. I think I’ll let you live for a while, to bury the lady here. If you want her to enter the ground with her son, you’ll have to give me a few days.”

Releasing the pain in his soul with a mighty roar, Sir Timothy advanced on the demon. The spear was thrust forward towards the chest. Half the steel had sunk into foul flesh when Strange took hold of the haft. With a reach of over two feet, Strange pulled the spear from his chest. The butt of the spear slammed into Sir Timothy’s shoulder, but he ignored the pain and maintained his grip. A shift of the arms, and the spear’s blade cut across the demon’s arm.

In pain, Strange pulled the spear from Sir Timothy’s hands and threw it across the room. Great wings unfurled, but were hampered by the walls. Still, the gust of wind forced Sir Timothy back a step, enabling Strange the room to leap for the opening he’d created earlier. Into the night he flew, away from the warm glow of a rising sun.

After a hateful glance out at the retreating demon, Sir Timothy turned back in the fright scene on the bed. He said a silent prayer for the souls of Lady Talia, her child, and for Lord Wayne. Sir Timothy swore that he would avenge them, whatever it-

A slight noise diverted the Dark Knight’s attention. He turned to the sound, and saw that Lord Wayne was in fact alive. The great man was huddled against the wall, shivering with shock and staring at the bed with empty eyes.

“Lord Wayne?” Sir Timothy called in a soft tone. The mere sight of Lady Talia and the knowledge of what had been done had shaken the knight to his core. What could be going on inside the soul of Lord Wayne, who had actually witnessed the heinous acts? “Lord, we need to get you out of here. Guards!” Sir Timothy called behind his shoulder as he moved towards the lord. It was the slightest touch, the beginning of an attempt to grab Lord Wayne by the arm so that he could be pulled from the scene of butchery.

“No!”

The sudden blow sent Sir Timothy back several steps. Before he could process what was happening, Lord Wayne was on him. Though Sir Timothy was in full armor and Lord Wayne was in bed-clothes, the madness that consumed him even all scores and then some. In a feverish rage, Lord Wayne dragged his knight to the floor and proceeded to strike at him relentlessly. Bare hands battered at steel armor, the skin breaking to bloody those hands. Dazed, Sir Timothy tried to take hold of Lord Wayne by the wrists, but his grip kept slipping on the blood. He could hear Lord Wayne screaming, could see the tears streaming from the madman’s face.

At last guards made it into the room, led by the loyal manservant Alfred. They took hold of Lord Wayne, and it took all the half dozen of them to drag him off of Sir Timothy. The knight was covered head to toe in blood and gore, none of it his own but every drop his life.

“Get some brandy and force it down his throat!” Sir Timothy ordered. “Get him downstairs, away from Helena. Neither one must get anywhere near this room!”

The guards complied, and dragged their struggling lord away. Alfred remained in the room, looked down at the mutilated body of his lady with sad eyes.

“I had hoped that this sort of tragedy would never find Lord Wayne again.”

On his knees, Sir Timothy looked up at Alfred with incredulous, tear stained eyes. “Is that all you can say? Will you not weep, or are you as heartless as the monster that did this?”

Alfred shook his head. “I must remain strong for the lord’s sake. Though my heart does indeed break, it will be in silence. You are doing the same, Lord Timothy. In the wake of what has transpired, you’re kept your head and gave competent instructions. Now, if you please, I need to attend to this mess.”

Sir Timothy rose to his feet, breathing heavily. “Yes, of course.” He bent to collect the staff, and then looked up at the rising sun out of the horizon. “You have your duty, and I have mine.”

Sir Richard rode for Wayne Manor after leaving Barbara to her sisters in the temple. He found the area more heavily guarded than usual, and immediately feared the worst. The soldiers recognized Sir Richard, and let them through. One shouted that Sir Timothy was in the main chambers.

The first thing Sir Richard did when he pushed open the heavy doors and entered the main chamber was ask Sir Timothy a question. “Where is Lord Wayne?”

