by J A Stone
Warfell knew—damn right she knew. She was about to speak, when the feint outline of a robed man appeared behind the good lizard Doctor. Danica issued an evil grin.
“Tell me Doc, as a scientist, do you believe in Ghosts? Spirits of the dead?”
“Of course not sweetie.”
“How about a multi-layered universe with one Soul-Essence divided out to innumerable clones on other worlds countless times?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to. He can explain it much better than I,” said the patient, now sitting up calmly, becoming stronger by the second.
Mereth was afraid to turn his back on this human—then the Aequitas Caelum spoke.
Do not be afraid, I am here to retrieve my Swordsman. The LVM is borne through the Therian bloodline, so this is only fitting…
Mereth’s snout thrust up and to the side with an unnatural jerking motion, twisting the cervical vertebrae apart. Warfell leaped forward to catch him, but the comate body collapsed on her as though shoved forward. Danica’s blues opened wide to see a ghostly-fingered claw slice the reptilian throat in a concise three-inch line, spewing bluish-black blood into her eyes and mouth.
And she drank, damn the Gods of Goodness she sucked like a baby, opening her lips over the cut, feeling her sharp canines digging into the edges of the skin, milking the wound with her mouth and tongue.
British is not going to like this at all, she thought.
I know Swordsman, I know—drink.
Fort Salvos, negative altitude, four hundred seventy feet
Some distance from Warfell, a man pushed past one of the Therians. His name was Murdoc—the Dwarf. His compatriots simply called him the Dwarf or Sir, and that was fine with him.
Murdoc was an anomaly, possessing bright green eyes, the rich blond hair of the Tiborean Purebloods and a handsome face, free of the wrinkles and folds so common amongst his mountain Kinfolk. He was big too, five feet was very tall for his kind, yet his muscle-mass clearly offset the height, giving him the classic Dwarven stature with an upper body disproportionate to the legs.
He was exceptionally strong. Dwarves have tremendous stamina and agility but Murdoc far surpassed his brothers and sisters in these areas. His prowess with a massive two-handed Battle Axe was downright disturbing; in combat Murdoc commanded a very wide area, swinging the specially crafted double-bladed beast of a weapon with astounding deftness and accuracy. For up close and personal, Murdoc kept a two-foot section of iron chain shackled to his left wrist, which he would wrap about the fist for a game over left hook, or use as a whip or garrote—whatever the need, Murdoc always found a clever way of using the chain. His companions had a saying: ‘If he drops the Axe it’s over,’ and it was so very true.
At the young age of fifty, he was exiled from the Northern Mountains when he led a failed rebellion against the Elder Dwarves—a radical response to the government allowing a human presence at the Council of Elders. On his own, Murdoc chose to remain underground, making his path through Aleutha’s vast honeycomb of hollow beneath the surface. Traveling south, Murdoc stumbled upon the hidden society of Therians and they accepted him with open scaly arms. He naturally fell in with the Scouts—the warrior caste of the lizard-men. With them, Murdoc excelled, training the fighters, developing a powerful legion.
“Set camp here—keep it quiet back there,” he whispered. The lizard men were exhausted. They traveled a long way to get there.
“Yessss Dwarf,” said Murdoc’s Number One, a huge soldier named Cali.
The big little man without a country held the holster for Warfell’s Chesterborne in his hand. Murdoc wracked his brain. These people were messing everything up. Once the Queen was dead, the Dwarf fully intended to sack the Platinum Palace for himself and the Scouts. All that came to a crashing end, literally, the cave-in took more than half of his fighters—fifty more were slain in the tunnels by an unidentified band of humans with a ‘little demon girl’ the survivors said…
“Dwarf!” Cali returned at a lumbering jog. “You needssss to see!” he took off running and Murdoc followed, sprinting much faster than one would believe for his size and irregular shape.
Even the lizards sometimes had difficulties with direction and memory, critical skills for navigating the underworld. Dwarves can feel the northern magnetic pull. As well, rocky features, tunnels and limestone walls are remembered automatically just as humans put faces on everything they see—the Dwarven brain calculates position constantly. Murdoc knew where Cali was leading him…to the snake pit. He was not prepared for what he saw.
