by J A Stone
Across from them, the Grey Renth sat in a padded chair next to a comfortable bed, chains about her feet and waist assured her captivity—no locks, the cuffs having been welded in place by one of the Gravari Brothers.
She displayed the grey hair and eyes, Iris, as she called herself when they first met. Despite ‘intensive interrogations’ the creature would not give another name. Warfell opened the discourse.
“You have completely healed from being run through. These abilities are uncanny, I ask you to give us blood samples for analysis to determine your exact species.” They learned quickly, the creature was very old and quite versed in the sciences and philosophies of Aleutha. “We will not harm you as promised, will you acquiesce?”
“Aye,” the only response. Iris kept her eyes on the carpeted floor.
“You are awfully calm,” British whispered with a deep rasp, taking a step forward. Iris recoiled ever so slightly. “You know that she’s coming for you—can you smell her already?” Fey studied the intricacies of the hazel eyes that could change pigmentation at will, searching for the dilations and movements belying subterfuge—nothing. She could not read this creature-woman as she could most anyone else, frustrating. To her surprise, Iris answered.
“When she comes fa meh, I’m gonna kill ya and that big bastard straight away.”
British snapped her fingers and Bigfoot filled the threshold with muscle. He growled deep and vibrant.
“That big bastard?” Warfell asked.
Immediately, the shoulder-length grey hair flushed deep black, as did the eyes. Iris snarled, thrusting her back against the chair, already plumb against the wall. She pointed at Rob with a shaky finger. Clearly, he scared the crap out of her—good!
“Someone is going to visit you when we leave,” said Warfell. “He is her Father, he is a Spirit, he will ask you questions. I would advise you answer them carefully. He will offer you a deal—I suggest you take it. Were the decision mine, I would give you to Bobby here. Bigfoot wants to grab your pretty head with both hands and just pull.”
Behind Danica, Robert made twisting, crushing movements with his insanely huge hands. Iris jerked noticeably. Warfell continued.
“British is of the belief that perhaps you should be on our side, as a friend, as a member of this house—living a normal life. Even wolves can be tamed they say, though I’ve never seen it done myself, but then I have learned to never say I’ve have seen it all.” Warfell turned to leave.
British whispered, “don’t be a bad guy—be a good guy.”
They left her there as the air crackled with static energy and the temperature fell. Caelum Fey materialized before her and the Renth’s eyes went wide with utter shock.
The following day, two riders were seen from the wall. The station horns pealed, alerting every occupant on the grounds of their arrival. It was Danton Derulio and Emili Swift.
Inside, plans were being analyzed.
“Okay, we will seal off every tunnel with mining charges, but you say that’s no guarantee?” Warfell and British were hashing out semantics with the Gravaris and Tom Snow in the Palace’s War Room.
“Correct,” Logos answered. “The creature could surface nearby, or possibly dig around our cave-ins.” As he spoke, Danton and Emili entered the chamber together.
“Hey!” Warfell rose with her partner and exchanged deep hugs.
“Logos, Ethos and Pathos Gravari, this is Captain Emili Swift a fine and trusted friend of ours,” Warfell smiled.
“Not anymore, I resigned my post in Tibor with the full sanction of Good King Atria. I have come to give my sword to the Dead, if you’ll have me?” Emili bowed.
“Wow!” British rasped and hugged Emili’s neck hard.
“Me too,” Danton said. “I am here for the same. We met on the road and well, here we are!”
“Ethos, will you sound the assembly horns? We need to vote them in immediately,” Logos asked his Brother, already headed for the door.
“On it Broheem,” the happy reply.
Danica Warfell smiled wide and full. Nothing could have made her happier, and that’s when she realized she was in love. Aside her, British was watching, staring, until Warfell was compelled to break her locked gaze on Danton, meeting British’s big brown eyes.
“What?” Danica asked.
British tilted her head, raised her eyebrows with a mischievous grin and snapped her fingers twice—without speaking, the little pixie could still mess with her partner expertly.
