by J A Stone
“He knew his gums would absorb the Devil’s Tongue instantly, he knew Warfell, but he did it anyway.”
Danica just nodded and lowered her head, taking a knee before the fallen Knight of Tibor as startled men and women crowded in to help.
Good King Atria walked across the Greens with Warfell, Fey and Danton, his entourage twenty paces behind for respect. Three days had passed since the Master Knight of Tibor fell.
“Thaddeus is cunning and has the support of thousands. No, I must ask that you do not hunt him. My Knights shall bring him to me, this I promise,” the girls knew the truth of his words. “However, avenging my Master Knight is your right alone. How you do that is your affair,” Atria paused and British nodded yes in silence. The Good King continued.
“Beautiful British Fey, Daughter of Caelum Fey my good friend and ally for so many years—there is something I wish to give you.”
Warfell heard hooves pounding the sod, when Emili and her mount burst on to the grass from behind a building. Tethered to them was the largest horse Danica had ever seen in her thirty-eight years on Aleutha. They cantered up, bouncing smoothly.
“His name is Calypso. He belonged to my Master Knight. I want you to have him—will you take him Lady Fey?”
The stark white stallion was amazing—he looked like a snowy mountain dream-horse, something a God would ride. British was completely without words, and Warfell’s eyes swelled in silence, waiting for her friend to say yes.
“I…I don’t know what to say my Lord. He’s beautiful—how would I even.”
Emili dismounted and clicked tongue to teeth. When she did, Calypso pulled the left foreleg up, curling the hoof, providing a step.
British ran and vaulted from the front leg, spinning herself over the thin racing saddle into perfect position. The smile on her face was so wide and wonderful—her eyes gleamed with excitement and anticipation. Her voice trembled.
“I am honored Good King Atria, what’s his name again?” British asked.
“Mighty Calypso, good Lady,” Atria bowed deeply, an act never seen.
“May I rename him?”
“Of course you may,” the King smiled.
“I will call him…” British shot her big brown orbs to her partner. Warfell was holding her fingers to her mouth, her own blue eyes wide with sudden fear, and her silent thoughts: please not Bob, please not Bob!
”Snowflake,” said British, looking like a kid sitting on the peak of a mountain.
“Really?” Warfell asked.
“What? No,” Emili added.
“Yeah…Snowflake.”
*
Death has been a dream from the beginning
Elusive specters, phantasmagoriphiles abound
Within the thought, oh perish!
As though something somniacally cherished
Could surround the sounds of our mind within
Please should not our time begin?
Death becomes our waking state
Tarsal footprints on the trodden ground
Impoverished famine, hatred desires
Solicitude seething, evenings’ fires
Devoid of the love, inherent to breath
Caressing Aleutha above and beneath
And Death finds its home already secure
As though our thoughts should not be found
She lives! Unkind, we find her there
Her Pale Horse tamping soft and fair
The unwanted guest in the bastions’ halls
The unforgiven Apparition behind the walls
British Fey
The Man, the Woman, and the Golden Gun
“DO IT, JUST do it.”
“Not yet, wind.”
“Two degrees loft—wind speed mark-zero—sorry.”
“Shhh, one second…
The crack of the high-powered rifle was muffled down with a silicon silencer. The kick from the recoil was not, the rubber padding of the butt jabbing into his shoulder like a rock hammer at full swing. He took that vibration, his body stopped cold and held still as he re-sighted his target, now splayed out on the street below and two blocks away, a crowd gathering to her side, red circle expanding about her and the same crowd retreating from the blood, screaming.
“Yahoo.” The woman said without taking her eyes from her own night-scope. “Alright, time to go see our boy, get the Seven Hells out of here…”
White Falls, a sprawling city on the northeastern reaches of Aleuthian civilization, deep in the mountains. White Falls was nestled in a valley surrounded by lofty white peaks. On the edge of town roared the actual falls, millions of kilotons of water, bursting from the surrounding highlands and making its way south to warmer climes and eventually the ocean. The waterfall was very tall, thin and high velocity. Near the base of the falls, architects from Tibor designed massive brass turbines that generated power for the warm thriving city and then some.
Over decades, the turbine system was perfected by Dwarven Artisans. Now, the brass fittings created soft music as the water struck them in revolution. It was beautiful and accompanied the roar to great soothing effect for those close enough to listen and hear the sounds.
“I don’t feel calm at all,” said British to her partner Danica as they stood on the observation bridge, trying their best to hear the old hymns and melodies—nothing but the thunder of the water. “Can we go now? Snowflake is alone.”
“He’s with Rarity and give me one more minute, please?” Warfell closed her eyes and smiled, allowing the mist to cover her face. British studied her.
“What do you hear old wise woman?” the small warrior said, immediately regretting the words as Warfell opened her eyes, turned, and began walking back down to the waiting stallions.
“Warfell, wait!” British forgot it was Danica’s birthday. “Look, lots of folks are pushing fifty.”
“I am thirty nine, with one year left to fifty—FORTY! Raaaa!” Warfell stormed down the steps, whistling for her stallion.
