Faithless Steel

by J A Stone

  “So, what’s going on Howie?” Eventine asked casually as she drained shredded potatoes in a steel basin.

  “Nothing,” said the young man with less than zero confidence. Eventine faced him, meeting and holding his youthful eyes.

  “British says you’re thinking about quitting.” There it was—smack in his face. Howie cleared his throat and then sighed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Think you’re not good enough to stand with the team?”

  “I know I’m not.”

  “I disagree, you were an accomplished Swordsman before joining us.” Eve returned her attention to the basin. “Howie do you know what the difference is between the Master and the Student?”

  “The Master is wiser.”

  “Yes, but why or rather how is this possible?” she asked sincerely.

  “I uh…” he stammered for the correct answer.

  “The Master has made more mistakes. Think about that Howie,” she faced him again and smiled wide. “British has made more mistakes than any of us. People have died from her decisions—and yet here we are—following our biggest screw-up.”

  “When you say it that way it becomes weird.”

  “The absolute truths in our lives are often little else Howie.”

  “But we are here because we love her,” he said defensively.

  “Absolutely, and what she represents,” Eventine corrected, “the honor to stand for the weak and the bravery to say I was wrong.”

  “She is like no other,” a handsome smile coursed over Howie’s face.

  “Agreed—it is how you handle the mistake that changes everything—what you do with the knowledge. This is not blind faith Howie. We stand beside her. Look, no one says you have to stay, but if you decide to remain there is a place for you here—a place you have earned my friend and comrade.”

  “Thank you Miss Eventine, thank you.”

  Abandoned Throne of Steel Citadel, West End

  “C’mon girl, give it to me, he’s gaining!” Tommy afforded a quick glance behind to the male Arenthian pursuing him on foot like a big spotted Speed Cat chasing a Gazelle. “It’s just not possible,” added the Snowman, still in shock.

  The Roan snorted as she pumped the ground for dear life.

  “Okay, it’s freakin’ possible, I can see that girl, through here! YA!”

  They dashed down a windswept alleyway. At fifty paces, the Renth slid through the turn and struck a wall, falling way behind. Tom noticed, grinning, guiding the Roan around another sharp corner.

  “Four hooves beat two feet any day—good job girl—you are a fast one.”

  They came to an abrupt stop at the mouth of a dead end—four massive dogs were blocking the path ahead. Immediately, Tom recognized the breed—Deerhounds.

  “Wonderful,” he said, remembering his dream; the Spirit of Caelum Fey was talking to him about Deerhounds.

  The mare flinched and tensed, ready to bolt away. Tom’s hair stood on end and he closed his eyes.

  “He’s right behind us isn’t he,” said Tommy through clenched teeth. He took a deep breath and prepared to die fighting, when he noticed the Deerhounds were growling, advancing steadily. He looked behind to see the powerful vampire regressing into the shadows, retreating from the menacing canines.

  “He’s scared of dogs—dammit-man I need to read a book sometime,” Tommy spoke to the Roan.

  “Where you from?” a ragged voice emanated from nearby.

  Snow jerked about to see a man with silver hair and blue eyes limping closer. “I said where you from boy?”

  “Here,” Snowman replied, “before and during the fall.”

  “That so?” the old man did not believe him.

  “Second LT, Winter Wasp. Wanna sell me a hound? I could use one.”

  “I see that, come with me Son,” the strange man turned and hobbled through a door, mumbling as he disappeared in the darkness. “Don’t worry ‘bout your horse, my lads will watch out for her.”

  “Okay girl, I’ll be right back, be ready to run,” Tommy slid to the snow and patted the muscular neckline. He followed the old man, desperately trying to remember the details of his dream. He was supposed to look for something, something about the dogs?

  Inside, the old man had several hounds, all of them lounging about like big game cats. He slowly took a seat next to a huge one—the biggest dog Tommy had ever seen. This fellow was larger than Torpa!

  And then it happened, the massive hound blinked only the left eye. It winked at him!

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tommy mumbled.

