Soul of the Swordsman

by J A Stone

  A War Having Fallen

  JA Stone

  A War Having Fallen

  JA Stone 2016 All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art, Original Poetry JA Stone

  Concept Actuation, Formatting M Stone

  Editing RL Adkins

  This is a work of original and unique fiction, pure imagination, documenting extraordinary events on a large rocky moon, orbiting a gas giant, orbiting a yellow star, orbiting a super massive black hole.

  This book is dedicated to my Father...love ya Dad.

  Never Abandon

  Never Forgive

  Never Desist

  Never Forget

  Other Books by JA Stone

  Never abandon a war having fallen

  Never forgive the faithless steel

  Never desist when death is calling

  Never forget the fantastic feel

  Dwarven War Cry

  SHADOWEYE PEERED AROUND the limestone, her cunning mind racing through the desperate tacticals. She remembered the snakes were not poisonous—didn’t need to be, eighty feet of constrictor was ample lethality for anyone.

  Okay, it knows I’m down here for sure, her whispered thought. She knew the huge reptile used heat vision and incredible smell to locate its substrata prey. She pulled back, clinging to the slimy wall, taking her breath as slowly as possible.

  The tongue picks up molecules from the air, like human sweat, she blinked the burn from her eyes, cursing herself for being so nervous. She half-smiled when she remembered a large garden snake she had as a kid named Plato. Plato would move his scaly face right next to the feeder rabbits her Father would put in the cage once a month—staring them in the eye forever, motionless until the rabbits could take it no more and make the move—their last.

  Tawnee dropped the smile, because she remembered what Plato would do, how fast he was, so fast she could never quite see it. The rabbits flinched—Plato snapped like a whip—and it was over.

  She stood motionless, moving her brown eyes to the side slowly as the nose of the massive beast pushed around the corner—inches away. Face to face, she gazed into the round eye the size of her own head and held her breath. Funny how the creature knows you are there. It knows but waits anyway—needs you to run for it.

  The Scimitar was on her back, sheathed—no way. Two daggers and her pistol about the waist—they were closest to the hands. She remembered that bullets bounce off the heads of some reptiles and made her choice. She knew something the snake did not know…

  The human hands moved, snatching the daggers out, thrusting the right into the massive eye—all the way in. The left, Tawnee strafed across the wide throat, gouging the soft skin open. The thing recoiled, taking the right dagger with it but it was already too late. Eighty feet of muscle jerked upwards and then fell limp, the massive head striking the granite with a thud.

  “Weren’t expecting that, were you,” she spoke to the dead behemoth. He was anticipating flight—not fight!

  No hesitation, Tawnee drew her long thin Scimitar and jumped onto the creature’s back, running down the length, until…

  “There,” she whispered, leaping down, slashing the blade across the length of the belly, holding hand to mouth as the stomach contents emptied on her boots. No sign of Warfell, thank the Gods.

  Tawnee was hopelessly lost. Two days on the timepiece seemed like a lifetime down there searching for Danica in a catacomb system more convoluted and misshapen than anything she ever imagined. By now the topside doors were welded shut—there was no escape. Shadoweye was no stranger to the dark underworld, but this was insanity incarnate.

  They were supposed to stay together, that was the plan. Somehow, Warfell got separated in the fight and in a heated frenzy to find her friend, Tawnee found herself alone in the dark within minutes. Just like a desert or the northern wasteland, all one need do is walk a short distance away to be completely lost in the cavernous maze. British, Bigfoot, Torpa and Antigua were out there somewhere too. The rest of the Danes were topside with the Knights of Salvos. “No one enters until we get back, savvy?” British’s admonition to the loyal Knights.

  “Alright,” Tawnee spoke aloud as she traced her path back to the head of the snake. She retracted her dagger from the eye socket and ran the edge of the blade to the base of the cervical vertebrae. She cut forcefully, excising a long piece of muscle. “Dinner,” she sighed, tearing a small chunk free and placing the raw meat in her mouth.

  “Keep moving,” she scorned the stale air, making her way against a slimy wall, slowly.

