by J A Stone
“What?”
I see you have enlisted the Swordsman
The Ghost of Caelum Fey spoke loud and clear from behind. Warfell spun about and squeaked like a mouse, jumping in the saddle and almost falling from Rarity’s wide back like a startled idiot. She pointed a finger carefully and whispered to the floating Spirit.
“That was on purpose.”
We need to talk.
The Spirit began to debrief his Daughter.
I have located the man with black hair and a white eye. He is known by the Elders as Hosta. The Swordsman did not enlist with them, they could not accept her history of law enforcement. You and she have sought a path through the mountains and beneath them.
It bothered Warfell more than a little that the Spirit would not speak to her directly, only of her in the third person and at most times in past tense. Otherwise, she was enthralled with the gentle nature and modest behavior of the Ghost. Actually, hidden eyes and ears could be an amazing benefit in the field; the possibilities were endless.
She listened and spoke when she felt she could contribute. British was right, the target was indeed inside Witcher’s Wand, a peak distinguishable by its height, bursting forth at six thousand feet above its multiple neighbors coming in at a modest average of four thousand. This was the long western tail that eventually thickened into the Northern White Mountains. They were still an easy four days away.
Old City of Tibor Proper, outskirts
The two road worn riders stabled the mounts and found a meager room, falling fast asleep immediately.
Two hours into the morning equifade, they left to buy provisions, gear and tack for the climb.
“Suppose we can let the ponies roam?”
“Aye, Rarity will keep close and look out for, um Bob,” Warfell answered as they sauntered up to a local arms dealer. The sign above the door read, JIMBOS GUN SHACK in bold letters.
Inside, the elf girl bellied up to a long glass counter.
“She can’t stay,” a heavy-set woman pointed to the girl, speaking to the tall woman.
“But my friends here are Sapphire,” British let a dozen of the sparkling blue rocks tinkle onto the glass.
“What’s your pleasure,” spoken as a chubby palm covered the gems and slid back to the owner, “name’s Jimbo.”
“My name is Ora Lee and this is my little Sister, Ana,” Danica interrupted. “The Lees are famous mountain climbers, we need to outfit for the peaks Jim.”
“It’s JIMBO—Jim’s a boy’s name,” the proprietor insisted and both girls nodded blindly.
“May I look at the 215 Chesterborne?” Fey asked. The woman reached over and retracted the shotgun from the pegboard.
“With the shorter barrel, this late model 215 SA was a limited production. It’s less accurate on the yards but devastating on the feet,” Jimbo gave British the unloaded weapon. “Designed for quail hunting, Chesterborne recommends scattershot rounds, of which she holds ten in the magazine and one in the chamber. She’s semiautomatic but has no way to cool down, so I’d never recommend a rapid-fire.”
“Jimbo, you know your firearms. But the Chesterborne Foundry also made the 215 barrel compatible with 222 and the triple-deuce riot gun. Give me both, I can snap the honeycomb shroud in place…like…this!”
British removed the tension barrel shroud from the riot shotgun and snapped the cool down mechanism into place.
“Kid that there is a whole new one, Jimbo is impressed.”
“Thanks. Got a Scimitar?”
“Jimbo does not carry swords little cutie,” the large woman grinned, now looking at the gems and wondering why she was so grossly overpaid. “You can get more Missy, hold on, I got three…FIVE boxes of quail shot,” Jimbo was speaking from behind the counter. “Aaaaand I got a web belt that’ll hold seventy rounds,” she stood back up smiling ear-to-ear, holding the green belt and the boxes in her meaty arms.
“That will be awesome Jimbo,” British smiled wide. “Danica, do you need anything?”
“My existing armament rarely changes,” Warfell pulled a fan of her white silk hair behind an ear and bowed respectfully.
“ROPES!” Jimbo belted out. “Ya’ll need ropes, hold on, I’ll hook you guys up,” she left and the girls laughed.
