by J A Stone
“Doctor Marcus Adams?” she asked though she knew. “I hear you sometimes swing a sword?”
“Sure, for sport in the Tourney Ma’am, this is a sterile room, may I ask who you are?”
“Your new Commanding Officer. Get a nurse to do that Doc. We need to talk now.”
He was being modest. Marcus Adams was a Competition Swordsman, ranked number two on Aleutha—of course she had to find him, Danica’s blue eyes alone recruited him. On the Greens, Marcus dominated over the Moorian Regulars until a soldier pushed his way forward shouting his name. Damned if it wasn’t Aleutha’s number one, a beast of a Duelist named Jonquil—seems the Old Man stocked his pond well too. Were this a gentlemen’s match, Marcus would have stood a chance.
Within sight, Christy, the Wasp’s demolition expert gave it everything she had. Christy tried out for the team and placed with honors. Three years later, she was ready to test for Officer. She bashed a sword clear and ravaged its wielder, turning in time to meet another. Through the clamor, in the distance, she saw Doc Marcus hit the grass.
Six still swinging on deck with Castamere and Wendee now scrambling from above to get into the fray—enemy forces already cut in half—every Wasp now bleeding.
*
“What?” Tommy stopped and placed a hand on Stroke’s big wooly head, scratching hard with his nails, “you okay buddy?”
The massive Deerhound warbled his canine speak and Tom sighed deep. They were resting, Stroke was eating, and the Snowman was telling the story, stopping when both hound and horse were leaning in closer, wide eyed as though riveted by the tale of the battle.
“I know fella, but I made it, obviously. It was like a dream, watching our men and women fall one by one. Truthfully, I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
*
Luck had nothing to do with it.
Thomas Barrow Snow found something within himself that night on the red-painted grasses of White Mountain Valley—years later he could only equate the matter to his boss, British Fey. Sometimes, when he was quick enough with his eyes to catch the little elf-girl in action—true action—he realized that somehow he must have done the same that night.
The boss often said she enters a semi-meditative trance, removing her mind from the body ever so slightly, allowing her to navigate her moves with ultimate precision, creating deadly contacts with each motion taken—and dropping men like flies. Tom was no meditator, but his mind was not his own that night.
The Epee gifted to him by his new Captain and the Forge Masters was nothing less than magnificent. Snow could not imagine a more deadly weapon, save a sniper rifle in talented hands. Yes, the blade was heavier, but so perfectly balanced it sang through the air effortlessly. Coming from so many years holding a Thronesword, Tommy found the Epee to be a perfect killer, and this he did so well. With the depletion of forces, Snow was able to navigate the field, coming first to the side of Jack, now slick with blood and faltering. He’d seen Doc Marcus on the ground, and knew the boy would die soon regardless of the battle’s outcome.
Yet Jack still tore through those men like a one-man pack of wolves.
“WELL MET!” Tommy jumped in and tossed Jack his tattered cape, giving the teenage beast a moment to shred the fabric and wrap his arms.
“That’s what I’m talking about, thanks LT,” the ten-footer said a moment later, wiping the blood clear of his face as he took his turns bashing the closest heads, clacking coconuts around with ineffable ease. “To the Captain?” the giant asked calmly to the Snowman’s quick nod of agreement.
One hundred of Hamstead’s Boys swinging—still a one-way road.
Not far, Warfell found Dontabole. She and the Bull thrust their backs together, swinging for their lives at the very center. Both were splashed red and black, Warfell’s silky-white strands now matted and slick.
From north and south, Castamere and Wendee enter the melee, exhausted from their climbs, falls and scrambles down the mountainsides.
Eight Wasps on deck.
Castamere truly believed, (and for all practical purposes he was) one of the luckiest men on the Moon. Once—once under a waterfall, he and Danica made love. She never explained why—never spoke of it again. She did however; give him the occasional knowing grin that never failed to send his heart spiraling to the stars. Of course he loved her.
