Previously in Wonder Woman…

Hidden from the world is the island of Themiscyra, home to the Amazons of old, and guardians of the Gateway to Tartarus. Legend tells that should a man set foot on the shores of Themiscyra that the Gateway would fly open, heralding a new dark age on Earth. For thousands of years an immortal sisterhood has watched the Gateway until the present when without explanation the mystic barrier started to crack.

In search of a champion to remedy their plight, Queen Hippolyta determined a competition of skill and speed. From it emerged her daughter, Diana; a child born to Themyscira, sculpted from clay and given life by the goddess Hera. With determination and sorrow Diana left her native land on a quest, never to return again, and in doing so became a heroine to all humanity known as Wonder Woman.

While on mission with Steve Trevor against the Fourth Reich, Diana battled fellow Amazon Asteria whom she learned has murdered her mother, Queen Hippolyta. They fought to a standstill, halted by a strange vision.

Returning to the campaign with their cover compromised, Diana and company raid the fortified compound of the Fourth Reich.

THE PATH OF WARRIORS

PART IV

By Miranda Sparks

King Władysław Łokietek, the first ruler of Poland to be crowned in Kraków, stood on top of a high rock, spear in one hand, heavy cloak billowing under dark skies, and peered over the Krakowsko-Częstochowska highlands. Legend told that he and his men escaped the clutches of Czech King Vaclav II with the aid of a spider who weaved an elaborate cover for them as they hid in a cave. However, to view him through Wojciech Gerson’s painting was to view him as a fierce and noble figure, one who gazed unblinkingly into the future, with a stature seemingly in defiance of his other name, Władysław the Elbow High.

Many assumed the painting lost to the ages, others destroyed, though both assumptions proved incorrect. Rather the portrait was secreted away, transported by submarine and locked in a vault, until purchased by a family at clandestine auction, and presented to their daughter on the eve of her fourteenth birthday. Few were aware that ‘Władysław Łokietek in the Ojców Crags’ hung upon the eggshell panels of a former Nazi stronghold, but were you to ask the Baroness Paula Von Gunther she might tell you that some art deserved exclusive appreciation.

She sat upon a long, leather ottoman, one leg crossed over the other, nursing a glass of champagne in one hand, and poured over the details of the masterpiece. To call it ‘romantic’ was more than understatement, and captured the folly of men with power, same as their followers. Even the Fuhrer was not above such vanity; a thought the Baroness saved for fewer still.

In closing her eyes the Baroness allowed herself a moment to appreciate the next orchestral piece to emanate from the lounge. Hans Pfitzner was by no means the greatest composer to have ever lived, but his love of country resonated throughout his work. In particular, his ‘Scherzo in C-minor’ always lifted the Baroness, as though on the wings of a great bird. Her tight, scarlet lips curled in the corners, and between sips, she hummed joyfully.

The sound of footsteps out of time pulled her from the music. An elderly gentleman stopped a respectful distance from the Baroness and folded his hands until such time as she acknowledged him. She inhaled and threw her head back, marinating in the sound.

“Pfitzner believed that it was an innate German quality that made music great more than the talent of any composer,” she mused. “Did you know that, Hermann?”

“Yes, my lady,” he said dutifully.

The Baroness opened her eyes and smiled. Of course, her butler knew; he had only b een present as she’d lamented countless times to friends. Fascinated as he must have been he’d likely not come to chat.

“Has Dr. Maru received her gift?” she asked.

Hermann bowed. “She will be receiving it presently, my lady. However, I have come with word from the Montana faction.”

He offered her a small, handwritten note. The Baroness delicately lifted the paper and unfurled it to examine the contents within. With each progressive sentence she soured. She offered the note back to the butler, which he readily accepted, and turned back to the painting. Władysław the Elbow High stood resolute as ever.

“I have invested more into our American branch than any other, and still they ask for more,” she scoffed. “A Wonder Woman, they say? No one enemy should be able to withstand their level of force, lest they be unworthy to be part of the Master Race. Unless they should succeed give them no reply.”

