by J A Stone
“Well, don’t just stand there—HELP ME!” Snow complained like a fool as British attacked them waist level, felling the three men in seconds.
“Damn boss, what happens when you get a weapon?”
“Lots of cool stuff, c’mon,” she motioned her friends through the bullpen, taking the last threshold, peering both ways and darting two fingers up and down as Tom hoisted Iris over a shoulder with a grunt, (from Tom). They moved quick, darting across to a supply closet and dashing inside just in time as more armed men marched down the hall outside the holding cell.
Inside, British liberated the long wooden handle of a mop, found a short bladed utility knife, and began pilfering through the cleaning chemicals as Snow used fresh towels to expose and hastily re-dress the wound beyond all others, sucking air through teeth at the puncture clean through the torso, already beginning to seal.
“Buggers lass,” he whispered.
“Hide meh somewhere,” Iris replied.
“What? No,” Tom tried, but.
“She’s right, if we can’t take the palace, we can’t leave,” British panned the large closet. “Up there, top shelf, make a towel bed with stacked linen in front,” she touched the Arenthian’s cheek as Tom hoisted her up into place. “You take a rest and we’ll tap on the door in a little bit.”
“Aye boss, if ya bring meh a live one I can fight.”
“Goddamned right we will, crack that hatch Tommy.”
Snowman grabbed a long screwdriver and then carefully opened the door to an empty hall.
Danica Warfell eased silently along the rafters, approaching the vaulted chamber with the waterfall. The underground palace was lavishly built, an opulent retreat within an architectural masterpiece of columned-support engineering. Danica secretly decided to take and keep the facility for Salvos; already wondering how long it would take to tie the palace into the substrata network, connecting Salvos and this amazing complex.
Warfell’s imagination got the best of her.
“You can come down from there,” said a woman from the far side of the atrium. She was Danica’s age with long auburn hair, she was examining an array of swords on the wall before her. “I’m not sure what to use against your famous Bayonet Sword.”
“I no longer carry the Mighty Thronesword,” Warfell said from twenty paces, having landed in silence. She brought Tung-Vohra forward, leveling the Katana and snapping her wrist tight creating a bell-tone from the edge swiftly cutting the very air.
“Where did you get that weapon?”
“From Goatfoot himself.”
“Did you know the handle is carved from his femur bone?”
“I do now,” Warfell actually didn’t expect that. Buggers! she thought. No wonder the Savage Spirit was so connected!
“Don’t any of you people read?” Mica Solace chose a Rapier from the array, hefting the thin, bendable blade with a pommel shrouded by twisting crossbars.
Both predators heard fighting in the distance. Danica distinguished two separate confrontations and grinned at her adversary.
“Enough talk, ON GUARD!” Mica closed the distance, raising the Rapier with the right and slinging something with the left. Danica lurched her head sideways, narrowly evading the poison needles, just as the two precision weapons met with an echoed ring.
Solace was good—too good. Within seconds, Warfell found herself on the defensive, deflecting the lightning slashes of the Rapier one after another. Both weapons danced in the air between wielders, until Danica realized what she was doing wrong.
Not far, the door to the supply closet opened abruptly—a large soldier shoved in roughly.
“HEY!” the man pounded on the door, now being held shut from the outside. “Great, well that’s just great,” he scanned the closet and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes…
He burst them wide half a second later—something was breathing in there!
Outside, once the screams emanating from the supply room ceased, British and Tom ran at full speed, now sporting real weapons, he a pistol and a dagger, she a Cutlass. At a hallway crossroad, several Raven Rebels were searching and British doubled her speed, careening in and plunging deep before the astonished men realized they were under attack. Snowman joined the melee, throwing the dagger, snatching another pistol and unloading both of his clips into the crowd at face level…
Seconds later, Snow and Fey dropped existing weapons, hefting even better ones. Tom shucked a riot shotgun, stuffing a repeater in his waistline. British chose a Scimitar, a repeater and as many knives as she could carry.
