by J A Stone
Seems his second Ghost looked more like a live woman, clothed in robes but fully armed with glowing orange-yellow eyes.
Ginny’s dead mouth spoke…
This thing knew of British Fey—the human hunter—Commands the Seven—I am in need.
“And what do you need Honorable Spirit? Tell me and I shall get it,” asked Fey, keeping the wand aloft as a crude shield.
I AM— IN NEED!!
The body that was once Genevieve drew its Longsword and tromped forward, eyes glowing brighter, producing insane black irises roving between Bigfoot and British. It swung the sword fast. Fey met the thick blade with the Coralo Machete, dashing the instrument—three contact sparks as she clipped and pushed the weapon across the Monk’s fighting zone.
Dead Ginny let the sword go—now close enough. She smacked the wand away as British sank her cruel chopper into the shoulder, too late, the hand was around the neck, clenching like a vice on British’s slender throat.
“NO!” Robert lurched forward, iron kettle left hook swinging—bashing Dead Ginny’s cranium sideways with a crunch, caving her head halfway in. The woman with glowing eyes had to be dead, yet the cold fingers clenched tighter and Fey began choking. With its right hand, the possessed Monk grabbed the wrist holding the Machete—clamping that vice firm as well.
No hesitation, Bigfoot, grasped the chokehold arm at the elbow and pushed the chest away, ripping the appendage free of the shoulder assembly.
British brought in a massive gasp of oxygen poor mountain wind and then yanked the Blunderbuss out firing three times, ‘BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!’ thrusting handfuls of iron shavings into Dead Ginny’s torso.
The animated meat fell limp with silence. British leaped for her magnetic wand and rolled with the devise aloft once again, sinking the barrel of the Blunderbuss in the snow with a ‘hiss,’ eyes glued to the target.
“GET BACK BOBBY!” she screamed as the entity rose clear of its host, levitating and facing the indomitable British Fey.
It was the Ghost of a small man—a Dwarven man. British’s mind raced, already placing the entity as an ancient Forge Master, Second Dynasty—probably slayed within the mount by the invading Throne of Steele.
Robert’s mind was racing in a different direction like—what the shit-patty was that?
The black-dot orange eyes formed again and Bigfoot could feel the heat pulsing off the thing. He leveled Daphne and took his breathing seriously, remembering what British said.
Cable lift, six-thousand feet
“I swear to the Gods of whatever, half the time it’s a race with her,” said Danica.
“That was metal clashing and not this damned wind?” asked Tom, shivering.
“Yup!” Shadoweye answered, eyes combing the mountainside above the cable lift—less than an hour until the equi-fade relented the deep night. “You scared of the cold Snowman?”
“Nah, the things we get into are waaay…”
Flashes illuminated the lowest structure—still two-thousand feet above, the distinctive peals of the scatterguns reaching the ears next, the strange offset reality of the distant gunfight coming to life for Danica, Tawnee, Iris and Tom.
“Dammit man, can’t this stupid carriage go faster?” said the Snowman anxiously hopping up and down.
“If you break this thing Lieutenant, I will snatch your body mid-air and use you as a meat pillow,” Danica hissed the words and Snowman’s boots somehow landed softly on the last hop.
But Warfell’s blues were straight above—silence. Her heart was pounding a hole through her chest, worry for British and Rob overcoming all else.
“C’mon,” she whispered, unconsciously bouncing in place ever so slightly herself.
Oceanport, Davis Master Kennels
Far below in the city, Torpa paced back and forth, his actions mirrored at a respective distance by the younger male, Landreth. Antigua sat patiently, waiting.
Horses abide the stables with grooms, fresh hay and foot care quite well, who wouldn’t? Dogs however, especially the mighty Tiborean Danes simply come unglued when their Masters leave them with a bunch of morons in a tight cage. Stabling these particular canines was not a good idea at all.
Torpa stopped his pacing when he heard someone coming.
“Hey there, well aren’t you a handsome man!” the pretty Steward was kind and efficient, admiring the huge beasts from Tibor. “We haven’t had a Huntsman’s Hound as big as you in years—Torpa?” she checked her chart with a warm smile, darting her eyes to the others.
