by J A Stone
“It is as beautiful, as those who gaze on,” a handsome man came forward with a gleaming smile and big brown eyes. “My name is Jon, Jon Stoneson, Liaison and Number One to the Honorable Governor. Anything you need, I shall provide Lord Captain. In your presence, I am for your will,” he bowed deep in subjugation and the two women did not know what to think of mister handsome man.
“He’s all yours, don’t break him,” Argon giggled. “Lord Anderson and I will be holding Council here—rather down there,” the Governor pointed to several large oaken tables in a half-circle and a dozen padded leather chairs positioned roundabout the conference area in the middle of the vaulted ceiling coliseum. Warfell did not like the open spans at all.
“We will need to light all of the rafters—I cannot allow such shadows to loom over my Charge,” Warfell was calculating and assessing contingencies.
“Not a problem—done,” said Stoneson.
“And I will need to see the remainder of this facility immediately,” she added like a stern wife.
“Yes indeed, come with me Captain, are you thirsty? Would you care for a—”
“Immediately means at this time Stoneson, every chamber and every closet. Number One!” Warfell turned her back on mister-handsome-helpful, casting Selene ‘the look’.
“Aye Captain,” Warfell’s First Lieutenant left for the stairwells and the exit to debrief the team and await Danica’s emergence with either approval—or the signal to attack.
Warfell and Stoneson entered the lavish galley where several high-ranking Moorian Federals were eating. She immediately spotted General Hamstead, drinking beers with a female Agate Dwarf—clearly a hired consort. She approached the table boldly.
“Rupert,” he hated his first name and she knew it.
“Danny-boy,” he replied, knowing she barely tolerated lesbian references. “You look good. Doesn’t she look good?” the General asked his pretty prostitute.
“Nuff to eat ma Lord,” she replied. Warfell let it go.
“Conferences and summits are for the old and feeble Rupert. What brings you this-a-way?” Danica bore a death-hole through the man with her eyes, noting his utterly calm demeanor.
“You have caught me unarmed at the table in fine company Good Captain,” Hamstead met her eyes fearlessly, “and me here without my boys.”
“How about that, as if you really were old and feeble. I retract my question Rupert—enjoy your wrinkled pussy.”
The Agate Dwarf pounded her chubby fists on the wood with a gaze of murder, rattling the dishes and wares. Hamstead held her back with a forearm and a smile.
“Forgive me please,” Warfell offered the enraged Agate a bow at the waist. She meant to sleight the Old Man, not her anyway. “You are so beautiful,” she was indeed, a very rare occurrence in Dwarven women. “Show me the rest Stoneson,” Warfell turned and left them without another word.
An hour later, Captain Warfell appeared outside, motioning her team the okay, issuing explicit instructions to each as they approached.
“Signal Cast and Wen to hold, it’s gonna be three days,” she ordered Selene, gathering Tommy in close by the shoulder. Danica hated to leave her soldiers in the cold that long, but she needed the advantage of a snipe, just in case. “Bring The One in, sleep in shifts outside. I want one of our people roaming the corridors hourly, visiting every chamber—keep a Wasp highly visible at all times—everyone else remains topside on the greens.”
“Got it,” said Tommy.
“On it,” said Selene.
“One of us three must hold fast to Elder Anderson’s side. Selene, you are first up. The talks are scheduled to begin tomorrow on the morning equifade.”
They settled into the regimen, patrolling the grounds, keeping a vigilant eye on the soldiers and statesmen there.
On the east end of the Valley, Theoneidon heard Selene’s call, signaling his return to the hive. Standing next to him was the Captain of Hamstead’s Brigade—the Boys holding three clicks back—some five hundred strong.
“That’s you Kotare. Get the General back here in one piece. Screw this up and you die down there with them. Play this right and collect your pay up here—understand me?”
The One nodded solemnly and began the descent.
