by J A Stone
Iris shook her head. “I did no men it like that Sam, I have meh orders,” Iris added with a firm gaze as Jimmy returned carrying an armload of bladed weapons, rifles and gear belts. He splashed the leather and metal on the counter flat and looked up.
“What? Did I miss something?”
Former Arenthian Safehouse, the Atrium
“Gotta be here somewhere,” Snow was examining a marble wall, expertly hewn from solid mass, perhaps centuries past. Behind him, Stroke moved rapidly back and forth, whining, mumbling, growling—he was on to something and Tommy knew it. “C’mon, where are you?” he asked the cold stone with caressing fingertips.
“Wait,” Garrett stepped forward, exposing a small pouch. “Stand back Lieutenant.”
“No explosives Chief,” Tommy warned.
“Please,” Bigfoot added.
“Better,” Garrett replied, pouring a pinkish dust to his palm. “Cover your glow-sticks. These spores react to the oils in our skin, they might reveal something,” he blew the dust, which adhered to the marble. “Wait for it.”
Handprints appeared, not on the wall, but the floor near the base.
“That’s pretty cool, where’d you get that stuff?” Tom was impressed.
“British, of course,” Garrett smiled wide as they kneeled down to feel the floor, quickly discerning the creases of a trap door.
Seconds later, Tom found the latch with a dagger tip.
“Ready boys?” he flashed a handsome smile, met by ugly frowns and heads shaking side-to-side. “Okay here we go.”
He opened the door.
“That stinks—man,” Dobra scrunched his nose in distaste.
“Aw shit biscuits,” Tom said to the acrid smell in the darkness, tossing Robert a quick eye.
“Lizard men,” the Giant confirmed, pounding a fist to palm.
“Lizard what? What did he say?” Howie asked from the back.
Whiterock Dane Den
Eventine drew her twin Wakizashis out of reflex alone when Iris opened the doors to the lowest level. The Lesser Grey jogged the expanse.
“Can’t stay—word?”
Eventine shook her head slowly with a grave look. Iris’ shoulders slumped—three hours now and not a damned thing.
“How much longer will yeh wait?” Iris asked.
“Until what?” Eve responded.
“Til yeh go chasin’ after them.”
Eventine actually smiled. “Well, that is their way, which is our way too I guess.”
“Now yeh got it. There just beh one, little?” Iris turned to face Aurora, pausing to stare.
“What are you doing?” asked Aurora, taking an involuntary step away.
Iris said nothing, allowing her incredible sensory perceptions to open wide, bringing in pheromones from Aurora’s metabolism and embracing her animal mind’s eye for a brief second of chemical solitude….
And there it was—an evil buried so deep, so perfectly hidden from the senses of the mighty Danes and even Iris herself.
Until now.
Boomers, negative altitude 375’
“So Howie, you and Corella?” Tom Snow spoke at normal tone, the granite hallway dispersing the vibrato without echo.
“Sir?” the young man moved forward.
“Really Son?”
“Does everyone know Sir?” Howie asked at a whisper through the faint green glow of a single bioluminescent stick.
“Of course. We are a close family I’d like to think,” Tommy held a hand aloft for silence, cupping his other about the light stick. He carefully studied the next twenty feet, keening his ears and nose as well. He could still smell that acidic urine, but not as strong now. After a moment, he relaxed.
“She is very pretty Howie, talented with that Bloodsword too,” Snowman began walking again. He knew good and well they would be seen, smelled and heard from a distance down there. He chose to provide light for the team more for Robert’s sake than the other men—it was a calculated risk. Creatures of the dark would be blinded by the bright green glow if they abruptly attacked, and Tommy made certain each Knight carried a fistful—enough for several days of light.
Secrecy was gone. The Knights walked slow but steady, weapons out.
“Thank you Sir,” Howie smiled inside at Tom’s nod of approval.
“It’s possible the creatures were here a long time past,” said Garrett as he walked aside Robert John Stone. “Urine odors can last for years in a contained environ such as this.”
