by J A Stone
“Sorry,” Rob pointed the barrel down like British taught him sixty seconds earlier. He held the gun out to his side as Shadoweye came forward to accept the weapon.
“Damn,” the Assassin could barely lift the turret barrel up. She had an idea.
Later that eve, as the equi-fade dimmed for the deep night, the Aequitas Caelum returned, appearing first to Shadoweye, back in the deep catacombs beneath Fort Salvos.
It is a conduit, connecting to the global network. Alert your men and prepare to evacuate the subterrania.
He flew off to warn his Daughter and the remainder of the Dead. In the dim light, Tawnee turned to Ethos. “You heard him, are we ready?” she asked the hearty Dwarf.
“Aye, she’s trained on the hydrogen canisters,” Ethos looked down the long barrel of the turret gun. “Get behind the trigger and pray,” he placed a chubby hand on Tawnee’s arm and spoke in a whisper. “We don’t know what will happen. It’d take me some time to measure, quantify and calculate, but safe to say, if you pull the trigger, the entire system down here will flood with flame—total cleanse, including the triggerman.”
“Got it—last ditch if we catch her down here.”
“Or she tries to escape this way,” Ethos confirmed as they slapped palms together and headed for the stairs.
Above, British returned to the soft grasses in the courtyard as the rest of the Dead gathered inside near the galley to eat. A celestial cosmos came to life above, Ana filling the night sky, her bright bands of colorful gases swirling as they rotated. Stars twinkled to life and several Sister Moons became visible.
British sat quietly, breathed deeply and sighed. The ominous wall surrounding the two towers blackened the greens in shadow, but she could see well enough. Snowflake was approaching.
He cooed like a mother dove and Fey sighed again, gently touching the stallion’s cheek.
“Love you Calypso,” alone, she spoke his real name.
Snowflake turned his head and gave his right side to the wall of the main tower. British followed his gaze, calmly studying the granite and steel of Fort Salvos’ three hundred foot high spire in the deepening night. It was beautiful, the platinum solar tiles reflecting the ambient light of Ana, shining and sparkling with only one dark spot in the general shape and size of a humanoid—wait!
Calm.
British reached a hand to Snowflake’s side, keeping both eyes on the shape, waiting for...
Movement! Crap! British knew the blunderbuss couldn’t reach, no way—the creature was at least a hundred feet high on the wall. If she or Snowflake screamed, they might lose sight. She made the decision and began talking to her stallion.
“Who’s my boy?” she searched his eyes, winking, hoping he would be cool.
Bless the beast, Snowflake, tamped his hooves side to side like a puppy inviting his master to play. British laughed and tried to catch him, chasing him about the grass, glancing up to see the creature coming in closer…
“HA!” British pounced and Snowflake changed direction lightning fast. “Be still!” she giggled and finally gave up, taking a knee to catch her breath. The horse walked up and touched nose to face. British watched the reflection in the left eye, the creature was blending with the wall, now less than twenty feet away.
“You know Snowflake?” British whispered calmly, her back to that wall. “You know why bad guys hate my guts?”
Snowflake snorted, horse lingo for “Why?” British covertly moved her right hand to the grip of her short fat skinning knife.
“Because I do unexpected shit like this,” she spun about, releasing the buck-skinner at full speed towards the humanoid shape, hearing the muffled thud and feeling the thick blade sinking in deep—“Gotcha!”
The blunderbuss pealed its distinctive ‘BOOM’ twice. British knew she would miss, but maybe a couple of stray diamonds would find some meat. No such luck, the creature scampered around the corner of the tower as members of the Dead filtered out with arms ready.
“What’cha got boss?” Warfell.
“Go time, She’s here.”
Warfell followed British’s eyes up the stonework, straight for the top of the tower and the barred window to the prisoner’s cell.
In that cell, the captive Renth, Iris as she was called, jerked her head and eyes to that lone window. A face appeared and Iris’ eyes turned pitch obsidian, hair flushing black as well. She smiled and spoke in the strange accent.