The talks went well. The Governor himself admitted that the Moorian Infantrymen were having a difficult time surviving the winter, let alone maintaining an active front line. During Warfell’s shift at Lord Anderson’s side, she discerned many weaknesses and frailties, noting that supply caravans were inadequate and the men were being forced to hunt game in the wood when they should be fighting the Throne of Steel patrols hunting them! Even with enough meat, there simply existed little else to eat in the White Mountains. During these harsh months, malnutrition and malaise spread rampant among the armies of Moor.
Danica wondered why this information was tendered so easily. At war one never reveals the weaknesses of their troops. Sure, the old men were hinting at a treaty, but they had yet to admit any kind of defeat—was it simple pride? Warfell doubted this severely. She believed herself to be a shrewd negotiator, but these men were masters of the craft. No, they would never place truth on the conference tables—no way.
That fade on the Greens, Captain Warfell spoke at length with her Liaison, mister-handsome-helpful, attempting to glean more information.
“So, Jon, the men and women need medicine and food?”
“Yes, I don’t know how you folks survive up here,” he replied nonchalantly. Warfell sighed.
“In the beginning years of the mighty Throne, it was the Dwarven-Kin who helped us learn to thrive in the mountains,” she gazed out over the valley and froze in place, suffering a sudden snap of realization…
“You are quite fortunate that—”
“Ssssh!” Warfell rose to a stand and clicked twice for Tom Snow. “Who is on patrol right now?”
“The One’s in the halls—Selene is with Anderson, what’cha got Cappy?” Tom answered and asked.
“Nothing,” said Warfell. “Stoneson, will you take me to the galley for a drink?”
“Sure!” mister-handsome stood, whisking his britches clean of grass and leaves with his palms. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t, I’m hungry. Do the Agates keep something hot at night?”
“Absolutely Lord Captain, come!”
They entered the underbelly of White Mountain as the sky darkened to the approaching deep night. Adjacent to the indoor amphitheater, the lights were on in the galley.
“One quick stop,” Warfell redirected their route to Ambassador Anderson’s chamber door. Selene was on guard faithfully. Danica nodded and continued down the passageway, looping around to where they had just been.
The dining room was decidedly empty. They grabbed a table as a server approached. It was the same Dwarf Danica offended upon arrival—the pretty Agate—wonderful.
“Oy—tis you,” she said, quickly regaining her professionalism. “It’s okay Lady Captain. What can I get ya to drink luv?”
“Dark coffee,” said Warfell, placing a small but very rare Blue Diamond on the tablecloth as a handsome tip and hopeful recompense for her big mouth.
“Hot coffee shugga,” the Dwarf palmed and pocketed the sparkly gem without a second glance, turning to Stoneson. “And you luv?”
“Same here, coffee sounds nice,” he faced Danica and smiled as if they were on a date or something. Warfell shot him the look of a serial killer—not a date buddy.
Here’s the thing—Agate Dwarves are typically fascinated with, more like obsessive over rare metals and gems—especially Diamonds. They are genetically hardwired for it. Their little eyes sparkle like stars when they touch precious jewels. Warfell carefully observed the pretty woman who was clearly not an Agate as she backed through the double doors to the kitchen. Seems they failed realize how close the Throne held its Dwarves. She personally knew hundreds of Agates—never seen a pretty one either—ever.
“Where is
General Hamstead at this very moment?” Danica asked, catching Stoneson’s eyes and holding them tight in a vice. Jon cleared his throat and she snapped her fingers.
“Where Jon.”
“Um, in bed I would presume?”
“Without his hot little escort.”
Questions were over because there it was.
Warfell leaned in, tilting her head slightly, feeling Stoneson’s heart beginning to race, his blood pressure rising, irises dilating, capillaries flooding with adrenaline. She shook her platinum strands side to side, ever so slightly, her last human thought:
You motherfucker you…
She exploded into action, snatching a silver fork from a napkin and ripping his throat wide open with a rapid jerk, leaping to a stand, thrusting the table up and over, crashing down atop mister handsome dead man.
