by John Conroe
“That was a very small charge, Milord, as I could only gather a small amount of the nitrates I needed from the goat dung. It was just to show you the potential,” Mack said.
Clacher, his daughter, and all the guards were looking at the now-headless scarecrow, clearly astonished. The lord’s head swiveled to Mack. “How would you get more?”
“We harvested plenty of sulfur, and charcoal is easy. But the main component is the potassium nitrate, which requires a bit of a process to manufacture. The good news is we’ll make it from goat dung, which you have a ton of. The bad news is that is takes some time to process,” Mack said.
“That and the smell,” Jetta added.
“What would be the result of a device as big as the rocks our engines throw?” Clacher asked.
“That’s ten or twenty times more gunpowder than the small amount we just used. You would have a real explosion. Add shrapnel to the casing and you would have a kill radius of ten or twelve feet, easy,” he said, moving back toward the now-headless scarecrow. The others followed him, most with a bit of wary caution.
“You are saying that enemies would die for six cubits in all directions?” Sergeant Kellan asked, showing extreme interest in something for the first time since Mack had met him.
“Yes, give or take. We call them bombs or grenades,” Mack said.
“What is this word? Shaaa rap en nel?” Iona asked.
“Shrapnel is small pieces of metal, wood, or ceramics that break apart when the bomb explodes, spraying out around the bomb. They move at very high speeds, much like our bullets, and wound or kill people nearby,” Jetta said.
Clacher, Iona, and the sergeant all looked her with rapt attention. “Do you know how to make these bobs as well?” Iona asked her.
“Bombs. Yes. Mack is the metalsmith in the family, but we both do well with explosives,” Jetta said after a quick glance to see Mack nod.
He wanted them to value his sister as much as him. They needed time to let Declan get to them.
The sound of hoofs on hard ground brought them all around to look at the southern line of trees just in time to see a man on a horse burst out of the woods. He wore the dark brown uniform of the Forpost guards and he veered toward them as soon as he saw them.
“Milord, Milord!” he called as he closed the distance rapidly. “Riders approach from the south. They wear the colors of Demyne,” he yelled.
“How many, Carter?” Clacher demanded.
“Three score or more, Milord,” Carter reported, trying to catch his breath.
“Back to the hold. Call in the watchers. Arm your men, Sergeant,” Clacher said.
Jetta and Mack found themselves swiftly herded inside the gates, up the ladder, and pushed out onto the parapet as the keep exploded into activity. Weapons appeared as fast as the night before and a loud horn blared over the sudden noise of Forpost preparing for danger.
“I thought you traded with Demyne?” Jetta asked Iona, who stayed near them after sending one of the guards on an errand.
“We do. Under a flag of peace on lands between ours and theirs. For them to approach with men-at-arms in such numbers is never good,” the girl replied.
The guard Iona had sent away came jogging back, his arms loaded as were the arms of the two servant women who scurried in his wake.
Mack recognized their gear and weapons a split second before he realized the two women were Ari and Aylin. The guard most likely drafted them, as they had taken to hanging near the Sutton kids’ quarters.
Iona directed the disposition of the gear into piles close by but far enough away that Mack and Jetta would have to deal with their guards to get their hands on any of their weapons. She quickly and accurately sorted the equipment into a pile of Mack’s stuff and one of Jetta’s. Someone had been paying very close attention to them.
When it was all arranged to her satisfaction, Lady Iona turned and flashed a fierce grin at them both. “Demyne has never seen the likes of you,” she said.
A shout turned them back to see men in Forpost brown leave the forest to race for the gates, some on horseback and some on foot.
Mere moments later, another set of horsemen burst from the woods, clearly chasing the locals. The new horsemen wore copper-colored leather that was covered with overlapping rings of bronze. These warriors were heavily armed with a range of weapons that exceeded the typical gear of a Forpost guard. Kellan’s men usually had spears or bows and each carried a heavy seax knife that was long enough to really double as a short sword.
The newcomers had full-length broadswords, which, while not as long as Clacher’s repaired Claymore, still gave them a decided advantage in reach. Additionally, they were each equipped with a small round shield, several javelins, and a long spear apiece.
There was also a mix of bronze axes, knives, bows, and crossbows, the latter two in enough numbers to make Mack realize just how undergunned Clacher’s men really were.
The last of the Forpost runners made it into the fort and the ropes that held the heavy overhead pivoting gate were cut, allowing the timbered barrier to slam down. It no sooner smashed into place when a team of guards manhandled a log beam into brackets, barring it shut.
