by J A Stone
“You want me, don’t you,” Not really a question.
“You know I do and I don’t usually go for chicks man,” British was confident after a lifetime of being hailed a beauty by everyone around her—good to see someone else catching all the eyes for a change.
“But I don’t trust you and I need to. Is your name really Alorica?” British pushed her stupid sexual fantasies into a tight hole—strike that! She studied the woman in front of her, searching for the telltale clues of deception.
“No.” Truth, good.
“What should I call you?”
“Alorica,” the cold response.
“It’s not easy to kill a Druid, even an old one with his britches down. Alorica, take my timepiece, it’s only thirty minutes to the equi-fade,” British tossed a chrome disk on the bunk. “I know you have been made aware of the situation and the deal offered all of us. You are welcome to come claim your new home, I just gotta know if you are for real sweetie and not some double-crossing type with poison lipstick, come to lick your way to an as yet unrevealed mark. If you survive the interrogation, I am sorry, when my Father twists the mind to the truth, sometimes the same person does not come back.”
British stood and left, closing the iron bars behind her with a ‘clang’.
“Wait!” the woman’s voice came through the bars. “My name, if I tell you, you will tell my husband and that is not an option.”
“You have got to trust me, for me to trust you. It has to start somewhere,” British still had her back turned to the classic beauty behind the bars.
“Contessa, Contessa Robeta—Wife of the Deputy Governor of Moor.”
“Why did you kill the Druid Contessa?”
“Tess—and he refused to pay for services already rendered. I stood my ground, he lashed out and I took him down too hard.”
“And the cops?” British asked as an equal.
“Yeah, they had me in the back of the wagon for a quick gang-rape before taking me in to the station. My training took hold Miss Fey,” she leaned in, “and I killed them all.”
“Define training—last question.”
“My husband pays for any private trainer I ask. I started ten years ago with beginning martial arts. Now I am a qualified Marksman, a competition Swordsman, and I train soldiers in the Honorable Denga, under the table, often in bed…”
“Help me Alorica—I will take your secrets to my grave. Would you like to fight for an honorable cause? Justice?”
“I want you as payment for my services,” Alorica stated plainly. British paused for a moment before answering nervously.
“I, um, would need to take a bath first?”
“You do that, and then we can get you…”
“OPEN!” British called out with her back still turned, eyes clenched shut, and desperately praying she did not just open a hole for herself — strike that!
“We meet topside on the greens in one hour for the first debriefing. Welcome to the Already Dead,” British took a deep breath and began walking.
To the north and east of the True Towers, Thaddeus stormed down the bastion hallways of the Platinum Palace.
“Dorian! I need my Chief here stat.”
“He’s in the south tunnel with the mining crew Sir,” Thaddeus’ Number One relayed.
“Send for him—it’s been long enough.”
“Aye Sir,” Dorian bolted away leaving Thaddeus alone at the southern balcony. Far on the horizon, he could discern the sparkle of True Towers as the equi-fade streaked the pink skies with bands of yellow amid the black bottomed clouds.
“What are you up to Atria?” he whispered to the yellow sky.
“Okay everyone,” Warfell walked forward to address the assembled team, sitting on the grass of the Equestrian Center. Behind her stood British, Emili, Gunther and five fully armored Knights of the Northern Realm. Aside both groups, the Aequitas Caelum floated silently.
“We are hammering out a plan to take the Platinum Palace. British and I want your input. All of you possess skills, but I want to allow two days for training. Some of your personal weapons have been saved for you and each of you will have access to whatever you need to fight your best. We will form two teams—topside and underneath, same goal, enter the castle grounds, locate the target and exterminate. I have no doubt that the mercenaries fighting for him will give up the game when their payday is terminated. None of them will be allowed to stay, just us…” Warfell motioned to the men and women sitting on the grass. “Once we have cleared the grounds, we will sit down together and hash out our own charter—a constitution agreeable to everyone…British?”