Sir Timothy was standing near the wall off at the far end of the chamber. On the wall was a rack of weapons. Several had been removed and were now on Sir Timothy’s person. At hearing the question echo across the chamber, he turned to acknowledge Sir Richard.

“Resting. Though he survived tonight’s encounter, his mind’s been shaken.” Sir Richard wondered at the tremor in Sir Timothy’s voice as he spoke. He stopped wondering when Sir Timothy continued. “Lady Talia and her unborn child are dead. The demon butchered them while Lord Wayne watched. The demon said that somebody else will die tonight.”

“Hadn’t enough died already!” Sir Richard said in a raised, heated tone. “The Order of St. Dumas is gone. The Temple of the Oracle has been devastated.”

Sir Timothy nodded his head. From the rack he removed a crossbow and hooked it to his belt. “Not all of The Order is dead. I’ve sent out riders to find them. The army is being called in to augment the garrison. They should be back with their families after Blood Haven. This won’t be the end, if this demon is-”

“It is. Barbara had another vision. You notice I didn’t react to the news of Lady Talia? Barbara was screaming and clawing at her belly as I left her!” Sir Richard stopped to take a deep breath. Now was not the time for emotions to overtake them. “She said his name. He’s returned Tim, and his warlocks with him.”

Sir Timothy’s sword-staff was leaning on the wall beside the rack. He took it in hand and walked towards Sir Richard. “The demon spoke with an intelligent mind. It must be Strange. He ruled Gotham, in those times.” When he reached Sir Richard, Sir Timothy knelt. “With Lord Wayne incapacitated, you are in charge of Gotham’s defense.”

“We both know more than Gotham is at stake. You say Strange will return tonight? That gives us a day to prepare. Once we kill him, the army can be called to march. Other lands will be in the same danger.” Sir Richard motioned for his brother knight to rise. “You did not mention Helena. Is she well?”

Sir Timothy nodded. “I had a small contingent take her out of the city, where the rangers will watch over her. She knows nothing about what has gone on.” Sir Timothy closed her eyes. “She was crying for her mother as I lifted her onto the horse.”

“I’d like to see Lord Wayne.”

“Talk to Alfred.”

“Did the demon say anything? A clue of some kind to what its intentions are?”

Sir Timothy shook his head. “Just that he wanted Lord Wayne to suffer. We all know the history Strange shares with the family. What about Barbara? Was there anything in her vision that could aid us?”

“Mainly just bad news about what’s to come. A night of laughter and smiling death, that more pertains to your new killer. Wait,” Sir Richard paused to think. “She did mention a demon eating plague. A Strange demon! But what could that mean?”

“I’ll try to have some dead rats collected. What was that about laughing at night? If she mentioned that, it may be of importance to this situation.”

“Laughing night, that’s what she’d said.” Sir Richard snapped his fingers. “Laughing night and dark night, I’m sure that was it. With the fires of St. Dumas extinguished and the clock tower destroyed, last night was certainly the darkest we’d ever had.”

“Not night, Sir Richard,” interrupted Sir Timothy. “Dark Knight! One of us! That has to be what Barbara was referring to.” The momentary excitement passed from Sir Timothy’s face. “But…in connection to laughing?”

Sir Richard’s lip curled back in disgust. “The Joker. We’ve all dealt with him before. No,” Sir Richard shook his head. “He can’t be back. That can’t be what Barbara was talking about.”

“I need to find Sir Iason,” Sir Timothy remarked suddenly. He walked past Sir Richard, towards the doors out of the chamber. “All that’s been going on, he needs to know about it. Uh, Alfred can take you to Lord Wayne, if you want to see him.”

“With or without Iason, make sure you’re back before night falls,” said Sir Richard as the other man departed. All Sir Timothy did was raise his hand and give a half-hearted wave behind his back. When the great doors closed behind Sir Timothy, Sir Richard moved to leave as well, to find Alfred.

