by J A Stone
We kept a stable-hand and desert guide, a good kid named Arafell. She will accompany us into the dunes after the full day passes. She pointed out several critical mistakes Warfell and I made with our gear and supplies and the owner spoke to her prowess with horses and the desert terrain. Bottom line: If you cannot keep the horses alive, you will surely die too.
British did not listen to her and left before Arafell could intercede. I believe it, she was obsessed with recon on the sunken city, promised us she would be careful.
“Tawnee, may I see the map?”
“Sure boss,” I gave it to Danica and watched as the tall white-haired warrior studied the possibilities. The Sunken City of Arenthia could be anywhere, it was hit or miss.
“What’s under the dunes?” she asked without removing her blue eyes from the parchment.
“Granite and basalt according to this,” I flipped through the back pages where British has footnotes, facts and calculations; a wealth of information on the western desert land topography. Clearly, this region has been in her sights for quite some time. “More than enough support for subterranean structures,” I tried not to say underground, I knew Danica hates anything below the natural topsoil.
“But the city was once topside, when this area was lush grasslands?” Warfell asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Correct,” I began. “We’ll find her Danica. We got reinforcements plowing in fast too.” Snowman, the Gravari Brothers, and Erza Brooke were several days behind but coming. We left Alorica, Bigfoot, Garrett, and Fenton watching over the Palace and our ‘guest’. She grew silent, drinking her beer, staring at the horizon—three hours until the equi-fade.
Arafell checked on us several times, she brought more beers and jerky. She strongly advised getting some sleep before the evening fade. Good call, I’m gonna check on the horses and turn in myself—there are several hammocks on the porch of the ranch house, one has my name on it.
That kid is damn good at her job, never seen a nicer stable, cleaner than any other building in this dried up town, ranch, outpost whatever. We set out in five hours.
Day Two: Easternmost Edge of the Sand Ocean.
A side note: this evening, the Black Racer stallion nipped at my face when I slipped the bridle over his nose, he did not seem edgy when we bought him. Arafell says beasts often get spooked from the wide-open dunes so I am taking greater care.
She talks, Arafell, to the Sand Pony, Dare, constantly. Funny thing is the horse seems to understand her. Dare is a marvelous specimen of Equine, sharp-minded. He has a very short, deep black mane and a bobbed tail. His coat is tan and offsets the black mane and bob with striking effect. This guy is rippling with muscles, Snowflake is bigger and heavier, but Dare has more lean muscle by far. Sand Ponies are renowned for their incredible endurance and stamina and I can see why.
Snowflake is very upset. He keeps alerting to his Master as though she is right underneath us. He’s only allowing Danica to touch or approach him, I can tell he is nervous for British, that big white mountain loves her to death.
“Arafell,” I asked.
“Yes Ma’am?”
“Are you aware of any areas where the land grades or slopes down, like a dried river bed?” We were on the crest of an eighty-foot dune, panning the endless sea of sand.
“No Ma’am, I’ve been fifty nautical leagues internal due-west of Troth Ranch twice but no further than that. The ocean extends for more than six-thousand leagues square, so, it is vastly unexplored,” Arafell explained the limitations.
Even I know it is just not possible to carry enough supplies to sustain such a long expedition with no resources to utilize and day heat that will cook you in place if you stop moving for too long.
“It needs to be surveyed from the sky,” Warfell was referring to the Aequitas Caelum—no sign of the benevolent Spirit since our team captured the Arenthian in Moor two weeks past. Such a long absence was rare, but Danica said it has happened before, apparently, appearing in the physical world is not easy to do.
“He’ll come, always does right?” I asked her. She just nodded and turned to descend the huge dune.
Day Three: Fifteen Nautical Leagues West-northwest of Troth.
The Black Roan threw me today, right on to the back of a goddamn snake, did it on purpose I am sure of it.