Southernmost Peaks of the White Mountains
The following day Warfell and Fey sat tall in the saddle, observing the peaks from several miles away. Even a lesser range is commanding—the snow-capped spires and jagged foothills an impressive sight for anyone.
“I love the highlands,” Danica breathed the crisp air. “You?”
“Meh,” the teenager scoffed, patting Bob’s neck. “We need to sweep around wide, find a nook or a cave to stash the saddles and set these boys to graze,” all business.
“Aye boss, through here?”
“That’ll do, Yah!”
They trekked higher, slowly, painstakingly scouting on foot before riding the mounts forward in half-mile increments. They had to make certain no human being could see them coming in.
Witcher’s Wand
On the Equifade, the Spirit appeared again, this time scouting a perimeter for the girls, guiding them to the foot entrance of a cave before dematerializing.
“Okay, that’s just a crack,” Warfell knew she could slither in she just wanted to protest.
“You have issues with substrata?” British was peering into the abyss.
“Beneath the ground level soil, yes. Within a mountain’s belly, no.”
“Works for me,” British made no bones, popping into the thin gouge and disappearing.
Outside, Danica opened a small pouch, nervously tossed a red pill in her mouth, took a deep breath, and slinked through into the blackness—immediately bumping into Fey.
“Sorry,” she whispered, closing her blue eyes so they might adjust faster.
The passage was indeed thin, yet opened up wider in less than fifty feet. Warfell knew this way would not serve a speedy exit path at all. Still, stripped of gear and desperate, she bet she could keep time with the little pixie ahead of her if the need arose.
They rested after several hours, creeping along with a solitary bioluminescent stick, Fey keeping that half covered at all times. In a wide magma chamber, the two began to see the incredible marble understructure.
“Metamorphic rocks are very strong, it’s estimated that nearly seventy percent of Witcher’s Wand is pure marble, enough to build a tower into space,” British whispered to the soft echo from the crystalline minerals surrounding them. “Here is where we ascend, Dad says there are ancient foot holds, carved by the Dwarven Kin,” the girl began searching—it did not take long.
Dwarves are hearty folk with legs that will pump like water turbines all day long. Danica Warfell was a six-foot human with beautiful legs that gave up a long way down. Nowhere to rest but standing in place, nothing to do but keep climbing.
After an eternity, Danica saw British dash out of sight onto a ledge above. She found lost strength and finished the climb, plopping on her back within seconds of reaching the hand carved deck, maybe twenty feet wide and ten deep. She smiled when she saw a normal set of stairs just beyond a regressed threshold.
“Thank the Mountain Gods,” she whispered, but Fey scampered up close touching her lips to Danica’s ear and speaking almost imperceptibly.
“This point forward, they will have sentries and not the normal kind, savvy? Even our breathing will carry a reverb.”
Warfell nodded, rising to her noodle legs quietly as Fey tossed the light tube back the way they came.
Damned if I could climb backwards down that, she thought, watching the yellow glow disappear in the folds of blackness.
They took rest, ate, wrapped the soles of their boots in soft suede, and then ascended the steps carefully. Danica held her Thronesword in front, two soft padding paces behind her partner. She had no idea how high they were. Time as well seemed to lose its voice.
It was a very long stretch until they sa
w a distant light and heard voices above.
“Keep it tight, Davisi found a Rock Pony outside—says it was groomed and recently saddled—not likely a stray,” a man with a deep voice boomed through the echo.
“All quiet down here, I’ve been to the bottom twice in the last eight hours.” The girls below knew that was a lie. “What’s Choppy got for Dinner?”
“No clue,” the man answered, and Warfell saw British’s eyes change to those of a wild animal. Then the pixie took off at full speed taking the marble steps in leaps and bounds.
By the time Warfell reached the next leveled deck it was over. Fey stood over the men, breathing deep, roving her eyes over the bodies as if searching for something lost.
“Nice makeup,” she commented on the red dots covering the girl’s face.