“Ello Mum, miss meh?” Iris waited for the reply that would not come, her Mother’s cold, red eyes turning to orbs of judgment, hatred, disgust. The elder Arenthian began searching for a way in and Iris’ eyes dilated with sudden fear. She was not there to rescue her at all!
The station horns rang out followed by the war clarions. The creature gave her progeny one last look and then disappeared from sight as Tom Snow and Garrett burst through the cell door—weapons high.
“Your Mommy is here, sit tight little pumpkin,” Tom scanned the room.
“She’s gonna kill meh,” the woman replied calmly enough.
“Yeah, we know. We won’t let that happen. Trust my boss—she’s your only hope lassie,” Tom added with a smile, backing out, shutting the chamber door behind him and snapping the locking mechanism.
Moments later, the Dead came together at Tower Main.
“Bigfoot with me,” Fey’s voice was getting stronger. “Shadoweye with Danica, keep each other in sight, no one loses their partner. Forget the blades unless it’s hand-to-hand, use the firearms and don’t think twice—shoot! Stick to the plan, remember this is our home—go,” British gave her family a quick smile and everyone dispersed.
They paired up: Garrett and Pathos, Swift and Danton, Brooke and Ethos, Snowman with Logos, Alorica with Fenton. The idea was similar to Moor, divide and conquer.
Short of cutting Iris in two, she could not be set free from the chains without a blowtorch or a ferrous saw, as well, the top floor cell, once locked, was impenetrable. The iron door would need to be blown with incendiaries to reenter the chamber. With no way to reach her Daughter, the Mother would be forced to confront the Dead. The hunt was on.
Robert John Stone crept carefully next to British Fey—eight feet of muscle and four feet of cuteness, six feet of turret-gun and two feet of Blunderbuss slowly making way up the spiral to the con-tower.
“Rob?”
“Yeah boss?”
“Love ya buddy,” British touched his butt by accident. “Oops, ah, sorry.”
“You touched my ass boss.”
“Ssssh…”
Warfell and Tawnee scanned the dark vaulted chamber, predator eyes careening across the shadows, searching for movement, anything—clear. Warfell chirped and the two entered, keeping to the stone walls.
The soft argon tube lighting cut off abruptly. Good, that meant British and Bob made it to the top of the con-tower. Danica waited a moment for her blues to adjust. Another chirp and the two continued through the castle’s Chapel at ground level.
Fort Salvos was built for both luxury and war, as though they were somehow meant for one another. The two towers at three and two hundred feet held dozens of levels and hundreds of chambers. Apartments, living areas, and bathing saunas were in the main tower, whereas the con tower had barracks, conference rooms, offices, an armory and of course the command station up top where British and Bigfoot were furtively examining the compound for movement.
Pairs of the Dead searched the castle carefully, when by chance, on main tower, level six, Tom Snow and Logos Gravari rounded a corner.
The creature struck so fast, Snowman did not have a chance, his shoulders striking the floor after a forearm across his windpipe like an iron bar. Tom lay helpless, choking.
Logos leveled his long barreled repeater at the creature.
So different from its progeny, the beast was humanoid but hairless and quite nude. It was female, certainly, but muscled like a man—and the skin! Logos saw dark vessels teeming about the muscles like vines strangling
a tree. The tone he likened to a bruise, yellowish and purple. The eyes were pitch, insanely deep obsidian—the face was horrid and twisted, wrinkled and furrowed. She had long incisors, fangs that extended over the sides of the bottom lip. It spoke to the Dwarf in an ancient mountain tongue.
“Aras, deponsa Vol supponse.”
“Son dies for Father’s deed,” Logos repeated the war cry of the ancient Dwarven armies, when Men first entered the mountains and massacred the populations in failed attempts to control, and dominate.
“These are Brothers. They are the hand of justice, righteousness. Can you speak this lang…?”
“Of course I speak the modern speak,” the creature interrupted Logos in a fluent Moorian accent.
Logos smiled, blinked and she was gone.
“DAMMIT!” he yelped and then lunged for Tom, holstering the pistol, reaching both hands down to each side of the neck, digging eight chubby fingertips in, “Be still man!” finding the collapsed windpipe and squeezing—hard! Popping the tube open as Snow pulled in a lungful of sweet, crisp air.