Inside Lord Wayne’s skull, she was still screaming. There was blood, so much blood. The screeching howl of a soul being ripped from its body stabbed at Lord Wayne’s heart. Hands pressed against his ears, Lord Wayne rocked back and forth on the floor, trying to keep the screams out. But they were coming from inside of him, his own screams imagined as those of the Lady Talia’s.

It did not take long before other screams mingled with the death cries of Lord Wayne’s lady. Somewhere, a baby was crying. In the distance, a crossbow fired twice, releasing the assassin’s arrows that would take the lives of Lord Wayne’s parents. Farther still in the distance, Lord Wayne could hear laughter.

Lord Wayne imagined himself in a vast desert, a dead land that few dared approach. These were the dead lands of Lazarus, where it was rumored that an immortal sorcerer still worshipped Darkseid. Lord Wayne knew these rumors to be false. After his parents’ deaths, he’d dared to enter Lazarus on the whisper its ruler was responsible.

“Where are you, demon!” Lord Wayne cried at finding himself in these dead lands again. No, not again. When Lord Wayne had first crossed the border, he’d found himself in a luscious paradise, concealed from the world by the magicks of Ra’s al Ghul. He’d met Talia there as well; beautiful, perfect Talia. But why would Lord Wayne now imagine himself in a desolate landscape?

“You failed to protect my daughter, detective.” The voice was behind Lord Wayne. Strong and calm, it was a voice that commanded armies and demanded obedience. At hearing this voice, Lord Wayne turned about and lunged. Only Talia had been able to hold him back when he’d learned of Ra’s al Ghul’s part in the deaths of his parents. Now she was dead, and the arrogant devil dared hold him responsible!

But Lord Wayne’s outstretched hands found only air. Had it been a minor glamour used to project voices, or was everything Lord Wayne experiencing simply a part of his delusions. Lord Wayne was not considering the latter, and in fact believed himself to truly be in Lazarus as he’d originally imagined it. Stumbling face first onto the dusty earth, Lord Wayne roared his outrage.

“Such anger,” said the voice of Ra’s al Ghul, this time apparently from high above. Lord Wayne looked up, and found himself lying before a massive, towering figure of the immortal sorcerer. “Certainly, this is not the kind of pathetic behavior I’d expect from the man chosen to be my successor. More, the man I chose to protect my daughter and my realm from the coming darkness!” A massive arm swept out to encompass the whole landscape. “See what you’re failure has wrought, detective? My illusion has become reality. Lazarus is dead!”

“No…nononono!” moaned Lord Wayne on and on. “This isn’t real.” He shook his head vigorously. “I’ve gone mad. What you’re telling me isn’t true!”

A smile curled across the lips of Ra’s al Ghul. “Perhaps you are delusional. Or perhaps I have used the last of my power to contact you in this fashion. What is true and what is not are all inconsequential at this point. Whether by me or by your own subconscious, detective, you are being given a message.”

Scrambling onto his feet, Lord Wayne peered out at the blighted landscape. “No, this must be real. If I…if I were imagining this, Talia would be here. She would tell me what I needed to know. She would tell me that she forgives me.”

Ra’s al Ghul laughed. “That would only happen if you forgave yourself.” He bent low so that Lord Wayne was looking straight up into his immense eye. “Do you, detective?”

“Stop calling me that!” Lord Wayne screamed. He wasn’t a detective, wasn’t good with figuring out problems and solving mysteries. The only way he’d learned of the sorcerer’s crimes was because Ra’s had wanted him to know, had led him like a horse to water. Looking down and away from the accusing eye, Lord Wayne saw his hands. They were soft, hardly the hands of a knight. Were he a proper knight, Lord Wayne would have been able to defend his lady. “I….I am nothing.”

Again Ra’s al Ghul laughed. “Were you nothing, then why would Darkseid’s minion target you? He wants you to suffer, wants you to break so that you will not be the sword wielded again his master. Keep in mind, detective, that if this is in your mind then you are figuring this all out yourself.

“Why toy with you in this manner?” the sorcerer continued. “If you are nothing, as you so claim, then the demon should have slain you easily. Yet it does not do this. Why?”