  “You can buy any one of them but Stroke here,” the strange man scratched the wide head, the dog winked again and Tom realized the poor beast was unable to close his right eye.

  “Why’d you name him Stroke?”

  “Because he had a stroke.”

  “You, oh wow, okay,” Tommy realized what the man was saying, which would explain the eye. Now he noticed the lower lip was relaxed exposing the gums—limp on the right side. As well, the right ear dangled, loped down like a rabbit.

  He remembered the dream—this was the one. Every coin, the Spirit had said. Tommy sighed deep before speaking.

  “How much for Stroke?”

  “You don’t have enough for Stroke Son.”

  “You’re right, I don’t,” Tom admitted, producing a suede pouch filled with faceted emeralds and tossing it to the old man, “because it’s yours now Sir.”

  The man with silver hair and blue eyes opened the pouch and lost his breath as if knocked from his ribs by Bigfoot Bob.

  “Congratulations Son—meet Stroke.”

  The dog rose and lumbered his ten-foot frame over, switching sides as if he knew he’d just been sold—because he did and was. Stroke had short, curly-wooly hair that was an even tone of creamy tan. Tom reached out and scratched the left half of the face, correctly surmising the beast would not feel it on his numb side.

  Stroke looked up and winked—wagging his curved tail—friends for life.

  “Is he good around horses?”

  “The best. Listen close; there are a few things you need to know Son.”

  “Yes Sir?”

  “Here,” the old man passed Tommy a bottle filled with thick, clear liquid. “Two drops of the mineral oil, twice a day in his open eye or he gets itchy.”

  “Define?”

  “You don’t wanna see itchy Son—just give him the eye drops—which brings me to the next thing.”

  “Okay?”

  “The Deerhound can run like the wind on the sprint and still hunt down a mark, following relentlessly for miles on end. Incredible animals they are, but when expending great amounts of energy as with a hunt, they eat more food than you can gather in a day—I am not kidding Son. He’ll need to run down a couple of deer often—just let him do it. Also, he’ll wanna eat his kills in front of you, not beside or behind you, in front of you—you need to let him do that too.”

  “This is getting strange.”

  “Hey, if you don’t let him, he’ll make you, understand?”

  Tommy shook his head slowly.

  “No Sir I do not—make me?”

  “Oh yeah…and like a little bitch too.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It will be a defining point in your relationship. Just let him plop those kills at your feet Son—you’ll get used to it—you can always buy more boots.”

  “What? Buggers, you’re not kidding,” Tommy gazed into Stroke’s big wide browns. The friendly beast could move both eyeballs. Tom saw the right side focus and dilate. Stroke wasn’t blind in that eye, poor sod just couldn’t close the lid—the muscles damaged or nerves deactivated. He smiled at the beast.

  “Just keep that bad Arenthian off me and I’ll treat ya as a Lupine Prince.”

  Stroke murmured low and deep, almost like a muffled language.

  “Oh yeah—he talks—you’ll like that part. Do you talk with animals when you are alone with them?”

&nb
sp; “Talking with animals is psychotic—speaking to them is just neurotic,” said Tommy as the man rose, extending a palm to the door, his warm smile completely gone.

  “Good day to you Son—you lead that creature away from this Citadel—or I’ll send all of my boys down on the lot of you, the whole pack—now go.”

  “Girl, this is Stroke. He’s with us now,” Tom guided the pony-sized canine abreast of the six season Roan, speaking with her in confidence as he took in the street with his predator eyes.

  The dog murmured and warbled his strange speak.

  The horse whined softly, cooing like a mother-dove as they briefly touched noses.

  The Snowman shot his blue eyes between the two—back and forth.

  “I’m right here—stop talking about me,” Tom quickly mounted the mare and spurned her to a gallop. It was time to leave the Citadel. He’d seen enough.

  The Deerhound padded effortlessly aside the black mare towards the road out of town. Tommy smiled—he liked Stroke—couldn’t help it.

  As they left the abandoned Citadel, through the snow blasted streets, Tommy told the horse and the hound more about young Captain Danica Warfell.