Hermann bowed and left the Baroness to her considerations. She’d heard tell of this Wonder Woman before; her exploits were of endless fascination to the proletariat and the filth. Yet there may have been merit to their captivation.

Baroness Paula Von Gunther downed the last of her champagne and stood, turning toward the parlor. Her heels clicked out of step with the strings and percussion resonating from down the hall.

Rage and despair congealed as a murky cocktail in Diana’s veins. Her mother was dead, murdered at the hands of her sister; a band of evil men sought to continue a madman’s legacy; and a strange vision threw all that Diana was into question. In the face of it how could she continue? And yet how could she sit idly by. Blistering emotions exploded with every step as she sprinted for the front line.

A mighty boom roared overhead, propelled by a wave of heat that cooked the sweat on her arms. Diana turned to the sky, and to the metal husk burning as it crashed between the trees. She ran toward it, driven by instinct, all other thoughts frozen by the desperate lives trapped in the cockpit. With seconds slipping away she pressed into the fire, past the pain, and with a strength beyond mere mortals wrenched the occupants, seats and all, from the downed helicopter.

Thank Hera they were alive. Diana heaved the seats, one in each hand, to the near distance before setting them down. Her adrenaline settled long enough to acknowledge the rapid machine gun fire on the other side of the treeline.

The pilot was conscious, but dazed. His companion was lucid and trembling. She blinked as though she were looking upon the supernatural, which she certainly was.

“It… it’s you.”

Diana smiled and snapped the seatbelts free with her bare hands. “Stay here and call for help,” she told them. Her mind had rejoined the battle before her body had a chance to follow.

Only months ago she was an unseasoned warrior on Themiscyra, having sparred with great warriors with no real stakes. In only a short time she was a veteran, battling the Argonauts, Poison Ivy, the conqueror from the stars, and now Asteria. With each victory she grew sharper, though at the cost of her innocence. Yet Diana did not flee from that truth, for this was the reason the gods chose her.

Bursting from the trees in gold, navy and crimson Diana, Wonder Woman, started up the incline to the compound fence. Guns rattled from all directions, so many that she could not determine friend or foe. She crossed her bracelets forged by the gods on Mount Olympus, and held them high. The former princess resisted her enemies with bold steps, and left their bullets to fall without life to the ground.

There was sudden silence from the compound. The gunners held their positions. A wry smile crept in the corners of Diana’s lips as she pressed to the gates with new vigor. It was short lived, however, as a militia man with a mounted rocket took aim at her position.

The projectile whined through the air, drawn by the power of the magic bracelets. Wonder Woman stood firm, arms crossed, but not even she was prepared for the full brunt of a missile on impact.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Wonder Woman flew through the air, aimless, until bare flesh ground along the dirt road. All breath was knocked from her chest, while a stretch of burns ached along her arms. She looked down between the seared hairs and recognized what had been done. Pink flesh on her arms, blistering yellow, and blood. Not as bad as some she’d seen, but serious wounds all the same.

Diana lifted herself from the ground. She’d been careless, underestimated the weapons of men; a mistake she would not make a second time. Her body ached, stung and burned, but no sound parted her lips. She knew better how to temper the pain of the body than the pain she nursed in her soul. This pain removed all distraction; it made her sharp, and dangerous.

Again she started for the compound gate.

The sound of heavy gunfire was nothing through the ringing in her ears. Each bullet pinged off her bracelets with a sting which, though tiny, assaulted in number that drove into her limbs. Yet Diana was not deterred. More than her body an indestructible will carried her, and would not relent until her enemy was fallen.

A second rocket launched from atop the gates, but this time Wonder Woman was prepared. In a swift motion she removed her lariat, and launched its golden rope to the sky. Shaped by her intent it snared the rocket and pulled tight. What followed was a feat that few could describe, as Diana stepped to one side, allowing the rocket to pass her, then by pulling on the lariat leveraged its flight path so that it turned toward the gate.

She could only imagine the looks on their faces as the heavy doors exploded into flame. Over the crackling and reactive fire she could make cries for help. A more satisfying sound there never was.

Diana bounded n with the swiftness of a woman otherwise unharmed. Her last battle ended at a standstill. This would be different.