The petite beauty stepped forward.
“Thaddeus is responsible for the death of King Atria’s Daughter and his Master Knight. These are acts of war, which would make all of this much easier. No, Thaddeus knows it would take a lifetime to raise a Nation powerful enough to defeat Tibor. He knows that he will live as little more than a fugitive. However, he does have the support of more than enough to begin a revolution here within this city. We believe his ultimate goal is to overthrow the rule of the Purebloods altogether, dissolve the Kingdom from within…” she paused and looked to the Spirit of her Father, then continued solemnly.
“My Father has marked Thaddeus for execution, which changes things only a little. My primary goal will be to intercept the target face to face. Listen everyone—the means to my ends will be swift and direct and I’ll step over the body of anything or anyone in my way, word to the wise.”
“What if I’m in your way?” one of the helmeted Knights spoke, a woman. She pulled back the faceplate revealing a pretty teenage tattooed face and a wicked grin.
“Hey girl,” Soulless waived to Shadoweye as the other four Knights tackled her.
Tawnee Shadoweye sat there and shook her head.
“She never gives up British. What did you do—did you try to get rid of her?”
“Yeah, I mailed her to Silvercrest,” Emili piped up as the Knights muscled the struggling teenager to a stand.
“Everything I have done to get rid of her has failed—she always returns, even when it is impossible to do so,” Tawnee smiled affectionately. “She is a master escape artist,” when her reluctant mentor said it, Soulless’ eyes went wide with pride.
“All right, let her go—get that armor off. Jaime?”
“It’s Soulless,” Jaime Weathers corrected as she began tearing off her shoulder plates.
“Did you catch what I said earlier about getting in my way when things get hot?”
“Yup,” Jaime removed her leg plating. She was virtually naked beneath the armoring.
“I want you close to me from this moment forward—will someone get her some clothes?” British motioned and a Steward took off running. “See how you handle life at ground zero.”
Warfell passed parchment sheets around while issuing instructions.
“These are reprints of the plans for the castle. The second sheet is the known layout of the subterranean levels and tunnels. I have no idea how scholarly each of you may be but study them as best you can and keep them with you from this point forward. These are the actual dimensions. We have the architect of the Palace here if anyone wishes to speak to her.”
An attendant came running in with a set of leathers and Warfell extended her hand for them.
“British is more forgiving than I of insolence. Jaime Weathers, our lives will depend on the people standing next to us. I will not work with someone who is conspiring against me. I’m going to ask you ONE TIME,” Danica gave the teenager the clothes, shoving them into her chest. “Do you even want to be here?”
Jaime Weathers/Soulless looked at Warfell with a determined glare belying the rage and restlessness within her. Danica knew the look, funny how impossible it is to tell the youth they are dead wrong, regardless of what it is. The calm woman and restless teenager studied each other intently for a few seconds when Tawnee broke the silence.
“I will speak for her Captain Warfell.”
“You are no longer my student, I discharge you.”
“I was your student?”
“Of course Soulless, I could have killed you at any time—maybe,” Shadoweye smiled, still looking at Jaime. “Captain Warfell trust me when I tell you this young woman cannot be caged, trapped or killed. Give her two daggers and stand back. She’s good, she’s better than good, she’s virtually indestructible.”
“I’ll take it—WEAPONS!” Back to business quickly. “It’s time to see what everyone can do.”
“Keep at it Bigfoot, you’re doing good,” British looked up and smiled at the massive brute as he practiced chopping with the largest double bladed axe they could find. “Keep the timing, it’s a steady beat, can you feel it?”
“I can’t feel my hands Missus Fey,” he said between powerful thrusts.
“I know sweetie, just keep at it,” British joined Warfell and the two walked down the sparring line, studying their team, searching for the weakest links.
Garrett, Fenton and Brooke were taking turns pairing off with Longswords—all of them foregoing the offer of using swords they once held as Tiborean Knights. They chose non-reflective, insignia free armoring as well. Warfell and Fey watched for only a second and moved down the line—those three were adept, they would be fine.
