Seven Devils

by J A Stone

  “I am so sorry baby,” British gave her the puppy browns and Tawnee’s heart melted inside.

  “Shit guys, Logos, c’mon!” Warfell was already running for the door.

  Outside, the Good Dwarven Knight was gone, the steel-spike trap missing as well.

  “Okay this guy is really pissing me off,” Danica hissed.

  “Take the west end, we got the east,” British ordered.

  “Right,” said Danica as they split up to find the Dwarf with a can-do attitude and the skills to back it up.

  Three miles outside of Greenstick, Dougal was doubling back around, seems the Salvos Knights were tossing the surrounding wood. No way they’d catch him, the years hunting about the Down had given Dougal Kendrick a fantastic and incredible sense of his surroundings.

  The problems with Fantastic and his snotty twin brother Incredible are the estranged polar opposite parents: Fantasy and Reality.

  The out of nowhere iron-kettle fist came across his jaw fast and Dougal Kendrick said goodnight to the flash of light without any notion of how who or why, so intent he was on the riders closing in behind.

  He awoke upside down, suspended at eye level with Tom, swinging side to side.

  “Got anything to say?” the Snowman asked directly.

  “Where’s the muscle-woman Deputy?” asked Bigfoot, already pulling back, drawing that left hook finale into place.

  “Fuck you—my Cilly’s gonna rip your precious little—”

  Tom nodded, Bigfoot let loose, and Dougal’s cranium gave-way to the four knuckles like an eggshell.

  At the lumberyard, Danica rounded a corner and Cilly was there waiting with her two-handed Claymore, swinging the massive implement low to the dirt.

  “Ello Captain,” the muscular woman greeted her opponent solemnly.

  “Cecilia is it?” Warfell slowly retracted Tung-Vohra, showing zero surprise at the bodybuilder’s presence there. “You don’t have to die this morning dude,” she added the last to see what would happen—not the anger Danica was hoping for.

  “I know,” the woman with corded arms smiled, “I don’t. Captain I can’t stand people who walk around as if they are invincible,” Cilly kicked the dirt, and then leaned forward on the pommel of the huge sword. “If I had my way, I would’ve killed the lot of ya on first contact with the pastry table at the stationhouse.”

  “You know that would have worked too,” Warfell moved to the left, stalking the attack. “Tell me, why help a little prick like Jeff? I mean, does he pay a fortune or something?”

  “Not at all and no I don’t, I work for Jeff because—” the woman with the physique of a man kicked the dirt again, blushing in the morning equi-fade. “Doesn’t matter for you tall Lady,” Cecilia whipped the Claymore into check as though it were a much lighter weapon. She smiled wide and assumed a battle stance. “Let’s just do this.”

  “Fair enough,” Warfell charged…

  Not far, Logos cracked a swollen eye, watching the room spin out of control.

  “Dwarven-Kin my tiny little butt,” said Jeff from several feet away. “You are a traitor to our noble race.”

  He said nothing, listening, allowing his mind to bring in the surroundings sense by sense.

  “Heard about your Brothers, tough break there, Viggo was a thorough conductor,” Jeff approached the bench Logos was strapped to with surgical implements in each tiny hand. “Okay, you are the distraction/bait, so I will need you to be quite loud for me. Can you do that? Scream at the very top of your lungs? Keep it up for a while?”

  Logos remained silent, desperately trying to decipher the motives in this little man’s dull grey eyes—nothing.

  “This will help you do just that my inane distant cousin, hold tight and remember, ya should’ve voted me in,” a jagged yellow grin spread wide across the wrinkly face as the hands began their ghastly work.

  And bless his heart—Logos was as tough as they come—damn hearty man, he held back for much longer than most…until Jeff held a severed finger up like a puppet and made it talk to his cleanly excised kneecap

  “THAT’S MA BOY!” the little elf-man squealed as he leaped atop Roth and dashed out of there.

  Not far, Cilly fought like a berserker, extending flurries of mighty swings with the Claymore and commanding the melee. Her rage was at Bigfoot level—bad place to be. Danica knew well how to defeat Robert John Stone; by exhibiting an utter calm in the face of such anger.