But Cast was smart enough to know, that if he wanted to be near her—involved—he would need to be the bad-ass he was, and set aside his heart when the moment called for it. This he did as a faithful member of the immortal Wasp. He met Danica at a Marksman’s Tournament as a competitor and they hit it off straightaway. He tried out for the team six months later and placed. That was last season.
He couldn’t wait to strike steel, but when Castamere met the southern side of less than eighty men, he did not realize one might simply turn around and fire a shotgun.
Warfell saw, damn right she saw. Cast heard her screaming his name through the battle as his vision went black and time stood still. She was in agony. No sweetie, not like that, don’t worry ‘bout me, his final thought.
Wendee found her rage fast and plowed through her adversaries mercilessly, furiously making way for the center of the thinning crowd. She saw Dontabole fall and doubled her already considerable efforts when a Broadsword clipped her leg, sending her spinning to the grass and sliding to the fore-hooves of Hamstead’s Warhorse. The beast reacted and Wendee was brutally crushed beneath the steel-plated hooves.
Warfell took a fast aim and fired, clipping Hamstead in the back chest plating. The Old Man fell forward from the saddle, landing with a grunt next to Wendee, where his own adrenaline-pumped, rage-besotted Warhorse accidentally trampled the Old Man to death.
“BULLSHIT!” Warfell screamed, “NO-NO-NO!” deprived of the kill by—
She shot that horse in the face pointblank. Damn the Gods of Goodness, every last one of them. Warfell dropped her red-hot Chesterborne, strafing a Moorian’s neckline with her sword and retracting Dontabole’s heavy, long barreled repeater from his side, immediately blasting away, howling for death behind the flaring hand cannon though not a one could hear…
*
“It seemed like a thousand lifetimes, trapped in a coma nightmare, but it was less than an hour from first contact. I stood not twenty paces from Danica, both of us pumping the mountain air in and out rapidly like birds. Everyone was dead—everyone. I looked about for the boy giant, never saw him fall.
“She stared at me as if she did not know me, but I rushed to her side. I tore some cloth, wrapped her leg tight and she allowed it.
“I kept my mouth shut—I knew better than to speak. I could feel the heat coming from her body, and it wasn’t warm heat—man it was raw anger, like something I just can’t put it into words you guys, she was fuming with rage. It was an evil, a coldness I’ve never seen in those blues before or since.
“The killing field was quiet…not a sound. We met eyes again when the huge doors to the underground complex began closing with abrasive grinding sounds.”
*
Warfell and Snow ran, somehow harnessing strength not there, dashing through the massive iron doors just as they closed with a thunderous ‘boom!’
The Moorian Battle Dwarves were there with a handful of human Royal Officers—none of the men experienced fighters. And the Dwarven-Kin?
‘Never fight a Dwarf with an axe underground,’ goes the sage advice.
Never fuck with Danica Warfell if you kill everyone she loves.
The Captain of the Winter Wasp tore through those little folk as if they were children with sticks, pausing only to double and triple strike the pretty one with an echoed scream of pain and torment.
Tom squared off with a small one and soon found himself on the defensive—the little fellow was fresh and fast. Within moments, Danica appeared from behind and sent the helmet flying down the steps with the little melon-skull still inside.
“Thanks,” Tom saw the fallen.
Shit bisc
uits, I only had one, he thought as they moved on, down into the darkened facility. Below, she and the Snowman could hear the doors closing and clicking over their boot-falls.
Warfell was smart enough to grab Dontabole’s clip belt for his hand cannon. She ejected the long magazine and smacked a fresh one in place, stopping at the base of the steps and facing Tom.
She kissed him. Not passionately at all—it was a gentle kiss of sorrow, a gesture of respect for the one living being in her midst still possessing a good heart.
“I’m gonna work my way in now. I’m gonna kill them all and make sure they are dead. Will you go back up top for me? You served well Tommy—but you can go home now.”
“You shoot—I’ll stab,” her Second Lieutenant replied coldly, brushing past her to the first of many doors.
