Faithless Steel

by J A Stone

  But the Deerhound was there, pouncing fast and tearing into the Arenthian’s leg within seconds. The creature named Nigel struck the dead side of the hound’s face, turned in a flash, bit Tom on the shoulder and then leaped away. At ten feet, the man-beast dodged clear of the menacing Deerhound and bolted free of the melee, dashing away into the thick underbrush and disappearing through the folds of the snowy pines.

  Tom saw the damage Stroke inflicted—the blood, he hurt him—damn good dog!

  “Stroke, you are amazing fellow!” Tommy hugged him hard and winced to the pain in his shoulder. He pulled back the collar of his suede shirt and frowned.

  “Oooooh—thatsa not good—thatsa poison—aw man he bit me,” slurred the Snowman as his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the snow with a thump.

  Without hesitation, the massive Deerhound tore the leather free of the shoulder and began licking the wound, sucking and slobbering. It tickled and Tom smiled with his eyes shut, sedated but happy to be alive.

  Moments later, Tommy was conscious and moving, crawling for the Roan’s stirrup, yanking his half-paralyzed body upwards and snatching a field rucksack down, thankful he never ditched that saddle. On the ground, he crawled back to Stroke, opened the canvas bag and removed the anti-venom, tapping the needle and administering the medicine to the now collapsed Deerhound.

  Stroke saved Tommy’s life, sucking the poison out, absorbing a critical dose through his gum-line in the process.

  “Please work—c’mon big guy—don’t you die on me,” Tom Whispered as he cradled the brave beast’s head in his lap, massaging the long nose gently. He rocked back and forth with his sight on the surrounding wood until finally Stroke opened the left eye and began his strange mumbling.

  “That’s my boy—save my life you did—yes you did,” Tommy squeezed the neckline gently and the curved tail began slapping the ground.

  Less than an hour later, the resilient canine bolted away, returning shortly after with a Whitetail Deer in his mouth.

  “Okay, that’s just gross,” Tommy watched as the dog tore into the meat, pulling away strands of muscled sinew and pushing the carcass firm against Tom’s boots, giving quick glances upwards to his new Master as if to say I did good huh?

  When Tommy moved a foot to the side, the dog quickly snatched it with a paw and pressed it against the deer’s body. The old man wasn’t kidding.

  Stroke murmured and mumbled as he ate.

  “Danica?” Tommy leaned back to answer questions never posited. “She’s beautiful buddy. She’s tall Stroke, really tall. Her hair is white, straight and as tall as she. It whips about in the wind like gossamer…it’s…she’s…”

  “Dude—really?” Snowman cringed as Stroke expertly tore the heart from the ribcage and crushed the fist-sized muscle between his teeth with louder mumbling. Tommy shook his head and continued his narrative.

  “Once, we escorted the Throne Elders to the Senate Chambers and I listened to her counseling the old Statesmen. She could have been a politician Stroke, or a philosopher for certain. Seems everything she said was so wise. I knew I was in love back then as much as now….”

  *

  “And what would you suggest Lord Captain?” asked one of the Throne Elders, a wise man named Anderson.

  “Well, you know denying her will only send her to the clubs faster. If she wants a taste of the grown-up world so bad she’s gonna get it one way or another. Perhaps you could send her to the Denga Masters in Oceanport? At least she’d be capable of defending herself in a pinch,” Warfell clip-clopped her stallion aside one of the royal carriages.

  “That’s a good idea. Don’t suppose you would talk to her for me?” the old man asked like a kid himself. Danica met his eyes for a brief moment. When in the Seven would she have time for this?

  “Absolutely Lord Anderson—I will have dinner with her when we return to the Citadel—maybe take her out to a pub for a bar fight—just kidding Sir,” she smiled warm and Tom could see the Politician’s heart melting like butter.

  As they walked the horses, The One came riding in fast from perimeter.

  “Captain, we have a wheat caravan up ahead, three clicks.”

  “Take Wendee—Snow, go with them—back here in fifteen,” Danica answered.