The Adder, a twelve-footer, got me good on the leg before I took its head. We are heading back. Arafell has me on Dare; she is riding the Racer in for me. The Sand Pony has a better temperament, a wider back and rides more smoothly. I’m grateful, it hurts.
Arafell had anti-venom in her rucksack—saved my life but I am sick with fever, the leg is black and purple around the bite now, can’t move it at all—need to get the Seven Hells out of the saddle, but we have no choice.
Day four: Troth Ranch.
Danica set me up in one of the hammocks where I can see the rolling dunes. I am better, much better, but the leg may take days to regain mobility. Arafell says I am lucky—the neurotoxin sometimes damages the nerve connections permanently, I was fortunate to have received the anti-venom quickly. Girl saved my life out there!
Warfell is going crazy. Every hour seems to be eating away at her. I did not realize she was so close to British—this is killing her.
“Danica?” I had an idea.
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you and Rarity race ahead and put some fire under the Snowman, we need to outfit a sled for water and food, British has intricate designs here for a rig on Snowflake. Her maps are detailed, we were on the right track,” I knew I would be fine there, Arafell was checking on me and I had plenty of food and drink—I could hold out easy enough.
She studied the dunes with her bright blue eyes for a moment.
“Okay, sure, you’re grounded and I can’t sit still another minute,” she was ready to act, do something, anything!
Warfell has only been gone four hours and Snowflake is getting very agitated, something’s wrong here. Arafell the stable-hand is sleeping, but I could have sworn I just smelled something cooking, like a steak. My mind is playing tricks on me, perhaps facing a sea of sand was not the best idea.
Hey, back early. How is my little pixie doll horse killer? Stop it—listen to me. I fired up the kiln straight away and I’ll just be honest, none of these brands are familiar to me, so I thought we would go with all of them, hold on…
Okay, I’ve cut the flow of your tranquilizers. I’ll put two of these sticks in the coals and they’ll be ready about the time your pain receptors awaken. Be right back, hey, you don’t look too good, is it finally setting in? That you’re not gonna get out of this one British Fey?
Ssshhh, hold that thought, I like this lightning bolt brand, we’ll begin with your neck in a few minutes—stop it.
Snowflake has broken his tether. He’s tamping the sand and bolting in circles right in front of me, something has happened!
You handled that really well—I am impressed. I’m not removing the steel harness, so we are gonna do arms and legs, but next are those pretty pink cheeks. This one is from a ranch not far from here, they butcher there too, so it’s right up your alley…
I dragged my leg, limped and mounted the stark-white stallion, he calmed when he realized I was taking him serious. He lowered his body to the sand and I plopped over his torso, slinging my good leg up.
As soon as I sat tall, I could see the smoke emanating from one of the older stables. No time! I held on for my life as the Tiborian Purebred vaulted towards the building not two clicks away.
Snowflake threw me by accident when he rotated and shot both rear hooves through the double doors, splintering them from the hinges and revealing a sight I will never forget as long as I live.
As I got to a stand, I drew my Scimitar, but it was too late.
“I did it for you! Wait! No! STOP IT—listen to me, I did it for y-umphh!”
The massive white stallion screamed like a clarion battle-horn, striking Arafell several times abo
ut the face and upper body with his fore-hooves, sending her to the hay where he continued to trample until the skull ruptured beneath him and the body was completely listless.
I limped desperately to British, shackled in some kind of iron lung torture device as the massive white stallion, now speckled with red dots, gently touched his nose to her face and cooed like a mother dove.
“British it’s me, Tawnee, I got ya sweetie, it’s okay honey—Snowflake killed her.
British you are safe, Warfell is coming, British look at me honey—oh my god.”
*
THE MISANTHROPE
I don’t sleep much at all
Only then, it is the sleep of the womb
And the dreams of the dead
Bitter life, tangled skeins of gossamer sinew
Corrupting the waking state into a vessel
Of torture; the mind maniacal
I am the Misanthrope
Our presence in the waking world
Harrows my Soul
Trees sing the rhymes that men won’t hear
The badger in the glade knows the tales of his Father
Yet he shall speak but with his maul
I am the Lycanthrope
Duality suits my skin so sweet, beware
My tooth and claw!