“Very well—GOVERNOOOR!” Warfell howled into the silence.
*
“I’m not gonna tell you what we did—you know what we did…”
Stroke pressed his huge body gently against him and Tommy allowed the tears to come. He cried for Selene, for Christy, the boy-giant Jack—all of them.
Trillium was very close on her belly, legs folded and tears in her eyes. These animals could feel the pain and torment their friend was going through. They knew well enough to understand, and the warmth in the Souls of the kind beasts gave Tommy a bittersweet comfort, such a rending he suffered in his heart that ominous night.
Sometimes the wounds of war never heal.
Again, Sapien, Lupine and Equine were oblivious to the High Arenthian sitting quietly aside the road in the shadows of the brush-line less than fifteen paces away, a lone tear escaping and trickling to the snow as the cunning creature began to rethink his current obsession with ending a human who clearly cannot be killed....
*
White Mountain Valley
They remained, two walking alive amongst hundreds of bodies, carefully removing their fallen Brothers and Sisters, preparing them all peaceful, deep graves at the base of the mount—weapons upon chests.
They ate silently and slept, cradled fast in one another’s arms, far away from that valley. The following day, Danica Warfell and Tom Snow made their way home.
Throne of Steel Citadel
“Captain Warfell, come forward. I have read your report and the subsequent allegations by the Honorable Throne of Steele. I know you have had the opportunity to review the charging document, do you have anything to say in your defense before I hand this over to Good King Macedon?”
“No my Lord,” Danica took a knee in subjugation.
“Do you understand that you have the right to choose a military tribunal court-martial? You do not need to submit yourself before the King.”
“I understand Sir, I would look our Lord Father in the eye and face my sufferance with what little honor I still possess.”
“So be it, remand the prisoner into custody,” the old man regretfully banged the wooden gavel, and Warfell was escorted back to the holding cell across from Tom Snow. The bars clanged shut and she sat on the stiff bunk with her face in her palms.
“Didn’t we just win the goddamned war for them?” asked Tommy.
“Did you choose the King’s justice?” Warfell countered.
“Yeah, Macedon is wise. We were ambushed Danica—we reacted.”
Warfell raised her head and gave Tommy that look, thrusting the unspoken words through the bars—are you out of your ever-loving mind?
“Overreacted, okay, okay, we overreacted…shit man we slaughtered those guys, they’re gonna hang us aren’t they.”
“YEP!” Danica thrust herself back to the wall and closed her eyes….
Hours later the bullpen buzzer sounded and both iron cells clacked open on their own. Tom and Danica stood at attention, patiently waiting for it.
“Warfell and Snow, King Macedon wants to see you—now people,” the voice came from the Chief of Security for the Throne of Steele, a hard ass bitch of a man named Dietrich—Colonel Dietrich.
“Yes Sir,” the prisoners said in unison.
But Dietrich did not take the two before the Crown, rather, the Colonel directed them down a lone hallway to the Executive Offices—one hundred feet of tiles that seemed like a thousand. As they walked, the old Veteran spoke over the striking of his boots.
“When he talks, I don’t need to tell you two idiots to keep those gappers clamped shut, do I?”
“No Sir,” again, they spoke as one person, heads low, counting the tiles as they walked.
“And you,” Dietrich stopped to face Warfell. “What in the Seven Hells were you thinking—who, do you think you are?”
“Sir, we didn’t Aaaaaaah!” Tommy tried—Colonel Dietrich reached out with his left hand and snatched Snow by the ear, twisting hard!
He never broke eye contact with Warfell.
“You really screwed the pooch this time little lady, the citizens of Moor simply will not understand. They’ll never know what really happened, those people will believe this was a Throne sanctioned event—do you HEAR what I am SAYING?” the man’s eyes seemed ready to explode.
“Sir—yes—Sir,” Warfell met those eyes with a cold glare that broke the Colonel’s attitude immediately. He snorted like a bull and resumed the boot-clacking walk to their doom.