  “Aye Cappy,” Theoneidon brought his Racer about and bolted away with Wendee and the Snowman hot on his back…

  *

  “Wheat caravan—right—never trust a farmer Stroke,” Tommy reined in Tawnee’s six season Roan, turning to gaze upon the ruins of the Throne of Steel one last time before the trees closed in. “Let’s give it a trot and get clear of this place,” Snow said to the animals as he scanned the forests. He knew the creature was out there, watching them right now, foolish to think otherwise. He needed another safe place to rest that night. Unless he could get distant, sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon.

  Oceanport, Central Market

  “Here it is. Tawnee is attempting to pinpoint him psionically, but no luck so far,” British handed Danica a paper. The headline:

  Violent Escape from Mental Asylum

  Serial Killer on the Loose

  “His name is Theo Von Holt, forty-five years old, locked away for a series of grisly murders committed six years back in Moor. He’s less than a week free and I believe he’s still in town,” Fey sipped her coffee as Warfell read the article.

  “He has skills?” Danica commented.

  “Yeah, Von Holt is ex-military—worked in Intelligence and Reconnaissance before his breakdown.”

  “Breakdown?”

  “Call it that. His wife discovered he was living a secret life at night and confronted him in a bar. She threatened to divorce him and he killed her on the street not twenty minutes later. Cops brought him in for questioning and this guy sacked the Eastside Stationhouse Warfell, ending the lives of eighteen trained Officers and several civilians. He went into hiding but got sloppy—they nabbed him at a public bathhouse days later.”

  “Wow,” Danica set the paper down.

  “Yeah and get this partner, dude claims he is a White Mountain survivor.”

  “Really?” That caught Danica off guard. Only she and Tom Snow walked away from that bloody scene.

  “Yup! Von Holt bragged to his cellmates and the guards that he was a Corporal, Moorian Regular Infantry. Claims he awoke among the bodies of the fallen after you left, at least that’s his end of it.”

  “Might need to call bullshit on that one, we were double-tapping that day,” Danica said the words with no regret, having long since come to terms with her extended justice beneath the mount.

  “That’s what I figured. Look, this guy is out there and dangerous—are you feeling skippy?” British batted her eyelashes.

  “Snowman needs me.”

  “Help me hammer out his creep real fast and we will rescue Tom-Tom straightaway with the team. What’cha think?”

  “Sure partner,” Danica was nodding. “I get it. You want to test me out first. Make sure I’m still able—”

  “Easy there tall and tasty,” British grinned wide like a dolt. “I can dispatch a goon myself all day any day—I just wanted you next to Tawnee and me.”

  “I know—I’m good partner—we’re good,” Warfell closed her tired blues, feeling the warmth, realizing how much British truly loved her.

  Danica watched the people walking by as a little flower bloomed from the wreckage of her broken heart—a heart she had shattered this time, all by herself.

  “Okay, you remember Bronson House, let’s go talk to the Doctors. We can bring Robert, he’s getting restless over Tom like you, and I don’t wanna leave him alone.”

  “Sounds like a plan British. Any word on Iris?”

  “Not a trace, she just disappeared when you and Nigel started—you know—having congress.”

  “I know and really? Do you suspect foul play?”

  “My heart tells me unlikely. Personally, I think she wanted to give you guys room to, uh, have
fun,” British did not make eye contact. She was embarrassed and yes, a little jealous.

  A tear fell down Warfell’s cheek.

  “I was tricked—fooled into believing in his love—and I fell for it British.”

  “Danica the pheromones and his bite chemically and hormonally induced you—this is not your fault in any way—not your fault honey.”

  “Oh I contributed knowingly quite a bit. We screwed like animals in the woods for days British. Sessions lasted for hours.”

  “Stop—wait—keep going.”

  “At night beneath East River waterfall, twice in a Redwood tree.”

  “The waterfall? It’s winter!”

  “I KNOW RIGHT? Oh and there’s a cave. He killed the momma bear and we did it in front of the cubs.”

  “Whaaaaaaaa?—continue.”

  Danica laughed for the first time in weeks.

  “Okay! We actually did it here in the city as well; on the glass roof of the Archives, and there’s this gentlemen’s club on the Southside called Boomers…” she stared at the cobble for the longest moment.

