Seven Devils

by J A Stone

  “Ya’ll saw the bodies. I also got some statements from some eye-witnesses who think they saw a Dwarf-Kin messing around the stables prior to the murders,” Dougal watched with interest as the pastries disappeared. “Ya’ll don’t have a Baker at your Fort?”

  “I make biscuits,” said Rob with little confidence.

  “Your wife has talent,” Shadoweye was fishing, catching a blunt look of jealousy from her lover.

  “Not married, well, to Martha here I guess,” he patted the hilt of a Longsword leaning against his desk.

  “Martha?” Iris asked.

  “Named her after my Momma because my Dad spent a fortune on her, cared for her exhaustively, yet never really had a chance as her Master,” Dougal smiled and all of the girls felt a twinge of excitement.

  “Okaaaaay, the case file Sir?” Tom Snow threw an extra handful of testosterone into the air.

  “Absolutely,” the charming man brought out the paperwork, spreading the documents over his wide metal desk. “The witnesses all saw the same thing; a tiny man leaving the stables, laughing in a high-pitched voice.”

  “Why the stables?” Bigfoot asked aloud.

  British interrupted, “Where are the horses Rob?”

  “Stables,” he replied to British’s back—she was already running.

  “Thank the Gods and Devils alike you guys are okay,” British removed Snowflake from the barn quickly, returning moments later to the archway and giving the stables a sharper eye.

  “What did he do in here?” Warfell asked her partner’s burning question.

  “Don’t know, but we need to search every inch of this place, he was in here for a reason,” British followed a set of steps leading to the hayloft as Dougal jogged up.

  “Joshua’s the Equine Steward for this place. He left early today with a sick kid at home,” the Constable offered. “He’s a good fella, been here for years.”

  “Send for him please, how far away does he live?” Warfell asked.

  “I can hit his roof with a rock,” Dougal answered her with a flirtatious spark in his eye. “His Daughter has the flaming scours.”

  “Wow you had to add that—good to know ol’ chap,” Fey took the steps and began examining the bales of hay and wheat stacked neatly above…nothing.

  “Boss!” Tom Snow shouted from the straw on deck below.

  “Go,” British leaped the twenty feet, landing like a bird several paces away. Tom was still holding the case file, flipping through it.

  “Says here, the killings occurred on opposite ends of this road within minutes of one another, when victims one and two were discovered the bodies were still warm.”

  “Distance?” Tawnee asked.

  “Three miles, from here to the last house,” said Dougal.

  “Yeah, and nobody saw a horse flying at full speed, cause that would be the only way to cover the ground,” British thought aloud. “That doesn’t add up.”

  “Where did they find the third Vic?” Danica was searching a trough filled with tack and saddlery straps.

  “Near an outlying farm seven clicks northwest of town. It’s the Benson Farm, more good folks, their oldest Son worked for me sometimes, he—was a hearty man, I just can’t see anyone getting the best of him,” Dougal’s sadness was evident and the Knights remained silent for a brief moment.

  “Do you have a Town Hall with records and maps?” Fey eventually asked.

  “That would be in my office, CECILIA!” the Town Constable shouted outside and a woman answered.

  “Yes Sir?” she came to the door and everyone looked. Cecilia was an imposing character, sporting muscles like a man, with a huge Claymore Sword on her wedge shaped back.

  “Cecilia, these are the Knights of Salvos. Everyone, Cecilia is my Deputy, and a damn good one too,” Dougal raised palms.

  “I am honored Good Knights,” she bowed.

  “Cilly, will you bring us the sector maps?”

  “Aye Sir,” the musclebound, heavily armed woman clanked away…

  Moments later, the brusque Deputy jogged in with a fistful of tubes and a sweaty face. They spread the parchment on the ground, British opening her own regional map and noting the locations with a calculative eye.

  They marked each crime scene with a small X and British bent down, drawing a straight line through the marks with an arrow at the end, pointing due north.

  “This way, to play,” British repeated the ghastly inscribed words. “It’s a taunt…he’s taunting me!”