“C’mon Snowman, she didn’t kill us. Did you see that thing? Speakin’ in a perfect Dwarf voice to me like we’re friends or something,” Logos helped Tom up. He still couldn’t speak, but he nodded yes with a look of amazement and gratitude. She had him dead to rights—could’ve killed him easy but no, why?
Logos pulled the long barrel back out and Tom added a fat, short shotgun to his free hand, his cupped Epee Longfoil leading the way. That was twice now a Renth floored Tom Snow and he miraculously lived—never again. They moved up the steps slowly until they heard gunfire and a woman screaming. They ran…
Alorica held her throat with both hands as though choking herself. She sat leaned against the wall, her eyes popped wide in shock, breathing in rasps through her nose. On deck next to her, Fenton lay listless, his body twisted like a discarded cloth doll.
Tom dropped his sword and came to her side as Logos inspected Fenton.
“Easy lov, it got you in the neck? Blink twice for me?”
Two blinks, ushering a flow of tears. Snow yanked a dagger free and threw his cloak off, ripping it into strips. A quick glance to Logos and the stiff headshake back told Tom their friend Fenton was gone. He cut the longest piece and held it forward.
“Stay sitting up pretty lady. Listen, you’re gonna take away the hands and I’m gonna apply the pressure, okay, trust me.”
Alorica blinked once, ‘no’.
“She got you deep?”
Two blinks. Snow knew the creature most likely severed the carotid artery, no way possible to stop that. She had seconds until her brain shut her hands down from lack of blood. Tom brought his face to hers as he un-holstered her two pistols, placing one on each thigh.
“Listen to me sweetie. If that thing comes back, you’ll have a chance to get her. Let me wrap the neck, you’ll bleed out in minutes as opposed to seconds til you pass out. Do it honey—do it NOW!”
She let go and blood sprayed everywhere. Tom wrapped the slender neck solid several times, the material already red-wet before he could tie it snug. He placed a gun in each hand.
“I have seen people live from cuts like this, platelets can seal, I wrapped it tight.” He leaned in again and kissed Alorica on the forehead and then the cheek.
“Your beauty will inspire songs, your skills are already legendary my Sister,” Tom Snow rose and said one last thing. “I’ll be back for you, I got an ugly bitch to kill, Logos?”
Alorica blinked twice and steadied her respiration, fighting to calm her metabolism as the Snowman and Logos disappeared upwards around the spiral.
Below, Warfell shot two fingers forward and Shadoweye closed the gap. She waited for the response signal and bolted forward herself, finding a dark corner. They both crouched ten feet apart, scanning the exterior of the Tower Main, well lit by Aleutha’s many Sister Moons. The shots came from midway up. Both Danica and Tawnee were torn between holding position for a possible, likely shot, or rushing the bottom floor. They were answered by the Con-Tower.
“Fifteen degrees loft, light em’ up—drop ‘em til it’s hot,” British spoke calmly to Bigfoot through the night scope she held against her big browns.
“What?” Rob replied. “But I see her at that window!”
“That’s what I meant! Shoot silly!”
“YAAAAAA!” even the immensely powerful frame that was Bigfoot Bob vibrated and shook as his eyes went wide, the deafening roar filling the gun-bay and the flashes of flame illuminating Rob’s astounded face, solid nickel slugs pummeling the target.
And across the gap, mid Tower Main was breaking apart at the seams, pieces disappearing and flying away into the night—the infrastructure moaning like the death-peal of a thunder cloud.
“Okay stop, STOP, STOP!” British touched his arm, a kid tapping a tree. Robert released the weapon’s triggers, thrusting himself back a pace and looking wide-eyed to his boss.
“Dammit man, that was good! Did I kill it? Hey! You just yelled at me!” Bigfoot grinned like a goober-head, ecstatic for the return of his boss’ voice.