By all account they should have endured. Situated atop the high ground, fortified behind steel and concrete atop an oppressive slant, with weapons to repel any who dared bring death from above, the Fourth Reich held the most secure of positions. Yet men by the dozens fled from their posts, some in shame, others to deliver a more direct assault on she who assaulted their gates. All fell in her wake, as though mere leaves in a hurricane.

Who was this Wonder Woman? Not human, certainly. Her origins in ‘paradise’ were as much a fiction as an integrated United States, where lower castes demanded the treatment of men. Rather she appeared a perversion of nature, gifted power over the Master Race she was never meant to wield.

Hunter Maddox would have told her as much were he still at his command post. What words lingered on the back of his tongue would have to wait, for at the moment he made a tactical retreat. Better to fight another day, he thought, when better equipped to deflect such an agent of the proletariat.

All around bodies flew, not by force of explosion but the sheer strength of the self-proclaimed Amazon. Bullets rebounded from her to no effect. Men roared in defiance, only to be cut short by their landing. They drew ever closer, fast on the heels of their commander.

Was this how the Fuhrer felt in his final moments?

With rifle in hand Hunter marched toward the barracks. If ever there were a place to make a final stand it was with the future of his people behind him. He rapped on the steel door and slipped inside, stealing one last peak at the yard before sealing himself inside.

Huddled in the corner were the families of the new Reich; women and children of noble Aryan birth, who would ultimately benefit most from the duty of their patriarchs. Hunter warned them away with nary a look, and backed from the door to the far wall.

One of the women rasped. “What’s happening?”

“Be quiet!”

There were no more screams, and no more gunfire; a silence so dense that even the beating of their hearts carried into their ears. Hunter took careful aim at the door, and fought to steady his trigger finger.

FWOOM!

A mighty boot threw the door from its hinges. There in the portal stood a bold silhouette, hands on hips; a giantess, even among men.

Hunter did not fire. Neither he nor his weapon held any power, at least not directly. Desperate and wild he threw the rifle to the ground and slipped behind one of the women; his own wife, already spent on three children, whom he was certain would sacrifice herself for the ideal. He pulled a bowie knife to her throat. Strategy, he called it. Her shallow gasps said otherwise.

The invader pressed inside with care. Even in shadow her eyes pierced like daylight cast on sapphires. She raised her hands, slowly.

“You would make hostages of your own families?”

“Call it pragmatism,” he rasped. “You wouldn’t dare force my hand.” His wife choked on tears, and would not quiet when he shushed her. “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart. She’s too much a coward to make me hurt you.”

The ‘Wonder Woman’ lingered. Hunter was right about her.

“Drop your weapons,” he said, and she listened.

The foreign witch, this superhuman invader, unclasped the sword from her girdle, lifted it to her side, and allowed it to fall unceremoniously to the ground. From her other side removed the hoop of golden rope, and without breaking their gaze dropped it to her feet.

Hunter Maddox twitched, and in that twitch found a grin. “Good. Yes, good! Now… let us pass, and there’ll be no more blood spilled today.”

“Before you go,” Wonder Woman said, “I would ask a question of your wife.”

The blond woman froze. She turned her watch back to her husband, but could not quite reach. Only with his consent did she dare to speak, and he gave it without words.

Wonder Woman frowned. “Do you believe your husband loves you?”

The air around them sharpened on a knife’s edge. Hunter redoubled his stance, and his wife froze before him. She drew a deep, shaking breath, and she answered.

“Yes… my husband loves me…”

Hunter Maddox eased a touch, satisfied by his authority; the power he handled was one over life and death, even above members of his own. Only a great man could command such loyalty by his presence.

In a snap the lariat turned, pouncing like a viper and wrestling the knife from his hold. Wonder Woman snagged its length, and with deft movement twirled the lariat around the commander. She moved like some enchanted creature with the grace of a swan and the strength of a bear, until finally the leader was bound and prostrated against his will.

She seethed, and she demanded, “do you love your wife?”

The enchanted strings burned at his resistance, more than any torture he had experienced. Yet still he fought.

“I… I…”

A scarlet boot pressed into his back. “Do you love her!”