  “Boss! Ya want ta seh this!” Iris called from outside, behind the barn. Half a second later, the rear bay doors opened up and the gray haired young woman waived her comrades over. “It’s a portal to the deep.”

  Wonderful, just wonderful, Warfell thought as British dropped down into the hole beneath an old, rusted sheet of tin out back. She waited patiently through several uncomfortable moments, the collective Knights all empathizing with her aversion of the underground. Finally, Logos’ head popped up, followed by little British’s.

  “This could explain some things, it runs the length of the main road and seems to connect to larger tunnels in several places.” Fey leaped on deck followed by the Gravari Brother. “Master Dougal,” British referred to the man by his former military title.

  “Aye Ma’am?” the Constable responded.

  “You think of anything more, come to us outside town, north forest. Bring the Equine Steward there when the equifade begins.”

  “Aye Ma’am, will do. I’d like to come with ya’ll.”

  “We’ll think about it,” Danica finalized as the Knights gathered gear…

  Five miles north of Carthage Down

  “HO THERE GOOD FOLK!” Dougal knew well to announce his presence before approaching. The Knights of Salvos were a lot best handled with care.

  “Where’s the Steward?” Warfell rose to a stand to assist the Constable with his mount, an impressive Auburn Warhorse.

  “He’s too sick Lord Captain, his Daughter is on her death bed as well.”

  “From the scours? A common stomach virus?” British asked.

  “Doc Middleton says they were poisoned,” Dougal said the words to the silence that followed as British and her Knights began calculating possibilities.

  “Did she assist her Father in the stables?” Tom asked.

  “She did,” Dougal answered.

  “Who was working the night of the first two murders, the night he was seen there in the barn?” Tom again, he was on to something.

  “She and her Father—fresh hay arrived that day—needed to be stacked.”

  “Poison’s in the hay bales, theh inhaled the dust,” Iris concluded and she was correct.

  “Any horses been sick?” British continued.

  “No Ma’am, none, and all the locals eat the hay when it’s fresh, they love it,” Dougal rubbed his sharp chin…he realized what happened. ”The poison was intended for people, not the animals. That’s pretty mean.”

  “Probably to eliminate any witnesses near his hidey-hole out back,” British surmised. “You guys will need to remove that straw plus any other food-stuffs, then clean that barn top to bottom, I can help you make a sanitizing spray.”

  “Aye, they will and thanks. My Deputy is on her way right now, have you considered allowing me to ride with ya’ll?”

  British came forward, shaking her head side to side. He gathered his courage and spoke before she could say no.

  “I owe these people justice. This happened on my watch—I’m obligated by duty and I won’t fail them twice.”

  Fey paused, turning her head to Warfell then Tawnee, neither of whom were objecting.

  “Okay Master Swordsman of Moor. I know the rank, what brought you here to the Down after achieving such an esteemed station of prowess?”

  “Martha,” Dougal lowered his head.

  “Your Longsword?” Warfell.

  “No, my Mom. She was dying, then she did and I stayed for these people. It is a nice place to live.”
r />   “Can’t argue with that,” Danica nodded. “This does not make you a Knight.”

  “Fair enough,” Dougal mounted, bringing the Warhorse about. “I need to get my things from town. When Cecilia arrives, will you instruct her as your will?”

  “We shall Dougal. We leave on the morning fade,” British bowed deep as the rider took off with a heart full of excitement. She watched him ride away as Danica came to her side.

  “So, we leave now?”

  “Yeah, double-time, he’s too nice a guy for this stuff,” British spun about, clacking tongue to teeth for Snowflake.

  “Where to, do we follow the mark’s enticement?” asked Tawnee.

  “Negative, we follow the bodies on a wide loop, west to White Falls,” British grinned. “Never do what a bad guy tells you to—makes ‘em think they are in control.”

  They were three miles away before Dougal reached the town road. His foolish decision to catch some sleep cost him his chance.

