Seven Devils

by J A Stone

  “Does he have an endowment?” Tom Snow asked catching a rapid-fire look from everyone. “What? Money!”

  “Nonsense,” Eventine Delacroix spoke in defiance. “A man or a woman is defined by their movements through our world in care of those around them.”

  “She talks scary sometimes like you do Missus British,” Bigfoot smiled, pointing a finger at the diorama. “So if this is the hangar we are building, what’s this building?”

  “THAT MY SLOPPY GIGANTOR,” a mouse-like voice came forth, “is your new hydroponics facility with a domed rock-fall garden that generates its own energy independently of Fey’s new hydrogen generator-coil. It will grow vegetables, big belly giant, v-e-g-e-t-a-b-l-e-s,” a man stepped into the vaulted chamber at Tower Main and all turned to look.

  Then the Knights gazed down with surprise at possibly the tiniest human anyone there had ever seen, and he was far from handsome.

  “NAME’S JEFF! And I am here to change your lives forever, as your newest Knight!” the very ugly little thing smiled a yellow-toothed grin with hands to hips in a ridiculous power pose.

  “Okay, please tell me it wasn’t a date,” Robert held a palm upside down, imagining how easy it would be to pick this repulsive looking creature up and toss it over the Honest Wall outside. He immediately did not like this asshole—not one damn bit.

  Jeff was a prick to everyone but British. Clearly a racist, his opinions and comments stabbed straight through the hearts of each person in the room. With every sentence, the collective Knights, Staff and Disciples individually stomached the insults to their peoples, cultures, intelligences and looks until the anger was thick in the air.

  Once Tawnee could stand it no further, she spoke for the group.

  “Wow, you are a dick Jeff.”

  “And you are failed member of third-string Assassin’s Guild,” Jeff shot back without missing a beat. “Now as I was saying, if you people can understand some simple science, I’ll give you the child’s version breakdown…”

  Later, British Fey sat at her desk as the tiny man paced back and forth in the expansive library.

  “Jeff, that did not go well,” British tried to assuage her new acquaintance, but the Dwarf would not have it.

  “Nonsense, they are a likeable lot, the stupid giant is only good for labor and the vampire needs to be cut up and labeled—aside from that, they seem like a good batch of henchmen.”

  Outside, around the corner, pressed tight against the wall, Tawnee and Danica barely held Bigfoot back by the arms, realizing just how impossible restraining such a man would be if he really decided to charge.

  “You are completely devoid of people-skills, are you a sociopath Jeffrey?” British continued inside the study chambers.

  “To the contrary, my dear I was raised in the Northern Gardens of Oceanport, I am just of a superior family line that’s the short of it.

  “Well, I love your ideas Jeff, but—” she tried.

  “Way beyond anything you have ever designed I’m sure, but I must applaud your rudimentary understanding. You alone can grasp at least some of what I am saying.”

  “You may leave now Jeff, your presence is no longer desired here, do you understand me?” British rose to face the small man, gazing down into the brilliant but hollow hazel eyes. It took a moment for the realizations to kick in and Jeff’s composure changed from smug confidence, to sorrow, to shameful hurt.

  “I…but I…I’m here to be a Knight of Salvos. I am more qualified than any of those fools outside…”

  “I thank you Jeff, but it just won’t work out for you here, please,” Fey motioned him to the threshold as half of her Knights against the opposing wall scrambled to get out of there with a cacophony of stirring and squeaking of boots on marble…

  Fort Salvos Gymnasium, later that evening fade

  “Where did you meet that fool?” Shadoweye asked as she held British’s feet, the pixie pumping out sit-ups one after another like a metronome.

  “Well,” she paused, holding herself up with arms behind. “He approached me in Tibor, recommended as a first-class scientist so I listened to some of his ideas.”

  “So he claims to have designed the ventilation system of the Solace home beneath the Proper?”

  “Yes, and I believe him,” Fey continued her set.

  Moments later, Eventine filled the threshold to the large chamber with the three young Knight Squires, Dobra, Howie and Raptor. The young men immediately began clearing a wide area for training.