  “She had this thing about drinking green plant gravy you guys—like nothing you’ve ever seen—brewed that nasty sauce herself—I think she put stimulants in it…”

  *

  “Drink it Snowman. Atta-boy,”

  “Tommy aka lika, braaaaai,” his muscled frame shook involuntarily to his incoherent speech. They were in the field and Tom could’ve sworn she mashed that batch from a pine tree.

  “This rare species of Sempervirens contains high quantities of ephedra—you’ll thank me later,” Warfell gathered her team in closer. She pointed to her Scout.

  Theoneidon was tall and thin with dark brown hair and an unmistakable tribal accent. Warfell insisted he be called The One, including the word the. Tom knew there was a good reason for it. He heard later that The One was a Kotare Prince—the last of his true race—never found out the truth.

  “Okay, the target is Saggitar Ranch, less than a half-click north of the tree line. Castamere and Wendee have the armament stats,” The One moved his eyes to flush and front logistics.

  Warfell pointed to Cast.

  “Small detachment, fifty-two heads, Moorian regulars, twelve Knights.”

  Danica gave Wendee a scarred finger.

  “Okay,” she began. “They have bolt-action rifles and Sabers. Only the Knights are mounted in full plate. Looks like the regulars have foregone armoring for furs—can’t handle the cold.”

  “Foolish,” Danica added. “Continue, Cast?”

  “Aye Cappy, they’re hungry too. Horses are famished. They got nothing in them,” Castamere tossed a piece of jerky in his mouth for emphasis.

  “Suggestions? What about you Snowman?” Warfell gazed at Tom as did the others.

  “What-who-me?”

  “You are my Second Lieutenant. Take point and issue the commands.”

  “Aye Cappy,” Snow knew what she was doing. He also knew how to ambush a small Regiment of malnourished icicles. “Frontliners across this expanse here,” he pointed to a clearing. “Flush among the trees on an east-west flank. Engaged Frontliners recede on contact. Logistics in the trees, shout out the penetration fold and close the gates, savvy?”

  “Impressive,” said Warfell. “And what will I, Selene and you be doing?”

  “Chasing me like an angry ex-wife of course,” Tommy said it and Warfell smiled. They were the bait.

  “I like it—take positions Team—Snowman will you lead us off?”

  “With pleasure Captain, HYA!” Tom raced away on his Scarlet Quarterhorse. Danica and Selene followed.

  Just up the worn trail, the encamped men and women rose to their feet at the sound of Tom riding in, shouting for peace as he approached.

  “HEY THERE BOSSMAN! HEY HEY!” he waived and brought the Scarlet to a restless stop. “Who’s the boss here?” asked the Snowman.

  “That be me, Major Jonsa,” a solid man stepped forward, motioning his men to let him approach the brave stranger—barrels lowered to the ground—Tommy wasn’t a threat to these people.

  “Major, have you seen my two wives? One’s a tall beauty with a perfect apple ass. The other is just there like an extra character, completely undevel—”

  “Move along Son, we are not concerned with—” Jonsa was already waiving the stranger away.

  “Are you sure,” Tom interrupted the interrupt, “you are in charge of this outfit?”

  “Aye.”

  “Faaan-tastic, tell me Major Jonsa, have you ever heard of this thing called a sucker punch?”

  “No—what are you talking about?”

  “Capital!”

  CRACK! Tommy’s hidden pistol found the open air and fired, thrusting a nickel slug between the Major’s eyes, snatching his head back, cold dead.

  “THAT’S what I’m talkin ‘bout!” Tommy fired seven more times at the men surrounding the fallen Major, and then galloped the Quarterhorse through the startled soldiers, lashing a dozen across the face, maiming them with his Longfoil as he sped out of there erratically through the trees. Bullets chased him—screaming men and horses followed.

  Near the forest’s edge, Tommy raced towards Danica and Selene, his stallion pounding the sod like mad.

  “Gotta go!” he smiled at Warfell as he zinged past on the Scarlet.

  “Yikes! YAH!” Warfell chopped at her Black Racer when bullets snapped the branches overhead.