The beautiful Alorica was paired with Tawnee. Both women used Longswords and were equally matched. British found herself lost in the expert moves, thrusts and parries executed with precision; the contact rings drawing everyone’s attention as the round continued for several moments. Finally, Alorica held a palm up.
“Damn Assassin,” the beauty panted as both Swordsmen placed hands to knees. They were breathing heavily when Alorica gazed up to British and touched her nose with a pink tongue that defied the laws of anatomy and a wicked smile that defied the laws of morality. British cleared her throat awkwardly and moved on, but her partner eyeballed the stunning beauty with a look of—jealously? Warfell broke her stare and joined her partner, already studying the exchange going on between Soulless and Tom Snow.
“Cappy, she’s not fighting right,” Tom appealed to Warfell as she approached and crossed her arms beneath her breasts.
“Does anyone ever?” Danica retorted with a snort.
Snow used an Epee Longfoil, a deadly stinger. Soulless used two single edged daggers, whipping her arms about like lightning in response to Snow’s slashes and strikes—all of which were deflected with sharp rings.
“Not bad,” said British. One second later, Soulless kicked Snow in the baby maker, toppling him to the deck, hands on his groin. She turned around to face British and grinned like the kid she still was.
“You think so—Really?” spoken with angst and the desire to please the small elf girl. Now that Shadoweye endorsed the teenager, her attitude changed dramatically for the better. Now she was committed.
“Yeah, pretty good in fact,” British motioned for them to continue as Tom rose to his feet, whipping the Longfoil about, determined to beat the kid. Warfell shook her head with over-emphasized disappointment for her former Brother at arms.
In the final hours of the fade before the deep of night, the Spirit of Caelum Fey detailed for Emili Swift, the specific weak points in the wall, later, he discussed the dimensions of the catacombs in detail with the Gravari Brothers, scouring the blueprints, identifying areas of confusion and pinpointing causality.
The Already Dead as they were being called, were moved to apartments near the Greens but separate from any Purebloods. There, Warfell and Fey moved among them, encouraging each one in turn. After sixteen hours of training, briefing and planning, everyone was exhausted. Outside the door to Shadoweye’s room, Soulless slept like a rock on the floor. They left her there, snoring. Before leaving, Warfell turned to see Robert John Stone, waiving her and British over to his door.
“Please don’t kill me tonight Missus Danica, Missus British. I had a good idea, if we can wrap some tape and cork on the handle, I could swing it all day long, anyway, I gotta lot to give you guys still—I am very strong.”
“Bigfoot.” British tried.
“And I know I am not as stupid as you, but…”
“Robert.” Warfell too.
“It’s the same as the White River bridge collapse isn’t it? The soldiers, they made the thing come down—with their own feet, right. What’s it called…cabinets?”
Both girls smiled. “Cadence is correct—you are smarter!” British bowed.
“No, you are much smarter than me pretty boss-lady, I’m just not as stupid as you—I got ideas.”
“Yes you do Robert, get some rest. In ten hours, we start with firearms. Do you use a gun?”
“No Ma’am,” the giant replied.
“Would you like to Bigfoot?” British asked.
“Yes Ma’am, I would not, not stupid, remember?”
British nodded and left with her partner to their own apartment.
“What the Seven Hells did he say?” Warfell whispered.
“I have no idea Danica.”
In the middle of the dark night, two teams left the safety of the lofty city, one hour apart. Team One was the underground sortie consisting of Warfell, Fey, Shadoweye, Soulless, and the three Gravari Dwarves. They flew as fast as they could to the grasslands north of the castle walls. Team Two headed for the palace’s front gates on the south side. They pulled a huge payload wagon for Robert John Stone with Emili Swift, Alorica, Tom Snow, and the three deposed Knights mounted.
