Seven Devils

by J A Stone

  The precision-crafted artifact was stolen from the Human conquerors of Salt Mountain soon after the rogue Captain disappeared.

  The missing weapon resurfaced seven hundred years later in the private collection of Olivia Heathrow-Frantz a wealthy Northern Duchess and self-proclaimed Witch…

  “Save the Gods—what have you done little woman?” Eventine spoke to the silence with her eyes closed tight, shutting the massive text and rising to face her men.

  “Let’s go,” she said, but paused—her two men were smiling.

  “Reading about me?” one said in a voice clearly not his. Eventine placed hands to her dual Wakizashis as two pairs of eyes began to glow a bright campfire orange.

  “Lord Goatfoot,” Eventine formally addressed the entity, she knew her men were lost, “please stop this madness.”

  “Madness is a much overrated state,” the other spoke as they drew weapons.

  Eventine Delacroix laced her Wakizashis side to side, allowing each instrument distinct movements of independence followed by concise dual strike patterns as she expertly deflected the two Scimitars coming at her from each hemisphere. The Ghost was using the two men as wolves—harrowing the worthy swordsman on both ends to exhaust her quickly and open the defenses.

  But it was not working.

  “YAH!” Eventine kicked a Scimitar free and impaled the owner, spinning to meet the opposing blade just in time, clacking her edges across the curved ventral keen, sending a flurry of sparks into her adversary’s eyes. The possessed student dropped the Scimitar and screamed in pain as Eventine took his nape in a clean sideswipe.

  She found her breath, her calm, standing tall…

  “Those sparks hurt you, didn’t they,” she whispered to the headless torso, just as a forearm wrapped about her neck from behind like an iron shackle—first downed opponent very much up and moving.

  Several levels below Master Delacroix, British Fey emptied case after case of cans filled with a jelly-like burning fuel used to keep food warm in metal pans.

  “What is that stuff for?” Bigfoot asked the boss—regretting his question instantly.

  “It’s denatured alcohol: ethanol and methanol mixed with amphoteric oxide as a gelling agent—basic nitrocellulose. It’s harmless as canned heat, but deadly as a sticky jelly on fire, propelled by a compressed body of butane—which itself ignites the surrounding atmosphere producing an excess of thirty-two Jules per square foot of disruptive atomic reactions and electromagnetic rage—yahoo!”

  Robert stood there staring blindly.

  “Hey, you asked.”

  “Missus British?” Robert gave up and shook his head. He got the flaming jelly part and that was good enough.

  “How much longer partner?” asked Danica from across the galley.

  “Actually,” Fey set her new contraption on the wooden prep-counter next to the oven. “This’ll do just fine, c’mon let’s go.”

  “Ya gonna lev it here?” asked Iris.

  “Back-up for the exit strategy,” Tawnee answered for the boss, winking and patting Iris’ shoulder.

  “You know on other worlds, yooze and meeze are sweetie-pies,” British teased her friend Tawnee.

  “Rather lick a toad, no offense British.”

  “None tay—wait, why a toad?”

  “I said turd,” Shadoweye winked again and pushed past her to take point—revolver out front.

  “I take freakin’ baths,” Fey mumbled with a frown and followed.

  Outside, Eventine took the steps slowly with both arms out and palms wide to the snow—she knew better than just walking up to these people. She immediately recognized Warfell and the insane pixie girl—the rest she’d heard more than enough about.

  “Master Delacroix?” British asked. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I do, Daughter of the Aequitas Caelum Vindictis. Welcome to my messed up Mountain. Thank you for coming.”

  “Are you gonna turn all eye-fire and make me do something?” Bigfoot growled, stepping forward with a massive pistol waist high.

  “I’m just me. I don’t think the creature can get inside here,” Eventine tapped her temple and grinned.

  Warfell stepped in close with a stern heir and cold blues. Immediately, Delacroix’s eyes roved upwards to the extended wolf’s head pommel of the ancient Katana.

  “Tung Vohra,” the Denga Master whispered beneath her breath. “What did you guys do,” it was not a question.

  “Looks to me like we’re saving your ass,” Snow piped up from the back.