  Never Abandon

  One week earlier, Ft. Salvos

  British Fey strolled down the hallways on ground level, Tower Main. She smiled at Iris as she entered the expansive living area, the Arenthian was rolling dice with Tawnee, both girls smiling and laughing. Fey walked on.

  In the galley, Danica Warfell and Bigfoot Bob sat on thick barstools, drinking dark lager from pewter steins.

  “Boss will you tell her?” Bigfoot begged for the hundredth time to settle a stupid dispute.

  “No,” Fey’s reply as she jumped up to a stool with a smile.

  “HA! She won’t big man,” Warfell added with a slap on a massive shoulder. “You owe me buddy.”

  “Actually, the Holloway Foundry originally made the weapon, Chesterborne bought them out six months before they closed their warehouse, so neither of you are correct,” British reached over and grabbed an apple. “Robert, I need a hand on the East Wall. Brooke and I are…”

  The subtle vibration emanated from the marble flooring, cascading through the barstools to Warfell, Fey and Bigfoot’s butts.

  “Ello?” British said, facing the interior galley, watching the pots and pans move ever so slightly. Warfell stood.

  “Earthquake?” she asked.

  “Dunno,” British leaped to the tiles as Logos Gravari appeared at the galley threshold, joined by Iris and Tawnee. The station horns began to peal from the con-tower.

  “Suit up and follow,” British ordered, already running for the stairwell with Danica right behind.

  Fort Salvos had two towers. Tower Main stood tall at three hundred feet and the Control Tower at two hundred—both connected by a catwalk at the hundred-foot mark. Midway, Brooke ran out to meet Warfell and Fey.

  “What’s going on?” British.

  “Okay, we have some unusual seismic readings from the catacombs below. The system we installed is functioning well enough. Boss, we have movement,” the former Tiborean Knight met eyes with Warfell. “Sorry Cap,” she added. Everyone knew Danica hated the underground and had been screaming for more proactive measures to protect them all from…

  “Define movement,” Danica asked calmly enough, snatching an invisible mote from the air with her fingers.

  “Something really big is passing beneath us right now,” Brooke answered as the three entered the Control Tower. Two quick flights up and they stepped out on the War Deck, tossing eyes through the panoramic windows across the grasslands at mid-day. Emili Swift was there, raising her face from a dim-lighted panel.

  “The charts are peaking at the four-hundred foot mark, three degrees south of this station,” the young woman with blond hair moved to the southern bay windows and pointed. “Approximately there, this side of the Honest Wall.” The Honest Wall was the term given the exterior wall to the property. At twenty feet high, it was a useless barrier, merely ‘keeping everyone honest,’ as British would say. The real wall surrounding the palace turned fort was a hundred foot masterpiece of engineering, despite the fact they were still rebuilding the massive hole Bigfoot Bob punched in it near the front gate.

  “Our hydrogen purge system?” Warfell asked as she looked over Swift’s shoulder to the dancing gauges.
Canisters of the highly flammable gas were situated strategically throughout the underlying catacombs to ignite and cleanse the tunnels with flame in the event of…

  “About that,” Logos piped in, the Dwarf having just arrived on the War-Deck.

  “Yeeeah?” Danica turned her head slowly his way with the unspoken message, damn well better be working.

  “My initial calculations were incorrect, boss, it could bring the entire palace down three hundred feet or more, depending on the underlying strata, a canyon gorge could form here catastrophically—I would only advise an actual go under dire circumstances.”

  “I’m not ready to blow up everything we have worked so hard for just yet,” said British as she grabbed the Coralo Machete and the Blunderbuss. “Outfit an exploration team packing heavy with me in ten on bottom floor south.”

  At the doorway to the catacomb system, British raised eyebrows when Warfell and Bigfoot entered the chamber with Shadoweye and two of the Danes—Torpa and his mate, Antigua.

  “Danica, you do not have to do this,” British smiled with respect.

  “Want to—gotta get down there sometime, right?” Warfell replied nervously.