Snowman rose to a stand and bowed. He moved in front of Danton and spoke.
“Dick?” Snowman.
“Tool?” Danton.
The men knew where they stood. Tom moved in front of Emili Swift and gesticulated as if to royalty.
“Lieutenant Thomas Barrow Snow, Throne of Steel retired, ever at your service, my beautiful Captain.”
“She’s seventeen.” Warfell.
“She’s a Captain.”
“You’re a retiree!” Logos.
“Okay, that hurts, I’m younger than Danica,” that was the wrong answer.
“EXCUSE ME?” Warfell kicked the stool she was sitting on sending it into the wall and then quickly snatched her fleeting calm back. She whispered to her former Lieutenant harshly.
“LT, you will take Danton up to inspect the prisoner’s confines—back here for a full debriefing in ten—now Snowman.”
“Aye Cappy, c’mon dick.”
“After you tool.”
They left and the girls watched, shaking heads no, then meeting each other’s eyes and laughing, smiling wide.
“I like the Watchatorium, because we watch out for bad guys,” Bigfoot looked around for the approval that would not come. “Oooor, my second choice—Fort Salvos, it means fortress of safety, because we are safe here.”
Maybe it was his honest way, his innocence, but everyone there loved it immediately. All hands raised together. Warfell looked about and commented.
“Fort Salvos it is!”
And that was the lighthearted aspect of the debriefing for Danton and Emili. They held counsel for hours and were about to retire when the Aequitas Caelum appeared.
They have found bodies in Tibor, desiccated bodies. The Mother is on the move, I am scanning the land between us, both above and below ground.
“It’s a diversion…to draw us…away from her Daughter,” British said quietly to the nods of agreement all about her.
King Atria requests your aid, to refuse may be detrimental. I will speak to him first and then continue my search, I have but eight hours remaining until the deep night—I shall return.
The Spirit dematerialized…
Robert ran up the stone steps that led to the con-tower, Ft. Salvos’ second spire. The con-tower was for war, designed with a three hundred and sixty degree view of the compound, turrets for rail launchers and snipes, and iron doors that sealed the tower off with a flick of a switch, isolating the building from the others. A catwalk tube at one hundred feet connected the two towers of Salvos, with the entire assembly was rigged to blow in the event of a siege.
Bigfoot pounded the steps one after another—sweat raging over his face, breathing like a blacksmith bellows. He reached the con-deck, pointed to Garrett, turned and descended shouting “Twenty!”
“That guy is a beast I tell you,” Garrett remarked to Erza Brooke.
“Good thing he’s on our side,” Brooke laughed.
Halfway down, Bigfoot saw Shadoweye ascending and extended a huge palm, which she quickly slapped.
“Faster big boy, I’m three up now!” she said, disappearing around the spiral.
“But she’s—so smaller—than me,” Rob fought back his exhaustion and continued. The leg was doing well enough—it was his wind he had lost laying around for too long. He picked it up, determined, resolute. Even with the limp Tawnee’s physical stamina was amazing. “She’s in better shape, c’mon!” Rob self-chastised and pumped harder.
Outside, Emili cantered her Snowhorse,
a pristine mare named Galion, in a tight circle around Warfell and Fey. The Greens surrounding Fort Salvos were lush and soft. She dismounted gracefully and stood before her seated friends.
“Do you really believe I can impart knowledge you do not already…”
British held a palm up for peace, nodding yes, oh yes. Emili smiled and continued for her friends.
“Okay, well the most interesting thing I have seen is the ways of their eyes. You see, horses possess both binocular and monocular vision, with the unusual ability to see behind them. The monocular is fascinating: each eye can function independently of the other, like the two vastly separated eyes of an ocean whale, two separate visual fields can be processed at the same time, both realities, fully conscious.”
“Okay you’ve lost me already.” Warfell.
Swift explained. “The Equine can be fully aware of what is happening to the left and the right of him, like a mountain Monk or Druid meditating, the horse can literally see three hundred and sixty degrees around and take it all in together as one field of vision. This is accomplished by giving each eye its own side of the brain to use; the right hemisphere interprets what the left eye sees and the left hemisphere controls the right eye.” Emili motioned with her hands, pointing to the places on Galion’s head, the mare holding perfectly still for her.
