by J A Stone
British ordered special armor at great expense, chrome and stainless steel plate with light mail, the four sparkled in the lights as they kneeled before the benevolent King.
“Please rise in my home. British, you are as lovely as ever, the armor is magnificent, you are pleased with my Forge Masters?”
“Aye kind Lord, it is more splendid than I could have imagined, thank you,” British smiled, unclipping straps to the Scimitar, Machete and the Blunderbuss, allowing them to fall, running the steps and hugging Atria by the neck. He was as a second Father to the small hardened warrior and everyone knew it.
“How may I serve thee?” she asked, taking a knee at the Good King’s feet.
“Stop that sweetie, actually, I have a question.”
“Anything.”
“Though your Father assures me otherwise, and I accept that as noble truth, I keep getting reports back that you are harboring a fugitive, the last surviving Arenthian. Please tell me I am wrong,” Atria closed his greens, not wanting to see her browns. He knew it was an accusation, a threat of action if the answer were to be…
“No my Lord, we are not,” British lied outright and still Atria did not look in her eyes. He knew he would see the subterfuge and he could not take it, not from little British.
“Forgive me for asking—did you buy the dogs?” Atria redirected, voice now besotted with sadness. British’s heart was screaming inside her to be truthful, but she could not, would not betray Iris.
“Yes Sir, four White Danes,” now Fey’s voice was almost a whisper, her head low. He knew, she knew. She was not going to surrender Iris to Tibor, Moor or any other self-imposed authority and that was going to be a problem—already was. She ignored the fact he was spying on them and knew about the quick stop at the Bullpen. It was his house after all.
“That did not go well,” Warfell whispered to herself as they left the Throne Chamber. “What now boss?”
“I need to talk to Dad,” British said as they found the stairwell, down to level forty-two and their rooms in Tower Atria. “Then I was thinking about getting drunk.”
She saved me in the Archives. I do not wish to leave the physical world. When I am not here, I am very much alive and active in the ethos. Even as a disembodied consciousness, a mind without a body, I am aware and whole. I am in her debt, as I still have much to offer the world.
Warfell stood, addressing the Aequitas Caelum face to ethereal face.
“A dozen fighters in a fortress designed for a thousand cannot fend off a nation such as Tibor my Lord. Atria will hold the command as long as his Statesmen will abide, possibly to the brink of revolution but eventually, they are going to come for her if we cannot arrive at a peace.”
The Swordsman speaks truth as always. Her political wisdom and knowledge is sound. I—do not know what to do.
British rose as well, walking to the balcony.
“Father, I cannot face him again without speaking the truth, it took all the strength I had, lying to that honorable man. I’m torn as well.”
It was rare to see both of the Feys despondent like this.
Fort Salvos
Robert John Stone walked the ground level passageways with Garrett and Emili Swift.
“How many entrances are there?”
“We’ve found three, but the sod-level is like a secret tunnel, hidden door miasma,” Garrett motioned for Rob to take a right.
“What did you call me?” Bigfoot mocked anger and said those words often, when he did not understand a word. He smiled when Emili shot her green eyes his way.
“Bunches of them we think,” Garrett was smiling, “through here big guy.” They entered a chamber with a steel door on the far wall. “Are you sure Robert? It can be tight feeling, just relax and know you can walk right back out at any time.”
“What if Iris and Brooke get attacked topside? I should…,” he tried.
“Nope, c’mon Bigfoot, we need to patrol the grounds regularly and this is all part of it,” When Emili put it that way it made sense. The eight-footer took a deep breath like a blacksmith bellows, gathering his bravery and resolve.
“Forget it!” he turned and ran like a squirrel from the room, striking the far wall with his forearms to change direction down the hallway out—the Seven Hells out of there!
“I think the big guy has a weakness,” Emili half grinned, but then flushed with worry for him. They all loved the man, who wouldn’t.
“He’ll be okay. Eventually, he may have to go down there and I know just how,” Garrett mused, pulling the door open.
