Justice League of America - Batman: The Stone King by Alan Grant (best english novels to read .txt) 📗

Time and again Green Lantern tried to focus his will, to send a single coherent thought to the ring that was supposed to have protected him, but had failed.

What in the world could be strong enough to overcome–

The thought died stillborn as fierce pain radiated from his abdomen, jangling nerves all over his body. He couldn't even tell if he was screaming or not.

Next to Green Lantern–although she might have been a thousand miles away, for all he was aware of her existence–was Wonder Woman.

She'd wakened from unconsciousness to find her world in darkness. Her first thought was that she'd gone blind, that somehow in her battle atop the pyramid with her unseen foes, her sight had been affected.

She'd tried to stand up, but her legs refused to bear her weight, sending her sprawling on the rough rock.

The others need me, her mind called over and over, with mounting urgency. They might be in any kind of danger. I can't give up. I have to help them!

Again she'd tried to rise, swaying slightly as she struggled to find her balance without her eyesight to assist her. A massive blow landed on the back of her neck, its impetus sending her sprawling again. Groggily, she rolled onto her back, striving to bring her bracelets up so they could intercept any further assault.

But the attack came from all angles, slamming painfully into every part of her body, giving her no chance to protect herself.

Stone on skin, stone on bone! Had she said that? If not her, then who? Did she just think it? Was her mind playing tricks now, her senses deceiving her?

Wonder Woman was almost relieved when the deeper darkness appeared again, expanding slowly to engulf her in its cool, unfeeling shadows.

Superman seemed to have been flying for hours. How could this be? At superspeed, he'd have long since been carried into outer space.

But I can still breathe, he thought. Not space, then. So where?

None of his extraordinary senses were of use to him. He strained with his X-ray vision, but couldn't pierce the eerie blue-green fog that surrounded him. He stilled his breath and listened intently, but his super-hearing picked up no sounds at all. He tried shouting, vaguely hoping that he'd get some sort of echo that he could home in on. But he couldn't even hear his own voice.

He tried to recall what he'd been fighting against, but his memory wouldn't function. Instead of his enemy, he pictured events from his past, but they rolled by so fast he could scarcely keep pace with them.

A flash from his childhood: a baby in a rocketship.

Krypton–the giant planet that was his home–exploding.

A middle-aged couple–he knew them well. What were their names? Ah yes, Ma and Pa. Martha . . . and Jonathan . . .

Superman tried to shake his head, to banish these unwanted thoughts. Though he could have sworn his head didn't move, the memory traces disappeared, winking out of existence like the embers of a dying fire.

But Superman's relief was short-lived. His mind immediately filled with images of Batman. Batman fighting, swinging, thinking, scoffing.

This is ridiculous! I can't even control my own thoughts!

Unable to think clearly enough to formulate a better plan, Superman flew on. And on. On a journey mat was taking him nowhere.

Speed is the answer. The Flash kept saying the words over and over to himself. It has to be!

He'd never found himself in any trap where his speed couldn't break him free.

Captive in a solid steel cell? His molecules could vibrate at exactly the same frequency as his prison walls, allowing him to slip through them like a ghost. Or his fist could act like a powerhammer, striking a thousand times in the breadth of a single second, rinding a weak spot and pummelling it until it shattered. Or, from a standing start, he could accelerate so quickly that by the time he crossed the cell he'd be traveling at thousands of miles an hour–enough to demolish any wall.

But this was different. He was surrounded by nothing but turquoise mist. No ground of any kind, solid or otherwise. For a long time the Flash thought he stood on the point of some eldritch needle of stone. Perhaps he could run down its side, using his speed to keep his balance. Might be a problem when he reached bottom–if he hit solid rock while vibrating at the wrong frequency, he'd have as much chance as a fly against a windshield at a hundred miles an hour.

The risk's worth it, he assured himself. The League might need me . . . they must, otherwise they'd have come to my rescue!

He squatted down, using first one hand and then the other to feel whatever was underneath the ground he stood on. No needle of rock. Nothing at all.

Frustrated and angry, the Flash settled back onto his haunches.

Speed is the answer, he thought. It has to be!

Peter Glaston wondered why he had lit a fire amid the remains on the altar stone. Animal fat hissed loudly as it burst into flame.

Greasy black smoke rose in rolling tendrils, quickly filling the chamber. Peter felt it rasping at his lungs, and coughed harshly. Whoever was controlling him might be used to breathing smoke, but Peter wasn't.

His arms were suddenly thrown wide, his head tilted back, his open mouth already beginning a singsong chant. Peter didn't understand a word his lips were saying–a curious mixture of grunts and semi-words that bore more resemblance to the rants of acute schizophrenics than to any language he knew.

But the meaning of the words resounded through his consciousness, their ageless wisdom in sharp contrast to the doom-laden way they resonated. The Universe is an endless cycle of endless cycles. The world spins around the sun spins around the galactic center spins around in a supercluster that spins around . . .

What is now will not be always. What is gone will return.

Blasphemers rise,