“Now, we know that feelings of calm, tranquility and love are processed on the right side, so the left eye is the eye of peace. This is why we are taught to always mount from the left side. When an Equine displays his adoration for you, it is always from the left eye.”
Both women nodded, realizing that they actually did already know this. British lowered her head with a smile, her mind flooding with images of Snowflake facing her with the left eye. She stood and leaped upon her stallion’s wide, soft back, lowering her cheeks to the silky mane, hand-signaling Swift to continue.
“Because they can read our emotions, the thoughts of the rider are often shared…”
Below them, one hundred and fifty feet below them, the Gravari Brothers were hard at work with Shadoweye, securing the ‘dungeon’ as Warfell insisted the catacomb system be called.
“It is an unusual system Lady Shadoweye,” Logos broke the silence as they descended a deep flight of stone steps.
“Explain, and Tawnee.”
“Well, most man made underground passages are just that. It is rare, when a hollow conduit is discovered and then reformed. These tunnels are naturally occurring, the Tiboreans hired crews of Dwarves to flatten the paths, smooth the walls and install lighting. Moreover, the tunnels do not end my Lady Shadow—Tawnee, sorry. ”
Tawnee placed a hand on Logos’ small shoulder. “Go on, we are almost there.”
Logos looked back to his Brothers, Ethos and Pathos. He continued with a touch of trepidation in his voice, his tiny hand touching the grip of the pistol British was teaching him to fire with fantastic accuracy.
“Here, the Tiboreans, they somehow tapped into this.”
They came to a wide-open chamber bathed in darkness, acrid air crisp with methane and sulphur. Tawnee walked forward and held her light high.
“Gods of the Deep…” her voice echoed, “how far does it go?” She was referring to the massive, naturally formed tunnel more than fifty feet in diameter looming before her like a passage to the Seven Hells.
“Don’t know yet but the Aequitas Caelum is searching it now.”
“Good to have his help,” Tawnee spoke and then backed away, fearful someone or something will hear her voice. Once around the corner, she continued. “Can we seal it?”
“No way,” Logos answered. “She’s just too big, and the surrounding strata has easy limestone—too delicate to blast, soft enough to dig through. If we build up a stone or iron wall, even a human with a shovel would be able to get around it. Likewise, imploding the chasm will most likely open up new ones.”
“Crap,” Tawnee concluded and then offered her only idea. “Alright, let’s light it up like the Kingdom Fair in here, if anything comes through, it better have welding goggles on.”
All three Dwarves smiled and nodded yes. Ethos Spoke.
“We could also rig some canisters of hydrogen to fill this entire area, then ignite—heh-heh—if need be,” he grinned. Tawnee grinned right back—she liked it.
“Ever see a lizard that likes fire?” she asked the boys.
“A Dragoon,” Pathos whispered softly.
“Just mythology Broheem.” Ethos.
“Like what we’re hunting?” Pathos, still whispering. A crackle of fear shot through each in the dark catacombs.
Little shit, was Tawnee’s first thought. She took a deep breath, staying on task. “Alright, let’s get topside and assemble what we will need. You scared the crap outta me—ya little shit,” she patted Pathos’ shoulder.
“Yeah, sorry Miss Tawnee. We come from inside a mountain, born underground, and none of us are going in there.”
“I heard that twice the first time, c’mon men, we got a lot to do as fast as possible.” They moved away from the massive round blackness, wholly unaware of the dark humanoid clinging to the ceiling not five feet above them, listening to everything.
“Danica, have you seen British?” Tawnee stuck her head around the corner to the library.
“Sleeping,” Warfell did not raise her eyes from the Dead’s copy of Arenthian Blood.
“She’s not in her room.”
“Stables,” the reply with eyes met.
“Oh, yeah, I keep forgetting,” Tawnee left and hit the stairwell down, three flights to ground level and outside to the greens.