The fore riders of the Demyne group swung back around and took up positions just out of easy bow range, as more men continued to pour out of the forest. After the first twenty were lined up between the tree line and the fort, a smaller group of five came out, two in armor, two in cloaks of black, and one in standard copper-colored ring armor but bearing a flag on a pole. They had the bearing of leaders, especially the two in armor, and their little group was almost immediately followed by at least forty or fifty more men. The flag showed a crossed pick and shovel on a copper background.
The two obvious leaders in the smaller group of four stood out because their leathers were covered with actual plates of bronze armor, not just rings. There was also the matter of their swords—the hilts looked to be made of steel, not bronze.
Mack studied them some more, finally deciding that they were likely related. Both around about six feet in height and both carried a similar, powerful build. Same brown hair poking out from under matching bronze helmets, although the one on the left had streaks of gray running through his, which became more obvious when he took off his helmet, holding it under one arm. After a second, the younger one followed suit and now Mack was sure they were father and son.
“Hello Forpost. No need for all this, Digby,” the older yelled. “We’ve come for the boy and girl.”
“And just what boy and girl are ya talking about, Harlan?” Clacher yelled from the palisade.
“None of your games, Digby. You know well enough that which I speak of. The boy with smithing skills and his sister. We know they landed here. We heard of your sword,” Harlan yelled back.
Clacher pulled his claymore from its sheath and held it over his head. “Ya mean this sword?” he asked, waving it about.
Smooth work, asshole, Mack thought. Way to hide the obvious. And Digby? Digby? Never saw that coming.
“Aye, so ya admit ya have the lad, as the proof is flailing about your head, like to cut your ear off. The two were supposed to be at Demyne, not Forpost. So hand ‘em over and we’ll be on our way,” Harlan said.
Mack glanced at his sister and found her raising one eyebrow back at him. Supposed to be at this Demyne place? And just who arranged that? And what went wrong?
“I don’t know what yer blathering on about, Harlan Norton. They appeared in our woods, on our property. Just what’s this to do with Demyne?” Clacher said.
Harlan turned and looked back at the two cloaked figures. After a moment, both sat up straight and reached to their hoods. As the dark cloth fell from their heads, short white-blond hair stood in sudden and sharp contrast to the dark hair all around them.
Mack could just barely make out the tips of their sharp ears, protruding just a bit from their hair. Elves. Elves of the Winter Court.
“Lord Clacher, Queen Morrigan s
ends her regards. Lord Norton is correct. The siblings were intended to arrive in Demyne. An error occurred with the portal that sent them here,” one of the elves said with a clear, powerful voice. “I am Peadar and my companion is Odhran. We are, as you can see, Guardians of the Winter Court and as such, our word is law in this realm.”
Clacher looked badly shaken but his face was tight and there was a defiant gleam to his eye.
“They say they are members of the Speaker’s party, yet you say they are subject to our Queen’s rule?” Iona suddenly said, her father turning to her with an angry hiss to keep quiet.
The elf tilted his head, studying the young lady of the keep. “In this Realm, all are subject to her will,” he said.
“Even the Dragons?” Iona asked.
The self-assured Guardian paused, pulling back a bit to consider her words. “A dragon would be a different matter. They are not dragons, Milady.”
“Yet they are members of the Speaker’s party, and would not the Speaker to the Dragons be accorded a similar status as an actual dragon?” Iona argued.
“The Speaker, herself, might well be treated in a somewhat similar manner to those she represents. These two are not the Speaker, but merely companions and perhaps guards, albeit pretty poor ones.”
A short scuffle broke out next to him and when Mack looked over, Jetta’s guard was on the ground and his sister was grabbing her rifle from the gear pile, swinging it up in a single smooth motion. Oh shit was all he had time to think before the rifle roared.
He snapped his head around in time to see the Demyne flag disappear as the pole six inches under it exploded into splinters.
Kellan swore and started to pull his blade but suddenly found himself staring down the big, gaping barrel of Mack’s .44 Bulldog, which had somehow found its way into his hand.
“Poor ones my ass, you stupid lying sack of goblin shit!” Jetta yelled. “Back stabbing, treacherous assholes!”
The guards around them shifted weapons but Mack was already in motion, backhanding his own guard with the steel revolver before jumping over and snatching his rifle from the pile. Jetta, who had cycled her bolt as soon as she fired, was aiming her rifle for Clacher, which made every guard pause. Mack took the opportunity to slide his vest on and buckle his pistol belt into place before swinging his own muzzle to cover the lord of the keep. Jetta slipped her chest rig over her head, slinging her rifle in favor of her Glock pistol with an extended magazine.
“Do you require assistance, Lord Clacher?” the lead elf, Peadar, asked, looking mildly amused.