“You must be Landreth, and is it Antigua? You belong to Lady Fey herself!”
The Danes lined up side-by-side, sitting tall, turning on the charm and displaying calm unprecedented, collective eyes growing wide and glassy, bobtail butts dancing side to side.
They were waiting for the fool to…
“You are so beautiful, may I?”
And there it was. The Steward flipped the hasp and slid the bolt aside with a heart full of angst to touch the soft, bright white fur.
They did not kill her, she was after all, very nice.
Splintered doors, dozens of screams and a staff of startled Stewards later, Torpa and his friends broke free of Davis Kennels, hitting the crisp night air, bolting through the streets of Oceanport like a pack of wolves, screaming for the base of the mountain that disappeared in the clouds above.
Damn right they knew where the girls went.
Far above the crafty Danes, the away team finally reached their destination.
“HEY!” British helped to settle the carriage still for her Knights. “You’re early, where’s Logos?”
“Still in town, said he needed to—”
“Ah good man!” Danica’s report was stifled by Fey’s nod of knowing. “Welcome to Salt Mountain!” British motioned her friends forward and up to the landing. “Looking good partner,” the pixie dashed ahead with a grin.
They took the slippery steps in silence.
Above, Bigfoot was leaned against the mountain, Daphne high aside his face. He nodded to the team with a finger to lips, pointing across the small deck to the threshold of the Denga Temple’s lowest building. Deep within, the two orange eyes were roving side to side searching the interior as though alone. Warfell heard the apparition whispering, mumbling. She touched her partner’s shoulder and the two brought lips to ears.
“Debrief?”
“Ghost in the shed—bad Ghost.”
“Really British?”
“Just kiddin’, listen, stay behind me and Rob unless you have iron rounds.”
“Yeah, all nickel boss.”
“Okay, we need to get around and above to any survivors, put us between them and it,” Danica nodded. British kissed her cheek and rose, hand signaling the team to move on her lead.
Almost to the ascending steps and the thing howled from within the storage shed, hurling supplies and food outside to the level deck. Fey took the steps like a cat, followed by Warfell and Shadoweye. Behind them, the Knights slipped and poked and gripped the rail for dear life as the enraged Spirit tore apart the supply shack in the fading distance.
“It can move matter,” Shadoweye spoke the obvious aloud, once clear.
“And possess bodies,” Bigfoot rasped in a whisper louder than most public speakers as he hustled the team by, assuming the rear with Daphne jerking about to follow the big browns. “Gotta shoot it with iron.”
“I got an iron clip,” Tom patted his belt inside the fur coat, finding the cartridge and snapping it firm into place on his shotgun. Snowman always had his Epee Longfoil and Poniard, but also kept an automatic rifle with a short, honeycomb shrouded barrel.
“Cover flank with Robby,” British ordered from two flights above.
“On it.”
They found people quickly.
“Lower those swords or eat them now,” British warned the terrified survivors of Ginny’s team.
“Look guys we don’t have orange eyes,” Robert added, pointing to his wind burned fac
e.
The monks sheathed weapons and came closer.
“Do you know who I am?” asked Fey, and the men began to tremble and cower again.
“Relax dumbasses, she’s not gonna kill you. The Ghost, have you seen it?” Warfell holstered her Chesterborne. The men nodded yes aggressively, unable to form the words.
“Stay with us. We are going up top,” British bolted away, chirping the command for her Knights to move. The six monks followed like frightened mice.
Midway to the Sanctuary, British snapped a fist high, spinning two fingers.
Warfell and Shadoweye leaped to the opposing sides of the pathway, clinging to the rocky wall of a thin crag pass. Fey motioned Robert and Tom to the fore, pushing her face between their heads and whispering.
“Twenty paces out there is a level with another pagoda, stay behind me,” She smiled and removed the Blunderbuss, a very rare act and testament to her severity. British rarely pulled a weapon until the instant it was used. Tawnee often said, ‘If you can see it in her hand—you’re already dead,’ and it was true.