“Because,” whimpered Lord Wayne, “it hates me. It wants me to suffer as it had suffered.”

“Darkseid does not allow his minions to indulge their whims!” Ra’s al Ghul roared. “Were you dead, then the knights who served you would fight for your memory. Inspired by your legacy, they would only battle all the harder, and so become a nuisance that could not be tolerated. Instead, they now experience doubt. How, they ask, can they stand against a threat that has left you such a broken shell? You know this to be true, detective.”

“Yes,” whispered Lord Wayne. Ra’s al Ghul stood straight at this, towering over the lord and looking down at him with consideration.

“Then you know that the only way to save your knights, your kingdom, the whole land, is by casting aside your despair?”

“Yes.” The word was said with more force, this time.

“At your wedding to my daughter, I gave her a gift. You were never told what it was, but you’ve always suspected. I used it to cleanse Lazarus so that I could build anew. How often have you crept to its location without my daughter’s knowledge?”

“More times than I can count.”

“But you have never actually touched you, nor even dared to gaze upon it?”

“Never.”

“You know what you must do, to rid this land of the evil that took my daughter’s life.”

“Not your daughter,” Lord Wayne corrected. “My wife…and our child.”

The dust scattered. Lord Wayne was back in the bare room Alfred had had him placed in. If ever Lord Wayne was driven to despair, Alfred was under orders to send him to that room.

With his mind whole and his heart filled to bursting with purpose, Lord Wayne strode the length of the small room to the opposite wall. Carefully, he counted the stones, and dug his fingers in around one in particularly. Slowly, the stone moved, came loose, and was finally pried from the wall. The stone was thin, and the space it had concealed was deep. Setting the stone onto the wooden floor, Lord Wayne then reached into the space and felt. He found what had been concealed within, long ago, and he pulled it free.

The handle by which Lord Wayne held it was wrapped in reams of silk, as was the whole of it. With his other hand, Lord Wayne cast these silks aside, revealing a gleaming black blade.

Lord Wayne had found the Sword of Plagues.

Helena Bertinelli was gazing with frightened eyes at the closed door. Please, she thought, let it open. Let somebody burst in and save her. Tears started to slide from her eyes, mixing into the blood that flowed from the long cuts along her face. From the sides of her mouth to her ear, Helena had been given a wide smile.

A shift in Helena's vision, from the closed door to the face of her attacker. Sir Iason Todd had been so nice earlier, when he'd asked her price to go upstairs. Helena and the other had all been warned, after what had happened to Selena, but Sir Todd was a Dark Knight.

"You're weeping," Sir Todd said in his tender voice. "Of course you'd be crying in joy. I'm about to free you from the misery of your life. Please, Helena, smile."

The knife went back against Helena's skin, just under her left ear. Sir Todd cut down and across, over Helena's lip to the other ear. Then Sir Todd cut again, farther down under Helena's lower lip.

"A nice wide, broad smile," Sir Todd whispered. He took hold of the skin as Helena whimpered. She screamed even before he started peeling. "Shhh, girl. Your pain will end soon." Sir Todd dropped the bloody strips of flesh onto the floor.

Helena was now bleeding profusely from her mouth and exposed cheeks. Still conscious, she shifted her eyes from Sir Todd to the shape past him. A young man tied to a chair in the corner, forced to watch. Helena recognized him as well. Like Sir Todd, Sir Timothy Drake was known to everybody in Gotham City.

Sir Todd looked over his shoulder, and smiled at Sir Drake. "I had a feeling it would be you. Lord Wayne is too distracted by his...duties, and well, Richard is more of a fighter than a thinker. But you, Timothy, you I had a feeling about. Maybe because we've both been affected by...him."

Sir Timothy struggled against his bonds, and was making angry noises through the gag in his mouth. Sir Iason ignored him, and turned his attentions back to the white-faced Helena Bertinelli and her bloody mouth.