Across the span, Tom and Logos hugged the deck for dear life, holes appearing in the walls, shards of stone and metal flying. The Renth passed right by them with several grunts. Man and Dwarf remained motionless, but smiled, knowing she just took several hits from the big gun.
One level down, when the turret salvo ended, Alorica’s beautiful blue eyes were slowly closing, her sight fading…
Then bursting back to clarity, adrenaline-arms raising the guns, unloading both clips into the beast that stumbled in front of the dying beauty—twelve more rounds found the mark and yet the creature still stood, black blood pouring over its feet from above. It limped past Alorica, slowly, clinging to the wall.
Warfell and Tawnee held rifles fast to the body of the creature falling the final flight to the ground level marble. British, Bigfoot and the rest of the Dead rushed in to Tower Main.
Silence, but for the fluid filled breathing of the demonic beast.
“Should we finish it boss?” Warfell asked, sights trained fast on the mark.
Just above, Tom and Logos descended the stairs, gazing down on the horribly wounded beast. Snowman pulled his Poniard, a long dagger.
“Tom?” Danica warned.
“Alorica’s dead—Fenton too, I’m sorry but I’m sworn Captain,” he said calmly as he straddled the creature.
“Do it Snowman,” British ordered.
He took the head clean with a forceful jerk and a face full of tears.
*
FOR THE WANT
The Querant I would ask this day
If she still remembers. For even the slight breeze
Of distant memory be-stills our dreams, oh please
Should it not be so? I pray, I pray
For the want of helplessness
As though we filter our lives away
And the moment seeks freedom upon the skies, to
Grasp a cloud whereupon it dies
The infinite moment, will its memory stay?
For the want of love and no less
Querant I, lost in lights’ array
Where the memory dances of her gentle eyes, and
The dreams no bittersweet Soul denies
Should it not be so? I pray, I pray
For the want of helplessness
British Fey
The Man who Knew Too Much
Tibor Proper, North-end Pub District
ARJUNA ENTERED THE tavern, a stern look about his jowls, his penetrating eyes careening from patron to patron. There, at the end of the long smoky bar sat a woman, an attractive woman with close-cropped, almost shaved blond hair and the scantily clad body of an exotic dancer. He moved towards her. Two men sprang up to block Arjuna’s path—and immediately sat back down when they saw his arms.
Arjuna Konovo was a frightening man, rippling with musculature; he walked like the killing machine he was, leaving zero doubt within any who
saw him, what he could do to them with just a hand, were he to grab, pull and twist something.
He stood before the alluring woman with a rugged grin.
“Paradise,” spoken like a bass pipe
“June, you got past my boys.”
“Angles, Oceanport safe-house, eight days,” Arjuna turned and left the now silent bar. Paradise rose from her stool, pausing as her two brutes stood up, waiting for orders.
“You are both fired.”
“We have not been paid,” one responded. Paradise smiled, nodding yes.
“Of course,” the seductress pressed close and kissed him, then moved to the other, kissing him as well.
“We…you so…petty?” the first hired thug was already slurring his speech, losing his balance, gripping the bar and slipping, striking the sticky floor—dead. His partner’s eyes shot wide, but nothing happened.
“How’d I not die?” he asked, stupefied yet glad. Paradise grinned a wicked grin and answered.
“I did not inject you. Why didn’t you stop the muscleman from approaching me, you are my bodyguard? Yes?” she tilted her head sideways, waiting for the answer.
“I—I messed up.”
“Yes you did. Now I gotta go back to work, thanks a lot,” she spit—barely a spit, more like a mist, a spray of highly charged cellular-toxins, burning into the soft tissues of the eyes, nose and mouth instantly—straight through to the cerebral cortex. The thug jerked violently, hands to face, smashing his arms on the hardwood bar before collapsing atop his partner—blood trickling from the right ear.
Paradise spread a handful of bright silver coins and uncut emerald shards across the polished wood, leaving with a frown on her face; glaring at the startled patrons, daring them to say or do something. She pulled the tiny soft poison canister from under her tongue and placed it in her bra, leaving the saloon doors swinging wild behind her.
Nobody moved a muscle until the hoof-beats pounding the pavement faded.