Murdoc walked casually down the length of a dead constrictor twice his height. He’d killed snakes before—had to, but three at once? That’s insane. He searched the cavern floor, looking for evidence…anything of use.
“Cali,” said the Dwarf.
“Yessss.”
“Rally the Scouts to me—the humans are very close. No one sleeps until we find them.”
Not far from the Dwarf and his Scouts, British and her Knights moved deeper, following the White Danes towards the fading scent of Danica, moving slow to keep it tight and quiet.
“Boss,” Tawnee whispered.
“Go,” replied the small warrior.
“Do you have some sort of death wish?” Shadoweye said it and British stopped to face her, chirping for Antigua and Torpa to wait.
“I knew what I was doing.”
“Bullshit, had Robert not tackled that thing…”
British moved closer, tapping Tawnee’s sternum with a forefinger.
“You got a fucking problem with how I handled that?”
“Maybe I do,” Shadoweye was fed up with British’s reckless behavior.
Suddenly, Antigua began to howl and bark, joined quickly by Torpa. The dogs were clearly upset and the tension between British and Tawnee was just too much for them. The girls moved for the canines to soothe the agitated beasts, temporarily setting differences aside.
Too late.
Not far, Murdoc twisted about, spreading his bright green orbs wide to the unmistakable sounds of hounds baying.
“MOVE! MOVE!” he howled himself, jogging and then running past the carcasses of the massive constrictors, his Number One at his side. Minutes later, the Commander and his First rallied what was left of the Scouts, assembling them for battle, screaming orders at full volume, shoving them forward…
British heard as did the others.
“Stay here all of you, I will be back in a minute, Antigua?” she chirped and they took off into the dark.
Shadoweye, Emili, Bigfoot, Logos, Tom, Iris and Torpa stood there, waiting. When Tawnee moved forward, Bigfoot held a hand out to stop her.
“She’s upset over Missus Danica, please don’t be mad at her Missus Tawnee.”
“Robert I am afraid for her. Something is pulling at me, telling me the boss is in great danger,” Tawnee two fingers of the massive hand with her own.
“More danger than normal? This is British we’re talking about here,” said Logos.
“Yes, listen, while I have the chance, have any of you noticed changes in the Aequitas Caelum over the last year. He can move heavy material objects now and he is so much easier to see, clearer. Tell me I’m not the only one,” Shadoweye kneeled down, placing hands to her face. “The Spirit has been getting stronger, and so has his Daughter.”
“Aye,” Tom knelt aside her. “We’ve noticed. I just assumed experience makes him more powerful.”
“He takes out the targets now with such lust,” Emili added at barely a whisper.
“Yes he does,” British interrupted and her Knights jerked like spooked kids. She held a palm out for peace. “My Father is much stronger than before and he has somehow boosted my mental and physical capacities. I do not know how, he will not tell me,” she took a knee before her friends—head low.
Her honesty moved Shadoweye’s heart, and the Assassin turned Knight felt something she had not felt in a long time, love.
“Only if you can forgive my stupidity, I started all of this, I need to stop it and get Danica back.”
“I do boss, and we will.”
“Thank you,” British replied, lifting her head to the distant clatter of the approaching Company of Therians. “They are coming, and they have a Dwarf in front, a big one too.”
“Really?” Logos asked, his mind racing. Dwarves are not the kind to form alliances with humans, let alone other…he realized what he was thinking.
“Who, I wonder,” Emili.
“Does it matter?” Bigfoot spread his massive arms wide, clenching his fists, loosening up. He could clearly hear the lizard men coming now.
“Okay, spread out and give me a line, move!” British stepped forward several paces and removed another bioluminescent tube.
Seconds later, Murdoc broke free of a wide tunnel, entering the open expanse at a walk. His Therians filed in behind him. He took note of the opposition: Two big dogs, five humans, two Dwarves—no, a Dwarf and a kid. The little tot was stepping out with one of the white hounds, really?
Murdoc walked forward, a hand back to his men.
“Dwarf?” Cali warned.