Brother mine, brother be and oaken bramble
Leafy sway betrays my secret through particle Sun
Ware my path and leave me be one
British Fey
The Maneater
BRITISH FEY SAT on the green grasses of the Platinum Palace’s main courtyard, her white Snowhorse lie peacefully next to her, both breathing deep of the autumn air—eyes closed, noses aloft. Snowflake knew they were being watched but did nothing for fear of disturbing the peace.
“It has been a month Missus Danica, I am worried for her,” Robert John Stone whispered to Warfell from a distant window overlooking the Greens.
“She’s good, if anything, she appreciates life more now. Things like that take time, she’ll be fine. Her relationship with Snowflake now is like nothing I’ve ever seen; those two are bonded for life. Traumatic things change people, British will be okay. She still believes she deserved to die and maybe she did, but then don’t we all? Listen Robert, I am talking to everyone, we meet on Tower Main in one hour. Her Father returned this eve with information on the Sunken City and a new mark—it’s the Renth’s Mother.”
“Really? Will we see the Spirit?” Bigfoot was excited for his boss.
“Yes, one hour big guy.”
British stood proudly next to her Father as the Dead filtered in on Tower Main, the central marble at the base of the Palace’s tallest structure. She was dressed for combat with riding leathers, the Coralo, the Westbury, the Blunderbuss and her soft suede cape.
Oddly, the cattle brand of a lightning bolt seared into her neck looked good and fit her reputation for insanely fast moves. Still red and white and painful—she wore that scar with great shame.
Two things had changed in British: First, she openly believed she had it coming, exhibiting a humility never before seen, and second, her voice was almost gone. The epidural needle lodged in her cervical spine for five days caused serious neural damage. She could whisper and that was it. Her Father assured her the effects would eventually wear off. Danica expressed her personal gratitude for the quell of wisecracks, but she didn’t mean it—in fact she missed it.
The Dwarven triplets Logos, Pathos and Ethos, were first to arrive. Each had long blond and grey streaked hair, chubby red cheeks and warm smiles as they bowed in unison to their boss and her Father, the benevolent Spirit.
“Well met my Lords,” Logos spoke for his Brothers as always. British nodded and made the military hand signal for ‘my comrade’.
Garrett, Brooke and Fenton, the three former Tiborean Knights arrived together in full polished plate armor, sparkling in the torchlight, they took a knee before British and Caelum Fey—the Platinum Palace’s unofficial security force.
As was her way, Alorica entered alone dressed provocatively in a red leather outfit that was barely there, the high boots and Longsword on her back covering more skin than the clothes. She bowed gracefully to the Father and Daughter.
“I am honored, Justice from Heaven,” she said respectfully.
As am I beautiful, dangerous Alorica.
Bigfoot Bob arrived with Tom Snow, the huge man using a thick steel cane that he was already becoming adept at swinging. Snow wore his Throne of Steel armor. They smiled and bowed together.
British signed ‘welcome’ with warm round eyes. Bigfoot thought she was just waiving, so he shook a massive hand back awkwardly with a goofy smile.
Shadoweye and Warfell entered the huge vaulted chamber together—the Assassin whose real name was Tawnee still limped from the snakebite in the desert. She and British locked eyes for a brief second. They’d grown very close since coming home. Tawnee, British and Bigfoot—all three stuck inside recuperating together for a month, becoming fast friends in the process.
British bowed deeply to Danica and Tawnee.
“Okay boss, knock that off,” Danica smiled and took her place next to her partner. The Ghost of Caelum Fey floated to the center of the chamber and addressed the group en masse.
My friends, forgive me for my extended absence. Time does not expire at the same rate where I have been.