“Put British down there and say she needs him?” Emili.
Garrett snapped his fingers and pointed to the former Captain with a broad smile. “You read my mind Miss Swift.”
“Emili, call me Emili.”
Suddenly, the station horns pealed from far above, three blasts in salvo, heralding the Aequitas Caelum—something was wrong!
On Tower Main, Swift and Garrett ran in to see Bigfoot kneeling before the Spirit of Caelum Fey, head low in subjugation. The two former Tiborean Knights came close, taking knees themselves.
Please rise. The girls are fine in Tibor. I am here because Tom Snow has located the stronghold of Viggo Frantz; he lies in wait just south of the fortress, carved deep into a mountain.
Bigfoot rose and without hesitation spoke to Emili as was his orders.
“Emili, take Garrett, Brooke and Iris. We will follow as soon as Missus British returns, go.” Swift bowed, running off with Garrett to find Brooke. Iris entered and came to Robert’s massive side. He smiled down to her.
“The Knights of Salvos need to assist the Snowman, are you healed enough to join them? You can stay here to protect me—I mean keep me company? Please? Wait. Hold on, I am dumber than that. You are a full Knight now…yeah, go.”
Iris did not know what to think of the behemoth with the heart of a child, clearly afraid to be alone. He still scared the shit out of her though, might take a while to overcome those guttural sensations.
“I’ll go big man, beh good?”
“Yes I will Missus Iris, yes I will.”
The four mounted prepped Black Racers quickly, pounding the sod less than thirty minutes later, the Aequitas Caelum floating aside them across the grasslands surrounding Fort Salvos. Bigfoot Bob watched them leave, waiving goodbye to their backs from the Con-Tower.
“What to do—what to do,” he bounced up and down ever-so-slightly on the pads of his huge feet, swinging his arms out and clapping hands.
“What—to—do.”
Far to the north and east of Fort Salvos, Tom Snow crouched low against a mountain crag. In the distance a crevasse barely wide enough for a horse gouged the white mountainside with black. There, Tom saw the Dwarf Nico enter and exit several times. They were inside, he knew it, passing his findings on to the kind Spirit of British’s Father. Now he was waiting, watching, holding out for reinforcements.
Tom regressed slowly, pulling back, turning and stopping cold to feel of the long shiny barrel now shoved into his windswept-pink cheek.
“Ello there, are you a lost mountain climber, cut off from your exploration team?” Nicolai Kenzie smiled from behind the rifle sights. Dicey looked over Nico’s shoulder.
“No Sir I am the Son of God, fallen from the great skies. Many a Moontide brings me to you,” Tom Snow smiled and then frowned. “Actually, I come looking for a friend, and the assholes who took him. You both look the part. You know the Justice from Heaven is going to turn your brains into—Ugh!”
The barrel raised and then came down on the temple. Tom’s sight flashed from solar white to utter black.
He woke some time later, listening first to the steady drip, smelling the calcium deposits—finally opening his eyes. It was dark, weak argon tubes flickering out of eye’s reach bringing to clarity the cave walls, besotted with soot from fires, obfuscating hand-blown paintings perhaps thousands of years old. He tried to move and felt the chains—each hand, each foot, shackled to th
e wall.
“I am captive in a dungeon—oh Danica would just love this,” Tommy whispered to the hollow chamber, immediately wincing from the blow to his head.
The Noroma Club, north wall, True Towers Tibor
“Wow, this is racy for the royal grounds,” Warfell careened her bright blues around the expansive dance club looking for a table, surprised to see so many ravens on the dance floor.
“It’s Purebloods wearing wigs and dyes. A current fad,” British added, pointing and then shooting through the crowd, returning a half second later with Kahl Le Douche by the hand. “FOUND HIM!” she shoved the almost-man into Shadoweye and then leaped to an empty table.
“Who would have thought?” Warfell said a half-hour later, leaned into her partner’s ear. British nodded, watching their friend Tawnee making out with the handsome canine steward in a dark corner.
“She needs it and he turns eighteen at midnight,” Fey added.