Mack felt a buzzing in his pocket and his sister’s phone must have gone off as well, as she suddenly touched her own cargo pocket. Jetta pulled her phone out, looked at the screen, and then back at him. “Finally!” she said.
“Just what are ya thinking, Smith?” Clacher snarled. “Sure, you can kill a great deal of us, but not all of us. Ya have no chance of getting out of this.”
Mack opened his mouth to speak but Kellan jumped for him, one big hand grabbing at the stock of Mack’s rifle while his blade stabbed for Mack’s chest. Forced to use his rifle stock to block the blade, Mack let go with his right hand, groping at his gear for his Glock. He was incredibly aware that death was facing him here and now. All the early mornings at Arcane, training under Mr. Jenks, all those hours and bruises were for this one single moment. And he was fighting someone with many more hours of practice under his belt.
He could hear Jetta behind him and knew he was blocking her shot. Kellan was too close and too fast. Mack’s hand touched something on his belt and he pulled it free. It was his tomahawk, the carbon steel blade pulling free from its Kydex sheath.
Jenks had brought many instructors in to train the Arcane kids in various fighting styles, but one of the repeat trainers was a man they only knew as Sifu Chris, who taught them something he called the Hammer System. Based on a Kali edged weapons combat style, it was designed to use a hammer or any hammer-shaped object as an improvised weapon.
The Arcane kids had started with hammers and then moved to ‘hawks, and Mack had more hours with this system than any other.
His right hand shoved cross body, the shaft of his tomahawk pushing Kellan’s blade out and away. Almost instantly, his left hand dropped the rifle and rotated into a circular block of Kellan’s knife arm, just at the wrist, making room for his ‘hawk to come around in a circular chop that smashed the leather bracer on the big man’s arm with thousands of pounds of force.
The leather stopped the hawk from biting deep, but the blunt force impact was enough to make Kellan’s hand spasm and the knife drop free. Kellan’s left hand snatched the falling knife as the big sergeant pulled back and dropped into a fighting stance that highlighted his comfort with either hand. He flashed a fierce, nasty smile at Mack.
The added space between them gave Mack the opportunity to step right, crouch, and cover his left ear. He felt his sister take a single step forward and then her Glock went off three times fast and Kellan’s face disappeared in a mist of blood and gore.
Sergeant Kellan dropped dead like a sack of bricks and Jetta Sutton pivoted and shot the next oncoming guard twice in the chest and once in the head, dropping that one as well.
Everything stopped as Kellan and the guard both fell off the palisade, bodies collapsing into boneless heaps.
The gunshots rang out across the clearing, then everything went quiet, all motion frozen as the dark smoking barrel of Jetta’s pistol steadied on Clacher.
Mack reached down and grabbed his fallen rifle, suddenly noticing a sting that became a searing pain in his left arm. A long line of red ran across his forearm, clearly indicating his block hadn’t been without cost.
Jenks always told them to expect to get cut if blades were swinging. It was inevitable and you had to steel yourself against the pain or you’d get more than just cut.
“You okay?” Jetta asked.
“Just a scratch,” he said.
“What now, Mr. Sutton?” the elf, Peadar, asked in English.
Jetta answered. “Now we wait,” she said.
“Wait for what?” the elf asked, still very self-assured.
Reality tore down the middle—right there in the center of the road—right in front of the sixty or so horsemen.
There was no mirror rippling, no smooth rectangle of glass, no clean portal, but an ugly, jagged tear in the fabric of existence. Six feet of crooked line that shone white—first just inches across at the bottom and top, but spreading to three feet wide at the middle.
Four blurs came streaking through, each moving so fast that they were unidentifiable, howling through the air at incredible speed. Then a blonde girl with some kind of short gun stepped through, followed by a man in combat gear, a black-haired girl, and finally a tall, lanky young man with blue eyes and a fierce grin.
The fast-moving objects whistled around the entire acre of cleared ground, then came to sudden, complete stops, hovering in place. They were steel balls, gray and either streaked with silver lines or, in one case, spotted with silver.
“Hey Mack! Jetta! Where the hell are you?” Declan yelled as the rip in space closed behind him, zipping itself shut, top down and bottom up.
The Demyne party, whose horses had shied at the tear in reality, pranced forward, then stopped as if they had hit a wall. One horse’s nose even flattened like it was pressed on a window.
“Speaker,” Peadar said, looking shocked and a bit pained. “You should not be here.”
Mack yelled out before Ashley had time to answer the elf. “We’re in here.”
“It appears we should, as those are our companions inside that structure,” Ashley said.