  “Boss, do you wish us to return at a different time?” Eventine respectfully asked British, now switching places with Tawnee.

  “Carry on, I’d like to watch a little—see how far you guys are coming.”

  “Okay, you heard her men, line up,” Delacroix was an efficient trainer in all aspects of combat from fists to firearms. British said nothing to her yet, but everyone already agreed to vote her in as a full Knight.

  But Eventine was humble, wanting only to help the Salvos family grow. When asked if she wished to wear the armor, the Denga Master would smile and nod. ‘I do, but I must earn it through my actions,’ became her standard reply.

  “Dobra, choose the weapon,” Delacroix gave him an open palm.

  “I choose the Katana, Master,” the large muscular man bowed.

  “Good choice,” Eventine motioned to the skinny Raptor, a boy of twelve and the young Thief scampered to the racks, grabbing three practice blades and returning to pass them out.

  “Okay, the Katana works on similar principles as the Scimitar, the curve of the weapon lending additional kinetic energy to the contact through an arc. However, the spin is now offset and irregular, that is if the wielder attempts to swing in a manner consistent with a straight bladed weapon, does everyone follow?”

  The young men nodded quietly.

  “Okay Dobra, you chose, so you are in play first, defend my strikes using the Culver method I showed you. Remember, the stance must be wider—defense only, repost in kind, right?”

  “Yes Master,” Dobra assumed a defensive posture and Eventine attacked.

  Twenty feet away, Tawnee finished her set and watched aside British as the young man cautiously met and deflected the expertly placed strikes.

  “I like her,” Tawnee said offhandedly.

  “Me too, she thinks I like chicks,” British added.

  “Do you?” Tawnee turned to face her—inches away.

  “No,” she said, moving in and kissing Tawnee passionately for a lost moment in time…

  They pulled apart abruptly and stared at one another. British’s big brown eyes glassed over and she whispered softly. “Tawnee, I,” she reached for Tawnee’s hand.

  “Don’t do this to me British, you know I—”

  Tawnee stopped, suddenly noticing the silence of the gym. The girls looked to the side to see the boys and their Instructor staring with their jaws swinging low like four dumbfounded idiots.

  “I have lived. I can die now,” the twelve year old mumbled, moving both hands and sword to cover his rapidly growing angst.

  “RA!” Tawnee scoffed, leaping to a stand and running as fast as she could, almost knocking Dobra down to get out of there with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Well, shit biscuits that didn’t go good at all. Dammit-man, Fey thought as she gathered her stuff to leave—more than just embarrassed.

  Twenty feet away, Eventine smacked little Raptor, hard on the back of the head.

  Tower Main

  Danica Warfell stood solemn aside Tawnee Shadoweye as the Aequitas Caelum Vindictis spoke with his Daughter.

  There have been three murders in White Falls and two on the road between there and Fort Salvos. None of the victims knew the killer, yet they all say he is Dwarven, very small and exceptionally skilled. All of them were robbed of their wealth before they were killed.

  “Oh my gods, Dad, I may know this person, he may be a Dwarven-Kin recently expelled from the castle. Did any of the victims remember him being
a smart-mouth?”

  We know from experience the words of the insane are more often than not abrasive and cruel. I shall attempt contact again. I will return on the next equi-fade.

  “Thank you Father,” British took a knee as the benevolent Spirit dematerialized. Danica and Tawnee moved in closer. The air was tense. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Danica spoke to the boss.

  “You make a slutty move on my girl here, chump?”

  “What?” British was inordinately shocked by the words—chump? Tawnee snorted sharp like a bull and faced away but Danica continued.

  “Okay, both of you need to knock this shit off immediately. British, you cannot take or win her, she is not a prize.” Tawnee whipped about.

  “Am too a prize,” she rotated away, crossing arms beneath her breasts.

  “And YOU!” Warfell smacked her shoulder lightly. “Damn it all Tawnee, you know how you feel—act on it!” The former Assassin turned around to give them half her face, mostly staring at the tiles.

