Eye of the Equifade

by J A Stone

  “Wait a second, over the wa-wa?” Warfell leaned in with her arms crossed under her breasts. “I’m gonna need that phrase defined a little further honey, also the slam us into the mountain part.”

  Outside the warehouse, a team of guardsmen gathered. The Commander, a man named Merrick, addressed his squad.

  “Alright, their story did not check out and my man trailed them to that door. They’ve been in there for three hours…it’s time to go in and get them. Look sharp!”

  Merrick walked over to the bay door and cracked it just enough to squeeze through, his men following close behind.

  Rarity kicked the front doors wide, spinning about and vaulting away at full speed with Danica. British and Bob 23 trailed behind as men shouted and whistles blew across the city block.

  Merrick mounted and rallied as many riders as he could before giving chase through the empty streets towards the Pub District on the southeast side of town. Warfell and Fey were two blocks ahead and losing them.

  “NOWHERE TO GO!” Merrick shouted—the girls were headed for the cliffs.

  Around a corner, Warfell leaped from Rarity to the rump of the stout Rock Pony, her faithful Appaloosa speeding away to safety.

  “Sorry Bob,” she whispered into British’s shoulder as the precipice of the great cliffs drew near. “If this doesn’t work boss—you suck!”

  “It’ll work! HYAAA!” she spurned the pony faster.

  “What in the Seven Hells are they doing?” Merrick said to no one as he reined his Scarlet Drafthorse in tight.

  Bob 23 leaped over the edge and the girls disappeared from view. Merrick and his men were utterly baffled.

  “Case, solved Commander?” his Number One asked unknowingly.

  “Yeah, I guess so—I guess so.” They turned and rode back to the city as Warfell and Fey catapulted upwards into the clouds behind them, each desperately holding on to three ropes attached to three bladders apiece.

  Danica Warfell had seen a lot in her thirty-seven years, done even more, but…

  “This will never happen again,” she said to herself, somehow finding her calm. So far, Fey was correct—the milking bladders were indeed catapulting them into the sky. She looked down in disbelief at the endless sea, cliffs and city of Oceanport.

  The Druid Guardsmen miraculously did not see them and were riding back into town. Warfell smiled and then frowned realizing her situation; they were drifting offshore, still rising. Danica felt the salt air turn instantly frigid.

  “BRITISH?” she belted out the accusatory question.

  “Give it a minute!” her partner retorted.

  As predicted, the wind cycles caught them and hurtled the two warriors towards Salt mountain—now completely encompassing the sky to the north.

  British released one of her bladders and evened out with Danica—still rising. They were on the opposing face to the Temple, mountain looming close.

  “Now!” British yelled and each released a bladder, causing them to slow and then descend.

  “Again!” the pixie exclaimed with twenty feet to go on an uncertain landing; could be snow, ice, sharp granite—they let go and braced for impact.

  Thank the Gods of Frozen Spires, both landed safely. Warfell leaped up and moved to assist British, hugging the small warrior girl like a prisoner on her way to the gallows. After a very long moment, Warfell held British at arm’s length and spoke over the freezing wind

  “In our short time together as a team, I have come to trust in you partner, but I am walking down from this block of ice on my own two feet.”

  “Thank you Warfell, I don’t want…to…lose…y…,” she was gasping for breath. Warfell unslung her backpack and hustled a blanket out, wrapping British.

  “It’s the altitude sweetie. Relax and take long deep breaths. There you go. Before you can fight you gotta adjust so take a minute—wait, you don’t want to lose me?”

  “I was delirious.”

  “My perfect apple-ass you were.”

  “Listen, birds are flying and runners are running—we need to move,” British stood slowly.

  “Easy does it. The buildings are oxygenated and warm. I know where to go from here.”

  British saluted formally and followed the mercenary carefully, silently.