"Red flowing from white...I'm going to be so misunderstood. But whores are the most miserable in life, the ones most deserving of my gift." Sir Iason plunged the dagger through Helena's heart. Blood spurted up from out of her mouth, drenching Sir Iason. "But you understand me, don't you, Tim? You see the misery and the pain here in Gotham City, and you know that nothing we can do will cure it. Parade the Joker's head around every day, and people will still live in fear. Hundreds of years since he was defeated, the name of Darkseid is still spoken in hushed whispers. Now that he's back, the pain and suffering will increase ten-fold. Nothing we do can prevent this. All we can hope to accomplish is the end of their suffering. The final end, in death."

Sir Iason dismounted from the bed, and went to the bowl of water on the dresser stand. Dipping a washcloth into the water, Sir Iason began to wash the water from his naked form.

"I've considered ending your pain, Tim. Losing your father the way you did, as a boy, only I could know how bad that is. Myself...and Lord Wayne..."

Sir Timothy's struggles increased. The glare he gave Sir Iason was purest hatred. Sir Iason smiled.

"Oh, that would make you suffer so much, wouldn't it, Tim? Enough that you would be driven to end my suffering?" His body clean of Helena's blood, Sir Iason went for his pile of clothes and armor. "But there is the demon. He seeks to prolong suffering, while I long only to end it. That beast has been suffering for hundreds of years...."

When Sir Iason had finished donning his armor, he turned to Sir Timothy while on his way out. "You're a resourceful boy, Timothy. I imagine you'll free yourself eventually. If you can manage it, we'll probably need your help."

"My lord, after what you have been through I would not recommend this. I am more than capable of-"

Lord Wayne turned around to face Sir Richard. They were in one of the main armories beneath Wayne Manor, where the ancestral armor of the Wayne family was kept. It was this armor that Lord Wayne now wore, save for the helmet that still sat atop the wooden dummy. Leaning against the wall, near Lord Wayne's feet, was the Sword of Plagues.

"I am the lord and protector of Gotham," Lord Wayne declared in reply.

He turned back to look at the helmet. It was as black as the rest of the armor, forged of a unique metallurgic mixture not since duplicated. With slight protrusions resembling ears at the top, the helmet resembled the head of a bat. The winged outline of a bat was also etched on the armor torso. Lord Wayne took the helmet in his armored hands, and placed it over his head. He turned again to face Sir Richard, his heavy cape rippling in the faint breeze. Bats were associated with that as well. The cape had been made from skin taken off hundreds of bat wings.

"There is more at stake here than Gotham," Sir Richard argued. "If what Barbara prophesized comes to pass, the entire world could be in peril!"

"You've dispatched the army for Metropolis. We'll be able to catch up with them, after." Lord Wayne bent down and took hold of the Sword of Plagues.

Sir Richard had heard of the weapon, of the tales about its power. It was said that whole armies had been ravaged by the Sword of Plagues. Clearly Lord Wayne must have had it in his possession since his wedding to Lady Talia.

Lord Wayne walked past Sir Richard and out of the armory. Sir Richard had to hurry to stay close behind. Their heavy footfalls echoed down the empty hall of the empty manor.

"My lord, you haven't asked about Helena."

Lord Wayne came to a full stop. He spoke in a soft whisper, so that Sir Richard had to strain to hear. "You mean she...she wasn't killed with..."

"No, she wasn't. We've sent her into the woods, with the rangers."

After a moment's pause, Lord Wayne nodded. "Yes, that is what I would have done. Thank you." There seemed to be some renewed purpose in Lord Wayne's stride when he resumed down the corridor. "What else have you ordered?"

"Sir Timothy had done most of the preparations before I returned from the Oracle. He's gone now to find Sir Iason. A small company of archers are scattered around Gotham, with orders to send up a flaming arrow if they see the demon."

"It's no demon," Lord Bruce stated. "Our foe is the warlock Hugo Strange. This be not some animal we fight, but instead a cunning sorcerer."