“Hold,” the firm reply as the rogue Warlord approached the girl. She was a young woman, a pretty woman—small, very small. Murdoc came within striking distance and stopped.
“You the Demon-girl?”
“None other, do you know who I am?
“Don’t care—this here be my cave ya wee lily tender-bottom.”
British yanked her head back in surprise. No one ever insulted her like that and it felt—oddly welcomed. She grinned, then frowned when a Battle Axe weighing more than she came crashing through. She leaped to the side, barely evading the out of nowhere strike.
“RA!” belted the Dwarf, twirling the handle above his head and sending the massive chopper down again. The pixie rolled as the metal struck the stone flooring with a shower of blinding sparks, coming to a stand with the Coralo Machete and Buck Skinner out. About them, the Therians charged, engaging the small line of humans and hounds.
The wide-open spans came alive with the flashes, sparks and ringing of the steel and iron in the dark. British snapped another green-stick and tossed it fifty feet away, lending an eerie glow to the scene—enough for her Knights to see better.
“BE STILL!” Murdoc slammed the axe into a stalactite, bringing the tree-trunk sized column down with a flash of scattered light and a rumble from the ceiling. Again he swung the heavy blade impossibly fast, chasing after British like an oiled pig at the City Fair.
Suddenly, Fey slapped a boot down, changing direction and thrusting her frame towards the brute Dwarf, swiping the Coralo at the handsome face. She missed, but caught a good forearm slice with the Skinner. Murdoc roared and launched an uppercut swing with the left fist coming inches shy of her chin as British jerked back in time.
Too late, the iron chain strafed her neck and jaw, slinging the small warrior backwards several paces to land with a grunt.
“NO!” Robert John Stone yelled, thrusting his opponent away and squaring off with the huge Warlord.
Murdoc dropped his Axe with a ‘clang’ and forearms struck one another over and again as the men blocked each other’s blows. Six contacts and Bigfoot’s radius bone snapped—the seventh plowing across his face, sending Rob down with the world spinning.
British spit blood, shaking her head. Okay, watch that lefty, her thoughts as she leaped, bounding three times, vaulting from Bigfoot’s shoulder and slinging the Buck Skinner mid-air. It found a meager home in a thick thigh as the pixie landed before her worthy opponent.
He swung the meat hook paws repeatedly, British dodging wide, meeting the iron chain with the Machete several times. He lunged for the Axe, she lunged for her Skinner, snatching the handle and dragging the razor edge through the meat of the leg.
“YAAA!” howled the mad Dwarf, finally grasping his precious chopper, batting the side of the blade helplessly at the little demon stuck on his thigh like a steel bear trap.
British absorbed three feeble broadside hits and rolled aside, leaving the skinner just so…
Murdoc’s fourth swipe hammered the knife through his own femur bone all the way into the marrow. The Dwarf hit the deck screaming bloody murder, both hands clutching for the imbedded blade. British did not hesitate; she struck, sinking the Machete deep in the deltoids of the right shoulder. Murdoc rolled and somehow threw the cunning little demon fifteen paces away. He then rose to a shaky stand and yanked the Buck Skinner free with a growl, letting it drop to the granite.
“Not so tender,” he snarled, holding the Axe one handed, stretched far behind him with the shackled left hand out to his adversary—index finger pointing. “Still be my cave.”
“Sure buddy—don’t step on my knife ya moron—cut a toe or sumpin’,” British pointed, setting forth a shit-eating grin and the Dwarf simply lost it.
“C’MERE YA LITTLE SHIT!” the Axe came singing, striking the floor yet again…
Shadoweye moved her Scimitar through the stale air with a different style this time; thrusting the blade about as a whip was no longer an option. A quick glance to the side revealed British struggling against that monster of a Dwarf—the mighty Bigfoot on deck. They were losing! She had to do something now!
Nearby, Emili Swift was in a panic. Seeing her boss take a beating like that broke her nerve quickly and the lizard men seemed to sense the fear in the girl’s heart. They doubled up on the young Knight, putting her on the defensive. Within seconds, she was swinging her Tiborean Longsword desperately to fend off the crude short swords, axes, claws and tails coming at her from all directions.