  Crabtree Forest, three hundred miles southeast of White Falls

  “Dad says the second murders happened here,” British was exhausted, as were her compatriots. They rode through the night to make sure Dougal would not find them. Yes they wanted recruits, yes Fort Salvos could use a good man like Dougal, even his burly sidekick Cilly, but not mid-mission. The Knights unanimously agreed that the Dwarf must have skills to pull off the Carthage Down scenes, and none of them wished to endanger someone new to the game, regardless of his past experience.

  “Iris and I need to hunt. What lives in these Crabtree groves?” Warfell was not tired in the slightest, just hungry as had become her life.

  “There’s a farm ahead, want me to buy you a cow?” British offered for the sense of sensibility.

  “Sure, that will do fine. Let us eat and we’ll watch over everyone. I doubt Crabtree has a Hostel,” Danica was right. Named after the extensive groves of the fruit bearing plants, Crabtree was indeed little more than a settlement of gathered farms. One building stood proudly in the center of things; a Botany lab, fueled and funded by Tibor.

  Tibor’s outlying territories included everything north to the mountains, including Crabtree. The new Prince was restructuring the government, so British did not know if the facility was even active.

  They reached the paved road and passed beneath the arches overhead, proudly exclaiming the farm’s title.

  AGABARTH ORCHARDS

  “Looks big,” Tom commented as they cantered forth.

  “Lot of shit for a bunch of apples,” said Danica, eyes scanning the expansive grounds and plush castle-like home at the end of the thoroughfare. As they drew closer, two armed riders approached from the side with guns high.

  At twenty paces, they stopped.

  “State your affairs here,” the older of the two asked rather rudely.

  “Knights of Salvos, here to buy a cow, eat and sleep,” British answered, saying nothing about the murder.

  “I would think you are here over the killings,” the younger spoke.

  “There has been more than one?” said Warfell.

  “There’s been six killings Lady, where have you been?” they lowered their weapons. “Come on in, Candace is grilling pokies out back right now, and Mr. Agabarth is there too,” he smiled.

  “I love pokies,” Bigfoot replied.

  “Who don’t? My name’s Derrick, this is my Son Daron, welcome to Agabarth Orchards.”

  They followed towards the palatial mansion sticking out boldly amongst miles of fruit trees.

  “Greetings my Lord Agabarth,” British bowed formally in a manner consistent with Tiborean Royalty. She knew Land Barons were often snotty and dangerous, being in power over remote lands and people; it goes to the head often.

  “I am honored to have you here,” Agabarth was actually quite nice. “Please! Eat with us, this is my wife Candace.” The portly old man opened a palm to the beautiful young woman behind a smoking grill emitting the aromas of pure heaven—already intoxicating all but Danica and Iris.

  Funny how the smell of ribs grilling failed to entice Danica, the tall warrior already panning eyes about, listening for the sounds of cattle… British sensed this, noticing Iris pulling hard from a bottle of cold blood. Fey created a formula of hemoglobin and anticoagulant proteins especially for the Arenthian. It kept her satiated and whole, but Danica? She still needed to drink from something alive.

  “It is a long road to White Falls, Lord Agabarth, I have a personal favor to ask in exchange for…” British motioned the old man to the side as her Knights gladly accepted plates piled high with ribs, sitting where they could.

  “Jonah?” the wife, clearly a fraction of her husband’s age summoned a staff worker. “We need more chairs, and will you pull a second stag out of the corral?”

  “Aye Mum,” Jonah replied and moved to leave. Warfell stopped him.

  “You have deer?” she asked.

  “Aye Mum, Northern Elk, wanna see?”

  “I do, thanks Jonah—BOSS!” Danica shouted back at twenty paces. “Gonna check out the Elk they got!”

  British gave a thumb’s up, relieved she didn’t need to concoct a story about why they required a cow to butcher immediately, in private. Instead, she gave the Land Baron a pocketful of jewels, securing a place for them all to stay for sleep. To Agabarth’s surprise, the pixie requested the stables be removed of any new hay or feed and cleaned thoroughly.

  “We should like to bathe and then camp in the apple groves,” her final request.

