It has been quiet for three weeks at the Mendolsson Hostel. While Patriot City has suffered numerous attacks by supervillains, and alien invaders, Mountainrock has been a peaceful haven. Several more individuals have shown up on the doorstep of the mendolsson Memorial Hostel for Displaced Metahumans, yet none with the power or inclination to join the Hostel’s security team.

	We now look in on this peaceful ediface, and behold the next chapter in the unfolding events.

********************************************

	Anthony gently rapped on the door. He was a relatively tall man, nearly six foot too, and looked barely more than twenty five, though he was actually well over thirty. Currently, his hair was slightly long, though not quite to his collar, and he was wearing a simple, everyday outfit. The reason his hair must be noted as “currently” that long, is his unique power, if it could be called such, was to manipulate the overall length of his hair.

	“Come in,” came the voice behind the door. Anthony opened the door, and walked into the room, which was a rather large library, filled with books from down through the ages, arranged in an order that he could not understand. However, the man in front of him obviously did. The man was John Mendolsson, the owner and operator of the hostel, and also, under the name of Silverlance, the leader of its security team.

	“How goes the research,boss?” asked Anthony.

	“Well, I found a few things out. Mostly about the sword, and one of my possible ancestors.” He pointed to a large book, so old that its hand-illuminated pages were slowly coming loose of their ancient bindings. “I’m just glad I learned Latin in college. And I’m also glad that Professor Kyning at Mountainrock University was willing to translate some of the Old Norse for me.”

	“Old Norse? Umm, I’m just a former Marine, what am I supposed to know about that?” asked Anthony.

	“Probably about as much as I did. That’s why I got in contact with Professor Kyning. And I think I’ve got the story of that sword kinda figured out.” He opened to one of the pages in the manuscript, which was revealed to be written in Latin, with various illustrations on the order, and around the first letter of each page. “It began almost eighteen hundred years ago.”

	Anthony whistled. “Wow, that’s old.”

	“Yes, it is. Now, the oldest stories are third or fourth hand by the time they got written down. But the founder of my family line was a tenth century Norseman, by the name of Mendol Jarlsson. His son was Mendol Mendolsson, and for several generations, the eldest male son was called Mendol, until nearly the thirteenth century. Well, it seems that when Mendol Jarlsson was a-Viking with a crew of other norsemen, he raided an abbey. While there, he boasted of his heritage to one of the monks, demanding that he write it down.

	“It seems that Mendol was descended from an Erilaz, a type of Norse rune-caster, who lived, by Mendol’s claim, a thousand years before. That part may be hyperbole, but part of the story of his ancestor includes references to Roman generals of that time, so it may be accurate. This Erilaz was called Wotan Borsson, and he lived in the area that is Denmark, today.

	“At this time, a thurse, or demon, was rampaging through Denmark, norway, and the entire Norse country. It appeared as a titanic man, ove thirty feet tall, weilding a sword the size of a tree. This may have been hyperbole, however. Anyway, none of the other rune-casters could stop it. Wotan Borsson, however, managed to defeat the creature by having a black iron sword forged, and inscribing runes on its surface with his own blood. He then met the thurse, and struck it in the thigh with this blade. The thurse howled, and was drawn into the blade. Wotan then ordered the blade be thrown into the depths of the ocean, never to be disturbed.”

	“And that’s where the Museum people found it?” asked Anthony.

	“Actually, no. I did some further checking, and found a reference to what may be a later appearance of the blade. It seems that, during a raid of some kind on the eastern shore of Scotland, a black armored Viking was seen, weilding an iron blade with blood-red runes. He was leading a band of men in black armor, as well, and they obeyed him without question. The man seemed unstoppable, until a single warrior strode out to meet him. The warrior was losing badly, but managed to disarm the black warrior, and the blade was lost in a peat bog. We do not know what happened at this point to either warrior, because that story ends there.

	“When Sutton Hoo was first dug up, the blade was among the artefacts discovered. Some were sent on a steamship to greece, where a prominant archaeologist was to determine the veracity of this seemingly anachronistic sword. However, the ship sank in a large storm, just off the coast of Greece. That ship was recently found, and the sword found its way to the mountainrock Historical Museum.” The albino gently closed the ancient book, and shook his head slightly. “And we all know what happened after that.”

	Anthony nodded. “Wow. So, basically, this is some kind of ancient norse demon trapped in the sword? And it may have possessed your brother.”

	“That’s what it looks like,” admitted John. “And it gives us a clue on how to deal with him, now. If we can find some way to disarm him, there’s a chance that we might be able to get my brother back.”