"Understood," said Sir Richard. "The fastest horses are here at the stable, ready to carry us where the dem-, wherever Strange is. Sir Timothy also knows of the archers, so he and Sir Iason should be able to meet with us."

"Do not underestimate the enemy and do not rely on unconfirmed aid," Lord Wayne declared. "We must go into this believing that the absolute worst will happen. Strange will overwhelm the two of us, and go on to ravage Gotham in the name of Darkseid. Are you willing to allow this?"

"No," replied Sir Richard in a firm tone. "I have sworn an oath, my lord, to defend Gotham to my last breath. Should I have no strength left, I will remember the oath and draw from it to strike with my last breath."

"Even if it means saving the life on only one person in Gotham, the sacrifice is worthwhile. They depend on us, and that is not a responsibility so easily shirked. Uncomfortable as I am with this decadent lifestyle, I live it because the people expect their leader to live as they would dream. If they do not believe me to be better than they are, how can they trust me to govern their lives and to defend them while they sleep?"

"Tonight they lie huddled in their beds, fearful of what lurks outside."

"I made a vow to rid this city of the evil it fears," declared Lord Wayne. They stepped out of the manor and into the main courtyard. Several horses were tied to posts with stable hands nearby, waiting for riders. Lord Wayne pointed up into the dark sky, where a streak of flame had appeared. "It's in the direction of Arkham. That damned church will be a fitting place to end this."

Sir Richard nodded agreement as both he and Lord Wayne mounted their steeds. They rode out through the manor gates and into the city, towards the ancient Arkham Church. Back when the Lords of Gotham were feeling merciful, they had set the church up to imprison and rehabilitate criminals. The experiment was a failure. When criminals didn't escape from the church, they were deemed fit to reenter society. In either case, those criminals would always kill again. Eventually a lord came to his senses and returned to the proper justice of swift execution. The church still stood, unused and avoided by superstitious folk.

Another streak of flame shot up into the air, in the same area as the first. A scream could be heard off in that direction. Lord Wayne and Sir Richard pressed their horses on, no doubt in their minds that the archer was dead.

Lord Wayne was in the lead by almost a full length. He was turning his horse onto the street where Arkham church was, when the horse gave a sudden start. While Lord Wayne struggled to regain control over his horse, he turned and screamed at the approaching Sir Richard.

"Take cover! Strange is-!"

A thundering explosion took up the whole street in front of Sir Richard, completely obscuring his vision. His horse panicked and bucked wildly, throwing Sir Richard to the ground. He landed hard, on his back, the wind thrown out of him. Through the ringing in his ears, Sir Richard could hear his horse galloping away. He coughed, looked up and tried to penetrate his vision through the thick clouds of dusts. There was no sign of Lord Wayne. High up, the billowing dust rippled.

Sir Richard rolled along his back and swung his legs up to get off the ground. He extended both arms out, flexing and relaxing muscles in his forearms to release straps. Blades shot out from under Sir Richard's sleeves, the hilts of which he took hold of. With his long daggers out, Sir Richard spun about to meet the charge of Warlock Strange. He felt resistance as the blades cut flesh, then a great weight slammed into Sir Richard, forcing him back onto the ground.

"Little bird thinks he has teeth," taunted Strange. He was straddled over Sir Richard, with one large hand pressing the Dark Knight's head against the ground. "What a sorry state Gotham must be in, with such ineffective protectors. Your lord didn't even try to avoid myself, as though he were seeking death out."

Snarling through grit teeth, Sir Richard twisted the daggers he still held, that were each imbedded in Strange's flesh. In response, Strange squeezed his fingers, pushing one nail through Sir Richard's cheek and forcing a tooth out of its socket. To his credit, Sir Richard didn't cry out, though opening his mouth would have allowed more than a trickle of blood to drip onto the ground.

Warlock Strange leaped up into the air, still holding Sir Richard by the head. While mid-air, warlock Strange threw Sir Richard, with a snap that sent a jolt of pain down the knight's spine, and he fell motionless onto the street. The daggers were still in Strange's side, and blood spurted out when he removed them. He tossed them to the street, where they clattered near Sir Richard's form, and Strange turned towards the settling dust.

