by J A Stone
“He’s got you there big fella, c’mon, I need to buy tools, parts, supplies and a room to work in with a gas stove and an electrical feed,” Fey raised her feet higher and the pitch-white Snowhorse vaulted to a gallop.
Bigfoot shook his head and jogged to keep up.
Later that equi-fade, Robert returned to their meager flat with an armful of odd items and food. He lost his breath at what his boss had done, turning the double-bed suite into a laboratory/workshop. Across the apartment, British raised her head wearing thick-lensed goggles, big brown eyes magnified into strange probing creatures,
“Did you get the rare metals?” she asked.
“I did boss, the Foreman at the quarry was very helpful. He said he did not recognize the names of three, here, these,” Rob handed her the list she gave him with the critical elements scratched out, all but the three. British sighed, realizing the complexity of building the infrastructure needed to fabricate the parts to create advanced devices.
“Super conductors, ceramics, lithium, Logos.”
“Aye lassie?” the Master Thief rose.
“Go see the oldest kiln-potter in Oceanport. I need fine ceramics, a plate or vase will do. Spare no expense; it must be of the highest quality, savvy?”
“On it boss,” Logos bounced for the door.
“Robert, help me disconnect the stove’s gas line. We have to put this coupling, extension and torch head on it quickly or we’ll die,” Fey grinned.
“From gas, now wouldn’t that be stoopid,” Robert grinned back with a laugh.
“Hey, you never know but I doubt any of us have earned an easy death such as that!”
Robert pulled the primitive unit away from the wall with one hand. British looked behind and grimaced, clenching teeth.
“Okay there. Give me the wrench,” the little pixie set to, quickly removing the bare tubing and wrestling the shut-off valve in place like clockwork. Once satisfied, she rubbed her cheeks with the backs of her black sooty hands and nodded to her giant friend.
“Alright, it’s not quite an acetylene torch, but I can smelt and solder with it. Rob, the coupling?”
Bigfoot gave British the crudely fabricated torch head, secretly praying to any god that would listen, suddenly remembering that invisible gas does put you to permanent sleep—but it also goes BOOM!
Logos returned an hour later with a fine vase in his chubby hands. British rose from her workbench, raising her goggles and accepting the expensive artifact with a smile.
“Oooooh, it’s beautiful,’ the pixie cooed as she admired the intricate designs. She brought the beautifully crafted piece to her station and smashed it with a ballpeen hammer.
“That just cost everything you gave me boss,” said Logos.
“Wait—we’re broke?” Fey stopped what she was doing.
“Aye, lest you two have something stashed.”
“Quarry got it all from me,” Robert said.
“Well crap! I still need more stuff. We will need to bring the rare elements back home—need a packhorse or a wagon for that,” British drifted for a moment, lost in calculative thought; her friends long since accustomed to the blank moments of reflection because they usually ended with epiphanies, like:
“I got nothing,” Fey lowered her gaze to the floor.
“Missus British, we have a world-class Thief with us,” Bigfoot nodded, placing a hand as big as Logos’ head on his shoulder.
“A one-legged Thief,” Logos replied, having indeed lost most of his acrobatic abilities along with his left leg.
“And the tactical mind of a genius, you can take a building better than a General can take a field. Look, Danica is still a half a day out. Just tell me what to do,” British stood proudly.
“What do we need the most boss?”
“Hard white diamonds, platinum, gold, refined magnetite.”
“The Temple on the Mount?” Logos asked, knowing the Druids maintained a treasure far exceeding anything kept in the Archives or any other museum—priceless artifacts.
“Yeah, we could go in for a quick foray, are you boys feeling skippy?”
“Do our answers have any weight?” queried the Giant.
“Always,” answered the pixie.
“So we stay here and wait for back-up?” pondered the Dwarf.
“Whaaaat? you guys are being silly.”
“There is a meaning here. What does she mean little buddy?” said the Giant to the Dwarf.
“She means eat, shit and get your stuff—we are going in without back-up.”
“Good idea, we’ll do that Logos,” British returned to her work. “See? Your suggestions and thoughts are often followed.”