  “I don’t want to, she’s making me,” Robert John Stone pointed to the tall, platinum-haired warrior.

  “Are you medicated?” British ignored Bigfoot, keeping her browns on Warfell’s blues.

  “Heavily,” the reply.

  “Good enough for me. Keep it tight, let the Danes lead. Here,” she passed out bioluminescent tubes to everyone. “Snap and it’ll glow for two days—last ditch. Logos,” British placed a hand on the Dwarf’s shoulder, “nobody enters until word gets back. If my Father appears, send him down to help.”

  “Aye Sir, how long do we wait?”

  “After two days, seal off the doors, weld them shut and be ready for anything. If things go bad, purge the system with the hydrogen, savvy?”

  “Got it, find out what it is and get back safe Sir.”

  “Tawnee, open the door.”

  Hot, acrid air released into the chamber with a hiss, slapping Warfell in the face. She breathed it deep and followed British in, clutching her fleeting calm with a white-knuckle fist.

  The upper levels were well-lit, carpeted hallways resembling an apartment building in the city from the inside. Conference rooms, living areas, a galley, offices and all the amenities of a topside building—fully functional and completely empty. None of the Knights, even Logos, cared much for the Subterrania. It was patrolled regularly and maintained for military reasons alone, just in case.

  First stairwell, three flights down to the secondary levels. Here, the floors were granite tiled, walls polished limestone and marble.

  “Hundred feet,” Tawnee called out as the two massive dogs burst forward, running to the next stairwell. Warfell whistled once, short and sharp. Torpa shot head and ears up and then hustled back to his Master.

  “Stay close buddy,” Danica whispered, passing her hand over the soft white hair. Antigua was waiting for the team at the doors. No hesitation, British pulled back, as more hot air shot free.

  Four more flights down and this time Bigfoot had to break the tight seal to the lowest habitable level—seven miles of smoothed twisted tunnels, an argon-lit maze designed to confuse and trap. Only the Knights of Salvos knew where the escape portals were hidden.

  “Two-hundred fee…” Tawnee was silenced by Danica’s finger.

  “Deep honey, it’s deep,” Warfell whispered. This was hard enough without the constant reminders of negative altitude.

  British took her shirt off, down to a leather vest crisscrossed with straps to the Coralo, Blunderbuss, water and supplies. At over a hundred degrees already, the others gladly followed suit.

  “We’ll recon from here, weapons and water only, watch me everyone,” British smeared dirt on the closest set of argon light tubes, and then pushed the light forward one inch.

  A tight door regressed from the wall, the opening, pitch black. Fey struck a bioluminescent tube and tossed the green light inside.

  “Gear goes in here,” the little pixie with long brown hair pulled back tight in a ponytail set her excess inside and backed away as the others unloaded their supplies.

  A much lighter team gathered around British.

  “Total silence—let your eyes adjust, don’t worry they will, it takes time. Remember, any light source can reveal your position from a great distance. The limestone creates a very faint glow when leeching gases meet the flowing water you will hear, see and feel all over the place—it’s enough, trust me. Alright, c’mon,” she reached a hand for Danica’s and they moved into the passageway, walking past the green light and into the blackness.

  Warfell’s eyes did eventually adjust to the impossible darkness. She could see the walls first, just as British said, emitting a very light yellow glow. The lowest levels were cavernous—all signs of Human or Dwarven influence were gone here. Calcium drip deposits adorned the floor and ceiling with stalactites and mites; the columns growing towards one another to eventually join floor and ceiling. Flowing water was everywhere, cascading in faint greens, reds and blues from the bioluminescent protozoa and chemo-plankton within. Danica knew she was exploring one of the most unusual bio-habitats on the planet—replete with its own strange flora and fauna from the single celled protozoa to hundred-foot albino constrictors.

  Danica shivered in the hot, damp air.

  British hand signaled, ‘you okay?’ and Warfell nodded yes with short, sharp up and downs—meaning ‘no!’

  British crouched down, motioning her team to do the same. More hand signals.