Far above, Shadoweye burst into the warehouse full of Raven insurgents. With nowhere to go and dozens of rebels between her and the Knights below, she engaged with fury, slashing her long, slightly curved Scimitar—cracking rounds with her pistol.
Tawnee did not care anymore—having failed her British. She drove through the men and women with abandon, her only concern now was to kill them all—clear a path. If the boss was successful down below, she would need an escape route and this was it, the warehouse being very near the edge of town. She could get this part right.
“Can’t trust in me,” she took a head.
“To do my JOB?” she dodged a Longsword and gouged a throat wide on a horizontal sweep.
“What GOOD AM I?”
Twelve remaining men couldn’t figure out what she was saying—eleven.
Warfell was an accomplished Swordsman to be modest, yet she laughed at herself, spinning and kicking her opponent away for breathing space.
“You find…humor in this,” Mica was panting hard.
“I do,” Danica replied. “The years swinging the Thronesword have become me,” Warfell assumed a different, wider stance, wrapping her second fist about the pommel just above the wolf’s head.
The Katana is a unique weapon, best handled with precision force using both hands and the accommodating stances. Now Danica brought the glimmering steel aside her face, casting her ice blues upon Mica Solace with confidence.
The old woman who-was-not charged—tossing another set of needles in an arc, opposite of the Rapier’s strike, forcing Danica to accept one of the two; she took the thin blade deep in the shoulder.
“HA!” Solace shouted with a spin, but Tung-Vohra was there, stopping the thin blade cold with a tight shower of sparks. Warfell then slid the pommel down and thrust the wolf’s head forward into Mica’s face, cutting her in jagged lines across the cheek. “BITCH!” she screamed and leaped, back-flipping twice for distance.
But the Katana was there, lashing away. Warfell gave no room for breath, advancing on her worthy opponent like a ravenous Badger. Now Danica controlled her adversary, waiting only for the mistake that was almost there.
She failed to catch the skinny girl creeping into the high ceilinged atrium with a Marksman’s Longbow notched and drawn.
Tom Snow was cut off from British in the fight. Surrounded, he ducked, dodged, whipped his dagger about and used the empty shotgun as a bat. A hunting knife found a home and the Snowman lurched to one knee with a grunt. A boot struck his head and Tom saw black.
He heard growling, men screaming and the muffled thuds of bodies striking the floor. Three seconds later, small hands clasped his cheeks.
“Stick with meh, handsome,” It was Iris.
When the world stopped spinning, Snow gazed out to see British and Iris standing tall over a dozen bodies.
“Did I miss all of that?” he asked as he stood.
“Nah, several of them are yours. You okay?” British crouched, tossing the Snowman a freshly loaded automatic rifle. He snatched the piece from the air with force.
“I’m good, how many more are there?”
“Let’s find out,” Fey smiled and the three continued towards the sounds of a swordfight echoing.
Fifty feet down the hall, they saw Fawnesa taking aim with the bow and Tom opened fire—missing. The skinny girl bolted away.
“That’s MEH!” Iris chased after her impossibly fast,
snapping fingers and pointing towards the fight in the atrium. “Go, go!” she hailed as she rounded the corner out of sight.
They ran side by side behind their guns, bursting through the threshold of the echo chamber too late.
Warfell was on deck in a pool of sticky red-black blood, twisting over slowly to bring her face close to Madam Solace. As British and Tom jogged closer, they saw the feathered fletching of three bolts protruding from Danica’s back. At five paces, they heard what she was saying to the woman…
“You picked the wrong batch of folks to fuck with. Hope it was worth it,” she hissed the words as Tung-Vohra moved free of the torso with slow deliberation.
“My Daughter shall—” Solace fell silent as Warfell violently twisted the blade within the ribcage, ripping her blackened heart apart.
British and Tom helped her stand.