Flattening out on the steps, Tom and Rob crawled aside the boss, lifting up to see and hear the thing rummaging through the lower-level dormitories. It barked, ‘YA!’ and a bunk-bed slammed against the far wall, crushing the metal frame against a support beam with incredible force. Snow banks are accustomed to exterior winds and sonic disruption, but vibrations coursing through the granite interior can be catastrophic.
Salt Mountain rumbled. Fey looked up, making the split-second decision.
“MOVE, MOVE, MOVE! Inside! Go NOW!” she ran for the threshold, knowing the structures were capable of surviving an avalanche. Outside, they would be buried alive.
The Knights of Salvos ran for their lives as the sheets of ice, snow and rock pummeled the twenty-foot square flat outside the dorms. Bigfoot stopped at ten paces, pushing the Monks forward and then grabbing first Tom, then Iris, and Tawnee, literally tossing each warrior through the archway and leaping after them himself.
Bigfoot hit hard, rolling to face the open doors, now completely plugged with snow.
“Everyone all…?” Robert shut up, rotating around to see British face to face again with the evil entity, magic wand high, Blunderbuss leveled. He snatched Daphne free.
I am in need
“Me too buddy, I need to take a shit, like an aggressive rocky one, I get it,” British retorted the scratchy speech of the Spirit. “Bottom line is, you’re killing people and we are here to stop you, do you understand the words coming out of my…?”
You can do nothing to me human hunter. We share prey, putrid walking filth, taking what they will, absorbing, becoming the stench as they go.
“The Men who slayed your Kinfolk are long dead my friend. Must the Son pay for the Father’s deed?” British was smart, quoting an ancient Dwarven war cry.
The small Spirit hovered, the flame eyes dimming to a soft yellow. Tiny black irises probed the six Knights and six Monks, pausing first on Iris, then landing on Warfell.
Arenthians.
It hissed the words.
“We are the Knights of Salvos,” Danica stepped forward and the Ghost recoiled in disgust.
You LIE! I am In NEEEED!
The enraged Spirit of the Dwarven Forge Master lunged for British as the flared barrel of the Blunderbuss flashed three times, joined by Bigfoot’s Daphne and Tom Snow’s scattergun.
The entity yelped like a wounded animal and regressed through an exterior wall, leaving everyone speechless for the longest moment. Fey was first, hustling a new cartridge into her baby. Robert followed suit.
“Such attitude,” British mumbled.
“He’s definitely mad,” added Shadoweye.
“Yeah he is! All right, at least the iron is effective. Follow me, keep it tight,” British motioned to all, walking casually to the interior wall. “Here somewhere,” she mused, patting the galvanized aluminum walls, tearing down a tapestry to search.
“There…here,” one of the monks had regained his bravery. “Through here.”
Danica reached the hidden passage first. It was a sink.
“Push the faucet to the left,” the brave one said and Warfell complied, smiling as the entire unit regressed into the wall, swinging to the side, revealing a dimly lit tunnel.
“How far does it go?” British asked, pushing in close with a hand on the monk’s shoulder.
“To the galley, next pagoda up.”
“Works for me, filter your men in with mine and keep to the walls. Do you know how to thread a needle?”
“I—we do Ma’am,” replied the monk, finally coming to his senses.
“Good man, let’s ride Chief,” Fey chirped to her Knights and made way.
Denga Temple Sanctuary
Master Eventine Delacroix meditated fervently, praying her thoughts for the Aequitas Caelum would be heard, not realizing the deep night was upon them outside and the benevolent Spirit would not be coming for hours. None of Genevieve’s team had returned.
Forty-two Druids, Monks and Students kneeled about her, softly chanting, hoping to lend strength to Eventine’s pleas for help. After a motionless eternity, the Denga Master opened her eyes and stood resolutely. She had a remote idea.
“Everyone remain here. You and you, come with me,” she touched two students on the shoulder. They rose and followed.
“Master Delacroix, where?” asked nervously as the three walked down a dead-silent hallway.