“No way! We should get them a room,” Danica and British laughed and bumped foreheads, already sotted and smiling, troubles almost forgotten. Warfell raised her head to see Danton walking in through the crowd. She smiled, of course she was never angry with him—principle man, principle.
“Hey, forgive?” Danton was hoping.
“Never,” said with a lusty look. “Drink, we are getting drunk!”
He sat and motioned for the waiter to bring more beers. Tawnee and her new friend came back to the table laughing, Shadoweye placing a hand on Danton’s broad shoulder.
Kahl dropped the smile, looking on carefully, sizing up the former Detective. British and Danica of course took note, the difference between Danton and Kahl was night and day, boy and man, but the kid had that predator look. Something popped a tiny red flag up. British stepped into Kahl’s personal zone with a coy look.
“Ever been in a bar fight Son?”
Kahl tore his eyes away from Tawnee.
“No,” he replied.
“Yeah me neither,” British smacked the teenager on the shoulder, seeing nothing in the eyes to alert her any further. She shot a quick grin to Danica communicating that she just read the boy. Warfell removed her veiled hand from the pommel of a dagger and pelted back her tankard.
“I have to work on the equi-fade, really, I have to go. Thank you, I had a blast, See you tomorrow!” Kahl waived goodbye hours later to Tawnee, being a true gentleman, leaving early.
“Gotta say, he has honor,” Danica pitched the words out, drunk. Danton hugged her shoulder.
“He’s right, I have a lot to do as well before we collect those big dogs,” Danton smiled, at Danica. “Will you get the boss home safe?”
“Sure baby, but you’re missing out,” Warfell pushed him away and watched the tall handsome man leave through the already thinning crowd. She looked sideways at British and Tawnee.
“Stage one?”
“What’s that?” Shadoweye asked.
“Ooooh, I love stage one,” the pixie rose and staggered over to a Pureblood with a drink in his hand. She smacked the glass sideways, smiled, and then threw up on the man’s shoes…
Outside, Danton rounded a well-lit street corner, one block away from Tower Atria, thinking of Danica; she is so beautiful. Her smile is heaven—her long white hair and deep blue eyes...
He felt the tugging sensation too late, the dagger finding his pumping heart on the first stab. Danton was paralyzed! He stood helpless as the kid held him still, thrusting the blade in and out several more times from behind, speaking to him in a calm tone.
“I don’t know—where you came from—dude, but this was my score and you kept them in there too long, thanks for nothing asshole,” Kahl held Danton’s shoulders, dragging the lifeless sack into the shadows…
The following morning, Warfell rose from the bed she was sleeping in fully clothed. British was already awake, hair disheveled, one bloodshot eye, staring at a blank wall.
“Danica?” she asked with a raspy voice.
“Yeah boss?” Warfell sat up, removing a pouch and swallowing a red ruby shooter dry.
“Can I have one of those?”
They left early with Tawnee, arriving at the Bullpen Kennels just as the facility opened.
“You are leaving?” Kahl Le Douche’s surprised response.
“Mmm,” Fey’s only pronounceable word as they brought the four amazing animals forward into the lobby. The small woman handed over four leather bags stuffed with jewels to the boy. “Pay your people, keep the rest Son, thanks for showing my friend a good time.”
Next to Torpa, Tawnee waived and smiled—she did have a good time.
“Your man friend was here, he’s gone, went home,” Kahl added just as the girls turned to leave.
They looked from one to another. That was not right. This time Warfell entered Kahl’s personal zone, meeting his eyes within kissing distance.
“Left for home,” she said.
“Yes Ma’am,” the reply.
“How long ago?”
“About an hour.”
“This place was closed.”
And there it was, the subtle flux in the almost-man’s irises. Warfell reacted, striking the throat, snatching an arm, spinning the unsuspecting kid about and thrusting him to the grass with a knee in the ribs and the wrist cruelly twisted behind the shoulders—she instantly knew what the boy had done.