  “Where did you get that Katana Captain Warfell?”

  “What’s it to ya?” Danica suddenly absorbed Eventine’s entire personal zone.

  “Nothing to me—everything to Goatfoot, he’s the Spirit, and that belongs to him.”

  “You are not kidding,” said Danica to the truth in Eve’s eyes. “What else did you say?”

  “Tung-Vohra, its name, means The Howl,” Delacroix bowed her head forward as Warfell backed away, not knowing what to say. “How did you come to own it?”

  Danica looked to British, followed by all other eyes.

  “Way to go boss,” now Shadoweye was shaking her head. She just got it.

  “I don’t get it,” Bigfoot asked.

  “By moving the artifact from its resting place, I’ve disturbed its creator and protector, Goatfoot. Am I right Master Druid?”

  “More like enacted the glyphs surrounding the artifact at rest, otherwise, yes Lord Knight. You were unaware,” Delacroix could not hide the disappointment—damn right Fey should have known better—could have done a little research first?

  “But how?” Iris asked anyone.

  “It was kept safe—warded by an ancient, very powerful Witch,” Eventine offered.

  “No such animal,” British’s pragmatic, scientific mind blurted out.

  “Yeah, Ghosts, Arenthians and lizard-men too, right?” Tawnee could not resist another opportunity, gotcha! The pixie pointed at her.

  “No, those exist, where have you guys been?” Robert spoke confidently, now that he understood the basic ideas swimming around.

  “Boss, we still gotta shut this thing down permanently,” Warfell tossed the obvious back up front.

  “I um—I have an idea,” said Tom, bringing everyone’s attention his way.

  “Go Snowman,” British needed rescuing, something, anything!

  “Well, my Gramma believed in Spirits, and she used to say that a Ghost can be stuck or trapped here in the material world by an object or totem, something he loved dearly—or hated severely. They can also be forcefully held or expelled from our world by using or destroying a piece of the dead body like the hair, or the bones.”

  Eyebrows rose, maybe he had something.

  Strange how everyone there already knew how to banish a Spirit by salting and burning the grave—seems the oldest legends persevere faithfully through the ages, perhaps fueled by the common modicums of truth. Even Iris heard the tales and myths as a kid.

  “We are not destroying this sword,” Warfell announced, “or giving it up,” she finalized, facing away.

  “Captain, you’re being foolish,” said Eventine.

  “IT’S MINE!” Danica growled as a feral beast might, spinning about wildly. British thrust her palms aloft.

  “Yeeeah, Tung-Vohra belongs to Warfell now Master Druid. You gonna try and take it?” British had her partner’s back. “We’ll find another way or give him the damned mountain,” she added and Delacroix scoffed, staring at the floor.

  “We need to regroup in the Sanctuary,” Eventine mumbled the words, defeated.

  “We need to be prepared to fight,” Danica added.

  “One more thing Master Druid,” said British, with a finger up. “I need some rare metals—very rare. I’d like to pilfer through the Denga’s horde.”

  “We have a horde?” Eventine made the poor attempt, facing the lost-puppy browns and ice-cold blues for a microsecond too long. Warfell made a fist and closed those blu
es tight. Eventine knew so much better than to poke a stick at these girls.

  “Alright—alright you two are very intimidating folk. The Library is one level up and can be reached internally from here. Need I remind you that disturbing one artifact has caused several dozen deaths so far?” Eventine was no coward. “Snatching another might prove worse.”

  “I just need the rare elements, no weapons or personal items I swear,” Fey sounded sincere enough.

  “Works for me,” Delacroix smiled and relaxed. “The passage is through here,” she motioned.

  “What if it don’t work for ya?” Iris smirked as she passed by the Denga Master. Tom brought up the rear and smiled awkwardly at Eventine. He paused as the men and women entered the tunnel.

  “We’re not that bad,” said the Snowman, almost embarrassed, almost flirting.

  “Yes we are dipshit!” Danica’s fading voice from deep inside.

  Temple Library

  They could hear Goatfoot rummaging through the books, shoving furniture to the side rather than passing through it. The entity was mumbling, occasionally shouting curses.