  In the center of the Temple Sanctuary, Master Waters instructed six students…

  “The precise nature of the Ghost of Caelum Fey is not known. When he first appeared to the Aleuthian governments, he seemed willing to cooperate but within weeks, the Spirit backed away and rejected mortal inquisition; most likely because he realized the evil intent within us all. It is said the Ghost can sense evil and seeks that presence out for execution with the help of…”

  “My Lord!” a Guardsman boomed unannounced from the chamber threshold.

  “Come,” Waters beckoned with a quick palm.

  “Merrick has encountered a girl who matches the description of British Fey—she’s below in Oceanport, my Lord.”

  Waters’ smile relaxed and the very faint glint of malice visited his left eye, the lid twitching several times. Without removing sight from the Guardsman, he spoke to the disciples, his tone belying a nefarious intent.

  “That will be all for now,” the Denga Master rose and signaled for his Number One, a hardened warrior named Ebbi. She entered the chamber and kneeled by his side as the students left.

  “Lock and bar every exterior portal or door. Quarantine the students in the dormitory. Bring every able bodied Brother here to me in this room, NOW GO!”

  Ebbi ran—Waters paced the floor, mind racing.

  “Watch out for the one called Ebbi—does not fight fair, tall bitch, red hair, freckles and attitude,” Warfell was briefing British.

  “I have never liked pumpkin-chicks, they have no Souls,” Fey replied as they both studied the outside of an outlying structure. “What’s that building?” she asked.

  “Dormitories for students. Waters will lock them down first order. It’s a good place for entry, only one hallway from there directly to the Temple.” British nodded her agreement and the two half-frozen warriors made a slow path for the closest window.

  Inside, the six students were furiously arguing…

  Warfell and Fey came in close and listened.

  “I’m tellin’ you, the man is doing something. Did you hear the screaming this morning?” a young teenager named Donovan.

  “You are imagining things, idiot,” a woman named Toma.

  “I heard the screams,” a girl, Voya. “Did you see his eyes when Ebbi said the Daughter’s name?” Everyone nodded agreement, it was very obvious.

  A man named Dantos spoke above all else. “Even if we can prove it, what can we do against a hundred Druids, all Masters in Denga?” The group fell silent, when a tapping came on the window from—outside?

  Dantos flipped the latch and opened the hatch half way as snow flew in and warm air flew out.

  They hustled the girls inside—it was the right thing to do.

  “My name is Freda, Freda Whales. This is my fellow mountaineer, Clench. Clench does not talk, so all respect please. We were hoping you might help us with a glass of water? Do any of you have an accurate timepiece? Is there a bathroom?” Warfell continued. “I need to go pee, so will you, which brings me to the last—who wants to help us discipline your Master? Anyone?”

  A student flinched and was instantly staring down the barrels of the Blunderbuss and Warfell’s 10 shot Chesterborne.

  “Don’t—you—move,” British warned as she met eyes with each of the six, then projected her voice to Warfell.

  “How did you get that in here?”

  “I’ll never tell,” Danica smiled.

  “Fair enough,” British bowed her head slightly forward and to the side.

  “Listen, we heard you guys talking. I’m gonna need you to further define ‘screaming’ for me.” Warfell lowered the long barreled pistol and placed hands on her hips.

  “Do I have to spell it out? Cle
nch is really the Daughter of the Aequitas Caelum people, we are here to exact justice on Waters with or without you, and it is that simple—now who wants to leave this block of ice alive? Quick show of hands?”

  Six palms hit the air; it was less than two hours until the fade, more than enough time for a plan.

  “I got nothing, British?”

  “Wait, what? That sounds good,” Fey was still lost in thought, daydreaming, tumbling the last canister of compressed hydrogen in her hands. Warfell rose and spoke directly to her partner.

  “No plan is usually how things go anyway, so we can open that door and just knock this out in time for beers.”

  “Both of you are insane,” It was Toma, the voice of trepidation. “We fake a sickness, a distraction and try to take them in silence, one at a time if need be. If we can make it to the sparring deck, we can weaponize.” Said the pessimist with decent ideas.

  British’s eyes returned to focus. “My Father is coming.”

