by J A Stone
“Military experts agree now that had Warfell been reinstated and given a Command, we could have won—such was the love our soldiers had for her. The mighty Throne of Steel was divided in the aftermath and it paid the ultimate price—unable to make the right decisions.”
For Love and Little Else
For Love and Little Else
Platinum mist of an Angel’s breath
She is the one, they say, who
Cannot be touched—to do so is death. The shadow beneath
A lone fool’s ardor for this creature is nothing new.
Her blue eyes harrow this horrible weight, the
Lives of those fallen to Sword, the
Taste of the blood, her driven fate, and the
Didactic Honor—paled with a word.
Yet the fool still follows, searching the abyss
Thy faire dove’s fallow—the white wind bliss.
British Fey
Northern Road
ROBERT JOHN STONE was pushing the Bronco team too hard, lashing the reins in a useless attempt to keep up with British, Tawnee and Eventine. The boss was mad this time—really mad, keeping the fleet-hooved Snowhorse at a sustained fast gallop to find her best friend somewhere on the northern way. By now she could be anywhere.
Strange how for so long, Danica would gripe over constantly having to chase British down, yet here they were doing the exact opposite.
“WAIT!” he shouted like a bell horn, and far ahead, Bigfoot could see the white stallion bouncing to a stop. Eventine was closest, reining up her Scarlet aside the customized one-seater wagon.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Sure man, but you guys know my Boys can’t keep up with this. I’ll need to get down and run myself,” the giant answered as the Snowhorse and Sand Pony cantered in with British and Tawnee.
“Sorry Robert, I’m upset buddy,” the pixie sighed. “Tell you what though, let’s drop the tack—are you feeling skippy?” Fey leaped down from Snowflake and began unhitching the team.
“Always Missus British.”
“Champion! Leave your wagon—ammo and water only. I need you warmed up and ready Bobby,” the little pixie gave Robert her wide brown eyes and Rob set his big boots to ground. He stretched wide with a mild groan and then began to touch his toes as Tawnee joined British and they set the hearty Broncos free.
“They will run next to us, as shall I,” said Eventine, dismounting and caressing her Scarlet—reaching out with her other hand to touch a Bronco’s nose.
“Works for me, we’ll slow it down some. Sure you wanna run Eve?” British bounded from Snowflake’s left fore-hoof to the soft wide back like a squirrel.
“Absolutely, lead on Commander,” Eventine touched Robert’s arm and bounced, dashing alongside Tawnee and British. Bigfoot took a deep breath and matched pace on the opposing side.
Eve knew Bobby was a good runner—just as she. She also had a gut feeling this would not take long.
Tommy saw her first—Aurora.
“Wow,” he whispered to the cold air, when the woman appeared fifty feet ahead on the road, smiling, casting a Longsword side to side just above the cobble and brick of the pavement. She was beautiful—gorgeous, with long curly-blond hair and soft green eyes that sparkled in the morning light. She was smiling vicariously—was she a friendly?
“Are you a friendly?” asked Tom.
She giggled in response.
Stroke padded forward.
The beautiful woman’s eyes suddenly flushed black, followed by the hay-fair hair. She assumed an attack stance and hissed through extended, dripping fangs.
“Okay not friendly,” Tom answered himself.
Thirty feet behind Tom, Stroke and Trillium, Nigel stepped onto the road, grinning the I got you now set, pointing his Rapier out to Aurora, his brood-Sister. She smiled and blew him a kiss.
“Great,” the Snowman thrust his head back and forth, giving a hemisphere to each, “just great.” Tom steeled his nerve, gathering his strength for the attacks only seconds away—better find that White Mount magic fast!
Suddenly, as though from a dream, an evergreen sapling bent to the side and Warfell appeared, taking the road on foot, her welcomed blues clinging to Tom as his heart leaped for joy to the impossible sight of his beloved friend and only love.
Opposing Warfell Iris came forth, though Snow did not see, his vision tunneling around the most beautiful creature on the Moon.
“Is it really you?” he had to ask.