“Mouths shut, eyes open, answer his questions with utmost respect or I swear to whatever God you have left, I will shoot you in this hallway when our Lord Father is done with you. Alright we’re here—be quiet.” Colonel Dietrich tapped on the wood and pushed the door open.
There behind a magnificent oaken desk sat Good King Macedon. He rose and bade the prisoners sit in the two chairs across from him. They took those seats and awaited the words neither wanted to hear.
“Jimmy give us the room,” said Macedon to the Colonel.
“Not on your life.”
“JIMMY!”
“I’ll be right outside.”
“Good man.”
“Now,” the old weathered man began as his best friend and Number One apprehensively left the room, “what am I supposed to do with this Danica?”
“Lord Macedon I did not—”
“Skip that part Miss Warfell,” he addressed her as a civilian and the last shard of her splintered heart sank to the floor. “You know I grew up with your Grandfather. Olias saved my life more than once when we were out there swinging swords. He was one of the bravest Souls I have ever met Danica—next to you and Mister Snow here.”
“Sir I—”
“AUP! Didn’t Jimmy run down the shut your mouth part?” the King pointed to the door with a dreadful glare, and from the other side of that door they heard the Colonel’s muffled shouting.
“Yeah I DID that Sir!”
Macedon stared hard at Danica and she felt a childish urge to cry over his next few words.
“This is what’s going to happen. Both of you are stripped of rank and discharged from service—that goes without saying. NOW! You will walk down that hall, hit those doors, and keep walking,” the wise old man waited to see the shock and awe. “Here,” Macedon stood and held both hands out, closed and facing down.
“Shut up Danica—take it,” the old man dropped bags of rare Honey Diamonds in the outstretched palms—a literal King’s fortune to each. “Jimmy will gather your riding leathers and then escort you to the edge of Throne Territory, from there you are on your—”
The door opened and Colonel Dietrich came through with a finger up and eyebrows raised high.
“My Lord I’m not about to—”
“Jimmy! You will DO AS I SAY!” the King scolded his lifelong friend and the Colonel took a seat in the far corner shaking his head.
“As I was saying,” Macedon cleared his throat. “In this room alone, I thank you both. Governor Argon of Moor was a rabid dog and in my personal opinion, you both have done this world a great justice. Danica, I know they killed your men and women. It is called the blood-rage fugue, and any warrior is capable of it, given the
most wrongful of circumstances just as you experienced. I applaud your justice and I am far from alone. The men and women you so thoroughly dispatched were very well aware of why they were there. Governor Argon signed off on your deaths—Seven Hells he planned it! Frankly, I am honored to be talking with you even now. Shut your mouth Danica,” Macedon knocked Warfell’s reply down before she could post it up.
“That being said, if you return here, you shall be captured and executed on sight. I have your weapons. They are yours, now take them and leave before I change my mind.”
The Good King placed Warfell’s Thronesword and Tom’s Epee on the top of his desk and stared the dumbfounded pair in the eyes—back and forth.
“GO! You idiots!”
“Move people,” Colonel Dietrich sighed as Warfell and Snow retrieved their blades and made for the threshold.
“Oh, and Jimmy?” Macedon stopped his Number One at the door.
“Yes my Lord?”
“I heard what you said out there. Leave your firearm on that table please?”
“Yes—my Lord,” he shot Warfell a guilty glance, slowly pulling—setting his pistol down with a regretful growl and Danica realized the man was indeed going to shoot her—for running that mouth—just like he said.
*
Tom rose to a stand and resumed the arduous trek towards Salt Mountain. He continued talking as horse and hound clopped and padded faithfully to either side.
“We parted ways in Oceanport, she headed for home in Silvercrest. I found a pub and stayed drunk for a few days.
“Two weeks later Macedon was murdered in his sleep by Assassins. The mighty Throne fell within months—The Nation of Tibor even sent contingents of Knights to assist in our decimation. Warfell and I both attempted to get back in the fight but the Generals and politicians didn’t want us anymore, didn’t want our brand of justice, we had done enough damage as it was.