  “Boom—?”

  “Hold on,” Danica stood. “He has a friend there, this really hot bitch—what was her name—Aurora! He fawns over her as though he’s under some sort of—aw damn it all partner it’s another Arenthian! Why couldn’t I see this?”

  “What did you say?” Now British stood tall, (for her). Warfell placed hands to head and paced back and forth.

  “Oh partner, I remember now. Spank my dimpled ass and call me Suzy—I can’t believe I—oh I did. Damn the Gods of Nasty!”

  “Stop—wait—more,” British wasn’t sure she wanted to know—sure she did.

  “You do not want to know,” Warfell whispered coldly, staring into her partner’s inquisitive orbs—icy blues to puppy browns.

  British gulped.

  Northern Reaches

  Far to the north, Tommy rode quietly on the Roan as Stroke tromped to their side. This time he stuck to the road. No sense in hiding from the public, the hunter was on his trail—probably observing him that very second.

  “Where was I? Oh yes, wheat caravan of assholes. I swear we should have seen it coming, the way our enemy was conducting their business—fighting dirty from the get-go.” he looked down to the Deerhound. “Our Scout was this guy named Theoneidon but we called him The One because he was supposed to be the last living Kotare. Not the Assassins Guild mind you, this is the actual Kotare Tribe of the Southern Plains…”

  *

  “The One, give me a perimeter,” Warfell whispered with a fist up and spinning for silence on the team.

  The tall skinny Kotare Scout nodded and took off on foot, sprinting through the trees and underbrush like a rabbit. Immediately, Danica signaled a dismount and a circle in. The men and women of the Wasp complied, silencing the horses and coming together in a tight group with heads touching.

  “We’re not taking any chances on farmers, do you know why Second LT?”

  “Wheat doesn’t grow in the snow,” Tommy answered without hesitation.

  Danica paused…she had not thought of that. The Captain pointed at her Second LT with a grin of realization.

  “I was gonna say something cool, but that’s even better. Frontliners spread out quietly—try not to alarm the Elders—I will pass word to them in a second. Selene, you and the Snowman with me—closest to the old men. Flush, fill it in and wait. Wendee and Cast, find your vantage points—go!”

  The soldiers of the Wasp fanned out with weapons drawn as Warfell, Tom and Selene approached the three royal carriages to warn the Statesmen.

  “What’s going on Captain Warfell?” asked Lord Elder Rhinehold.

  “Just a small caravan of farm wagons, it could be nothing Sire,” Danica assured the distinguished man. Rhinehold was the Senior Elder second only to the King, his body was all but spent, but his mind was still sharp and focused.

  “Do your job Captain, don’t worry over us old coots and codgers, go,” Rhinehold motioned an aide closer, and Danica away.

  “Sire,” she nodded with respect and brought her Black Racer about. “Okay One and Two, let’s find out who’s growing wheat in the tundra.”

  Turns out they were farmers after all—good folks from the south—paid a small fortune to transport a payload of dirty bombs and thermite detonators through the heart of Throne Territory.

  None were trained fighters, they surrendered their wagons to the Wasp without question, begging for mercy and forgiveness.

  “Something is wrong here,” Selene told Warfell to the side, once they finished chaining the prisoners to a tree.

  “I know but our duty is to the Elders. We continue.”

  “And the wagons Cap?”

  “Have Christy ignite them once we are clear.”

  “Aye Captain,” Selene jogged off and Warfell motioned Tom to walk with her.

  “What do you make of this?”

  “Those farmers know something—they need to be interrogated. As hungry as the enemy troops are, they need supplies and food right now more than bombs. No, these munitions are being brought in for a specific reason Cappy—we need to find out where and what for,” Snow spoke her mind precisely.

  “Okay, we are detonating the wagons. When The One returns, give him a Black Racer and send him back to the Citadel with these coordinates to dispatch an extraction squad.”

  “Aye Captain,” Tommy took off to find Theoneidon. He knew the procession of Elders could not stop; nor could they take prisoners or leave someone behind to await the Officers of the Throne…

  *

  “Yeah guys, we foiled the first assassination attempt on Good King Macedon without even realizing it,” Tommy stopped in the middle of a meadow laced with snow, surrounded by young Sequoias. There was a pond, iced over. Tom came to the edge and kicked a boot through to get at the fresh water.

