Faithless Steel

by J A Stone

  Magnus was old school Dwarven; he could not resist the honor of living within the heart of Salt Mountain—Mons Salis Cor—as his descendants called Whiterock. The old hearty Battle Dwarf was a damn good fellow to have roundabout.

  As well, they had Corella, the Foreman of the dismantled construction crew. Corella fought bravely on the Greens of Fort Salvos with her unusual weapon, known as a Temporal Greatsword. She was proving to be a valuable asset as an experienced Swordsman, now training for Knighthood under Eventine personally.

  They needed more fighters. Whiterock was too precious to lose. Still, it would have to do. Warfell decided to send Master Po a dispatch from the city, requesting he visit whilst the bulk of the Salt Knight’s talent was on deck below conducting this mission.

  “Alright, we move now. Tawnee and Eve, you guys suit up, weaponize heavy and we’ll meet you on the lift,” Warfell was all business.

  In the city below, British found a seat at the Archives Library, thanking the helpful Porter. Across from her sat the Curator of the museum.

  “Madam Curator, what do you know about Arenthian lore?”

  “What is your fancy Lady Fey?” the thin, spindly woman smiled.

  “Biology—is there any record of live captures, or scientific inquiries into Arenthian physiology?”

  “There is indeed,” she ran a wrinkled finger across the spines of several tomes stacked between the two.

  “I’m looking for information on their abilities to hibernate for long periods,” British scanned the books placed before her, pulling one free and opening to the glossary in the back.

  “This,” the Curator roamed over several pages in her book, “is a study conducted in Tibor six hundred years ago—says the subject died during testing—still there are well documented interviews with the creature…here sweetie,” she passed the thick volume across the table. British dove through the contents, tracing a finger across the parchment pages, tapping and reading more.

  “Thank you so much Madam Curator—this will do fine,” British gave the old woman her deep browns.

  “Then I shall leave you to it!” she rose and left quietly, abandoning the young Porter, still standing awkwardly next to a seated British.

  “Nothing to see here,” Fey said coyly, maintaining eye contact as her Buck Skinner appeared from behind her sleeve. She excised the pages in the ancient text with her razor sharp blade.

  “You are so pretty,” he replied like an idiot, transfixed by her looks alone, caring less about the destruction of Archives property. “Would you, like, uh…pretty?” he was fumbling for the sentence not there.

  “Why thank you young man,” British folded the crunchy papers and stuffed them into her rucksack next to her leather-bound field journal, “but I believe I am a lesbian now.”

  “Performing Arts are gay,” he heard thespian. This penis-brain was not getting it.

  “You got it!—mommy likey the softies—you know?” a horrible attempt at clarification.

  “Softies? Is that beer?”

  “Sure, yeah-yeah, sure. You saw nothing, m-kay?” British gave the oblivious young man a sparkly diamond, closing his palm over the stone and abruptly kissing the back of his hand. She then winked and left the vaulted chamber with a giggle befitting any elf. Let him figure it out on his own, she was pressed for time as it was.

  Twenty minutes later, British and Snowflake watched patiently with Rarity, and Bigfoot’s wagon-team of Broncos as the cable-lift lurched to a groaning halt and her hunting party disembarked.

  Danica, Tawnee, Robert, and Eventine—couldn’t be stronger.

  “Think we have enough muscle topside?” she asked Warfell who was already shaking her head.

  “Nooop!”

  “Send a rider for Master Po at Fey Mansion, it will need do for now,” British recited Warfell’s exact thoughts and conclusions.

  Danica leaped atop Rarity. “Dare needs to run, Tawnee will you ride him?”

  Shadoweye nodded.

  “I’ll catch up shortly on the road, YA!” she sped off to send the dispatch. British watched her friend go, thankful she was sharp and focused once again.

  “Whiterock Stables,” said Fey. “C’mon guys, let’s go find our Brother.”

  They met up thirty minutes later, eager to take the road, Danica more than a little nervous over seeing the Throne of Steel Citadel again. Hopefully they would find the Snowman or get on his trail fast.