They had to pull and pry British away from Snowflake, leaving him and Rarity under the care of the Tiboreans. She knew that riding wild ponies bareback was the best way to disappear down a hole in the vast grasslands, setting them free once safe underground. Riderless horses with saddles are easily spotted on the plains—didn’t make it any easier though. Once Team Two hit the front gates, Team One would be well underway and undetected, at least that was the plan.
On the open plains, they reached the hidden opening.
“Don’t want the tree stump Miss Fey. There is a better entrance half-click this way,” Logos related to the girls.
“Why so?” Warfell whispered.
“Because we’ve been here before Ma’am.” Pathos.
“Ditch the mounts without sending them off, sudden hoof beats may alert listeners below.” Logos again.
“Fair enough,” Warfell dismounted and walked as did the others, letting the ponies wander away at their leisure.
At the second entrance, a misplaced boulder, Warfell took a deep breath. Shadoweye went first, scouting the tunnel, making sure they were alone, but Danica was still nervous. Damn the Gods, she thought and plunged herself down into the dark.
Total black, the sound of one of the Dwarves pulling the stone back into place above them and then silence. Warfell breathed in the smell of the soil and the bedrock as images slowly began to materialize around her. It was a very wide passage heading down at an angle. The team moved silently and Danica followed as her surroundings came into slightly better focus—far ahead the tunnel was faintly illuminated. Shadoweye signaled a stop, held two fingers aloft, and pointed forward.
Threading the needle—British and Ethos took off towards the lighted area, slowly creeping forward against the edges of the roughly hewn tunnel. Another signal and Warfell hugged the wall across from Logos with Soulless and Pathos ten paces behind. At the fore, British and Ethos came to a stop and the others followed suit. A signal from the lead Dwarf and Shadoweye crept up the center entering the first of dozens of lighted crossroads.
A stairwell recessed in one direction, the other two prongs of the splayed fork seemed level enough—distant light down each. Now the tunnels were smooth and swept granite surfaces, squared off and no longer resembling anything naturally occurring which
did not help Danica’s fleeting calm. Natural caverns are actually quite sturdy—it’s when men and Dwarves go down and channel away with explosives and drills, weakening the strata above.
Warfell snatched and held tight her fleeting calm. They chose the steps leading down, of course.
A stiff fist upwards from Shadoweye in front—Warfell could see her unsheathing a long thin Scimitar with one hand, holding the other palm back to the Team, fingers spread. No metal scabbards, Warfell pulled her right hip dagger, keeping her other hand free. She could see Soulless feeing weapons as well. British never pulled a blade or firearm until the very second it was used. The three Dwarven Brothers carried pistols, but kept them holstered. Even in heated combat, each little thief could become virtually invisible but they needed hands free to execute their skills of hiding in the shadows and disappearing in the dark.
The passageway leveled off at another lighted area—two more tunnels. Warfell heard footfalls on the granite. She grabbed a wall and froze in place watching the rest of her Team doing the same. Voices echoed:
“So where do they lead?”
“Everywhere! The catacombs seem to be pervasive throughout Aleutha’s crust Sir.”
“Do you mean to tell me that our planet’s upper mantle is hollow?”
“Honeycombed would be more accura…” The Geologist froze when his hand-held lamp illuminated all of Team One and the tips of Shadoweye’s Scimitar and Warfell’s Thronesword.
“Howdy boys, come here often?” said Warfell with an evil grin.
Above on the grasslands, half of Team Two openly approached the first wall to the property. The Platinum Palace had two walls, the first was twenty feet tall and thick enough to ride a horse atop. The outer wall circumscribed the property with a south and north gate. Erza Brooke, Fenton, and Tholoso Garrett rode proudly up to the southern gate, six heavily armed guards coming out to greet them.
Two clicks away, Bigfoot Bob, Tom Snow and the beautiful Alorica scaled that same wall out of sight—the guards and their critical attentions all taken in by the three riders at the gate.