  This she did, as the Greatsword whished by time and again. Using the smaller Katana to carry the wide blade inside of its momentum arc, Danica shifted her weight behind her sword until both fighters seemed glued to the movements of the huge weapon.

  Warfell had enough of all that wasted energy. She abruptly stabbed Tung-Vohra into the dirt and clipped Cilly’s left wrist—raising both hands and sword high above their heads—bringing faces within inches of one another.

  “You like chicks?” Warfell asked with a flirtatious heir and grin.

  “My sexual orient—OOF!” Cilly buckled over and lost her sword grip in response to Warfell’s rapid-fire gut punches. She wasn’t ready for that, nor the spinning roundhouse that dashed Cecilia’s sight away to dizzy grey.

  From the dirt, she thought she saw the skinny, barefooted wraith retract her sword from the dirt and walk away.

  Robert John Stone pulled on the iron gate until the hinges bent loose and snapped. He tossed the quarter-ton section of welded iron away as if garbage and motioned with a big hand for the riders to enter.

  Tom and Iris flew through the gates. Hard and fast, like the boss said. Behind them, Bigfoot twisted a single iron bar free, hefting the cruel implement, spinning it and grinning. The big man then set his eyes to the compound, snapping his business brain into check, deciding his next move.

  “Shit biscuits, I got nothing, screw it, LITTLE MAN!” he bellowed like a thunderhead. “COMIN’ TA GET YA!” Bigfoot added as he walked down the dirt path, trying to figure out which building to enter first.

  Down an alley, he saw the unconscious muscle woman. He ran up to her and kneeled down aside her. She was coming to.

  “You okay Lady?” Rob asked with concern and Cilly decided to play along.

  “I think so, thank you,” she sat up with Rob’s help.

  “Wait a minute, are you a bad guy?” he asked like a dolt.

  “Absolutely not, I would never,” Cilly was quick on her toes. “I rode after you guys to help, I’m here to help,” she smiled and placed a hand on Robert’s arm. It was working, this guy really was that stupid.

  “What about Ranger Rick? You know, Mister handsome Doogie?”

  “Oh, he’s still in the Down,” she replied, allowing her fingers to caress Rob’s bicep.

  “Still in the Down huh?” Rob watched her eyes like British had taught him. He allowed some of his inner beast to swell behind the intense stare until there it was, and he knew the truth.

  “Son of a pea-picker, that stuff really works,” Bigfoot grinned ear to ear.

  “What stuff?” Cilly laughed and smiled—she had him—what an idiot.

  “Shut your mouth bad guy,” Robert said the words cold, his left hook already booming in wide and fast—just like the boss said.

  Cilly was a warrior tough as they come, but her head was only bone and skin, pretty thin at that, she never had a chance.

  “Kiss my perfect apple ass,” Warfell said aloud as she carefully tested her bindings. She was strapped down tight. Her mind raced over the details of the intricate trap set in a door’s threshold, the wire-bites still stinging her legs, arms and torso.

  “I know; how could I have possibly gotten the jump on you? I snared you like a rabbit! HA!” Jeff laughed from a few feet away. Danica strained to see, the little Demon was admiring Tung-Vohra. “Where’d ya get this artifact?” he asked politely.

  “Took it from Goatfoot himself.”

  “That so?”

  “Correct, crazy man.”

  “SHUT! Shut your mouth
Devil. I’m through with taking chances.”

  Warfell didn’t think he would do it, but damned if he wasn’t, she cringed to the feel of her own sword pressing down on her neck.

  Nearby, Roth the Wolfhound began to growl low and deep. Jeff raised the sparkling blade, jerking his head to listen. Danica knew this was her one split-second chance at making a move. She struck with the only weapon she had.

  “So Jeffy-boy, Shadoweye is loose and pissed,” In the background Danica heard Bigfoot shouting out to the buildings and her heart leaped with hope.

  “She is an idiot, I caught her easily, like you,” Jeff set the Katana down and vaulted upon the back of his faithful Roth.

  “You want a job? a real job Jeff?” Danica was stalling.

  “Not for you people,” the Dwarf bounded away, leaving Warfell there, strapped down like a mummy.