The betrayed Captain of the Winter Wasp forcefully drew her Thronesword and Chesterborne, lurching her steely blues side to side like a wild animal.
Only moments earlier, Selene stood resolute before Elder Anderson’s door when a young Dwarf masquerading as an Agate brought her some tart coffee. She nodded her thanks and sipped the steaming hot brew, assuming the acidic taste was the result of the little folk attempting and failing to accommodate the human guests with a drink they themselves never consume.
She realized too late, just as the young Agate returned, rounding the corner with a jagged knife in his hand and murder in his little eyes. Her legs gave out and Selene hit the deck hard, vision fading away, paralyzed, numb to the violent tugging sensations, a child-sized boot on the floor next to her face.
Above the Greens, on the southern flank at eight hundred feet, Castamere was pissing on the side of a tree, not paying attention.
His counterpart was positioned across from him on White Mountain, gazing down on her sleeping team when she thought she heard something, a clattering coming from the shadows of the east passes. She snatched her Sniper rifle and hustled the night scope into focus.
In the east pass, General Hamstead mounted his Warhorse, bringing the armored stallion about roughly.
“Pay him,” he snapped to his Captain, who nodded to a Lieutenant. Hamstead looked harshly at Theoneidon and spit his distaste, the Kotare Scout known as The One, now a traitor to his kind.
Even a true sack of shit needs someone to frown down upon sometimes, and Hamstead was doing this faithfully.
“Can’t give you a horse—you’re on your own.”
Without a reply, Theoneidon dashed away—a wealthy little rabbit who signed the death notes on his friends for a single bag of jewels and gold, and who would drink every sparkle and shiny away in less than thirty days.
Inside the mountain, Warfell exhaled sharp to the sight of Selene—viciously poisoned and stabbed on the granite tiles.
Elder Anderson’s chamber door was left ajar. Danica pushed it the rest of the way and placed a hand to her mouth, allowing the images to burn into her mind where they would scream and howl for the remainder of her days.
Gunfire erupted outside on the Greens slapping Danica hard in the face, knocking her back on task. She ran for the exit, wiping the blood and tears from her eyes, leaving her blackening heart in the hallway before the man who was as a Father to her, and the best friend she once kissed on a dare.
Daemons
They came from a shadowed mist, the
Killers of her family, fundamentalist
Murderers—calculating rapists.
Yet here she stands, cold metal to fist.
An obsidian tide swells the midst of
Her rage. Words cannot describe this
Need to resist the reason she exists.
Once human, once fragile, once loved and kissed.
The Daemons of Darkness—they took this
And forced her heart upon the black abyss.
British Fey
White Mountain Valley Greens
“Snowman—THERE! Shut it down!” Warfell pointed to the orange muzzle-fire emanating from the mountainside in flashes.
“Got it,” he aimed and let loose with a high-powered piece, silencing the lone sniper above the east pass.
Castamere and Wendee were north and south where they needed to be and took precision shots to deplete the contingent of five-hundred now pounding the sod and closing with less than sixty seconds to contact.
Warfell had Tommy, her giants Dontabole and Jack, Ronda, Christy, Marcus and Ollie on the grass. Even with her Snipers above, it was a far—far cry from five hundred.
“Christy, light up the vanguard,” Danica ordered.
“With pleasure Cappy,” the Wasp’s demolition expert set to, launching several packages towards the approaching brigade and drowning most of the mounted officers in flame.
“Okay,” Danica had to make the decision fast, every Tinker they had was stuck in the stables, no way to meet the mounted head-on. “FAN OUT—DIVE IN DEEP—TAKE ‘EM FREESTYLE!” It was the right call, together in a line or wedge Hamstead’s Brigade would simply unload their firearms on the small group. Individually—fighting within the enemy ranks—the Moorians would be forced to engage hand-to-hand to avoid that friendly fire.
Years later, Danica would remember and realize that these are the same tactics used so effectively by British Fey, when combating overwhelming numbers…
Warfell ducked and dodged through horses and men, cracking rounds with the Chesterborne and clipping horses’ chests and men’s legs as she ran. Once deep, the tall platinum haired warrior shouted “ENOUGH!” and stopped, engaging the closest soldier and running him through.