He was correct.
“Let’s hope you’re right Chief,” Snow held his hand up again, pausing, listening. He looked to the floor of the passage. Silt, dust, and…Tommy knelt down aside a footprint. It was two feet long from taloned toes to heel. He blew layers of dust away from the impression pressed into a calcite-clay deposit, “Okay, gather up.”
Robert, Tom, Garrett, Dobra and Howie circled in tight to listen. Snow took a deep breath and began.
“It’s looking like they were here a while back, but just in case guys, keep to the walls and wrap your lights. Sorry buddy,” Snow patted Bigfoot’s massive arm. “Once our eyes adjust, keep it tight and thread the needle. Chief, do you think this tunnel can handle gunfire reverb?”
“Negative Sir,” Garrett shot back. “The strata are clay and limestone. Water is leeching from above which screams aquifer to me,” he ran a hand across the slick wall for emphasis.
“Please no?” Robert added at a whisper louder than most men’s normal voice.
“Okay, blades only,” Snowman was wise. “The tunnel is still too tight for these things to move freely and stand tall anyway.”
“How big are they?” asked Dobra, though he knew—he’d read the case journals.
“Bigger than me Mister Dobra, go for the throat and belly,” Bigfoot was breathing deep, harnessing his anger.
“Throats and bellies,” Howie repeated to himself, “throats and bellies.”
Somewhere deep within Salt Mountain
Tawnee took her steps delicately as whirls of white dust plumed about each boot. Slow and steady, she removed a long scarf, doubling the material over her mouth and nose. She quickly gave the hand signal for ‘poison’ as behind her, British and Danica carefully covered their mouths. All of them knew that bone dust was quite lethal if inhaled sufficiently.
“Back up, out of here,” British chirped and shooed Torpa, Landreth and Antigua to the entrance of the chamber and bade them to guard the archway. She turned to see her two best friends exploring the ancient artifacts.
They were in the middle of a weapons finishing room—a chamber used for the polishing and display of final products—surrounded by thousands of precision crafted steel weapons. This was it, the massive treasure of the Lost Second Dynasty!
British kneeled and carefully removed a Falchion from the desiccated hand of a Second Dynasty Master. She pushed the short sword through her belt, nodding for her friends to choose a blade for themselves.
Forget what one normally uses and loves—these were the strongest, sharpest bladed instruments ever forged on Moon Aleutha.
Danica stepped carefully over a rotted skeleton to a workbench covered in fine weaponry and layers of silt—no Wakizashis or Tantos to match her Katana. But there…beneath a broadsword, she found a fighting knife with a blade curving inward and down like a massive eagle’s talon. It was a Harpy, with a finger ring on the end of the palm-sized grip. Reversed and backwards, the Harpy gives the fist a steel knuckle on the forefinger, and a gouging claw swipe on each follow-through swing. Nasty—mighty nasty.
“You stay with me,” Warfell tucked the cruel implement away.
Tawnee bent down and carefully hefted a short, thick Temporal Blade.
It was exactly like Corella’s.
The seasoned Assassin shot a fast eye to British—the pixie jerked her sideways like a puppy.
Danica leaned in to see in the soft light of the glow-stick.
“We need to ask Cora where her family picked up that…”
Warfell closed her mouth. There was a sound, talking. The three warriors fell silent, hands touching pommels and grips.
“I’m tellin’ you Robert, we’re under the mountain now buddy—headed up, chill out!”
Warfell, Fey and Shadoweye exhaled in unison to the welcomed sounds of Tom Snow arguing with Robert John Stone.
“You’re wrong Snowman, I think we are still going down,” Bigfoot replied calmly enough with one hand glued to Stroke’s neckline for security.
“Wait!” Tom held his fist aloft and the men froze in silence. Someone was talking, not far away. It was British. The men smiled in unison as Torpa came forward from the shadows wagging the tail not there. The Dane and the Deerhound touched noses as the women continued talking in the distance:
“She just wants to watch Danica—I’ll be the mechanical player.”