  “Well, as least he didn’t—”

  “Okay—oh my God—okay,” British choked down the image of her friend, her Brother in Arms, the brave Logos Gravari, cruelly dissected on a workshop table. The surgical cuts were precise, it was clear Lo-Lo would have made it, had the dog not…

  British fell to a knee and Shadoweye lurched for her, grasping her face in hand and shaking her head no, back and forth violently. She signaled with a flat palm down, moving to the side across an imaginary horizon, combat gesture for ‘fallen beyond reach—keep moving.’

  She held British by the shoulders and pushed her out of there, secretly admiring the boss’ sudden display of pure emotion. British loved Logos—they all did but the enemy was still wild about.

  Not far, Danica’s eyes followed Roth as the huge, hairy, long-fanged beast approached ever slowly. No growl this time, the insane gaze spoke quite loudly.

  “Easy there buddy, Roth is it? Be cool now,” she whispered past the knowledge of what this thing was about to do to her. “How’d you get back here so fast?” she asked the canine, hoping for a glint of intelligence—nothing came forth as he crept within striking distance.

  The dog suddenly jerked his head high and listened to the sound of Bigfoot just outside. Warfell gave it a go.

  “ROBEEEEEERT!! Little help ROOOOOB!”

  When she screamed, the hound snarled at her and then dashed away down a dark hallway.

  Sixty-seconds later, Bigfoot was cutting the bindings free and then gasping for breath as Danica hugged him impossibly tight.

  “Thank you Robert, that Wolfhound was about to eat me.”

  “Nobody eats Missus Danica while I breathe…I mean, less you’re on a date or something, I didn’t mean it that way. Sorry, not by a woman I mean, because you are not, please stop me,” Bigfoot fumbled his words as Warfell re-sheathed her sword and smiled wide to his innocence.

  “C’mon buddy these buildings are laced with traps and snares. Out the exact way you entered,” she peered around the corner and the two moved carefully.

  Seconds from the street, the horrifying scream of Tom’s stallion broke their calm. Danica and Robert sprinted for the door.

  Should’ve seen this coming…

  Rob hit the deck hard, when the high-powered slug caught him in the chest, pounding off his armor like a sledgehammer and splitting his sternum, removing every ounce of breath he had. Warfell lunged for her friend and dragged him by a massive leg behind a cattle trough, catching a bullet through her thigh with a curse and a grunt.

  Immediately, she checked his vitals as their wooden shield began to splinter beneath the oncoming fire. From nearby, Danica heard responding shots from the Knights, recognizing the reports of Tom’s scattergun and three separate pistols—good—that meant British, Tawnee, Iris and Tom were still alive.

  A cruel slug of solid nickel broke through, striking Warfell’s shoulder, lodging deep, instantly numbing her entire right arm. Tung-Vohra almost hit the dirt—almost. She sheathed the blade and raised her Chesterborne to return fire, when something told her to look behind her.

  The Wolfhound was there about to lunge, she twisted to fire and a calculated bullet struck the side of her pistol, flinging the weapon from her shaky grasp.

  For a fleeting frozen moment, Danica’s perception expanded—she heard Iris grunt, Tom screamed in pain—another snare. Dammit man, they were losing here!

  And that was when another, identical Wolfhound joined his Brother with a fang display worthy of any Daemon or Devil, but to Warfell, it seemed a smile, a grin that smacked of victory.

  The gunfire stopped when a third beast leaped free of the shadows…

  “Triplets,” Jeff’s amplified voice echoed from an alleyway. “You like that? Listen, it’s over Danica Warfell, Captain of the Seven Devils and a presumed flesh-eater. Your people are all snared tight. I knew it would take some time to clean all this up, so instead, I’ve set charges throughout this facility. With all of the untended rotten lumber, as dry as it can be, this place will be consumed in flame in—” the ugly little man checked his timepiece and raised eyebrows.

  “Oh! Wow, we’ll need to step this up, Roth?”

  Danica stood between the downed Bigfoot and the three dogs; each with an easy two-hundred pound advantage. The nickel slugs in her leg and shoulder screamed like attention-starved babies, but she shut those doors tight, steeling her focus for the fight just seconds away. The Wolfhounds spread apart, heads low, growls vibrating the dirt.