“Pull them out,” Danica said, but they paused. “Just do it!” She insisted and they did, grimacing. Warfell didn’t make a sound. Seconds later, Iris jogged back into the vaulted chamber.
“Lost her, a hidden door,” the Arenthian replied, placing hands to knees. British came close and held her as Tom helped Danica to a nearby couch.
Tom dressed the girls’ wounds as British scoured the complex, returning only minutes later.
“It’s all clear—wait!” she crouched, Tom leveled a rifle, Danica pulled her Chesterborne—they heard a noise.
Scraping of metal on tile—the four stood to see Shadoweye dragging Fawnesa’s lifeless body by a stick-like arm, the Assassin was limping, covered in blood, arrows in her shoulder, arm and right leg.
When Shadoweye saw the boss, her face burst forth with tears and she let go the skinny wrist.
“I’m sorry—I’m so,” she collapsed from exhaustion and loss of blood.
Even British could not believe it when she saw what Tawnee had done in the tunnels above, how many men and women lined her path of destruction from the warehouse down, literally chopped apart where they fell—looked like most of them were trying to escape.
*
Case #42 The Bad Problem—About Murder
City of Moor
WHEN I WAS alive, I had a bit of a problem. You see, I loved jewels: diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, I was infatuated by the crystalline structures within, the gleam in the light, the sparkle and the power behind the wealth. Attaining them defined my young life.
As much then as now, I must have them—will suffer through anything to get them. This is why I do what I do, helping out bright-minded individuals with vision such as yourself. What can I say, it is my passion and you are welcome.
I did not live very long—stabbed in the neck because I showed a pretty girl my gem collection. She said she was my girlfriend, she wasn’t, never kissed me either. She was however a twelve year old sociopath with a nose for treasure and a nasty little knife. My point is you’re gonna die too Sammy, probably tonight if you don’t do exactly as I tell you, when I tell you.
You wanted to be rich—wealthy beyond your wildest dreams—you wanted this.
What? Don’t speak to me in the open fool, shut your mouth Samuel Barnaby. There, over there with the tall man, (he’s a hired gun). See the kid, the girl? Her father owns most of the pubs on this end of town. We’re going to follow them Sammy, just like we did yesterday—gotta learn their patterns of movement.
You did well Samuel but I promised you something shiny today. Pull your dagger, left hand, press your shoulders tight against the wall…there’s a good chap. When I say—lash out, sink it in deep beneath the ribs and up with a rough twist.
Ready in one, two, three…
I’m so proud of you Sammy, such a good boy! Grab the suede pouch, here. He has another in his back pocket. Take the gun.
Now run Sammy, run, run, RUN!
You need to eat before we do this, go in there, the Golden Goblet. This place is familiar. Nod to the Bouncer and give him a ruby for a table in the back.
Okay, everyone seems cool. Take the small booth behind these two pretty girls—love that long white hair.
Be calm Samuel Barnaby, order the Goblet Dog and stay quiet, These bitches reek of money, I want to hear what they’re saying…
*
“All right, before we get to the mark, can we do our thing?”
“Yeah! Faces, Fears and Fun. Love it British. You start.”
“Okay Danica, Robby.”
“Bigfoot? He’s where he wants to be. He only thinks he’s afraid, and no, absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Seen him naked—too big. What about Logos?”
“Losing his confidence, he fears the loss of his leg, and no, stumps are gross. Okay, Iris?”
“She is strong British, real strong. She fears me, and no.”
“Agreed.”
“Tom Snow.”
“Tom is becoming a bad ass, he fears my Father, and no.”
“Bullshit British, you’d break him.”
“Nope…all yours Danica, what about Tawnee?”
“Tawnee is falling in love with you, she fears you don’t love her, and oh yes—are you kidding?”
“You would? Danica, I thought you weren’t a lesbian?”
“I’m not—seen her naked—you have too.”
“I cannot refute.”