“Don’t move,” he heard her whisper, “we’re here.” Tom shot a backwards glance to Iris and waived with one finger and a wide grin. She smiled back and the black hair faded temporarily to the dull gray. Thank the Gods of Goodness—reinforcements were finally there.
“I love you Tom Snow—always have,” Danica said the words loud and proud as Nigel and Aurora began to creep slowly forward. Iris stepped closer to Tom and Stroke went ballistic, yelping and snarling, crouching low to the brick. Warfell came in from the other side and the poor Deerhound did not know what to do!
“It’s okay buddy, these are my Kin, this is Dani—”
Aurora shot out of nowhere, tackling Tommy, striking his shoulder and clipping his neck with the crossbars of her sword. On the broken road, the creature brought her face close to Tom’s and hissed, spitting the words in Moorian street-slang.
“Bust you up bitch—AAAAAH!” Stroke was there, gnashing into a leg deep, violently jerking his wide maw side to side as a shark does, attempting to rip away a hot mouthful.
Two paces away, Warfell and Nigel drew their weapons, held them low and stepped to the side, Tung-Vohra ringing his bell tone as his Master jerked the pommel fast in her grasp.
“Nigel this doesn’t need to—”
The Rapier answered rudely, clashing with the ancient Katana, sending contact sparks into the crisp air of the morning equifade.
Aurora broke her holds on Tom, Strafing the side of his face with the Longsword, then bashing on Stroke’s rock-like skull until the animal finally let go. The beauty rolled free—straight into Iris.
The two Arenthian pureblood women came together like wildcats—the Longsword clanging to the broken pavement. They wrestled in a tight vice of fangs and talons, gripping each other as the two seemed to bounce about the road, a singular ball of grappling muscle and sinew.
Stroke was smart enough to see who the good guys were. The ten-foot canine shook his head clear and bounded to his Master’s side.
“Help me up,” Tom was still dazed, slinging a bloody arm over the Deerhound’s shoulder. Once vertical, Snow found his feet and drew the Epee with a ‘shiing!’ from the metal scabbard. Three paces away, Danica and Nigel were clashing steel—locked in tight. Just beyond, Iris and Aurora fought barehanded—locked in tighter.
“Okay,” Tommy drew his pistol, tracing the dual melee’s back and forth, looking for the clear shot that was not there. He made his choice, holstering the firearm, pulling his Poniard and positioning himself opposite Danica—but before Tom could take his first swing, the creature accommodated, lending his left side to Warfell and engaging the Epee viciously.
Seven lightning strafes parried by Tom with a flash of sparkling metal. Tung-Vohra came in fast from the other side and somehow the Rapier was there. Nigel fantastically held Tom and Danica at bay, despite the furtive attempts of the two Master Swordsmen to get through. As they fought, Tom thought about British. He thought about that night in the valley. Something happened and Tommy touched it once again, realizing that it was not an anger at all—it’s a calm, an utter calm, a relaxation.
Three reposts met undefended and Tom cut the Arenthian wide on the shoulder and waistline with a grunt.
“BITCH!” Aurora hammered Iris hard in her face and broke contact, kicking the Lesser Grey back five paces and bolting away.
Nigel leaped, shooting backwards fifteen feet to get free of the two Swordsmen who together were simply invincible. He bounded clear like a gazelle despite
the harsh cuts from the Masters Longfoil. Aurora followed inhumanly fast and Iris let them both go, knowing her two friends would never be able to keep up.
Silence but for the Deerhound’s confused warble…
Tom and Warfell held each other’s eyes, blue to blue for a moment forever lost to both. They came together slowly, careful as if fearful of hurting one another. Then they embraced tightly—harder, clutching their bodies fast for dear life.
“I love you Tom,” she whispered into his salt and pepper hair with a smile of happiness and a lone tear.
“I love you too Danica—since the day I met you.”
“Never leave me again,” she said.
They kissed softly and touched foreheads.
Next to them, Iris approached Stroke cautiously, creeping forward with her head down and the back of her hand extended in subjugation.
The amazing Deerhound was wise—he licked the hand and it rotated to the top of his big wooly head, scratching through to the skin, reaching the ear and rubbing just right. The massive hound mumbled and the stiff, scimitar-tail wagged side to side—friends for life.