“What’s mechanical mean?”
“You know, mechanical shit—“
“And she only watches?”
“Yeah, she’s a watcher, problem?”
“Nope! Okay, deal!”
“Wait!”
“What partner?”
“Does he have a big, um, dingle-dork?”
“Oh yeah.”
“What’s that like?”
“OKAY—ENOUGH!” Tom spoke aloud down the empty hallway.
“Get in here dipshit,” Danica retorted as Tom’s team rounded the corner to see the massive treasure trove of fine weaponry. “Watch the white dust and keep the Deerhound back.”
“We heard you coming a mile away,” added British.
Tawnee just shook her head.
Dane Den
Carrying armloads of swords and daggers, the two substrata teams neared the final stairwell to Whiterock’s lowest level.
They heard and felt the growling of the Danes first.
“Make your move Grey,” Aurora’s voice filtered into the stairwell.
“Why is yeh rally here, the truth,” Iris hissed past her extended fangs.
British, Tawnee and Danica peered through the crack in the trap door, watching Eventine, Corella, Iris and Aurora squared off with the three male Danes circling, barking and snarling their eagerness for the fight.
“Truth?” Aurora lowered her hay-fair locks. “My coven Brothers are dead and I am alone for the first time in two-hundred years Iris. I am frightened.”
“Why us?” said Iris coldly.
“I see great power in the Salt Knights and I want to be near it.”
“Yeh got ta go,” the Lesser Grey seemed heartless.
“Warfell, Fey and Shadoweye trust her—that’s good enough for me,” Eventine sheathed her twin Wakizashis.
“Yeah we do,” said British from the portal as the door peeled back, falling to the floor with a ‘poom.’
“BOSS!” Iris shouted, “glad yeh back!”
“You should be upstairs,” Danica climbed the steps aside Torpa. She stretched her arms wide and breathed deep.
“I…was,” the loyal Knight tried and failed to explain herself.
“Looks like we got here just in time,” British grinned wide. “We found the treasure room, and look, it’s the boys!”
“I see that!” said Eventine.
Moments later as the Knights reunited exchanges pats and hugs, Tawnee set the armful of swords she carried on the floor, except for one. She quietly approached Corella and held the Temporal Bloodsword forward with a questioning gaze. The weapon was indeed a perfect match of the blade Cora held at her side.
“Oh, wow,” the young woman stammered nervously, tossing her eyes about as though looking for help.
“So where did you get that weapon Corella?” Warfell entered her personal zone.
“My Papa gave it to my Father. I kept it when he died,” now she was nervous, “why are you all staring at me? Master Eventine?”
“Relax Cora, just answer her,” Eventine’s soothing voice helped some.
“How’d you get so good with it Cora. Who trained you before you met us?” Warfell’s piercing blue sapphires threatened to cut through the young woman’s skull.
Cruel? Not really. Frightening? You bet your hide it was.
Thirty minutes later, in the clear light of Whiterock’s common area, Corella gulped as cute little British’s astounding puppy browns transformed into Soul-piercing magnets. She answered Warfell’s questions faithfully, and somehow kept herself from crying as British Fey carefully studied her face.
She’s about to kill me, and I can’t do a thing about it, Cora kept thinking.
British leaned her head slightly to the side and furrowed her brows as Corella described her Grandfather’s esteemed gift of the weapon, and her brief stint in the Moorian Militia. She trained with the issued Cutlass, her Temporal Blade remained beneath her bunk in the barracks.
Short, thick stabbing Bloodswords were and still are the favored choice of Frontliner brutes in battle. Once the spears, pikes and halberds were done, the massive men used the heavy double-edged beasties for close contact fighting to devastating effect. As a hundred-pound woman, Corella’s many requests to be a vanguard Frontliner met with denial. Instead, she was assigned to construction, trained to fight and build quick fortifications in foreign territories.
Corella practiced the Temporal Bloodsword off-duty with her bunkmate.