She kicked, spun about, fired her piece and swung the Thronesword with abandon, using boots, fists and steel like a calibrated machine. She could not see her team, but she heard Jack nearby—heard his boyish shouts—saw one of the enemy tossed over the crowd like a sack of rice.
At ten feet tall, eleven-hundred pounds of muscle and bone, Jack had to beg Warfell to let him on the team, at first that is. When she refused him for the last time, (he was only thirteen, too young to serve) young Jack provoked her to fight and then beat the shit out of her—first man ever to do so. She had gauntlets specially forged the following day and gave them to Jack on his front porch with a busted-lip smile and a purple-black eye.
“Doing this for your family,” was her reasoning. They were dirt poor, Father dead, Mother ill. Warfell knew the boy was the only hope his family had of surviving.
“I’ll watch over him Missus Grayson, keep him safe, I promise,” she told his Mom on her deathbed.
“Ha!” the woman laughed through her pain, she was only Danica’s age, torn up with stage four miner’s lung. “Nobody can whoop my Jack when he’s mad Captain Warfell, no one,” she was right. Despite his age, Jack proved himself over and again with the Wasp—damn good fellow to have about. Danica often mused; if she had a Son, she would want him to be just like Jack.
At that moment, Warfell’s adopted boy was punching with gauntleted fists and steel-plated knuckles, bashing his way to an all-out rage. The hits he was taking only yanked on the chain of his inner beast. The boy knew it was all or nothing—he saw how many charged down the pass.
Not far away, Jack could see his mentor, Dontabole—the Bull. Much older than his teenage comrade, Bull was thirty. He was smaller too, weighing in at eight-hundred pounds, Bull was a solid eight feet of hardened muscle and experienced fighter.
His targets were the horsemen, lending zero mercy to the noble beasts he was cutting into, getting those men on the ground where they belonged. His weapon was a huge Greatsword, but he had yet to open a space wide enough to swing it. For now, he was stabbing deep—one hit game over moves. Unlike Jack, Bull favored armor, which had already saved him several times. Forget nobility and honor, he and Jack were being swarmed from the fervent commands of the remaining mounted Officers screaming bloody murder for their men to take the two giants down. From Dontabole’s position he could see General Hamstead. The Old Man was pointing at him, scream
ing for his demise. He snorted, stomped and charged.
Warfell was commanding a wide circle, forcing her enemy to clamber over the fallen when a brave Corporal took a lucky shot and sunk a round in her left leg.
“RAAAA!” she howled and took his head clean. Too late, nearby opponents were already shouting first blood on the Hive Queen, causing them all to intensify their efforts—not good—her teammates would hear this and lose focus!
Twenty feet away, Ollie found a Longsword through his ribs, when he attempted a desperate rally towards his wounded Captain.
Six seasons with the Wasp, Ollie met Danica Warfell in a bar-fight that she started. Turned out she was stone cold sober, tearing up rural pubs on purpose—recruiting fighters for an assault squad. Ollie howled for her as more weapons sank deep and he hit the grass, his voice overcome by the cries of death from the men and women above, gazing down upon him and still swinging—first Wasp down.
Deep within the mass, Jacaranda fought fiercely with his half-moon Scimitar, lacing the blade in and out whist dancing in a circle. His second year with Warfell, he met the beautiful Captain, (who called him Ronda for his long blond hair) in jail of all places. She was undercover in open population, picking fights on the rec-yard—again—recruiting for her team. Ronda loved his Captain more than life itself. She gave him freedom, reunited his broken family, and turned his life around. As the others, Ronda knew this was not going to be easy, but he had faith in his skills and his Captain.
On the east end of the fray, Marcus commanded over all who came. He met Warfell in the Throne Infirmary four years past. He was stitching a cut, when she walked into Triage, covered in dust and pointing his way.