  “British,” Danica wasn’t done, not by far. “Don’t toy with people’s emotions like you do. I know it’s hard to express your feelings, but I also know you two are in love, I can feel it between you.”

  “We all love each other, Danica,” Fey tried.

  “Not like this, when you see Robert or hear his name, are you flushed with excitement?”

  “Is he baking biscuits?”

  “Stop that.”

  “Sorry,” British stepped closer to Tawnee and burned a hole through the floor with her eyes. “Tawnee, I have spent several years now living a nightmare of a life, but the one thing, the one person,” a lone tear fell down the pixie’s cheek and Tawnee hugged her tight without thinking.

  “I love you British—always have, since day one,” said Tawnee to the suede collar of British’s cape.

  “I love you too Tawnee. You make me want to live forever.”

  They held each other fast, finally giving in to the need to have one another close and reveling in the sensations of joy, peace and warmth each felt for the first time in their lives.

  Warfell was gone. She eased away with a smile in her heart and a song on her lips as she sauntered towards the galley where several of the Knights were gathered, awaiting news…

  “We have a new mark, and Robert? I think it’s that little fucker you liked so much,” she grabbed a pomegranate and tossed the orb up and down.

  “Also—British and the Tawn are doing it in the conference chamber, so AFTER ME!” she giggled and ran with the others knocking pots, stools and mugs over to give chase. Seconds later Danica rounded a corner and slid to a stop, soon tackled by Robert, Tom, the three boys and Garrett—most of the men of course.

  “Garrett? Do I need to speak to Samantha?” Tawnee tried not to smile, placing her hands to hips just as British was, trying her best to fake severity.

  “Um—please don’t?” the Chief of Security begged British and Tawnee like a kid caught red-handed trying to sneak-a-peek of two girls kissing, because he just was and did!

  Logos came running around the corner half a second later. He stopped and pivoted on his wooden leg with a finger in the air—promptly walking away as if he’d forgotten something in the galley—you know—like his dignity.

  Open Forestlands between Fort Salvos and White Falls

  “So what the Seven Hells was that about?”

  “Spat,” Shadoweye spoke as though nothing was wrong, hustling her mare next to Danica on Rarity.

  “Spat huh? But you two are just getting together, everything should be butterflies and rosie-pods,” Warfell felt a compelling interest in this relationship; these were her two greatest friends ever.

  “What can I say—I’m a spatter,” Tawnee smiled. “It’s all good, I’ll throw it on her tonight and she’ll scream like a little—”

  “Please stop.”

  “Yeah, with a don’t in the middle,” she closed her eyes. “Captain Danica gutter-brain. I swear you are as bad as the boys,” Tawnee was grinning like an idiot with her eyes still shut, lost in the memory of the previous night.

  “Are you hearing yourself speak?”

  “Boss!” Tom shouted from behind. “Carthage Down is just up ahead,” the Down was the nearest village to Fort Salvos though still more than eighty miles away. It was the scene of the first murder seven days past, so British was worried over the townsfolk and any possible anger towards her or the Knights.

  Blame is a blanket thrown wide to cover those trembling with misguided malice.

  “Thanks Snowman, LISTEN UP!” the small woman bounced forward on her huge Snowhorse. “Stay alert, we have no idea how we’ll be received.”

  “Who’s the law around here?” Danica asked.

  “Local Constable is an elected man named Dougal Kendrick,” Tawnee answered.

  “He’s expecting us,” Fey added.

  Carthage Down

  The body had been removed to the Down’s small Clinic, cold storage preserved until authorities could arrive to investigate.

  An old Doctor, Middleton, greeted the travelers at the front doors to the facility. He stood at a forward angle, bent over, rail thin and as cranky as piss in your mouth.

  “This way, Good Knights, all of you cannot fit in here, less we toss the patients outside,” the old man stared Bigfoot up and down with his neck craned sideways. “Are you him?”

  “Who?” Robert asked right back.

  “The big one,” Doc Middleton answered.