"Come on out, Wayne!" Strange roared. "You can't be weak as to be killed so easily, and there is so much more I want to do to you!"

From within the dust, a shape was emerging. A great caped silhouette, resembling a giant bat. Metal was scraping against the stone of the street, it was the Sword of Plagues, held low in Lord Wayne's grasp. He strode from the dust, in armor darker even that Strange's heart. Clouds had gathered overhead, blocking out the moon and stars so that the night was pitch black. If not for the dust, Lord Wayne would be virtually invisible.

Cackling with glee at seeing Lord Wayne approach, warlock Hugo Strange spread his arms and bent his knees in preparation. Blood was no longer seeping from his side, as the wounds at healed over. The demon's eyes narrowed, and his lips curled back in a playful sneer.

"Ah, so this is how it shall be. The bat who is really a man shall face the man who is really a bat. Would you care to guess at who is whom?"

Lord Wayne did not respond as he continued forward. Slowly, he lifted the Sword of Plagues up, took it in both hands, and held it out before Strange. He'd stopped, waiting for the demon to make the next move.

Strange moved his head from side to side, considering. Then he smiled. "Oh, that is so cute, the noble Lord of Gotham valiantly facing his death with honor."

High up from behind Strange, a figure was running across the rooftops.

"But I am not so merciful as to give you a swift death, vermin." Strange nodded his head towards the motionless form of Sir Richard. "Tonight you've lost one of your precious knights. Tomorrow your misery will cont-aarrgh!"

While Strange had been speaking, the figure racing from behind him had leapt from the rooftop. With sword drawn, Sir Iason had dived at Strange, and speared him through a wing. The sword tore through the tough, leathery flesh and left a gaping gash. Sir Iason fell face first to the ground, his fall only mildly broken by a pained Hugo Strange, and the sword shattered against the stone while the man rolled with momentum. Strange, in the meanwhile, was also on the ground, roaring in agony as he struggled to regain his stance. Of his wing there were now two flaps from which blood was gushing out.

"For that you will pay!" Strange roared, his mouth gaping wide, his eyes fixed on Sir Iason.

A great pity Strange was not looking at Lord Wayne. Lord Wayne, who at that moment was rushing forward, sword held sideways with the point aimed straight at the demon's wide open maw. Before Strange could register what was happening, the Sword of Plagues had been shoved down his throat.

"Tomorrow I will be riding on a campaign to kill your master," Lord Wayne said as bold fact. He then let go of the sword and took a step back.

Warlock Strange did not move. The power of the sword had him rooted to the spot. Slowly, from the head down, Strange's flesh began to blacken and rot. It wasn't long after that the graying flesh broke down and crumbled. In less than a minute, the Sword of Plagues fell with a clatter to the street, while the dust that was all that remained of Hugo Strange scattered in the air.

"Uuhh...that...showed him," Sir Iason muttered as he struggled back to his feet. Lord Wayne did not go to him, but rather to Sir Richard, whom the Lord was glad to see still breathing. Perhaps a healer would be able to do something for him, Lord Wayne thought as he bent down to take one of the long daggers.

"My apologies for being so long in coming, my lord," Sir Iason said quickly. "But I was...indisposed with other matters. Sir Timothy can better explain the-"

Without a word, Lord Wayne strode to Sir Iason, swung the long dagger in his hand, and cut off the young knight's head. Both it and the body dropped to the street with a dull thud. Dropping the dagger, Lord Wayne moved towards the Sword of Plagues and picked it up. Both his horse and Sir Richard's had run off, he would have to walk back to the manor stable.

Lord Wayne needed to meet with his army and face the enemy…
 

Next Issue: Follow the rest of the story in the various League of Kingdom Annuals, then read the finale in League of Kingdoms #3!
 

Story © 2004 Steve Crosby and may not be reproduced without permission.