“Wait—what?”
Forestlands, fifty miles west of Salt Mountain and Oceanport
Danica called for a stop when Torpa returned from perimeter with a live, paralyzed deer in his mouth. Dismounting, she chirped to her huge alpha Dane.
“I’ll be right back,” spoken to the team as Warfell jogged away into the thick underbrush alongside her faithful canine.
“Dani won’t drink it cold,” Iris commented, tilting a dark bottle back and wiping her mouth. “Works for meh.”
“Cool that she is humble around us,” said Tom.
“It’s not us it’s Rarity ya goober head,” Tawnee rubbed hands over the Painted Appaloosa’s neck as she spoke. “She doesn’t wish him to see, and I don’t blame her. Besides, we’ve all seen her eat.”
“I haven’t,” Snow reflected.
“Well—well,” Tawnee smiled at handsome Tom.
Cause she loves you, idiot, she thought, yet spoke different. “I guess only her really close friends have seen her eat, sorry chum, keep kissing her ass and you’ll get there,” she chided her friend with a smirk and a chuckle.
Tom didn’t know what to say. His Black Racer was tamping the leafy ground to the silence when Warfell seemed to appear out of nowhere, Torpa now racing a circle about them. The tall warrior vaulted atop her stallion like a squirrel.
“You heard her, It’s true, I love it when you kiss my ass Snowman—YA!” Danica and Rarity bounded forward. Tom took a deep, steady breath and followed.
The forest thickened, forcing the riders to walk their mounts through the dense off-trail underbrush. None of them minded a bit. ‘Aleutha is not seen from the roads,’ the Spirit of Caelum Fey often said. Tom watched how Danica slid effortlessly through the tangle of branch, leaf and thorny cone, tracing her path with Rarity close behind. Odd, he thought, how antlered deer can move through this stuff like it’s open grassland—one would think the spikey appendages would make it impossible. Even the horses instinctively knew how to poke the nose through the correct avenue of passage.
Tom laughed to himself and caught a slap of vine in the face.
Dammit! his silent reaction, reaching up with a short utility knife and crimping the nasty vine in two. He quickly and quietly cut the base and kept moving.
Oceanport
British Fey took great pride in maintaining the weapons of her Knights, constantly modifying, improving or creating new prototypes for her friends to use in combat; much to their delight.
“Okay boys, keep these close, clip them on tight to a belt,” British gave the Giant and the Dwarf each a small metal box with a toggle switch. “If you see a Ghost, even my Father, flick the switch and your body’s own magnetic field will become very strong and crisp—might keep him off ya for a hot minute.”
“Might beats won’t in the first round,” Bigfoot added correctly.
“Also,” Fey continued, “I’ve prepared special clips for the Chesterborne and the Sawed-off.”
Logos had long since taken a loving to a long barreled Chesterborne repeater much like Warfell’s—the pistol held and fired almost as a short rifle for the little man, though he was now astonishingly accurate with the pearl-handled piece, often firing with the barrel resting on his left forearm. British was already thinking of a design for a barrel-grip to ease Logos’ aim-hold.
&nbs
p; For Robert, British purchased a full-sized rifle, a big game hunting shotgun, removing the wide barrel and replacing it with her own precision crafted barrel not twelve inches long. She then sawed the butt down and carved a comfortable pistol grip for Robert’s massive right hand.
“Robert, Dad walked me through some modifications back home,” British held the rifle turned handgun sideways for them both to see; proud she was indeed of her artisanship. “As you can see, we’ve removed the finger ring around the back of the trigger so you can reach it much easier. But foremost are these clips,” she snapped a curved cartridge free. “Fully automatic, you get twenty-four rounds as fast as you can pull the trigger, then eject here, slide in a new clip and go.”
“How is the metal handling that percussion and heat boss?” Logos knew his firearms. British smiled wide.
“The Barrel is lined inside with copper cushioned ceramic spiral plate—the surface simply never get hot.”
“Buggers Lass!”