Hunter Maddox lifted his head, eyes blurry with tears, and took stock of the mother of his children. She appeared to him pale as a sheet, aghast, confused, lost. Few women were ever so obedient, or so silent.

“I…” The answer caught in his throat before spewing into the room. “I’m afraid!” he cried. “My wife! My family! My country! You’ll poison them! You’ll destroy them! You… you…”

In that moment the spirit of truth seared through him, and Hunter Maddox was humbled. Warm realization coursed through his body, cast doubt upon his fears, and for the first time he saw the world for what it was.

“What have I done…”

Diana loosened her hold, and when she did the commander collapsed to a heap. He stared wide eyed into what Diana had known for a lifetime, and she prayed that he would find peace on the other side.

The sound of trucks and helicopters filled the compound. Wonder Woman lifted her head to the assembled families and offered to them her hand.

“It’s over,” she said.

Three days passed since the battle of Montana, and for three days Diana of Themiscyra barely slept or ate, though not for lack of trying. She stared through the hotel ceiling for a longer time than could be healthy, until she could stand it no more. Though her limbs ached and her arms were covered in bandages her body was restless and would not be satisfied until she spent some energy.

Jogging on the outskirts of an artificial lake Diana caught the first glimpses of sunrise over Celestial City. A new day brought new hope; she held to that truth, even with a diminished spirit. She stopped by a grassy slope, and though she had not worked up a sweat Diana decided to rest and admire the orange hue of the clouds.

Her mother enjoyed the sunrise. When Diana was a child, eager to start the day before anyone else dared to rise, Hippolyta would guide her to the easternmost lookout. There the queen regaled her with stories of the great god Apollo approaching from the horizon, dragging the sun across the sky with his flaming chariot. Always was the little girl amazed.

Diana was amazed still. The world held a great deal of wonder, both at home and in this distant land.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but they did not fall. There was no shame in sorrow; the former princess had more than adequate reason to mourn, yet the stoic front reserved for combat had yet to ease. Or perhaps it was being removed from home that stayed her weeping. Despite her visions and Asteria’s wicked confession the reality had yet to take.

As the first embers appeared over the skyline of Celestial City, Diana reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt and removed her cellular phone. It proved a remarkable device with a myriad of functions, and more intuitive the more she became accustomed. Most notably it was a device for communication, able to make contact no matter the hour.

She searched for the name ‘Steve TREVOR’ and pressed the green button projected on the screen. It rang five times before a voice answered.

“Colonel Trevor,” he murmured.

Diana half-smiled. “Hello, Steve. I’m sorry to call you so early.”

She heard shuffling from the other side of the line. “It’s okay,” he said, more alert this time. “Only twelve minutes before my alarm. What do you need?”

The Amazon sauntered down the gravel path and considered each step. “I’m going on a journey,” she said. “I’d like for you to accompany me.”

“Just say when, and I’ll be there.”

Her smile stretched to bursting, and the first tears streamed down her cheeks. In that moment Diana knew that while she walked a lonely path she was not alone throughout. Thank Hera for the miracle of friends.

Jason Woodrue was provocative by nature, but never more so than in the time following his encounter with Poison Ivy. His very existence sparked debate from botanists and biologists struggling to determine if he was, in fact, still alive. They monitored him day and night, jumping at every new deviation in their readings, and though something was taking place beneath his skin its quality remained a mystery.

Though his brain registered no activity his heart continued to beat. Over time his skin became translucent, and blood once rich in iron and copper ran clear through his veins. A layer of bark crusted over his form, thick enough to prevent even the hardest syringe from piercing him. Though they could monitor his vitals from the outside, uncovering the internal metamorphosis proved difficult.

The body passed from one team to another, each with their own thoughts on the former Jason Woodrue. Their experiments discovered little, save that his cellular growth correlated with exposure to sunlight, and that his bark absorbed water and minerals with the thirst of barren soil.

Was he man, or host to something else? Did anything of the man still remain? These questions and more went unanswered as a team in silver hazmat suits removed the body from their care.