  “Absolutely, but you may all sleep in the mansion, I have twenty-two empty rooms.”

  “Boss?” said Tawnee.

  “Beds?” Tom added.

  “Apples,” British finalized to Tawnee’s scoff, followed by the turned back.

  Not far, Danica leaned against the fence and watched as Jonah coaxed a bull stag out with a crab apple.

  “They love these things,” he said with a smile as the buck followed him to his doom. “You don’t want to see this part Mum,” he added without the smile for the beautiful woman with white silky hair.

  “Go ahead, may I feed the others while you do the deed?”

  “Oh yeah, they will love you forever Mum,” Jonah led the stag into the butcher-barn and closed the bottom half of the door behind him.

  She waited—then she leaped the wooden fence like a squirrel, pouncing upon the closest, a doe, snapping the neck forcefully with a sudden surge of anticipatory adrenaline-strength.

  And she drank, bless her Soul, she drained that fell beast dry and then raised her face to the equi-fade evening sky, silently crying inside over what she had become—little more an animal herself. A moment of silence as the power raced through her body. She acted fast, slinging the creature over a shoulder and running impossibly fast through the herd, bounding over the gate and disappearing in the fruit trees to hide her kill, hoping Jonah did not count the heads.

  But Jonah didn’t need to, standing still at the barn’s half-door, trying to understand what he just saw. She hoisted that thing up like a lumberjack and bolted away faster than possible for anyone with two-hundred pounds of dead doe on her neck—no way.

  “Okay, that isn’t a human,” Jonah said aloud, still frozen in place with shock.

  “You say nothing,” Tawnee spoke from behind with the cold Assassin’s tongue and Jonah’s heart skipped a beat. “One of the Seven Devils my friend, none of us is human, duty having long since taken that luxury away. Tell your children one night, but be silent for now,” the stealthy woman with face tattoos came to his side and placed an arm around the farm Steward as if they were lifelong chums.

  “You won’t kill me?”

  “Only the bad guys my friend, only the bad guys—and the occasional deer. Girl’s gotta eat, right?” she squeezed his shoulders and he relaxed a bit.

  “Yes Mum,” Jonah exhaled with the beginnings of a relieved smile.

  It happened so fast.

  She was not a failed member of a third string Guild,
quite the contrary, Tawnee Shadoweye was a Master Assassin, escape artist, thief and Swordsman. Possibly the only living human capable of sneaking up on British Fey, Tawnee prided herself on an uncanny awareness of her surroundings—making this even more embarrassing.

  “Nobody gets the drop on you,” Jeff giggled as a real elf might, looking down over her with a smile. “Looks like Jonah didn’t make it,” the Dwarf nodded his nose to the prone body lying on the side. Tawnee couldn’t move! What did he do to her?

  “What did you do?” she said with a rasp of breath.

  “More than you can fathom stupid bitch.”

  The anger coursed through Shadoweye. She stared hard at this little man, trying to see the motives in his dull hazel eyes. All she reached was antipathy, and pure evil.

  “Should’ve voted me in,” Jeff said calmly as a massive head appeared next to his own—it was a Dog!

  Wolfhound, Tawnee thought as her mind began to race through tactical outcomes. Wolfhounds were second in size to the Tiborean White Dane, but made up for this in ferocity. These dogs were trained to rundown packs of wolves, often killing several before the Hunters can catch up on horseback. They were short-burst sprinters with long chase capabilities, sleek of build with incisor fangs hanging well below the jaw, the elongated teeth necessary for snatching a running victim and taking it to the ground—nasty, nasty critters.

  “I’m leaving another note for your precious British, maybe this time she’ll be smart enough to do what I say,” Jeff said in his high pitched whine of a voice, carving on Jonah’s chest.

  Tawnee’s eyes strained to see. She spoke calmly.

  “I’m gonna—”

  The twisted scowl jerked her way, the ball of a dagger came down.

  Sudden flash—and the hollow, anxious blackness snatched her by force.

  “Where did Tawnee go?” Danica asked when she found the makeshift camp surrounded by the crabapple trees.