  I’m coming for you Tommy—you better be alive, Danica thought.

  Northern Road

  “Okay, I’m dead,” Tommy was being realistic, whispering to himself as the creature stood motionless. Stoke was growling low and deep, the vibrato Tom could feel on his legs through Trillium’s hooves.

  “Yessss—dead indeed,” the Arenthian hissed with his black eyes glued to the menacing Deerhound. Snow was unaware that his enemy could sense Danica traveling their way, Nigel having already secreted and issued the airborne molecules that would call for her—summoning his love-pet to come.

  “Wanna hug my doggie?” Tom spit on the road.

  “Lupines’ pains alto malady,” the creature pointed to his own eye and then the dog.

  “Stroke had a stroke, take a closer look asshole, I promise he will bite—pinky swear dude.”

  “Nona—Thomas Barrow of the Snow,” Nigel bowed and then pulled his cape away from the pommel of a lavishly styled Rapier. So it was a duel he wanted?

  Tom slid his hand down to the cup of his Longfoil. The shotgun was in the straps under his right leg, pistol tucked in the back of his pants. He held the right hand aloft for peace and the Arenthian nodded solemnly. Next to Tom, the Deerhound was growling low and deep, keeping aside his Master, waiting for his moment to lunge. Trillium was scanning the horizon, already calculating for the sprint only seconds away…

  The Snowman had two choices; dismount and meet the bloodsucker honorably one-on-one, or run for his life again. Three weeks on the wing was long enough and Tommy knew the enemy was simply too fast for clacking steel about like gentlemen.

  He made the judgement call and spurned Trillium onward with a shout and raised boots. Stroke howled and joined horse and rider—straight for the startled Arenthian.

  Nigel wasn’t expecting that at all. He drew the Rapier and leaped to the side, forward and then back, hopping about lightning fast to confuse the human and his hound, calculating his first strike as they drew closer. At twenty lengths, Tom whipped the Longfoil free with a ring, dropped the reins and crouched in the saddle. At twenty feet, he snatched the shotgun out and fired, immediately throwing the weapon and leaping from Trillium’s wide back…

  Airborne, the flying Snowman pulled his pistol as the creature bashed the rifle away with a forearm—just as the Deerhound tackled him, silently ripping into his right side.

  Tommy miscalculated his landing but hit the snow with a roll and a twist, bouncing to his feet and firing the pistol three times for two contacts—yes!

  Nigel accepted the nickel rounds in the shoulder and neck with two grunts. The Arenthian struck the Deerhound clamped to his waist with the shrouded pommel of the Rapier and rolled free, leaping fifteen feet to the side, crouching and snarling at his adversaries, now ten paces on both ends and closing.

  Tom fired again and missed twice, letting the pistol drop and pulling the Poniard out. The creature slashed his own blade at the Deerhound and the amazing canine dodged the sharp instrument like a mongoose evading a cobra. The three came to a standstill.

  Buggers this is it—I’m gonna leap—so will the dog—so will he, Tom’s thoughts as he pumped the ground with his heels, ready to give it everything he had and close the distance with both blades swinging. The triangle of predators perched on the precipice, waiting for that trigger-flinch, gathering their energies, anticipating the angles of approach.

  “WAIT!” Nigel shouted, dropping his blade and extending both palms before hound and human. “She comes,” he said.

  “Sure prick, whatever he
lps you—”

  Tommy blinked and damned if the Renth wasn’t ten feet gone already, sprinting like a jackrabbit, faster than even Stroke could possibly manage on a split-second notice. The Deerhound bounded forward ten paces with a yelp but quickly abandoned pursuit, knowing he would be unable to catch the fleet-footed thing and unwilling to leave his Master alone on the road.

  They watched Nigel disappear among the evergreen trunks and bows.

  “Okay that went better than I thought it would. Good job buddy. I wonder what he meant?” he patted Stroke’s head and lifted the Rapier from the ground. It was a precision crafted weapon—ancient. Tom studied the intricacies of the bejeweled metal in the dying light as the equifade gave way to the darkened folds of the deep night…

  At that very moment far away, on the south side of Oceanport, in the basement of a gentlemen’s club named Boomers, a beautiful woman with long blonde curly hair opened her bright green eyes to her darkened chamber. Her name was Aurora and she was already moving….