Below, Rarity and Snowflake raised their heads. After nine months together, the two horses became like brothers, learning the wants and needs of each other and both riders as well; they were finely honed, aggressively intelligent beasts. The Painted Appaloosa and Tiborian Snowhorse likewise let go of animalistic pecking orders of dominance—their Masters kept both amazing creatures busy enough as it was. Bottom line was Snowflake’s incredible strength and Rarity’s astounding speed.
By the time she touched foot to actual ground, Danica had found her calm, fully cognizant of Fey’s attempts to humor her, rile her, make her want to…
Calm.
Warfell caressed Rarity’s neck and cheeks, now smiling, placing her own face against the soft mane, opening one eye to see her partner doing exactly the same.
“You love him,” Danica said it; she knew it, made her feel so good too.
“I don’t want him to get all jacked up, like Bob 19 did, whoa,” British sprang from the left hoof to the white stallion’s back. No saddle—one does not strap hardware to a magnificent animal such as that.
“Oh my Gods, was that the shotgun in the ass Bob?”
“No Warfell—Bob 19—remember?”
Danica remembered all right, damn straight she did. She choked down the bile when the images flashed through her once innocent mind. Some things should be excised from the memory—amputated clean.
“How do I save him from that Warfell?” British asked as Danica mounted gracefully.
“With love. They are both very intelligent, they know what to do and you must trust in them, allow them that freedom,” Warfell brought the Appaloosa about. “Give him your unrequited love and he will never fail you. Besides, our best work is done on foot anyway, right? Like this Hostel, what was it called?”
“The Drunken Dwarf,” British replied as she wrote in her leather bound notebook. “Warfell, it’s in the caverns.”
“Wait, what? Really?” Danica did not like underground anything. Inside a mountain is one thing, high ab
ove the actual ground, but for some inexplicable reason, beneath the level of the natural soil, underground, was terrifying to Danica.
“I hate dungeons,” Warfell took a deep breath and snatched her drifting calm back. “Tell me there is a back exit,” she asked as the two cantered the stallions into White Falls, the lush, warm valley-town beneath the towers of snow and ice.
“There seems to be,” British furrowed brows at a parchment map.
“Define seems.”
Dwarves are not human, rather a distinct species altogether. They certainly look human enough, though short, stocky and ugly—average height was Fey’s, about four feet. Tiborean Anthropologists released a study positing that the appearance of two distinct sub-species for the human path of evolution on one planet should not be uncommon—in fact, it is a preferred survival methodology; to diverge, expand. Nature does not care which species prevails or if both live in harmony. Its job is to develop and keep developing.
Therefore, it was what it was. Dwarves shared the Moon Aleutha with their taller more delicate cousins—humans.
“It is what it is,” Warfell announced to no one as she dragged her partner away from the stables by the arm—British having administered every possible description of what she would do to the Steward if anything were to happen to her Snowhorse, and that very groom earning enough money to rescue his family from poverty in a single fade.
They walked through the market square in White Falls, surrounded by hundreds of Dwarven folk, Warfell’s shoulders floating above a pond of bouncing heads. As they moved through the crowd, British read from her notebook.
“Their metabolisms can receive and encode countless replications of the pheromone molecules allowing unspoken communications between individuals and groups. They are immune to most poisons with the exception of the venom from a blind cave snake; the nightmare. They drink so much because of the incredible abilities of their livers to process alcohol. By the time most Dwarves are adults, they are dependent on the beer they brew so well; a source of noxious gases that had to be contained.
The Tribes of the Falls were saved from extinction by a team of Tiborean chemists who determined the gases and pollutants from the breweries, smelting facilities and forges were poisoning them, sterilizing them. My Father worked on the project as a young man. Now work and home are kept geographically separate.”
“I know most of this—they live in dungeons,” Warfell said the word and a nearby woman shot her a disdainful look.
“C’mon,” British hustled her partner away by the arm, Warfell’s hair billowing out behind them. The black Raven dye from Tibor was slowly fading and moving down to Danica’s shoulders as her bright white hair grew from the top, like a slow motion waterfall.
At the entrance to the first tunnel, Warfell jerked back and stopped cold. She placed hands to hip and took a deep breath while meticulously searching the ceiling with her eyes, looking for cracks no doubt.
“This is so weird Warfell,” British shook her head.
“I’m good boss, just gimme a second…can I hold the map?”
“Yeah, sure, here,” British was concerned, this was not acceptable, she gave Danica the map.
Warfell smiled at British and packed her fear down deep in her throat. “The Drunken Dwarf huh? Think they got shooters there?”
“They got them right here,” British passed Warfell a package and Danica smiled. “You know me too well,” she said, shoving a red pill in her mouth and swallowing it dry. They walked as Danica studied the map to the soft argon lighting tubes.
“Quarter mile through here and left,” she looked down to British. “Thanks.”
“I got ya,” British replied and continued. “Although the purchase of illegal drugs in a pub really is the best ice breaker, lets the matron know you are real, you know?”
“Yeah—until we bring the house down,” Warfell smiled wide and British joined her; such was the mutual adoration of tearing up bars.
“Noa, find out what they are doing, Neo, call the Agents to me and then join your Brother, you guys’ vacation is officially over.”