  “He’s looking for something all right,” British whispered in the quiet argon light of the smooth passageway. She met eyes with Danica, Tawnee, Robert, Iris and Tom—each nodding the go ahead. Fey opened the hidden door, regressed behind a tapestry with a few feet to spare. She entered the room and slid sideways behind the huge wall hanging.

  Goatfoot turned, observing the feet and forelegs scampering against the wall. The Ghost of the ancient Dwarven Forge Master scratched his words into the stale air.

  Human hunters, where is your Dwarf-Man? One-legged Kin such as I?

  “Down below,” British answered from behind the silk.

  Goatfoot seethed as Bigfoot tore the massive wall-rug down and forward, revealing the six Knights of Salvos and Master Delacroix.

  The ghastly apparition levitated to eye level with Bigfoot, its orbs glowing flame, black dot irises roving side to side across the team members. Danica kept the Katana on her back, the wolf-pommel behind her head—not yet.

  Two paces to Warfell’s right, Iris hefted an iron frying pan from the galley, flushing her gray hair black and baring her fangs. Aside she, Tom leveled his shotgun as down the line each Knight brought weapons to the fore.

  “Weh cast upon theh,” Iris spoke in her heavy Arenthian dialect, stepping forward with a snarl.

  The angry Spirit changed, laughing, loud and full with a twisted smile breaking across the hazy features. Then the creature flew lightning-fast across the chamber, coming face-to-face with Bigfoot Bob, slinging a very real feeling fist across the big man’s jaw.

  Rob fired Daphne until she clicked but the Ghost continued to swing, making blunt-force contacts over and again as the Giant’s own fists passed clean through the enemy’s ether. Luckily, British leaped forward with her white baton, pushing the homemade weapon into Goatfoot’s incorporeal form.

  It cringed and backed away from Robert, clear enough for the Blunderbuss to make four ear-busting booms. Goatfoot twisted about in pain and shot through an exterior wall screaming.

  “Okay, I’m out of iron-shot,” British announced.

  “Half a clip,” Snowman confirmed, snapping the cartridge back in place.

  “I’ve been out,” said Rob. “I was afraid to say.”

  “That wand worked a little, what is it?” asked Tom, but Rob held a hand out with fingers spread, shaking his massive head.

  “Don’t ask buddy?” Tom smiled.

  “Please?” Robby frowned.

  British Fey found ampoules containing every known element, carefully hidden in what was once an apothecary lab. She left the lead-encased radioactive isotopes alone, choosing instead the rare metals she would need to fabricate a hydrogen coil to power the Fort—so she can really get busy.

  “I’m good,” said the intrepid Fey, grabbing a leather bound book titled 2nd Dynasty Metallurgy and tossing it to Shadoweye for safekeeping. “Let’s go see if there are any survivors,” British checked her timepiece and looked to a nodding Warfell.

  “Move out!” Danica instructed the remaining Monks as the Knights of Salvos headed for the threshold and the outside steps to Salt Mountain’s highest structure, the Sanctuary.

  There above, in that hallowed chamber of silence, prayer and meditation. Thirty-eight students rose to a stand together—eyes beginning to emit a yellow-orange glow. Like an automaton hive of workers, the Druids in training began searching the sanctuary, examining the walls, podium, seating benches, mumbling Dwarven curses as they tried in vain to find something simply not there.

  “What are you doing?” Eventine Delacroix spoke in her command voice from the doorway to the Sanctuary. The now dead survivors of the Denga stopped, turned and faced their former Master with bright orange eyes. They hissed en masse as a pit of vipers.

  “Lord Goatfoot!” Warfell shouted, stepping forward and unsheathing Tung-Vohra. “Is this what you seek?”

  Thirty-eight pairs of eyes went wide in disbelief and shock…then everyone collapsed on deck limp. The Ghost manifested above the small crowd of corpses.

  Give it back Arenthian—I am in need!