Iris saw this and reacted. She was frustrated as well. Her form of fighting was hand-to-hand with mouth contacts—not an effective method against ten-foot lumbering lizards. She ran and struck the floor, bounding high to snatch a head and twist. The Arenthian sprang from those shoulders to take on Emili’s aggressor, strafing her talons across the underside of the neck and jabbing deep in each eye. She turned with a smile of excitement.
“Stick with meh sweet…”
Emili lay sprawled on deck, hollow green eyes staring blindly to the ceiling—short sword imbedded in her gut. Iris froze in place, her heart devastated.
Shadoweye appeared.
“MOVE FOOL!” she belted out and Iris snapped to her senses, whipping around to catch a hatchet with her open hands, snatching the weapon away from its owner and lunging for the throat with her fangs spread wide and a face full of tears.
Nearby, Tom Snow encircled his small friend Logos, lashing his Epee Foil like lightning, stabbing with his long Poniard, keeping the enemy at bay as his partner flung daggers into the bellies and necks of the massive opponents. Both men wanted so desperately to unsling the shotguns and go to town, but Logos already warned everyone—they were underneath a massive bed of cracked, pre-weakened limestone. A single gunshot would most likely kill them all.
On deck, Bigfoot cracked a swollen eye—not three paces away from him British and the brute exchanged missed swings. As Murdoc let loose, so the pixie would dodge and then strike with one of the two small blades, connecting only with chain or Axe. The Dwarf was good, too good.
Robert’s eye shot wide when Murdoc threw a short left and grabbed the iron links as they wrapped about the slender neckline.
“GOTCHA!” chimed the Dwarf with utter glee, raising the now struggling little creature high by the throat, preparing to dash her on the…
“Let her—GO!” Bigfoot whispered and shouted from behind, reaching around the cheek, hooking the right eye socket with his two middle fingers and yanking back with all of his considerable might. Murdoc rode with it, whipping his head about, releasing his grip on the chain, sending British to the ground gasping for air. Blood coursed from the damaged eye, but the Dwarf smiled wide, left fist already twisting the chain about the metacarpals.
&nbs
p; And Robert saw it too—he saw those iron-wrapped knuckles booming in. Saw the flash, heard the ringing, did not feel a damn thing—even in the slow-motion fall, or when his face bounced on the granite floor.
Before the blackness overcame him, Bigfoot imagined he saw a tall, platinum haired warrior running in from a side tunnel—gleaming Longsword high, Aequitas Caelum floating beside her—a Ghost, that’s right, they know a real Ghost, don’t they?
“Warfell? Missus Danica?” he asked no one.
British heard and looked, a smile breaking out over her face like never before, joy consuming her heart.
“DANICA!” she shouted.
“NOT NOW!” roared Murdoc, grabbing her leather vest with the right, pulling back with that left.
“MEEP!” Fey squeaked as she rose again in the air—that welcomed sight of Danica dropped every bit of guard she had going—now she was about to pay dearly for it.
The fist wrapped in iron vaulted forward.
Warfell’s Thronesword was there, taking the muscular arm clean at the knotty elbow.
Murdoc screamed with the rage of a thunderhead, kicking British like a leather ball at his new assailant—a tall human bitch with long bright white hair.
The two women tumbled to the ground locked in each other’s arms, and were they laughing? Would they even dare? Pumped with rage and raw adrenaline, Murdoc was about to charge forth, when the tip of a thin Scimitar protruded from his breastplate. He looked down helplessly as the skinny sword disappeared and his three-chambered heart burst apart within his ribcage.
“Okay your cave, ya wee…lil’ ten…,” the insane Mountain Dwarf exhaled sharply and dropped dead.
Five paces away, Danica and British squeezed each other impossibly tight, reveling in the joy of being alive. The last of the fighting flew by them like wind on a mountain, the sounds of metal clashing a distant, fading thunder of oblivion.
“Thought I’d lost you partner.”
“Almost did. Listen, we’ve gotta get out of here, I’m still on mission for your Dad.”