She entered the massive stables, mostly empty save less than two dozen horses and ponies. The place looked like a hospital, clearly and profoundly, the cleanest building in the entire complex that was Fort Salvos—even British’s own room. When did Fey have time to do all of this? was her thought as she looked about until finding her friend and boss asleep on Snowflake’s soft wide back.
Tawnee approached and the magnificent white stallion opened his left eye to her. She came closer and British raised her head.
“Hey,” the small elf-girl rose and stretched her arms wide with a smile for her friend. “Sup.”
“Sorry to bug you boss, your guy in Moor who can get the hydrogen canisters…”
“In my bedroom, under the bed,” British replied, sliding down to the hay.
“The guy?”
“No, but a full shipment he never received is under there. Got some grenades too.”
“What?”
“Grenades! Hand tossed bombs, a compressed hydrogen pack that has a timer, fits in the palm of your hand and emits a twenty-two thousand Jule fireball—freakin’ nasty, clean a large room with flame in five seconds baby.”
“Under your bed is torch-town, got it. You hungry? Bob’s making biscuits, HEY!” Tawnee turned but Fey was half-way to the door. “Nice job with the stables!” she whispered to no one. Snowflake nudged her shoulder. “Yeah, I know big guy, she loves those things.” He nudged her again. “Okay! I’ll bring you one back!”
Fort Salvos had a lush expansive galley. In the heart of that massive kitchen, Warfell, Robert and Fenton gathered around a wooden countertop. In the center sat a tray and two hot biscuits.
British entered and three sets of eyes shot towards her. Danica looked to her partner and then down to the biscuits. Back to British, down to the last two—Warfell slowly extended a hand, now keeping eye contact with Fey.
British smiled, spun about, and assumed an attack posture with both hands spread wide. “Do you know who I am?” the whispered words, the words!
“Aye,” Warfell began, “You are British The Bulldog Fey, come for my piece of home baked bread.”
“I am making more,” Bigfoot said in his low vibrant voice.
“Sweet!” British leaped and snatched the biscuit from Danica, grabbing the other with her free hand at the same time. She plopped on a stool and shoved both in her mouth like a chipmunk.
“Wha?” she mumbled.
“Nothing. Hey, Tawnee is looking for y…” she stopped as the Assassin walked in smiling.
“The Bulldog strikes I see,” Tawnee remarked.
“What’s up with the dungeon—struck a vein?” Warfell asked as Bob carefully removed another steaming tray of the aromatic wonder-bites from the stone hearth. Everyone moved in closer to smell and take it in. After a moment, Shadoweye began.
“The Tiboreans struck a vein alright, it’s a massive conduit, channel, goes on forever. We cannot seal it off, so we are gonna light it up and rig it for a flame cleansing if it ever comes to that.”
“Good job, thank you,” Danica was grateful she did not have to go down—there. “Fenton, what is the progress on the con-tower?”
“We are at the ready and fully armed with two rail guns, one mile range, and two turret machine guns, boss, it’s the big ones Miss Warfell, they are about yay,” he held his fingers in a circle about the width of a banana.
“What’s the round ratio?” British whispered.
“Three rounds per second, yeah, cut down trees with those bad boys,” Fenton smiled wide and then shoved a roll in his mouth.
“How big is it?” Tawnee.
“Five foot barrel with a honeycombed shroud for rapid cool-down.”
“Take one off the rack and bring it to Robert here, we’ll meet on the greens in twenty to see what it can do,” Warfell announced, reaching for the last biscuit, and pausing, waiting for it—Fey was growling.
“Boss, you know I’m not a gunner man—guns are dangerous.”
“Your hands are dangerous Robert, go ahead.”
Bigfoot pulled the trigger back and held it for three rounds of three. The target, a wooden trough tilted on end, simply splintered, shattering and sending shards of wood everywhere.
“Okay, that’s dangerous but kinda cool too,” Robert turned around barrel-first. “WHOA!” Warfell and Fey hit the deck.