The Lesser Grey Arenthian stood and thrust herself against Tom and Danica, clinging like a cat to them both. Aside the three Stroke sat, raising his snout to the morning sky and howling like a clarion battle horn. The piercing tone bellowed forth and Warfell, Tom, and Iris untangled themselves to see.
“You have a dog—he’s big,” Danica said, looping an arm around Tommy’s waist.
“Girls, meet Stroke,” said the Snowman with pride. “Nigel is scared shitless of him.”
“Weh all are, it’s in our blood,” Iris added as the hound continued to bellow into the morning sky.
“Why Stroke?” Danica asked.
“Cause he had a stroke.”
“Oh, shit, poor fella,” Danica left Tom and kneeled next to the hound, caressing the neckline, noting the ‘relaxed’ areas on the right side of the face and snout—the eye he could not close.
“Saved my life—couple times now,” Tom came in and Stroke leaned against his legs as Danica patted the humble beast’s neck.
“Well then, looks like we have a new Salt Knight,” Warfell wasn’t kidding. The mighty Danes Torpa, Antigua and Landreth were already considered such. She smiled when Stroke began to mumble and warble. “Oh man that’s cool Tommy, I love him,” she raised her eyes and dropped her smile. Tom was staring back, eyes popping wide in disbelief, Nigel’s Rapier protruding from his gut.
The red-tipped implement tore backwards and disappeared in the folds of the nearby wood with a giggle from the wielder. Immediately Iris and Stroke leaped to give chase as Danica caught Snow in her arms.
“NO!” she shouted, “Give him your blood Iris— PLEASE NOW!” Danica followed her love to the ground, gingerly laying his head in Iris’ lap. She stood and whistled for Rarity, made quick eye contact with the Deerhound as she mounted, clicked her teeth twice and they took off, flinging ice and snow behind with the faithful canine next to them.
“I got yeh Snowman, I need yeh to drink,” the grey Renth slid her wrist down the edge of Tom’s Longfoil, pushing it over his mouth seconds later. “It’s gonna hurt luv, hold on to meh body—Danica won’t mind—drink.”
He drank.
His vision was fading, consciousness drifting. Iris’ warm thigh felt good on his cheek. He smiled, punch-drunk in love with Danica Warfell.
Then the lycanthropic viral macrophage entered his system—and with it, the first waves of screaming pain.
“HOLD,” British thrust a fist up as her Snowhorse gripped the road in a bouncing stop. “Do you guys hear that?” It was the lone howl of a Lupine in the distance.
“Wolf pack?” Bigfoot asked, punching his fists together.
“That’s a domestic dog, Deerhound?” Eventine said with her head cocked sideways in concentration.
British listened—nodding her agreement—Eve was good.
“About five miles up there is a tunnel of trees, sounds close. C’mon, try to keep it quiet,” Fey raised her boots and Snowflake moved forward at a light trot—soft hoof contacts. Somehow, Iris’ Sand Pony Dare knew to do the same.
Eventine mounted to follow, then frowned at the back of her Scarlet’s head as the beast clopped along noisily. The Broncos were loud as the Seven Hells too.
“Easy boy, nice and easy,” she tried, speaking low and soft to the mane, but the horse lacked that formal training. After only a moment, British brought Snowflake abreast.
“Get them off the road on the sod, parallel us within sight, keep your eyes open,” she ordered.
“Aye Commander, Ya!” Eventine directed the Scarlet to the side, clacking tongue to teeth for the Broncs, already following her and the Scarlet, now dodging trees, but thankfully, quiet.
Moments later, they heard the next howl. It was a man. It was Tom Snow, screaming in dire agony.
“Shit it’s Tom-Tom, GO, GO, GO!” British yelled.
The team accelerated fast on the recognition, Snowflake and Dare bursting ahead of the chase team.
“I lost them in the pines,” Danica said in defeat as she returned at a trot on her exhausted Appaloosa, nodding to the Knights she left behind on the road the day before as though nothing were amiss.
British sucked air through clenched teeth when she got a good look at Tommy’s injuries and his twisted face in agony from the powerful hemotoxins melding his flesh together.