I cannot connect to the Spirits of past Arenthians, only the Spectral remnants of their victims over the centuries. I have traced them forward to an isolated brood, the very brood your prisoner fostered and lost beneath the small town of Southcreek. But there is another adult alive, the progenitor of your prisoner—her Mother.
From what I have learned, these creatures can find one another over phenomenal distances. I would advise moving the prisoner from the catacombs to the highest secure room in this tower. I have confirmed that the upper mantle of our planet is honeycombed with subterranean passages that circumvent the globe—there exists an entirely separate ecosphere below us with its own distinctive flora and fauna. The creature may have already found her Daughter’s scent.
She will come to us and we shall stop her.
Given enough time feeding on a large population of humans, the Arenths can reproduce asexually; they do not need a male, gestating their eggs in the wombs of higher mammals or living humans, and ripping the young free before they hatch. It would not take very long at all to repopulate the species. We cannot allow this to happen, we are a source of food to them and little more.
Silence as the words sank in. After a long moment, Robert John Stone raised his hand and eyebrows.
“Yes, Robert,” Warfell spoke for Caelum.
“What’s a phenomenal?”
An amazing distance—across the Moon.
“Wow,” Bigfoot nodded.
Indeed. I encourage you all to fortify this facility and train harder than you ever have. Robert and Tawnee must regain their stamina for I fear the fight will be intense.
You must keep the prisoner alive or its Mother will not come for it, rather, she will seek out a city and attempt to establish a new brood. We shall lure the Arenthian Mater here, capture it, and then release them both at the Sunken City.
“WHAT?” the Dead said in unison. The Spirit held an ethereal palm up for peace.
Yes. We are justice, but I cannot condone the extinction of a species because I am hunted by it. Wolves will eat every citizen of Tibor if given free roam of the streets. These hybrids have lived for centuries by feeding on other mammals—humans are not an exclusive food source by far. My hope is to demonstrate our might, compelling the creatures to stay away. We are a small representative of our species; let them think the human race has grown too powerful to conquer now, they simply waited too long to emerge from the shadows, this food source is no longer a viable option.
It made some sense, to some.
“And if they choose otherwise Sir?” Shadoweye, respectfully.
Then we shall end t
hem in the name of our species.
Bigfoot stood proudly and looked to British for permission to speak. She smiled and bowed her head.
“She’s tough, the thing downstairs, I mean really strong and fast. Two of them would not be easy to kill—I’m stupid enough to know that like yesterday’s beans, thank you.” he sat awkwardly, uncertain how his words were received.
“Robert is correct, should we take that chance? A group of these things may be too much for us or anyone else,” Warfell held Bigfoot’s gaze for a second—she’d seen his rage up close and knew how formidable her eight-foot tall friend was.
I am still wrestling with the ethics of acting swiftly and the ramifications of not. I have faith in this collective of alpha warriors to defeat the Arenthians regardless of our decision and the outcome.
Everyone bristled with pride at being referred to as alpha warriors—felt good to hear it.
However, I also cannot require any man or woman here, including the Swordsman and my Daughter, to continue with this hunt. As with any mark, you may stand aside for whatever reason; follow only if this cause feels righteous and just in your heart.
Warfell, Fey and the Mighty Dead all took a knee of subjugation before the Spirit, decrying their dauntless loyalty.
British looked to her Father and smiled. She then faced her friends and motioned for Warfell to speak with a hand.
“On a side note, we wish to rename the Palace and officially declare ourselves an independent Nation, small, but completely sovereign,” Warfell met eyes with everyone. Bigfoot raised his hand again. “Yes, go,” she nodded to Rob.
“Thank you, what is a saw-vern?”
Danica and British ascended the final steps to the top floor of the main tower, some three-hundred feet high, behind them Robert John Stone quietly followed without his cane. At the iron door, Warfell placed a finger to her lips and bade Robert wait. The girls entered the circular room.