“I KNOW—RIGHT? Now listen, each of you have additional cartridges with iron and sharp-cut brown diamond; grey, brown—don’t forget. Face to face with the Ghost—get that grey iron in the air, savvy?”
“Got it,” Bigfoot accepted his boom-boom gun with glassy eyes and a wide smile. He was a fist man, but had come to rather like the sawed-off quite a bit; even drilling his own hole through the grip to sling a short leather strap, so as not to ever drop it, or accidentally throw it at somebody. He was thinking about naming it—Daphne, go figure.
And British was constantly schooling him in ways to carry the weapon unseen. Rob loved that the most, the personal lessons in quick-hand tricks that freak people out and win fights in seconds.
“Dad can’t pass through iron well—says it hurts quite a bit to do so. Remember the grey clip has the iron scatter-rounds,” said British, breaking Rob’s drift. The eight-footer sank the unique weapon in its holster on his waist.
“Boss?”
“Go”
“I need a coat big enough for me or I’ll freeze,” Bigfoot was right.
“Good point—I know a haberdashery loyal to the Feys, c’mon buddy,” British turned to Logos. “Hang tight, this’ll take about an hour. Maybe you could scrounge up some chow for the mountain?”
“Bout an hour? Sure, sure boss, I’m on it,” Logos leaned back in the rented apartment-turned-laboratory as his friends left, eyes sauntering through the window. Outside across the street was a restaurant—next to that was a jeweler. He looked back into the apartment. The boss’ weapons were gone. Logos stared for a long moment at the pommel of the Katana left behind as the realizations were arriving.
“Well kiss my wrinkled raisin ass—they aren’t coming back.”
Warfell leaped upon Rarity when the skyline of Oceanport came into view. They had been walking the equines for hours, preparing for the final stretch into town, the thick forestlands eventually giving way to scrub pine and conifer groves more easily ridden. The towering spire of Salt Mountain commanded the sky, the smell of the ocean was crisp and welcome.
The Gateman was ready for the Riders, orders having already come from the Druid Constabulary, seems the Aequitas Caelum Vindictis appeared to the wise Denga Elders of Oceanport ahead of the away team.
“Lady Fey, and Masters Stone and Gravari arrived two days past my Lord Captain but we do not know where they are right now,” he spoke with reverence as the iron doors swung wide for the Knights of Salvos.
“Thank you,” Danica said coldly, gently urging Rarity on to the city streets, heading straight for the run-downed hotel room she knew Fey rented on the northeast end of town.
“Tom,” Danica said once free of the gate.
“Captain?”
“Find out if the Temple lift has been used by anyone in the last forty eight—especially a cute little thing about yay,” Warfell used two fingers to demonstrate.
“On it,” Snowman dashed away on the Black Racer stallion. In recent years, the Druids constructed a steel cable lift on the eastern face of Salt Mountain, knocking off eight-thousand feet of climbing from the ascent. This was done for the governmental officials and politicians rather than the actual Monks and visiting students, yet none of the latter minded much.
The team continued through the streets, eventually reaching the hostel and stabling the horses promptly nearby.
Logos met them at the door.
“Captain Warfell, boss left something for you inside, it’s the bone-pommeled beauty leaning against the workbench. Good to see you guys! They left without me!”
Danica lost her breath at the sight of the snarling wolf’s head expertly carved from the bone. She took the precision weapon into her hands gently as if cradling a baby. She then pulled the blade inches away from the ornate sheath, blue eyes gleaming with wonder at the waves in the steel.
“Ello shiny—you stay with me,” Warfell whispered to the ancient folded metal, pushing the weapon back into the scabbard, slinging the strap about her left shoulder and settling the blade into its new home on her slender back. She somberly removed her coveted Throne of Steel Militia Sword from the waist and set it down on the table. “I’ll come back for you sweetie,” she patted the pommel and gazed over to her Knights, now filling the small room.
“Re-outfit for the climb, we leave in an hour, all of us,” she winked at Logos and the Dwarf blushed beneath her confident heir.
“Actually, I have some stuff to take care of here in town for the boss,” the Dwarven Knight replied solemnly. Warfell nodded.