  Danica shook her head no, but continued to walk forward, away from her Knights. British slinked against the wall to the right, Tawnee to the left…

  “Tung-Vohra has found a worthy home my Lord,” Warfell chose her words carefully, offering an appeal to the entity’s sense of honor. “The weapon howls for my hand—to cast its might upon an evil world—he has suffered in silent repose long enough.”

  Your words are NOTHING to ME!

  Goatfoot screamed bloody murder and disappeared, just as the thirty-eight corpses fumbled back to a stand, snarling once again at Danica and her friends. No more words, the two sides came together with muffled grunts and screams. Metal struck metal and firearms flared as the Knights of Salvos engaged—outnumbered five to one.

  There were no survivors and the vengeful old Ghost of the Forge Master loved every moment, forcing the humans to hack apart their already dead brethren.

  As Eventine stood above the dismembered torso of Goatfoot’s last swinging meat-puppet, the Savage Spirit manifested once again. It spoke with a screech.

  You cannot harm me—give me Tung-Vohra!

  “Do you fear nothing oh mighty and powerful Dwarven Lord?” British laughed aloud.

  I am in need

  “We got that little fella. Tell me Swordmaker, have you ever met another real Ghost? Seen one? Look a fellow Spirit in the eye?”

  What do you say human hunter?

  “I say, Aenede Goatfoot, meet the Aequitas Caelum Vindictis, my beginning and your end,” British bowed gracefully with a palm outstretched.

  Nothing happened.

  The silence coursed over the killing floor like a sickening draft—metallic tastes of blood in the air.

  “Uhhhhh, what time is it?” British rose tall (for her), big brown eyes glued to her wrist, tapping the glass cover of the timepiece, shaking her left hand. “Heh, heh,” the elf girl fidgeted nervously, the equifade yet a scant moment away. British pointed to the apparition but spoke to Danica. “He wants it so bad partner, let him have it.”

  “Sure boss,” Danica spun the weapon about gracefully and charged forth but before she could engage the ether, the atmosphere between them blurred and shimmied.

  British sighed as her Father materialized inches away from the Savage Spirit of Salt Mountain.

  “Not doin’ the intro twice—Dad this asshole’s being mean to me.”

  Time stood still as the two otherworldly creatures hovered inches apart, both beings utterly astonished, behaving as if the other were completely alien.

  British was hand signaling for everyone to back away—get out of there, when the Aequitas Caelum Vindictis changed. The calm face distorted into a macabre visage of a mad Daemon and the twisted, gaping mouth roared like a thunderhead.

  They slowly raised incorporeal arms and
then swiftly locked up, wrestling, tugging and pulling with incredible force—shouts, screams and wails increasing to the fevered pitch of insanity.

  British, Danica and the Knights of Salvos ran as fast as they could, outside and down for the slippery path away from there.

  Salt Mountain shook to its core as the powerful entities thrashed into and through the interior walls. The ear-piercing screams were heard clearly in the city of Oceanport, ten thousand feet below.

  Eight thousand feet

  They met the crafty Danes waiting anxiously for their Masters past the midway point and the first avalanche. British quickly melted a tunnel through the snow and rock detritus with her makeshift flamethrower. A team reunited sans their Thief descended together—damned ready to get the Seven Hells off that rock.

  Delacroix was done with Salt Mountain and the Honorable Denga. As she listened to the battle still raging far above, she wondered what would become of the angry Ghost.

  “Now that he has a grip-hold, Father won’t let Goatfoot loose until it is done,” Fey answered the unspoken, placing a hand to Eventine’s shoulder. “You’re smoking hot with those straight blades. Would you like a real job?”

  “What—Me?” Delacroix blushed in the light of the coming dawn.

  “Yes you,” British smiled wide and Eventine could not help but fall in love with those puppy browns.

  “I do Lady Fey—I really do.”

  *

  Case #39 The Evil in Us All

  Fort Salvos, British’s Workshop

  “C’MON YA LITTLE bitch—up in there,” British struggled with the hand-forged components and gave up, releasing the mechanism forcefully, sending parts and tools to the floor.

  She found her steady breathing and pushed a fake smile across her exasperated face. After a long moment, the pixie-sized warrior turned scientist brought her goggles down and exhaled sharp.