“Just Eventine, and the Library, come,” answered with a hand signal for further silence. The Student, a young man named Zenarae, met eyes with the other and the two followed quietly.
Temple Galley, nine-thousand feet
Warfell chirped from the far side. Fey nodded, then darted three fingers rapidly up and down, signal for an advance into the kitchen from the interior portal. She touched each person as they passed—unspoken assurances.
Once inside, they searched the dining area, kitchen, and storage. They found nothing, good.
“Wait here, ears and eyes peeled,” British entered the loo, closing and locking the door behind her. After several uncomfortable moments of a disturbing quiet that was not, Fey emerged to the racket of the ‘foosh!’
“You really just took a—?” Tawnee began.
“Where would I keep it and why? No honey I left one, Fey chopped right back. “Did all of you just stand there and listen?”
“You told us to Ma’am,” one of the Monks answered for an eyebrow-raised group. British ignored him, brushing up to the prep-line, popping a stale biscuit in her mouth and letting it fall instantly from the bottom lip, sporting a sour expression.
“Gods of the Mount—that’s bad,” she gazed for a lost moment at the eye burner stove across from her as if suddenly entranced.
“Our diet is bland. Are you okay?” the brave monk asked, curiosity killing caution.
“Tools,” British answered. “I need tools,” her cunning browns following the gas line to the butane tanks mounted on the back wall. Danica’s blues followed.
“Don’t blow up the mountain we’re standing on partner,” said the platinum-haired warrior with vehemence.
“Nah, I was thinking of an incendiary propellant,” Fey replied. “This is gonna take a minute or two, meanwhile gather anything made of iron and keep as best of an eye out as we can. Robby, help me with this.”
“What’s a—?”
“Flamethrower Robert,” Danica grinned, “she’s gonna make a flamethrower.”
While British and Bigfoot wrestled with a mish-mash of hastily gathered components and basic tools, Danica studied the rough map sketch of the tunnel system within the mountain. The passageways connected many of the buildings, especially above their position at higher altitude.
That’s good, she thought, but what about deeper inside the mount? she motioned one of the Monks forward.
“Have the Druids explored the interior much?” she asked.
“No Ma’am, from what I have l
earned, the pathways were sealed off centuries ago.”
“Who is the Master of the Temple?”
“Master Eventine Delacroix. This is her first year.”
“I know Eventine—damned good fighter,” Warfell remembered the woman. Delacroix was there when she and British took down Master Waters three seasons past. She lived through the event—testament to her prowess and cunning as the Druids were pitted against British first hand. “I wonder how she’s holding up.”
Temple Library
Five hundred feet above Danica, Master Delacroix rifled through the ancient texts, parchments and scrolls preserved by the Denga Monks for millennia. Her two men stood guard nearby, nervously craning eyes, ears and noses about like frightened rabbit pups.
“Here,” Eventine whispered to the pages of a dusty tome…
Elder Aenede Goatfoot perfected both the smelting blend of steel, chromo-titanium, and carbon mesh used in the Katana, as well as the lengthy processes of heating, folding and rapid cooling the metal.
Following the sack of Salt Mountain, he was publicly executed by a Throne of Steel Captain named Dolo, for his refusal to reveal the location of the Second Dynasty’s cashe of fine weaponry. One year to date, the esteemed Captain began to claim he was being haunted by the Ghost of the old Dwarven Forge Master. Dolo was retired with honors following a psychotic breakdown, claiming that Goatfoot was alive, invisible, and teaching him woodcarving at night. Soon thereafter, the insane Dolo returned to the Mount, entered Goatfoot’s tomb and robbed the grave; making off with only the Dwarf’s bones. Captain Dolo was never seen again.
Of the few Second Dynasty swords recovered following the massacre, one was considered Goatfoot’s masterpiece, a bare Katana with no pommel and a name: Tung-Vohra. A rare, ancient dialect unique to the Second Dynasty, Tung-Vohra translates best as ‘Screaming Beast’ or simply The ‘Howl’.