  Nearby, at the southern foot of Salt Mountain, two hundred feet in the branches of a Red Sequoia, Iris opened her grey eyes and they flushed crimson black. She took in a bellow of crisp air causing the ice and snow encasing her frozen frame to crack as the precious blood began to flow warm through her system. It was time to go….

  On the Northern Road between the city of Oceanport and the hunting village of Pine Valley, British Fey opened her eyes to relieve Warfell on watch.

  A quick tinkle behind a tree and Fey returned to camp hoisting her britches up, smacking her lips and rubbing the sleep away from her puppy browns only to see that Danica and Rarity were long gone.

  “Warfell? Partner?” she panned her eyes about, “aww Dammit, Dammit, DAMMIT!”

  Pine Valley Sherriff’s Office

  Tom stood emotionlessly over the body. This good woman helped him when he really needed it. The facial bruising and bloodied knuckles said she put up a fistfight—a good one too.

  “Bless her Soul, she didn’t deserve this,” the Snowman lowered his gaze to the bright white tiles.

  “Aye Sir, any man getting the better of Jimbo must come from the Seven Hells,” the Coroner all but whispered. Tommy nodded his agreement.

  “Worse,” he lamented, instructing the Sherriff and his men what to tell the Salt Knights, should they come looking for him. He told them the truth, who exactly was pursuing him, what the thing was who took Jimbo down barehanded.

  “Keep your people inside Sir, mind your good folk, I will handle this thing in the forest I swear it.”

  “Before you go, come with me Son,” the Sherriff guided Tom down the hallway to his small office. “What are you shooting?” the man asked as he rifled through an ammo cabinet.

  “Chesterborne model 13—Thirty-caliber nickel. My shotgun is an Oakley Repeater.”

  “Here Son, use these. My Father was an old-fashioned man—very superstitious. He kept these silver bullets for the creatures of the night who never came. These will load in the Chesterborne,” Sherriff Daron passed the leather bag of thirty-cals to Tommy and the Snowman nodded.

  “Think they’ll work?” he had to ask, sitting down at the desk to eject his clip and empty the nickel-shot out.

  “Get that silver into the brain and it’s over. All the books say so,” said the Sherriff with furrowed brows. “Ever read Arenthian Blood?”

  “No, but if I live through this—I will—cover to cover,” the Snowman was not joking. Tom repacked his munitions quickly and got the Seven Hells out of Pine Valley as fast as Trillium could manage. So much for getting a room, he still needed distance to rest and regroup. He needed to set some kind of trap.

  Ten miles out of Pine Valley, Tommy continued his narrations of the days leading up to the ambush at the foot of White Mountain.

  “They sent an Emissary to Nook Valley,” he began, “some philosopher guy…”

  *

  Nook Valley, Throne of Steel Senate Chambers

  “My Good Lords, Senators of the Northern Realm, I implore you,” his name was Acheron, famed negotiator, Ambassador and all around dick.

  “The Throne of Steel shall not pay homage to Moor, Honorable Acheron,” and Elder Anderson simply was not having it.

  “The tariffs are recompense for organic supplies.”

  “Just say food Ambassador,” the wise Elder corrected. For such an astute negotiator, Acheron was failing in his charge to Moor.

  “Very well, food, the Governor feels that sanctions are in order. I have proposed an increase in armament production, with eighty-percent of such exporting to Moor.”

  “So, they want us to pay extra for the provisions, and give our metal away to the enemy? Sir, we are a long way away from resolving this issue.”

  Tom left the Council Chamber quietly, sliding through the guarded threshold. Outside, the hallway was wide and empty. He tapped one of the Guardsmen on the shoulder and whispered his question.

  “Bathroom?”

  The burly man pointed and the Snowman nodded, fast-stepping his way to the loo and pausing at the door. Someone was inside, talking…

  “Forget that shit Bobby, swear to the gods.”