“That’s weird Warfell,” British lost the comparison. “It’s bone-chips, brains and blood.”
“Cosmetics for today’s exceptionally active woman,” Danica tried to make it stick.
“That’s just not normal.”
“Normal—really? Normal rode home last week, sweetie.”
Two more sentries on another landing above were smoking vines and talking when the little elf girl stormed in at full speed, axe flailing and cutting mercilessly through them. This time, Fey held back the critical blow on one, a woman with short hair and face tattoos. For her, British drove her Buck Skinner in a wedge between the ball and joint of the Assassin’s kneecap, causing indeterminable pain unless perfectly still. She held the little knife with a firm grip and lowered her face to the woman’s agonized grimace.
“Hosta, lookin for a chap named Hosta, killed my Father, you know that same old storyline,” Fey brought her ear closer, expectant of an answer.
“Hosta—in the—galley,” the woman stammered the truth, no honor amongst the Gudoshi whatsoever.
Danica kept a furtive watch as this happened, leaning in to see from time to time. She had an idea.
“Boss, ask her who paid for Caelum Fey and which Elder signed off on the final order. She gave up his current location pretty easy, maybe this one can live?”
“Isa—bella—Frantz,” the captive croaked through the intense pain of the fat knife in her knee. “Elder Greenbow, Elder Greenbow! Please?”
“You know, removing the wedge will hurt more than putting it there did,” British told the Assassin-Traitor plainly.
“Less painful to just—” this time it was Danica with the Thronesword, taking the nape unexpectedly and ending the turmoil. They had what they wanted.
“That was what I needed to hear, thank you partner. Okay at this stage it is all about ending Hosta and Greenbow. I swear, I’m gonna—”
“Easy boss, c’mon,” Warfell made for the stairs.
Gudoshi Chow Hall
“Kiss my perfect apple ass it’s all of them,” Danica was whispering to herself from the shadows when Fey’s head came aside hers. From across the crowded galley, a man shouted.
“BLESS THE WAND FOR ROCK PONY!”
“YA HAAAA!” Everyone shouted back. Now Warfell saw the plates piled high with fresh meat, and the men and women digging in as if it were their last meal.
“Oh Bobby,” British’s eyes grew glassy for a second, quickly snapping back to task. They killed Bob! She was about to attack when the air turned cold. The atmosphere shimmered at the far wall and thirty men, workers, Guildsmen and Elders alike turned around to see.
The Spirit of Caelum Fey materialized before Elder Greenbow. Nobody dared moved, but the old man was a seasoned veteran of a violent life, his fears where not easily awakened. He reached a hand out to touch the ether, the hazy misty robes.
When he did, the Ghost began to swirl in the air around the old man, talking to him in a deep, persistent voice, asking him what he’d done over and again.
What have you done—tell me what you have done.
“NO! Noooo!” Greenbow clasped palms to ears in an attempt to abate the insistent voice of death.
Warfell and Fey appeared behind the astonished group of men and women, allowing the first victims to announce their presence.
This time, Danica did not watch or keep an eye out. This time, the Swordsman dove in with abandon, secretly wishing her new partner might take notice—she had skills too.
“MY DICK!” British shouted with a point across the galley to the man with long black hair and one white eye. Warfell was closer, she worked her way forward, and it did not take long until they were face to face with gleaming blades before them.
Warfell did not hesitate, hearing the screams of terror coming from the rapidly thinning crowd behind and the wails emanating from the Elder on her left side, she chose the fastest path of justice she knew.
Warfell drew her long barreled Chesterborne and clipped her boss’ mark between the eyes with a sharp ‘CRACK!’
Everyone hit the deck but Danica, even British as the ear-splitting reverb threatened to tear through the skulls of everyone there.
Warfell noticed there wasn’t a single firearm in the room, nobody was packing and for good reason.
“That was close partner,” now British unslung her new shotgun, leveling the wide barrel at the few remaining alive. In the distance, her Father was still harrowing the old man, and that old man was now telling him why Isabella contracted the kill and why he agreed to accept the money for the Gudoshi.