“Do what you gotta my friend.”
Salt Mountain cable lift
“Breathe deep and steady Rob. Your lungs are big—the thin air will be hard to adjust to for a bit. If you get tired, stop and breathe,” British patted her faithful Knight’s leg as the groaning cable lift brought them past the eight-thousand foot mark. “Not much further buddy.”
“Do we have a plan Missus British?”
“Nope!”
Bigfoot nodded his agreement like a wise old man. Sure, they rarely had a plan. Common sense told the giant they will seek out the target and engage—this was British’s way but why just the two of them?
“But I did make this,” she answered the unspoken question, suddenly holding a two-foot, white pipe in her hand.
“What be that boss?”
“A crude magnetic coil on a helium core, simple first-year micro dynamics,” said the pixie to the giant.
“What did you call me?” Bigfoot was clueless.
“It’s a magic wand dude—makes a Ghost poop his panties and go POOF!”
“Now those words I like boss.”
The carriage came to a grateful, groaning stop and they took the steps to the abandoned whicker shack. Bigfoot pulled his new cloak tight and followed British towards the mountain trail leading up. Frozen iron chains lined the pathway, steps hewn out of the granite or built as needed to make the trek possible. Robert took his breaths steady—the windswept air burning his nose.
“Snow fire,” he whispered to himself, but British heard.
Not far from the two Knights, Genevieve and her six monks were sealing the bottom entrances. The Denga Temple consisted of more than a dozen buildings scattered or rather dotted along the side of the steep mountain. Passageways through the interior connected some, others were close enough for exterior tubes and catwalks. The lowest buildings were free standing—they had to be evacuated and sealed. At an exterior door, Ginny instructed her men.
“Check for students, get anyone you find up top to the Sanctuary and stay with them, I’m right behind you, go.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
They left and Genevieve was about to follow, when she felt her hair stand on end. She turned around and immediately dropped to her knees—before her levitated the ghastly Apparition, looming close with bright flame eyes.
I am in need.
The thing scratched the words into Ginny’s ears. She was paralyzed with fear, unable to move—her years of training simpl
y gone!
Then it happened…
Genevieve screamed at the top of her lungs as the Ghost of cruelty began to mold its ethereal form around and into her body, holding her down and sinking inside mercilessly. Her screams faded and dissolved when the creature reached her unprotected mind and squeezed it tight, pressing harder until it burst.
Dead Ginny’s eyes began to glow a faint orange. She rose to a stand.
“Hear that? UP THERE!” British yelled. “Follow as best you can!”
Robert watched his tiny friend disappear around a sharp crag of snow-blasted marble. He ran—slipped—jogged—slipped again, (almost falling!) and then walked carefully after her, silently cursing the fact he was so damn big and the boss was so fast. Robert John Stone placed his ironclad faith and trust in British Fey within hours of meeting her some two years past. This is not to say he was without hesitation and fears. He was afraid to be alone, scared of the dark—fancy words. But Robert was never in fear of the Aequitas Caelum. The first words Rob ever heard from a real Ghost was a decree that he should never be harmed, assigning its own Daughter, the tiny elf-girl as Bigfoot’s protector. In battle, the Spirit of Caelum Fey did not grab and hold Bigfoot’s fear like so many others. Even the Knights backed away from the entity once it was fully enraged.
The rage—that’s how Robert fought, by unleashing his natural anger, sometimes too much. In that state of mind, Bigfoot Bob felt invincible and for all practical purposes, he was.
The freezing bitter wind and slippery slope was sufficient to shove his fat reservoir of anti-calm forward as Bigfoot rounded a tight bend, coming to a level deck of snow-blasted rock outside a pagoda style building hewn into the mountain wall.
The eight-foot giant did a double take, blinking his big browns rapidly to clear the fuzz, sinking his right hand over Daphne’s grip. It was a Monk, standing not ten paces from British, the girl holding the wand between them. Robert felt the static vibration in the air, and he oddly felt warmth. A flurry of wispy snow dashed through the clearing and Rob could see the waves emanating from the white rod British held before the Spirit.