  “Hey—hey there Dobson, my answer is no. I don’t care how bad it gets.”

  Tom swung the door wide to see the two Moorian Escorts, Captains, hastily retreating from their conversation before the sink basin.

  “Everything all right in here Gentlemen?” Tommy asked as he urgently relieved himself into a ceramic trough across the room, his back decidedly turned, eyes to the reflections on the polished metal fixtures.

  “None of your worry—Throneman,” one retorted with a brusque snort and a spit to the floor, inches from Tom’s left boot.

  The Snowman looked down at the sputum, shook away his last few drops and raised his eyes to the Moorians. These men were allowed on Throne soil as a courtesy, formal Escort to Ambassador Acheron and nothing more—otherwise Tom would be wholly justified in killing them outright. He kept his slim body calm and cool—his fat mouth however, had different ideas.

  “Forgive me was I interrupting you?” Tommy turned around and lowered his sight to their nether regions. “Are you both sporting semis?”

  “Steady your tongue Throneman!” the larger of the two stepped forward.

  “I do need improvement on that,” Tommy answered sincerely. “You should too, work those balls sweetie—real men like that a lot—oops, I’m sorry Tiffany.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Tommy politely scooched past the knees of the seated, finding his own place next to Warfell and Selene, giving his full attention to the speaker at the podium below.

  Warfell leaned forward and frowned harshly at her Second Lieutenant, already developing a black eye. She pointed to her bottom lip and Tommy wiped the trickle of blood away with the back of his sleeve. She made hand signals.

  Problem? The fingers asked.

  All clear, perimeter secured, Tommy signaled back with a pink-toothed grin.

  As they communicated, the two Moorian Captains returned to the vaulted Council Chambers and Selene tugged on Warfell’s jacket like a kid. She pointed to them across the lecture hall and her Captain noticed the battered, horribly beaten faces.

  Danica laughed outright, bringing silence to the assembly of hundreds, casting a thousand angry eyes her way.

  “Uhhhhh hello everybody?” she said aloud, and the echo chamber did its job, faithfully carrying the words to most everyone there.

  “Have you something to say Captain—Warfell is it?” Ambassador Acheron knew who she was—he was attempting to demean her.

  “No I do not Mister Speaker Man,” she knew his name as well. The assembly murmured in response to the bold rudeness from a lowly Field Captain. Danica did not care. She stared a murder hole through the grey eyes of the old man who was supposed to be there for the good of all, yet clearly was subject to some clandestine agenda. Her unspoken message was blatant—you are no friend of this Nation.

  “We were
just leaving,” Warfell added clearly, rising with her two Lieutenants and making way for the exit as the crowded talk rose to a dull roar.

  “ORDER! WE WILL HAVE ORDER!” Elder Anderson banged the podium gavel harshly to awaken the assembly from their rumors of excitement and distaste. He shot Warfell a glare of disdain, despite his inner pride for his favorite Captain’s resilient defiance under pressure.

  *

  “She chewed my ass like my Dad used to you guys,” Tommy looked from horse to hound. “Serious, she was pissed to no end.” He added over Stroke’s mumbling.

  They were less than fifty miles out of Oceanport. The mighty Salt Mountain loomed high to the clouds, already prominent on the horizon, though Tommy was blind to it. The forest grew thick there, tunneling over the well-paved road in many places. Icicles and slush covered the fold of the evergreens and pines creating the illusion of walking through an endless ice cave. The evening fade shot prismatic columns of gold, orange and lavender through the gaps in the leafy tunnel and for a moment there Tommy was lost on a different moon—a moon without killing—a moon without sorrow.

  Daydreams can really mess a guy up sometimes.

  The White Mountain Massacre

  Sonnet of a War Having Fallen

  Death and I are old-time mates

  He’s a violent fiend—this silent friend

  Who makes me watch as he masticates

  The carcass, whilst I pretend,

  To be appalled and wish no fate as such

  Upon any—oh please.

  As if this vengeance would be too much,

  Casting me prone on broken knees.

  Tis I—the one who comes for you

  Tearing the justice from your bowels.