“So tell me about the mark.”
“Dad says he’s a young man with long brown hair, brown eyes, handsome. To date, Dad has thirteen victims; all wealthy, all robbed of their jewels. No one knew him personally.”
“So, we have a serial killer.”
“Yeah, and he’s vicious too—brutally rapes the women and the men. Also of note, the victims said he was talking to someone as though that person were right next to him over his left shoulder, but no one was there, he was alone. And he planned well; knew exactly when to strike, when each victim was holding a lot of gems.”
“Fascinating, anything else?”
“Yeah, get this—dude has an eye that doesn’t blink and moves independently as though out of control—this happened quite a bit; so much so that people being stabbed to death specifically remembered a wandering left eye.”
“Wow, that’s really strange.”
“I know—right? C’mon, finish up. I wanna take a look around the neighborhood.”
“Sounds good partner, let’s do it.”
*
Don’t move a muscle til I say. They’re cops Sammy—Son of a bitch, they’re cops. Keep your calm Samuel Barnaby, it’s only two girls.
Change of plan—we do the job tonight, one step ahead of them, got it?
Okay, lets go Sammy, straight home to the apartment…go now.
Wake up Samuel—the equifade has begun my friend.
Listen, about the left eye—it’s the best way for me to see what you’re doing. Wait! What?
NO! I am not inside your head.
No, I would never do that.
Absolutely not, Sammy, you are over thinking this.
The cops? Are you kidding me? Sammy, look at what I got last night, look at it! Run your fingers through them. THIS is what I can do for you. THIS is all you need worry about. Once I get enough it will be southern beaches, sand and sunset equifades buddy. This is what you wanted—what you asked for.
It’s two stupid girls you idiot they are clueless because I taught you well.
No Sammy, I said you—once you get enough—are we back to this again? Listen, get your clothes on, we need to go to the market, eat and pick up a paper—see what they are saying about you.
Read the headline Sammy-boy. We are unstoppable my friend.
The Moorian
Mara 17th, Eventide Winter Edition
Southside Stabber Strikes Again!
The body of Gwyneth Mavers, Daughter of wealthy nightclub Baron Jacob Mavers, was found early this fade, brutally violated and dismembered in identical fashion as her unidentified bodyguard, bringing the death toll to fifteen.
A Spokesman for the Governor’s
Office has assured us they will catch the killer, now being called the Southside Stabber. To date authorities have found little evidence but rumors are circulating that Governor Taylor himself has requested the infamous Knights of Salvos to assist in the hunt for the Stabber; his Spokesman has declined further comment.
A lead Detective on the case spoke to this Reporter in confidence, describing the murder scenes as ‘the utmost of deranged insanity—evil in its purest state.’
I am so proud of you Samuel, what a good boy you are! I know—I KNOW, hearing about is the best, isn’t it?
Finish up. Change of plans, we are moving to Tibor.
Because the war is over, the purebloods won. With Atria dead and his Son on the Crown, there will be plenty of fresh opportunities for one as ambitious as yourself.
Don’t talk to me in the open, people will think you are crazy, cross the street up ahead and shortcut through the second alley.
While we walk, I want to tell you about murder.
I was killed over greed Sam—stabbed in the neck. But it’s okay, I don’t mind at all, because I learned so much from the experience. There was darkness and here I am! My point is, none of them feel any pain Samuel. It’s really a beautiful thing and I am just an artist, painting through the eye of a good friend—you Sammy.
Here, cut through here…
Okay don’t move—don’t move Sam—don’t move—it’s them.
Okay—okay you got twenty feet—when I tell you—run Sammy.
“Do you know who I am?”
Tell her no Sammy—tell her no. What are you doing? GET OFF YOUR KNEES! YOU FOOL!
BOOM!
Sammy? Sam?
Oh Samuel Barnaby, look what you’ve done.
Who are you? What are you doing?
STAY AWAY! NO! Get off me!