She had no idea where her Grandfather got the ancient artifact.
“Stop,” British held a palm to Danica after twenty minutes of intense questioning. “She isn’t lying. Sorry sweetie we just needed to be certain.”
“I—I understand,” the girl was mentally exhausted, heart still beating like a rabbit on the run.
“Go see Howie, he is worried sick over you Cora,” Fey rose and hugged the girl’s neck.
“Does everyone know about us?” the girl asked her only question.
“Are you kidding me?” said Danica, standing herself. “Just don’t let love mess you up girl. You will be inducted to rank soon. Remember, a Knight beds a man or a woman when she desires to calm the fire in her Soul—to remember she is still alive. Sex is fantastic, but love is just a fucking fantasy.”
“Damn partner, don’t be such a boner killer,” British scoffed.
“Says the—wait who’s a boner killer?”
Corella cried in Howie’s strong arms for an hour. When they returned to the common area, everyone was gathered, faces turned their way expectantly.
“We were about to send for you,” Warfell announced. We’re still waiting on Samantha and Garrett.”
“So the tunnels obviously connect,” British addressed Tom moments later as the whole of the Salt Knights and Staff assembled to hear the Snowman’s debrief.
“They do Boss,” Tom took a deep breath.
“Take your time,” said British.
“Forget that—spit it out man,” Danica added with a lean in.
“Two and a half miles to the ascension, a slight grade that levels at two junction points. The tunnel runs due west from Boomers to the mountain’s feet. It is smooth, with a ten-foot diameter throughout.”
“Tell me about the junctions,” British leaned forward, riveted herself.
“The first had two side tunnels at two point two as marked,” Tommy gave her the crude map he had fashioned in the dark. “Extensions going north and south. The second had only one side tunnel, barely that, more like a four-foot diameter tube heading straight up,” Snow motioned with his eyes.
“Possibly ventilation, we will need to search the correlating landscape for caves or rocks that do not belong,” British added sagely. “What else?”
“Evidence of the Therians we encountered beneath Fort Salvos.”
“There it is,” said Warfell.
“We surmise the scent is old,” said Garrett.
“We found sets of footprints layered over in silt and dust,” Tom finalized.
“Two point five miles—“ British seemed lost in thought. The Knights remained solemn and silent until Robert broke the air.
/> “Are you gonna be a Bartender Missus British?”
“Thinking about it,” Fey answered, shaking loose a daydream.
“You know the wooden bar is taller than you?”
Oceanport, Eastside, two weeks later
Everyone worked in shifts, removing the fine weapons from the Salt’s deep interior, securing them at Whiterock and cleaning the chambers found, carefully covering the bones to be excavated at a later time and then shipped to the Archives below in the city. Of course, British intended to relinquish the ancient weaponry to the Druid Elders of Oceanport—minus a few choice extractions for herself and the Salt Knights.
Warfell did not like the idea of leaving Salt Mountain. Yes, she understood the tactical advantage of Boomers, having an underground escape passage and a fortified Annex in the city was awesome, but still Danica was a creature of habit, finding security in routine. Regardless of her desires to be a house-mouse, British had sent word for her to come down, so here she was.
She stood aside Tom Snow across the street from the double doors below the new argon sign that read Stage Three. Funny how the Knights still called the club Boomers.
“Aurora doesn’t mind any of this?” Danica asked, taking Tom’s hand.
“No, she’s been working tirelessly in the tunnel cleaning and fixing leaks. She and Eve are bricking up the last side passages right now, I doubt she cares at all,” Tom smiled. “They’re here,” he waived to Howie and Corella, jogging in from down the cobble street.
“You are late,” Danica smiled as the young couple approached, “c’mon!”
Danica, Tom, Corella and Howie pushed through the newly reinforced double doors and entered Stage Three. The barroom was half-full of quiet drinkers, locals feeling the place out before telling their friends. For years untold, Boomers had been an exclusive Club for wealthy executives. The idea of being open to the public would need to catch on.