  When he looked up, Stroke was there with an antlered buck in his mouth.

  “That was fast buddy. I guess I better get situated here,” Tommy stood, moving towards the Roan, when a massive paw hooked his waist and pulled him to the ground.

  “Oooor, we can do this now!”

  He watched for a while, then pulled a knife and chopped a foot of antler free. Snowman then whittled the horn into a good stabber, sharpening the end and cutting a groove down the length. Finally, he carved ridges at the base for a handle-grip. When the dog was done, he secreted the poker in a sleeve and rose to take care of the horse.

  “There’s a good girl,” Tommy carefully inspected the hooves for debris, picking out the pebbles, cleaning the grooves and cracks with the antler he’d just carved. Finally, he applied a thick pine resin, blowing the compound dry and notching the hardened material laterally for better grip on the ice.

  “Couple more days and I’ll need to shave ‘em down a touch. Girl, you should have a name. I know Tawnee hasn’t for her own reasons—maybe we could have one just between us?” he asked politely.

  “How about Trillium? It is an element; a rare, black metal that shines and sparkles in the light just as your coat does. When cooled, it’s solid—warmed it is a liquid. British showed me some once, it’s beautiful and extremely rare. What’cha think girl?” The Equine bristled and snorted.

  “Trillium it is,” Tommy smiled inside as he hustled the blanket-wrap over Trillium’s soft back.

  He made camp with a pistol in hand and an eye to the surrounding trees as he worked. Stroke dragged the Elk carcass away and drank heavily from the icy pond. Trillium dozed while standing.

  Later, sitting next to a warm fire and across from Stroke’s third kill, Tommy wondered aloud.

  “I will need to sleep Stroke—need you to stay awake and on your paws during that time, savvy?” he wished the massive hound could truly understand his words. Much to his surprise, the amazing canine murmured his unique speech in response, staring into Tommy’s eyes with a look of assurance. For some reason, forgotten moments of the strange dream began to clarify. T
om remembered the Ghost said he prepared one of the dogs for him—what did that mean?

  “Can the Aequitas Caelum shove extra Souls into a Dog?” he moved a boot and a paw moved it back. “Tell you what, if you understand me, bark two times.”

  Stroke stopped chewing, moving his brown eyes aloft to his new Master, his face still buried in the kill. With teeth wrapped around the bloody meat, the dog barked twice.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” the Snowman wasn’t expecting that. He gazed at Stroke suspiciously. “Coincidence—here now old chap, what’s seven minus three?”

  Four sharp, definite barks and suddenly Tommy was frightened. He furrowed his brows and asked the burning question.

  “Are you human? Were you a human?”

  Stroke just sat there staring back. Tommy’s heart sank deep in his chest and his eyes watered. “Oh I am so sorry,” he whispered, unaware the intelligent hound was merely barking until he reached the correct answer and his master’s composure relaxed ever so subtly. Just as Equines, Lupines are very skilled at reading the emotions and body language of their human counterparts.

  Stroke was just a very smart dog but Tom Snow now believed otherwise which was fine. This belief gave him the strength he would need to survive what was about to happen.

  Tom was sound asleep when the growl came and a massive paw was padding his leg.

  Bronson House Mental Asylum

  Danica Warfell, British Fey, and Robert John Stone sat across from three men wearing suit coats in the huge conference chamber. Bronson’s Chief Psychologist went first.

  “Thank you for coming. What can I tell you about Von Holt?”

  “Any idea where he might go? Where is he from?” asked Warfell.

  “Holt was believed to be born in the Southern Savanna because of his accent, but there are no records and he would not elaborate.”

  “What about his claims to be a White Mountain survivor?” British interceded.

  “Oh he was adamant over that subject Lady Fey,” the Chief of Security spoke up. “Says he was there in the bunker when the slaughter occurred, knocked unconscious by a Throne Officer—he woke up when it was over. I did not believe him at first, but he knows details of the Throne only an insider could possibly know.”