“Aye Sir,” Neo bolted away down a passageway.
The District Captain, a woman named Silverflo, gazed through the one way mirrors positioned in the wall of the tube as she walked side by side with Warfell and Fey—three feet of granite separating them. She turned down a thin side tunnel, left through yet another, and then came to a steel door. She knocked twice and the door recessed to the side.
It was a massive chamber; Silverflo took a seat in a padded chair with men and women all about her attending business at the White Falls South Com Station.
“Lieutenant, Dispatch to Chief of Housing and Command, the Daughter of the Aequitas Caelum has been spotted in the South tunnels headed for the Pub District. Be advised to caution.”
The woman paused and Silverflo turned on her. “Snap to L.T.”
“Aye Sir!” she scurried away.
***
“What a hole,” Warfell mumbled as she and Fey entered the Drunken Dwarf searching for a booth.
“I’m hungry,” British replied as they slid into the long padded seats across from one another. A Waiter was already approaching.
He was handsome, very unlike his brothers. “Welcome to the Dwarf. My name is Noa. What can I get for you guys?”
“Beers and something a human can digest?” British smiled and batted her beautiful brown eyes.
“Got a northern elk steak that’ll make your belly very happy,” He replied with a warm smile of his own.
“Two of those please. Noa, lean in close to me,” Fey motioned with a finger. “We would like to purchase some illegal drugs to become your friend.”
“Easy champ!” Warfell interceded. “She’s kidding. My name is Anita Jon Thomas and this is my henchman, Dixie Dumpling. Dixie is single, she likes walks in the park and strong men with really big swords—true story, yahoo.”
British leaned her head to the side and smiled with a gentle nod in confirmation.
Noa studied them both in a moment of genuine confusion. “Two elks coming up ladies,” he backed away with a smile, still wondering what just happened.
After a moment…
“Made?” Warfell.
“Definitely, probably a local Agent.” British.
Danica loosened the daggers on her sides.
“Well then boss lady…?” she shifted her head, sending feathers of black and white gossamer into her face.
“First, I wanna woof down the steak. All I need from this place is a name.”
“Isn’t that what we always need?” Warfell replied, pulling her hair back as a woman plopped down two large mugs of warm black beer.
“I’m Neo,” she said with a stupid curtsey and a quick departure into the crowd. The place was filling up, the noise level rising. It was shift-change for the closest forge—perfect.
Noa returned and set down two steam-bursting platters, bringing both girls’ full attentions to the tabletop. “Sorry about the portions—we eat a lot.”
“British was already motioning with a full mouth, sliding over and patting the seat, blinking those puppy browns.
“I’m too busy to…”
“Sit down Agent,” Warfell interrupted with a serious tone. “You don’t work here.”
“Girls, you are mista…” Noa stopped himself, made the judgement call, and sat down. “Agent Noa Rivers. Neo is my Sister, an Agent too. Guys I gotta ask—you know I gotta ask.”
“Yes, my Father has marked a killer in this city.”
“Here? In the Caverns?” Noa was relaxing, he was not their enemy, and for that he was quite grateful. Suddenly he realized whom he was sitting next to and found his adrenaline again. “Shit biscuits in diaper gravy you are so beautiful,” Noa blurted like a complete idiot. “Sorry.”
Fey blushed and Warfell raised eyebrows high above her analytical blues. “Son of a prostitute,” Danica whispered, lost in the beauty of seeing British Fey actually blush
in the presence of a handsome man. Back on task, she removed a short leather strap from her vest and showed it to Noa.
“See this?” Danica twiddled the leather in her fingers.
“What is it?” Noa asked.
“A hair-band, ponytail, only takes me a second to pull all this back and snap it on.”
“It’s the second following that one ya gotta watch out for,” British smirked across the table at her partner. “Are we gonna have a problem with you? Noa the Agent?”
Noa was floored, still in awe of the famous hunters. “No, oh no. In fact, how can we—I help?”
“Well, we are looking for a firearm, a very rare and special one, a sniper rifle.” Warfell leaned in, “you ever been in a bar fight Son?”
***
They left the Drunken Goblet with Noa and his Sister Neo, the two Dwarves notifying the other Operatives that they were on mission with the guests of the city and will report in regularly. Captain Silverflo was watching, she gave the needed nod and the four of them were off—free to explore the expansive catacombs with no known end.
British liked Noa from first contact. She trusted him and his Sister too. They did not exude any mal-intent at all and both girls could feel that the siblings were not enemies.
“There is an outlying post, not really a pub, more of a watering trough, the kind of man you need might be there, they call it the Last Stand, but,” Noa paused.
“What?” British asked.
“The further in you go, the less tolerant the locals are of humans,” Neo answered for her faltering Brother.
“Why that particular bar?” Warfell.
“It’s closest to the forge that smelts the carbonite-grade steel used in the high powered barrels. One thing I have learned in my years is that Masters never drift too far away from their one true loves. Old soldiers always live near base. A retired precision barrel maker would have an apartment nearby—probably funnels froth with the local lads just to keep up on things,” Noa met eyes with British. The girl asked back.