  ‘Relax, listen,’ followed by, ‘look.’ The little warrior pointed to the large shapes moving far away.

  There were dozens of them, clumsily making way through the now wide-open spans with vaulted-crag ceilings. Strange how once she could see them, Danica heard them as well, feeling the subtle vibrations of the footfalls through the underlying rock. This was definitely the seismic disturbance.

  One of the creatures tackled a stalactite, bringing the calcium column down with a crash, inciting a cacophony of snarls, hisses and claw-swipes from its closest brothers. They were agitated, angry, and aggressive.

  Warfell got a good look—buggers! They were Human! Her analytical brain interjected and ‘oid’ as she sharpened her remote focus on the things.

  Humanoid indeed, she thought, cursing her shortcomings—Danica was no Biologist. What she saw were ten-foot tall creatures with two arms, two legs, walking upright, covered in scales, otherwise naked. The heads? Danica gulped. They were reptile, lizard-like, with sharp fangs protruding down. The eyes were very large, perfectly round and deep obsidian. Behind each flailed a whipping snake-like tail, easily as long as the body, giving them an overall length of twenty feet.

  Torpa and Antigua were deathly still, rare to see for the large Huntsman’s Hounds, but they were keen enough to know that there were far too many, and revealing their Master’s position could prove fatal.

  They watched intently for some time, when British signaled a scrub.

  They followed the small woman back the way they came, taking turns Danica did not remember, sliding down passageways until finally the green gear light illuminated the mouth of their small side tunnel—how Fey found her way back was beyond Warfell.

  The glow stick was blinding. Bigfoot, Warfell and Tawnee had to shield their eyes as British rifled through a knapsack…

  “Here,” she whispered, handing welding goggles to each and motioning everyone to follow her to the argon-lit maze. Once outside, British Fey crouched again, hugging Antigua’s neck—both dogs completely blind, eyes blinking to the brightness in efforts to force the adjustment.

  Warfell found the smelting goggles to be perfect. How did British know to bring them? She opened her mouth to ask and remembered the creatures.

  “Boss?”

  “Yeah partner?”

  “What in the Seven Hells were those?”


  “Well,” British smiled. “That is the Seven Hells to begin with, and I believe the correct term would be Therianthrope, more specifically, Laceranthrope or just Saur.”

  “It scares me when you speak like that Missus British,” Bigfoot wasn’t kidding.

  “I know. Therianthrope means animal-man. Laceranthrope is lizard-man. Look, I don’t think they are after us—seems as though they are passing through, maybe migrating.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Tawnee.

  “Observe, see what’s up. You know—capture one alive.”

  “WHAT?” Warfell, Bigfoot and Tawnee shouted together.

  “Yeah, you know, catch one. Oh Come on, there are dozens of them—who’s gonna miss a straggler?”

  “I know what a straggler is Missus British, but I’m still scared of words like capture, and dozens,” Bigfoot added uselessly.

  “I share your concern my big friend, because you’ll need to subdue it quietly without getting bit,” Fey smiled a wicked grin.

  “Wait-who-me-what?”

  “Relax Robert, I would never ask something like that,” British sat in the maze tunnel sharpening her buck-skinning knife on the floor. From her vest, she removed a tiny vial, a dark glass ampoule. She popped the top and poured the thick liquid over the sharp edge, quickly blowing the toxic compound dry and carefully sheathing the blade. “Just be ready to drag it back—I’ll take care of the rest,” the four-foot beauty smiled as she meticulously checked her fingertips for any remnants of the poison.

  That’s a lot more than dozens, Warfell thought as the creatures, the Therians, noisily passed through the tunnels. Near the end, two stopped and turned, watching the rear silently in the soft blue shimmer-light. Danica shot eyes to British.

  Too late, the little pixie was already running at full speed.

  British tossed a water bag across the span and both creatures immediately assumed a fighting stance, crouching low, long tails firm on the granite acting as a third leg. Out of nowhere she came running, leaping from the bent knee of one, taking the head clean on the other with the machete and catapulting off the torso, back towards its partner.