“Damn Tom-Tom, lucky these two beauties got here in time,” she nudged Iris and gave Warfell her big puppy browns. “Good thing one dashed ahead too,” she smiled at her partner, now feeling foolish over her anger towards Danica. Had she not sped forward, Tom would be dead for sure—or maybe not—this was the Snowman after all.
“Thanks for watching him you guys,” Warfell leaped from Rarity and rushed to Tommy as Iris backed away.
“Heh’s gonna be alright Captain… Danica,” Iris placed a palm on Warfell’s shoulder and Danica covered it with her own.
“Well, the time has come to run this asshole down—his hot girlfriend too,” Fey concluded with resolve, “any idea where those two might flee Iris?”
“Could beh anywhere by now Miss British.”
“Pretty sure I know where they went,” Danica raised her silky strands from Tom’s side. “Anybody wanna get a beer?”
Hours later Tom opened his eyes to see little British and Iris scampering about, playing with the Deerhound. Bigfoot and Eve were making camp aside the road. He smiled wide with his head still in Warfell’s lap. Nearby, Tawnee caressed Trillium’s nose and face, touching her cheek to the soft muzzle and smiling.
“I named her Trillium,” he said to Tawnee who raised her brows and nodded—good name!
“Stroke seems to like everyone,” Danica mused. “He’s a good dog.”
“Why’s his name Stroke?” British asked from the grass as she dodged beneath the massive head, bouncing from a roll to a playful attack stance.
“Because he had a stroke,” answered Tommy, sitting up.
“What? –no—no dude he didn’t,” British retorted, rising to a stand, patting the noble beast and bringing him aside his wakeful Master. “Not at all,” she caressed the neck gently and the Deerhound sat still for her.
“It’s an injury. The hypo-tensile musculature is the result of acute trauma high on the neck near the mandibular axis. Sometimes dogs get their heads stuck in something and pull in a crazy panic to get free—this can damage or even sever the trigeminal facial nerve. I suspect however,” British peeled back the wool-like fur beside the right ear. “Yeah—damn Tommy, somebody tried to choke him out, see?” British exposed the skin around the neck, separating the hairs as she worked her fingers around.
Danica and Tom leaned in, noting the old scarring was much thinner than a rope or chain. It must have been steel cable, or a snare—or a garrote.
“No shit she’s right,” Warfell furrowed her brows at the huge canine and Stroke mumbled his dog-speak to her. �
��The nerve damage doesn’t affect normal functioning?”
“Naw,” British chirped and resumed the roadside banter.
Later on the equifade, everyone watched Stroke eating at his Master’s feet.
“Okay that just gross. So they went to a bar?” asked Bigfoot with his eyes glued to the hound in disgust.
“A Gentlemen’s Club, but yeah same critter,” said Danica. “He sleeps there often and keeps a haram for orgies.”
“What’s a hairy forgy?” Robby was so innocent and cute—when he wasn’t giving bad melons the knuckles.
“A gathering of hedonists seeking mutual carnal gratifications,” Fey answered.
“Cool—cool,” he faked it. “What’s this place called?”
“Boomers,” said Warfell.
“And the plan of attack?” Eventine asked from ten paces, tending to the horses. She already knew the answer and grinned wide when British gave it.
“Well now Eventine my friend—that would be — attack!”
Oceanport, Boomers Gentleman’s Club, three days later
“I was looking for some hairy forgies?” Bigfoot Bob grinned—eight feet of muscle and dolt. The Bartender cast him an incredulous stare.
“HOLD ON,” she yelled over the music, “just a minute big-boy—don’t you go anywhere,” she laughed and moved to the other end of the long wooden bar, talking past a cupped palm to one of the men on a stool—a Bouncer.
They looked Robert’s way and he waived back. The Bartender held a finger aloft, the silent message—keep holding! Robert laughed to himself, watching the rest of the bar through the mirrors in front of him, waiting for….
Warfell and Fey pushed through the saloon doors and surveyed the expansive barroom without fear of their backs, Tawnee having already silenced the doormen and replaced them with Dobra and Howie—damn right they sent for more muscle!