They left the city of Tibor the next day, Warfell refused to speak, only nodding yes and no to King Atria, showing no emotion when the Good King personally took the young canine Steward’s head not six paces from his Throne. Vengeance never satisfies, not for Danica. She left Tibor with every single death from her hands weighing down on her shoulders as heavy as the moment she took them.
When they made the gates of Fort Salvos, Warfell dismounted Rarity, calmly walked into Tower Main, collapsed on a padded couch and cried like a child…
One hour later, a silent Warfell rode next to Fey, fifty yards ahead of Bigfoot Bob on the wagon, twenty yards behind Shadoweye. The four White Danes the size of small ponies were darting in and around the riders as they raced northeast along the grasslands, icy-white mountains already looming on the horizon.
They stopped often for the horses to rest, everyone astounded when both female Danes came back from wide perimeter with deer in their mouths. Self-sustaining marvels in the field, the Danes knew exactly what to do, instinctively keeping close to the riders, hunting, eating and finding water for themselves along the way—baying and howling the communications betwixt the new pack.
British was enthralled at the incredible behavior, the four Danes seemed to have taken possession of the human riders, keeping a close circle when they moved and an even tighter perimeter when at rest. Torpa was naturally the alpha and with close observation, British could see the others giving him deference—obeying him.
Once, at rest, Snowflake lay down in the grass, legs folded as the young dogs played about him, leaning against the massive equine, leaping over him…touching noses.
Warfell spent all of her non-riding moments with the dogs and British’s heart felt warmed watching the intelligent beasts bonding to her, comforting her in the simplest of ways. Torpa in particular was clearly falling in love with Warfell, staying closest to the tall human and her Painted Appaloosa. Little did anyone know, Torpa would remain within a stone’s toss of Danica for the remainder of his days.
Two days in, the redwoods stood before them like a three hundred foot wall of green flecked with white. One more day and they would be in the mountains. They stopped only long enough to get the minimum of rest, the riders finding sleep in the saddle. The response team was less than a day ahead now, the forests laden heavy with white blankets and glass icicles.
“Boss,” Warfell spoke for the first time in days. “Let me scout ahead?”
“Do it,” British nodded.
Danica whistled, bounding forward on Rarity, Torpa right beside them, flinging white powder everywhere in their wake as they disappeared among the trees
.
Angles, June, Nico and Dicey sat across from one another in the deep circular booth carved into a granite wall. Viggo Frantz spared no expense in having his final safe house built, or rather hewn into the underbelly of a mountain with no name, one of the last in a chain bordering the flat tundra of Aleutha’s Arctic Circle. The galley was large and accommodating. The four leaned in as Viggo began.
“How many men do we have?”
“More than a hundred, twenty of those are loyal, the rest hired mercenaries.” Dicey.
“Supplies?”
“Fully provisioned for an indefinite stay.” Nico
“Good, what about defenses.”
“We have bladed weapons for a two hundred man brigade, twenty rifles, two high powered snipes, eight shotguns, and ten rapid fire Chesterbornes. Ammo is not good Angles, maybe two cases of bullets, limited clips.” June cracked his knuckles loudly. “But with some reload support, it would take a lot to get at us.”
“Exit strategy?”
“Just the entrance and our one tunnel Angles,” Again, June with a knuckle-snap emphasis.
“I like it that way,” Viggo rose, “One way in—two ways out.”
“Behind the stove in the galley.” Paradise.
Viggo nodded. Of course there was an escape tunnel—he personally killed the Dwarven crew that carved it out for him years ago.
Emili Swift held the night scope, carefully panning her surroundings. Erza Brooke and Garrett were holding back, Iris just signaled an intruder chirp from the trees above.
She focused on two shapes, walking, bears? No, it was a rider—with long white hair!
“Danica!” Swift rose, shouting. Torpa the Dane responded, bounding in and stopping at a point not fifteen paces away, extending the tail and nose as though Swift were—a Swift! She stood frozen in place before the massive canine, uncertain whether to draw a weapon or not.