  “My name is Bigfoot Bob, at your service Sir,” Rob bowed.

  “Yeah, he can’t come in here,” the man pointed and turned to open the glass doors. “Gimme three!” he shouted, thrusting three bony fingers aloft and shaking them violently for emphasis.

  British, Warfell and Logos entered, leaving Tawnee outside with Tom, Rob and Iris.

  Inside, the old Doctor never stopped talking, mumbling to himself as they walked down an interior corridor, all the way to the back and down two flights of stairs. The placard on the doors read Carthage Down Coroner.

  “We found another body, making three total,” he finally turned to face the two women and the Dwarf. “All of them bore the marks of a wolf attack, yet we know the killer was a person.”

  “How’s so?” Danica asked as Doc Middleton crossed the room and pulled the refrigerated cadaver slide out from the wall.

  “Here’s so,” he answered by removing the shroud, exposing the corpse of victim number one.

  “Buggers,” said Logos.

  Three of the Seven gazed down on a mutilated body with a message carved on what was left of the chest…This-Way.

  The words rattled British to her core. It was clearly a provocation.

  Doc Middleton exposed the second and third victim, with identically carved words, reading To-Play, and Bitch-Fey.

  “What did you say to that guy?” Danica asked the boss.

  British ignored her, roving her cunning eyes over the wolven bites and claw gouges. None of the dead told Dad about a wolf, she was thinking.

  “Wait a minute,” Logos moved in closer, touching a bite wound across victim number three’s abdomen. The tooth pattern was wrong—the incisors were rounded.

  “These wounds were inflicted not by a wolf, rather by a large domesticated hound, like a Dane,” Logos offered to the group. The old Doctor was nodding his approval.

  “That would seem more consistent, good catch old chap!”

  “But what occurred first, blade or maw?” Danica leaned in as well, touching the edge of what was clearly a dagger entry wound.

  “He was stabbed first, and then set upon by the dog post mortem, after the Soul left the body,” British stated as fact. “Wrongful death.”

  “And how are you certain of this?” the Doc asked, skeptical.

  “Because my Father actually spoke to this young lady,” the pixie motioned to cadaver number one. “Her name is Natasha, and she worked behind the desk at the Down’s only Hostel.”

  “I s
tand corrected and amazed my Good Lady Knight, wrongful death indeed,” Middleton bowed even more.

  “So, any strange canine sightings in town?” Logos asked.

  “No Sir, but Carthage Down is beset upon all sides with open wilderness, a critter could hide nearby, if he were a smart beast. Our Kin-folk of the Down are Hunters and Trappers; damn talented people when it comes to the local wildlife and these forests. A careless, loose dog would have been noticed immediately.”

  “Okay, thanks Doc. If you need us, we will camp on the northern edge of town. Where is the Constabulary?”

  “Next door,” Doc Middleton ginned, pointing to the wall. “Dougal is really upset over this. He’s a good man, Dougal is, retired Swordmaster of Moor.”

  “Thanks again Doc. How’s your funding here?” Danica placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder as British and Logos filtered out.

  “Tibor keeps us going,” he replied.

  “Get the things your people need,” Warfell handed him a bag of jewels with a nod and a smile.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just spend it on the Clinic, and I won’t have to come back and throttle you,” Danica winked and left to follow her friends.

  Outside, a tall man waited, smoking a rolled vine.

  “You Dougal?” British asked.

  “That be me, welcome to Carthage Down. Ya’ll come inside and I’ll show you what we got—hungry?” Dougal was a handsome fellow, with long blonde hair and blue eyes.

  “We are, but business first,” Warfell answered, knowing she and Iris would need to hunt the forest soon for something alive and hot. They entered through the double doors.

  “Nice cop-shop,” Danica surveyed the single room station with four holding cells, desks, a weapons wall and a table filled with catered food. British scampered up to the variety of baked goods and sweets, plucking several items free, shoving a scone in her mouth and closing her eyes to the ceiling in pleasure. The others joined her sans Warfell and the Arenthian as Dougal moved to his desk.