	“Good.” The former marine yawned, then glanced at his watch. “Oh, no, I’m late!” he groaned, as his hair suddenly shrunk to the length of a crewcut. “I’m supposed to be taking Rache out to dinner tonight!”

	“Go ahead, get going, then!” laughed John. “And if you keep her out so late she misses her desk shift, I’m putting you on KP!”

*********************************************

	The warehouse was sparsely lit, with only dim red rays from the setting sun peeking in through the dusty skylights. The crowd gathered within this warehouse,however, was one that most people would not wish to see in a well lit alley, let alone a dim one. Everything from mercenaries, to former minions of supervillains, to religious fanatics were present, in one large congregation of crudity and antisocial archetypes.

	“So, what was you doin before dis?” asked one thug, leaning on his baseball bat.

	“Ah, I’m a straight-up merc. I was workin for this ‘Nuclear Winter’ guy. Gave us lotsa cool guns, but we hadda pretend like we had Russian Accents an’ say these stupid cliche Russki things. Yannow, like ‘Die, American Dog’ an’ things like that.” He shrugged. “Hey, the pay was good, an’ I kept my rifle when I deserted.”

	“Sounds like a rough deal. Me, I was jus’ a legbreaker fer Pinstripe. Say, were those ‘Ice Queens’ as nice as they looked, iffin ya know what I mean?” grinned the thug.

	“Nah,” said the merc, “They lived up to their name. Wouldn’t even letcha buy ‘em a drink.”

	“SILENCE!” came a thundering voice above them. Stunned, everyone present, and looked up. Slowly, a dim light came on, illuminating a single individual. This man was tall, and muscular, wearing medeival styled black armor. In one hand, the point resting on the steel catwalk he was standing on, was a jet black sword, covered in blood red runes. To some, it seemed that the runes actually moved, and they could swear they heard a faint moaning coming from the thing.

	After muttering a few words most of those gathered were glad they could not understand, the figure floated gently down to a hastily erected daias, constricted of stacks of palettes. “I... am Black Blade. And if you would join the Doom Guard, then you will call ME your absolute master.”

	The thug who had been speaking to the merc earlier tossed his bat over one shoulder. “Then I’m outta here. I didn’t even call Pinstripe ‘master’.” He turned, and began walking for the door.

	“If you do not accept these terms, so be it.” Black Blade raised his sword, and rasped alien syllables once more. A swarm of tiny imps buzzed out of it, racing at bullet-like speeds towards the man. Hearing the noise, he turned, and screamed, as the imps suicided on his body at a rate of speed that left very little of him left, except for a splintered bat.

	Stunned, all eyes immediately fixated on the swordsman. “Now that I have your attention...” He pointed to five individuals, including the mercenary that had been speaking to that same thug, earlier. “The five of you, come with me. The rest of you will remain here, until I say otherwise.”

**********************************************

	In a realm found in every fold of reality, yet boyond time and space, a shadow smiled. “Excellent. His power demonstrated to the peons, to prevent them from rebelling. And his lieutenants chosen.” Folding in on itself, the shadow stopped smiling. If it had a face, it would be creased with the effort of what was about to happen through his greatest servant.

**********************************************

	In the office of the warehouse, Black Blade turned to face the five men he had chosen. Two were simple mercenaries, one with a freeze rifle stolen from Nuclear Winter. A third was a skilled assassin, ever dapper, with a short stocky build. The fourth was a shifty-eyed thug, always fiddling with the pistol on his hip. And the last was once a follower of Shadow - a twisted, hunchbacked Darkman, who accepted the darkness as his saviour.

	“You five... will be my lieutenants. When I am not present to give orders, you will do so in my stead.” he said, simply.

	Most simply nodded, but the one with the freeze rifle looked thoughtful. “Yannow, Mister Black Blade, this is kinda flattering and all. But how’re we supposed ta kep ‘em in line when you ain’t here?” he asked.

	Black Blade turned, and fixated his gaze upon this one. To the man’s credit, he shuddered slightly, but did not cower back. If anything, he stiffened his spine, and met the possessed man’s gaze. “By the powers I am about to grant you, bold one.”

	The nervous pistolier raised his hand. “M-mister B-black Blade, p-pardon the st-t-tutter, but is this g-gonna involve that En-n-nergy X?”

	“No. It shall involve a power far older than this so-called ‘Energy X’.” he then looked at each one, and noted which of the five would be which role within the Doom Guard. “Pico Fiorelli, step forward!”

	Shrugging, and playing with a coin, the stocky gangster stepped up. “And what can I do for you today?” he asked.