  Within seconds, the Spirit of Caelum Fey hovered before his Daughter, Warfell and the six astounded students.

  Waters has a keen mind—I cannot enter and twist his voice to the truth. I will serve as a distraction for the Swordsman and you. Get the students to the weapons and the odds will be in your favor.

  The Spirit dematerialized and Fey knew he would go straight for the target.

  “Okay everyone, stick to the plan,” Warfell recapped. “Sparring deck is to the right, Temple Sanctuary to the left. We will cover you.” Everyone nodded and took position. Toma tapped on the door. It cracked open.

  “Something is wrong with Donovan! Help us!”

  The Druid Guardsman peeked inside to see Donovan on the floor, writhing in pain. The second Guard could not see Warfell strike his partner on the solar plexus and pull him in—he followed like as a trusting fool—silenced immediately.

  All six students bolted for the sparring deck to the right. Warfell and Fey sprinted to the left, straight for the Sanctuary and the target.

  “Your Daughter is dead below. She rode a pony over the great cliffs,” Waters spoke with great confidence to the Spirit of Caelum Fey, the last report from Merrick satisfying his fears. Without his mortal hand, the Justice from Heaven could not hurt him and they both knew it.

  “Stand down and return to your duties!” Waters commanded to the one hundred men and women crowded into the vaulted chamber.

  “What now, Ghost, are you gonna haunt me?” the High Druid taunted the powerful Spirit with zeal as the chamber emptied.

  A moment passed, when Waters heard the footfalls and looked up to see a small figure slowly walking towards him. It was a girl.

  “Do you know me?” she asked as she held her cape away from her body and spun about. Waters could see she was unarmed. “I just want to talk.” she replaced her cape and fastened it with a snap.

  “Are you a Ghost too? You died in Oceanport.”

  “My good Sir, I cannot die,” British lowered her head and bowed gracefully.

  “Yes she can,” a voice rang from across the Temple. It was Ebbi, the redhead, approaching fast with a Competition Saber in hand.

  In a move only the Spirit could follow, British vaulted towards Ebbi and clipped her sword arm, breaking it at the elbow, spinning the woman, sending her to the floor, the wide-bladed Saber now extending through her spine.

  “I asked you a question champ,” British addressed Waters calmly, rising to her feet.

  Warfell stuck her head through the main doorway. “We got company sweetie—wanna rap this up?” The mercenary turned around and British heard swords meeting with echoes from the hall. Danica kept them at the threshold, one at a time. For men so well practiced in fighting, they were unprepared for weapons, more specifically, Warfell’s Thronesword.

  “HA!” she yelled, kicking her opponent in the chest, tripping him backwards over his fallen brothers. “British—gettin’ little tight over here!”

  Fey took her steps towards Waters slowly, never breaking eye contact. She knew the man before her was an accomplished martial artist—the robes fooled no one.

  “Devon Waters, why are you trying so hard to make a Spirit?” British stopped. Master Waters paused before answering.

  “I am not trying to create a Spirit you little shit-pants, my work here is far beyond the comprehension of an idiot such as yourself. This is the work of a GOD! Your Father was, is a great man and it is only because of his presence here that I will even honor a response before killing you.

  Now listen to me. When you see the light, you must fight it—keep away from it—concentrate on my voice and I can save you. Do you understand my words?” Now Waters was slowly stepping towards British. He continued.

  “Spirits are everywhere, we cannot see them begging us not to walk down the alley, encouraging us to do good…or kill. Tell her, Justice from Heaven, TELL HER!”

  The Aequitas Caelum turned to face his mortal Daughter.

  It is true. I see them and can talk with some, like his wife Gwendolyn. Why did he kill her? She does not know, but I do.

  Master Waters I shall never leave your side until you are either dead or quite insane. I cannot enter your mind this moment, but you will sleep, you will slip.

  Waters became lost in the mesmerizing words of the Spirit. He did not see British move towards the door until she spoke to Warfell.

  “Open the bottle!”