  Just as he planned, the Winter Wasp squeezed the beleaguered band of fifty into a textbook wedge—finishing them off quickly.

  The Snowman fought bravely between Jack and Bull, showing the two giants how effective his needles could be in open combat, and matching their kills one for one. Even Selene said later that she was impressed.

  *

  “She bought beers for everyone that night, though back then, Danica never drank alcohol. She picked up those desires afterwards.”

  Tom stopped for a brief moment, bringing the Roan to a halt just outside the Old City. He listened, watching the ears and eyes of the animals for subtle movements, twitching.

  “Okay you guys, let’s find a place to—”

  Sapien, Lupine, Equine, three nobles races with keen senses—none of them saw Nigel coming.

  Whiterock

  That very day, at that very moment, British ate quietly in the galley with Eventine, Dobra, Tawnee and Bigfoot Bob.

  “So, are we just gonna ignore what happened?” Eve was becoming a constant voice.

  “Workin’ so far,” British replied. Tawnee smacked her shoulder.

  “She’s lost both of them,” Eve added. “We’ve got to do something.”

  “Danica knows better than anyone that finding the Snowman is impossible. Even for us, he is the best at hiding,” said the pixie.

  “He doesn’t stand a chance in the Seven Hells against that fancy man-beast Missus British,” Robert piped in faithfully. “And with Iris missing,” the giant shook his head.

  “I know sweetie, but what can we do?” British really had no idea. Nobody was prepared for it; the Arenthian was being cool, he and Danica spent days alone in the forests below falling in love. Suddenly one night Nigel attacked Tommy in the central living area without provocation or warning.

  Warfell tried to stop the fight and he bit her—again. This time the potent hemotoxins nearly killed her.

  Before British and her Knights realized, both man and Renth were gone. Below on deck, the Snowman took Tawnee’s Black Racer—their fastest runner next to Rarity. That was almost four weeks past and no sign or word. Tawnee was attempting to find him through meditations, but so far no luck. British concentrated on the Knights before her and Warfell, keeping her attentions at home.

  When Danica awoke from a two-day coma, she was crushed—utterly lost when they told her what happened. She left her room to pee and little else since. She would not say which one broke her heart�
�or if both men did. Danica refused to speak but to little British and even then, not of the events.

  “Let me go look for him Missus British,” Robert rose from his seat, asking formally.

  “I cannot Robert. Not until we have finished the escape paths.”

  “After?” the Giant sat back down.

  “Afterwards, I will go myself,” eyebrows raised high to the sight of British hopping to the tiles and taking a knee before her good Knights.

  “No you won’t,” said Danica from the galley threshold. “I’ll go. I have a bloodsucking ex-boyfriend to deal with,” a lone tear escaped her hardened face. Tawnee stood, shaking her head, making hand signals.

  All hands on deck, the fingers spoke silently.

  “She’s right—he’s our Brother Captain,” Eventine said assuredly.

  Warfell nodded and entered, finding a stool like a tired old woman.

  “Yeah, teamwork makes the dream work. Okay guys, we’ll go together I promise. Did Iris leave any of her pig’s blood?” asked Danica.

  “She did partner,” the pixie jumped for a cabinet. “Remember the plant-poop you used to make me drink?”

  “It was green onion kale and yeah—I remember,” Warfell cracked half a smile. “Gods you hated that stuff.”

  “Hey, it worked!” said British, relieved her friend was finally coming around. “Nice to have you here talking,” she added for no reason—okay good reason. She found the hemoglobin reserves and tossed one.

  “Good to be back,” Danica answered, catching the small, corked wine bottle in the air.

  Throne of Steel Outskirts

  Stroke was magnificent in the fight—silent. Tommy remembered how devoid of sound the encounter was, but for the smacks of the contact strikes—even the Roan remained quiet and still as the incredible creature tackled the Snowman from the side—riding him to the hard rocky ground. Tommy fought for his life, scratching and clawing as best he could with no time given to draw a weapon.

  Then the creature scratched and clawed, landing multiple hits, Tom was in trouble!