“LISTEN UP!” little British barked. “I have but one more life to take and I will leave your home forever,” she warned the existent.
“Make a move and I open fire, damn the odds,” Danica added as British moved closer to the Spirit and the Elder, now intertwined in mist.
“Father you are my Justice from Heaven,” she spoke with respect.
“AEQUITAS CAELUM! AEQUITAS CAELUM!” the old man repeated the words in an ancient dialect and then collapsed dead.
He, he killed him! Warfell thought and the Ghost looked directly at her. Her heart skipped a beat—Danica averted her eyes.
Daughter, leave this place with the Swordsman. Take whatever wealth they have. I will watch over these men still breathing on this fade.
The girls did not question, moving quickly.
Frantz Estate, City of Oceanport
“Isabella? Isabella! The tailors are here for your gown fitting my Lady Grace!”
“It’s about time, I’ve a mind to throttle you Gretchen, YES YOU! Get out of my way!” Isabella pushed beyond her faithful servant of twenty years, clacking her heels on the polished granite tiles between her sitting room and the chamber door.
“Must I do everything myself around this goddamned place,” she mumbled as she drew the wide doors back. “You’re not my,” Isabella stammered with eyes wide. “Who let you in here?”
Terrified, she stumbled backwards as Warfell and Fey came forward to command the room. Nearby, Gretchen dropped a glass vase and screamed. British allowed the shouts from down the hall a moment to echo as people were discovering the trail of bodies leading to that very threshold.
The beautiful girl with a heart of stone set her large brown eyes on the woman who contracted her Father’s assassination, thrusting the bitter question into the air with the hot stench of poisoned vengeance on her lips.
“Isabella Frantz, do you know who I am?”
*
Father, I am lost now.
The rage has become me, the
Tattered leash—it tugs to be free.
Father, I am lost now.
My cold intension’s play, see the
Cost of my hand this bloody day.
British Fey
Case #43 The Dwarf with a Can-do Attitude
Fort Salvos
“LISTEN EVERYONE, WE’RE bringing in a staff to help manage things around here. As you all know, Garret has married,” British Fey paused for the smiles and pats on the back of her Good Knight and Chief of Security. “There will be changes, we are growing and this is good. Now that the war in Tibor is over, it is a time to build,” t
he pixie came down the few steps, approaching her Knights all gathered near a large table. She removed cloth shrouding, revealing a diorama, a small-scale replica of Fort Salvos, with some interesting additions.
“That’s impressive British, did you make this?” Tawnee touched fingers to the glass and the model’s lights came on. British leaned in with a grin.
“It’s the same lights we have installed now, see?” she pointed with a gleam in her eye. “And no, I didn’t make this—Jeff did.”
“Jeff?” asked Danica.
“That’s a weird name, Jeff,” Bigfoot mused with a huge finger tapping his chin.
“Is that the Dwarven-Kin you were talking to?” Tawnee asked, realizing British was unaware she had been listening. “I mean, I heard that some-fuckin’-where, ahem!” Shadoweye faked a cough, averting her entire face, stepping behind Bigfoot.
“Jeff’s an applied physicist and architect, brilliant dude, he’s says some things in my language and I’ve tossed some ideas at him. Guys he built this scale model after a one night tour of this place and we talked shop the whole time. Seriously, he remembered all this detail,” British moved her browns from Knight to silent Knight, seeing the screaming questions in their collective eyes. Robert John Stone could not hold back.
“Missus British had a date—with a man,” adding the last for his own self-clarifications.
“Can he fight?” Warfell asked for herself.
“Is heh handsome?” Iris asked with a sparkle in her greys and hands clasped together.
“Dwarves are not handsome fellows,” Tawnee crossed her arms, suddenly displeased with the entire exchange.
“She’s right, we are not a good lookin’ pack o’ lads,” Logos offered unashamedly.