  Behind her Bigfoot clicked tongue to teeth, he was awake. She had to choose fast and she did, leaping to the left, and locking up with one of the beasts, snatching the head and twisting, allowing her center opponent a free strike to her midsection.

  Bigfoot fired Daphne and everyone took pellets of scattershot, including Danica.

  “BOBBY!” Warfell screamed as the merciless hound clamped down on her pelvis like a machinist’s vice, red dots appearing across her butt and leg.

  “SORRY!”

  Danica grasped the wolven head, fumbling for the eye sockets as the massive incisors began to sink into her abdomen.

  “Shit!” Rob could not get to his feet.

  Out of nowhere, two dark forms screamed in, bounding for the Wolfhounds.

  Shadoweye impaled one with a muted yelp from the beast.

  British took the head on Warfell’s, instantly releasing its death grip with an exhale of relief from Danica as she carefully pried the jaws apart—the eyes still staring at her.

  Silence on the street as Bigfoot cradled a blood-soaked Danica in his lap with Daphne held high next to his worried face. Before them, British and Tawnee were likewise cut from head to toe, crouching low, listening.

  They heard Jeff from twenty paces away, laughing. Everyone turned faces to see the Dwarf walking fearlessly into the open with a confident stride.

  “Skip it,” he gestured with a palm, “you are all out of ammo from the gunfight. The fat man has a pellet gun, so let’s just talk for a moment,” he smiled.

  “What’cha wanna talk about Jeff?” British actually wanted to know.

  “Look,” he began as if they were all friends, “I’ve got this idea. It’s big guys, really big. Something’s about to happen in Tibor. The Prince and I are mates.”

  “We know about Prince Aaron, he’s gonna be a problem,” Fey answered abruptly. “What’s your game Jeff, why all of this?”

  “Because I am about to be a very wealthy little Dwarf,” Jeff frowned. “With the Knights of Salvos crippled, the forces of Tibor will sack the Platinum Palace once again and reclaim it for King Aaron.”

  “And we are the midway stronghold between Tibor and Moor,” Danica finished, realizing what was happening.

  “He never wanted to join us, he was unfaltering us,” Bigfoot added and Jeff laughed.

  “Infiltrating,” British clarified for her friend, unashamed. There is no scorn or disdain for the lesser informed. Life is a revolving, evolving adventure of knowledge for everyone, regardless of what amount has entered and remained within each.

  Suddenly, the atmosphere chilled, and British issued her own evil
grin, spreading wide on a face simply not meant for such a look. Oddly, the same expression broke over Danica’s, Rob’s and Tawnee’s faces. The Aequitas Caelum Vindictus was materializing behind Jeff.

  “What?” the Dwarf placed chubby hands to hips. “What?”

  Now the four Knights tilted heads and raised eyebrows in pleasant surprise like kids at a birthday party, when the cake is unveiled.

  “WHAT?” Jeff shouted, knowing better than to turn his back on these people. He hastily afforded a glance to his timepiece, then jerked his head up with a stupid grin.

  “Okay, I gotta go, good luck freeing your friends, ta-ta!” Jeff dashed away…and then slid to a stop before the visage of the Spirit. He scrambled to his feet and bolted the other way, sliding again before Torpa, Antigua and Landreth, the Mighty Salvos Danes!

  Sorry I am late Daughter, the Huntsman’s Hounds did not follow well until they found your scent.

  “No problem Dad,” British bowed, just as the first explosions across the compound cracked the air like a whip.

  The Spirit moved fast for Tom Snow, engaging the complicated snares of thin penetrating wire and razor sharp steel.

  Be still for me Good Knight.

  “Yes Sir,” the Snowman gritted his teeth to the sting as the benevolent Spirit freed his body. He crawled away on his belly and elbows as plumes of flame engulfed a nearby structure, stumbling awkwardly to his feet with a bloody arm shielding his face from the heat.

  Seconds later Iris was free. Immediately, the Arenthian vaulted atop her Sand Pony Dare. Tom’s Black Racer didn’t make it. She extended a hand to Tom and he took it, slinging his leg up with a groan.

  They approached Warfell, British, Shadoweye, and Bigfoot, stopping cold when they saw what the Danes were doing and heard the screams over the crackle of the fires and the fresh explosions emanating from the far side of the lumberyard.