	“You shall be the Field Lieutenant. When leading the Doom Guard, you watchful eye and keen mind shall help formulate a battle plan, and develop tactics to disable out foes.” At Black Blade’s nod, the gangster stepped back. “Anthony O’Hare, step forward.”

	The second merc took one step forward. “Aye, what is it ye be wishin’ o’ me?”

	“Your time under Commander Kraken taught you the value of acquisitions, and the ability to get the most effective use out of the least amount of equipment. You will be the Supply Officer, in charge of acquiring and distributing the supplies the Doom Guard will need.” Once again, a nod, and the man steped back. “Wilbur ‘the Weasel’ Allen, step forward.”

	Wordlessly, the nervous gunman stepped up. The swordsman paused, expecting some sort of statement, then spoke when none was forthcoming. “Despite your vocal handicap, you have gained a reputation as one of the most subtle individuals on the streets of your home town, Patriot City. You will be in charge of the Espionage division, and will be responsible for gaining information for the Doom Guard.” At a nod, the Weasel stepped back. “The being known only as Athag, step forward.”

	The darkman stepped forwards, his purple robe trailing slightly behind him. “Yesssss, my new masssster?”

	“Your devotion to your beliefs, and to darkness, shadow, and death have earned you the position as... Spiritual Advisor to the Doom Guard. You will be the chaplain, and you will also be able to channel the power of Our lord directly, to further aid us in battle.” Bowig low, the darkman lurched back to his previous spot. “And now, Donovan Yorkshire, step forward.”

	The merc, his freeze rifle still slung over his shoulder, stepped up. “Whatcha need, Boss?”

	“You shall be the most exalted of all of your brothers. You shall be my second in command. Your word shall be as law to the Doom Guard, for you shall speak with my voice.” With that, the merc stepped back. “Prepare yourselves, my servants, for you are about to be touched by the power of my own master!”

	The five steeled themselves, unsure of what to expect. Black Blade raised his hands, and uttered syllables so awful, words so dire that their ears began to bleed at the sound of them. And then, he turned to each, and one by one, spoke a single word, that was to become their name for the rest of their existance.

	First, he turned to Pico Fiorelli. “The Wight,” he rasped, and shadows reached up, to enshroud the now frightened gangster. The darkness obscured him, and when it receeded, it was not Pico Fiorelli standing beside them anymore. It was a dark, fell shape, encrusted in ancient armor, with blazing red eyes that looked out from behind the wrappings of the tomb.

	Next came Anthony O’Hare. “The Ghoul,” was intoned over him. As with the ganster, the man’s own shadow billowed out, and enfolded him. When the shadow withdrew, his form was far more muscular, with a pallid green skin, and teeth obviously designed to rend and tear. His hands ended in dirt-encrusted claws, and his build was like an ape, with steel corded muscles.

	Wilbur the Weasel shook with terror as the dread gaze looked his way. “The Ghost,” was all that was said, and he screamed aloud in agony. The shadows below him did not so much enfold him, as consume him, until nothing was left of his physical form. Then, rising from the shadow to hover translucently beside his fellows, a shrouded shape wrapped in luminous swatches of cloth formed. Where eyes should have been, only empty pools stared out.

	Athag, the darkman, on the other hand, beheld his doom with a look of rapture. “The Liche,” uttered the possessed swordsman. The shadows wrapped themselves around the darkman, who had a look of utter bliss on his hideous face. When they fell, he stood straight, still wrapped in the dark robes given to him by his first mistress, Shadow, who had, he felt, betrayed him. However, there was no flesh upon his bones, save for a thin layer of chalky white skin, and only the merest hints of hair wisped around his skull-like head.

	Finally, all that was left was the mercenary, Donovan. He steeled himself, knowing he was about to both gain power, and enter the ranks of the Undead, yet not knowing what kind of foul abomination he was about to become. He soon found out, as Black Blade whispered, “The Vampire” at him. No shadows rose, but a shadow erupted from his back, even as he howled in pain. The shadows burst forth in a spray of blood, which congealed as a pair of dark crimson, batlike wings. His face narrowed, and grew taut upon his skull, then filled out, sharper and far more defined. Sharp teeth lanced down from his upper jaw, and up from his lower jaw, even as his miscles knotted and tightened. Finally, the transformation was complete. Now, he much more resembled a dark god, rather than a minion of death, as his companions did.

	“And now... it is begun,” rasped Black Blade.

*********************************************************

	Deep within the shadows his master grinned. “And now... it is truly begun.”