  “You bet boss,” the Swordsman replied and backed away from the threshold allowing the Druids to pile in. Twenty hardened warriors encircled British and Danica, swords extended, the girls back to back, silence filled the room. A Woman with a Broadsword lunged for British. Somehow, the petite girl unsheathed the Westbury Scimitar and dashed the blade down, immediately gouging the slender throat wide, sending her to the marble tiles, covering Warfell and Fey with red dots of lifeblood.

  “I see you have your makeup on,” Warfell was not joking.

  “Yes—I—do,” the little pixie replied as the circle of steel closed the distance and the cracking peals of ten successive shots rattled the building. Ten nickel slugs found as many skulls and half the crowd fell to the deck. Warfell holstered the expended Chesterborne and yanked a long dagger out to accompany the Longsword, immediately engaging several men at once.

  Behind Warfell, British was doing the impossible as she leaped and rolled, ducked and dodged blow after blow, inflicting her own critical stabs and slices as she cleaved through the crowd, working her way closer to Waters with every kill.

  More men and women swarmed through the door and the girls could hear the students flanking them from the rear—good people.

  Minutes seemed like forever as the girls fought with furtive glances towards the target. Waters was laughing, watching his brothers and pretend friends die one after another. The chamber floor was filling with mangled, twisted bodies, many still alive and writhing in pain. He began chanting, low and vibrating.

  What are you doing Demon?

  “They are all here, can’t you see them?” Waters was smiling like an idiot when Caelum Fey realized he really could actually see the lifeforce, the Souls leeching away from the bodies, some dematerializing altogether, some lingering…Waters could see them!

  The Equitas Caelum moved his visage through the body of the mad Druid and Waters chanted louder. The Spirit of Caelum Fey felt a pull, a tugging on his essence, his mind.

  NO!

  Caelum shouted and pulled away from the Druid. He turned to British.

  The Temple Sanctuary was riddled with torsos, appendages and severed heads, the floors and walls painted in bright red, deep crimson and black, the stench of exposed human entrails and bile filled the air. Four of the six students entered the chamber, stepping over the corpses, Warfell the swordsman stood tall, breathing heavy. British approached the target with the Scimitar dripping hot blood.

  “You are exhausted honey,” the Druid spoke like a Father and leaped for her, snatching the weapon away and clamping an iron fist around the sm
all, thin neck of British Fey. Before she could react, he hoisted her into the air by the throat and her big brown eyes went wide with the realization.

  “He got the jump on her,” Warfell whispered from twenty paces away in total disbelief as her partner’s Sword clanged on the floor.

  “Well now look at you—unarmed, defenseless. It does not befit a warrior of your growing legend and high caliber to be murdered like this. Remember, the light—stay away, stay here with your Father.”

  As he said the words, British smiled wide and tried to speak.

  “What?” he loosened his grip on the meat of her neck and suspended her body effortlessly by the base of her skull—one twist was all it would take.

  “You shooo haa.”

  “Should have? Should have WHAT little shit-pants?”

  “Patted me down asshole,” her arm moved, and in a nanosecond, the flared barrel of the Blunderbuss was in his face, pressing firm against his cheek.

  She fired an incredible boom of thunder and landed on her feet, set down by the still standing headless man. The body swayed like a drunk side to side twice and then collapsed to the marble.

  “You—can go straight—to the light.”

  British spit and then faced her Father kneeling on one knee. The surviving students and Warfell took a knee and bowed their heads to the Aequitas Caelum, the Justice from Heaven.

  *

  The Woman with a Bad Problem

  I DO IT because I like it. I like the power. Mostly I lose myself in the sparkle of the diamonds and gems. I was not raised to be like this either; I was born in Tibor. My Father was well to do, I had everything a girl could want or need growing up—and then I grew up.

  As that very grown up, I enlisted as a Third Knight Squire and busted my ass for three years without advancing, though I never lost a match—ever. You see, I have a bad problem, when I was recruited and entered the Citadel for training this thing came to me and has not left me since.