For countless hours he lay idle, strapped down to a bed of compost in mobile storage with sun lamps beaming from above. Quietly the body drank, metabolised and grew, all the while oblivious to the sound of engines, the bumps on an otherwise straight road, and eventually the pull of gravity as the unit took to the sky. His bark hardened, while a layer of moss made a bed for life to sprout on his flesh. Days, maybe weeks passed without his notice. At last the doors flew open, and a different team in identical silver suits prepared him.

Jason’s new home was to be in the heart of a greenhouse. The air was thick and pungent like the swamps from which life first crawled. Plants both deadly and exotic, marked with large signs followed rows from one corner to the next. Every so often a warm mist sprayed over the room. The plants would be happy if they were capable of feeling.

The transport team parted at the arrival of a short, gleeful woman in an olive green hazmat suit. She clapped her hands and threw her arms high, celebrating the most auspicious arrival promised her.

“At last! Is it really him?”

She approached the table and pawed at his cheek. The moss appeared slick, and the bark shell inflexible. She hummed to the sleeping Jason like she would a patient in hospital, and all but giggled as she examined him.

“Be sure to give the Baroness my warmest thanks,” she said to her offsiders, who knew better than to linger as she worked.

Dr. Marina Maru pulled her table close and drew samples where she could. Whether Jason Woodrue was dead or alive did not begin to matter; his body was a gift made all the more valuable by Poison Ivy’s touch.

Few people were so prepared for college as Cassandra Sandsmark. From the moment she was born her mother scrimped and saved, throwing every spare cent she could into ‘The Fund.’ In high school Cassie followed suit, pouring what she could from delivering newspapers and flipping burgers in preparation from debt on a Titanic scale; anything to avoid the iceberg called student loans. When she graduated she was determined to have a degree without obligation, a career without an anchor. She was privileged in that way, not only to have that level of resources, but to have a Mom who loved her while keeping her discipline sharp.

There were more challenges than money, of course, though that was the big one. Between study, a social life, and sleep her schedule left room for only two. Coupled with living away from home for the first time and Cassie was out of her depth. Sure, her friends were awesome, but she could never rely on them the way that she did family.

She guessed her Mom was the same, or else she wouldn’t call every day.

“I just want to know you’re eating right.”

Cassie lay on her single bed, blond hair brushed to one side, and stared at the photograph she’d tacked to the ceiling. To think, of all the heroes in the world, of all the places she might have landed, she got to share Celestial City with the Wonder Woman! Of all the heroes she could look up to, hers was the princess of an all-female paradise. Her feminist brain quibbled at the reality.

She smiled at the picture, remembering her one encounter with the heroine. Even if it was only for a few minutes, and a pair of Bonnie and Clyde wannabes had guns trained on her, she still shared that space with her personal idol, and that meant everything.

“Well I’m not eating foie gras,” Cassie said, “but I’m not eating ramen, either. My roomie’s a good cook. It’s all vegan; soy, nut, and gluten free, but still delicious.”

“Have you thought about subscribing to those healthy life frozen meals?” her Mom suggested.

Cassie laughed. “No. Seriously. I’m fine.”

“Is it a question of money? I can send you more money. Sweetie, you know how I worry.”

She supposed that as far as problems went that having an overly concerned mother throwing funds her way was a good one to have, but still Cassie rolled her eyes. That said, it took moving away from home to appreciate that level of doting.

There was a knock from the front room, and Cassie rolled from bed. “Mom, someone’s at the door. I’ll call you again later, okay? Love you.” Her mother said goodbye and hung up.

Cassie opened the door and blinked. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t an old woman with wiry hair and grey skin, standing at five feet tall, with large, near opaque-sunglasses, and an ‘I ❤ C C’ shirt over her tattered dress.

She smiled a toothless smile and croaked through thin lips. “Cassandra Sandsmark?”

The young woman collected herself. “Yes?”

With a grasp unseeming for a woman of her stature she took Cassie’s hands and pulled her close. “You and I have a lot to talk about,” she said. “My girl, you have a bright future ahead of you! Mark my words!”

NEXT ISSUE: Diana shares a story from her childhood in ‘Eulogy’…