Faithless Steel

by J A Stone

  Faithless Steel

  JA Stone

  Faithless Steel 2017 JA Stone

  Concept Actuations and Formatting M Stone

  Cover Art and Original Poetry JA Stone

  Editing RL Atkins

  All Rights Reserved

  jastoneauthor2@gmail.com

  This is a work of pure imagination. Names, places and characters are used fictitiously for entertainment alone, documenting extraordinary events on a rocky moon orbiting a gas giant orbiting a yellow star orbiting a black hole.

  The Winter Wasp

  The White Mountain Massacre

  For Love and Little Else

  Faithless Steel

  Preface

  Warfell, Fey, and Shadoweye risk their lives for justice and righteousness on an unforgiving world: Moon Aleutha. Despite their uncanny fighting skills and magnetic propensities for attracting evil, the girls truly wish for little less than a peaceful existence with a family to love and see grow. Unfortunately, the elements of darkness contrive over and again to destroy everything they painstakingly build.

  Finally, within the interior of Salt Mountain, British, Danica, Tawnee and the Knights have found a defensible safehouse in which to live.

  Over the years, they have become apprehensive around the Spirit of Caelum Fey, the Aequitas Caelum Vindictis. The Specter has grown extremely powerful. He can traverse the infinite dimensions at will, affect matter with great force, speak with the dead, and enter the minds of the living. Most disturbing, the Spirit has transported British, Danica and Tawnee to parallel dimensions to hunt and kill their other selves. The Aequitas Caelum then permanently fuses the consciousnesses, greatly enhancing the mental and physical strengths of the subject left alive. He has done this several times to save the lives of Warfell and Shadoweye and though grateful each instance, the girls were forced to participate or watch—the Spirit’s methods are brutal and horrific.

  Oftentimes, British and her Knights do not know exactly where they stand. All of them are cold-blooded killers—no shame there. They just aim for those who have it coming and try their best to do the right thing.

  The Tiborean Prince, Aaron Blackheart, miscarried his attempt to kill the Seven Devils. In the end it was Shadoweye who ended the life of the tyrant, preempting the designs of the Aequitas Caelum Vindictus to take that kill for himself. Soon after, British and the Knights foolishly conspired to destroy the Spirit who in their eyes was becoming evil—they failed.

  In the bloody aftermath of Blackheart’s attack on the mountain, the Spirit singled out Tawnee, kidnapping her Soul and placing it in an alternate dimension with intent to punish her...

  Streets of Moor, Parallel Dimension

  Tawnee held her scimitar with a white-knuckle grip, blood coursing down the metal of the blade to the street. She stood three paces from Caelum Fey, now down on the brick and holding his side, barely fisting his weapon.

  Stay down asshole, she recited to her mind knowing well he was listening. She took a cautious step to the side. The Ghost was ill prepared for the ferocity of Shadoweye, clearly. Still, as Danica often said, “cautious creeps the wind before the fury of the gale.”

  Fey violently struck his Thronesword on the broken pavement as if to cut it, raising his wide brown eyes, gnashing his teeth in rage and torment from the critical puncture in his side.

  “Shadoweye—why do you—despise me so?” he asked between ragged breaths.

  “This I do not Sir,” Tawnee backed away with sudden distrust. She knew how powerful the Aequitas Caelum was. The next wave of fighting was surely seconds away.

  “But then—why?”

  “Why is now lost in the darkness Sir. Perhaps this question is yours to ponder,” Tawnee blinked her eyes and a girl appeared next to her—a teenage doppelganger of herself, a gifted master in the meditative arts.

  “Her name is Tara Shadowfall Sir. You murdered this innocent teenage girl in cold blood and pushed her terrified consciousness inside here,” Tawnee struck her own temple forcefully with two fingers.

  “Giving you the power to do this to me,” Caelum Fey mumbled, rising to a knee.

  “No,” Tawnee scoffed, “hardly Sir. I know you can leave this dimension at any time you wish. Thus my question to you—why?”

  She took yet another step back, tossing a bloody arm across Tara’s chest as Caelum Fey rose to a stand and spun the crossbars of his Thronesword in his grasp. The powerful Spirit stood tall before the girls on the street, his wounds now gone, his subterfuge dissolving with the cold winter wind through the blackened streets of Moor.

  “You are very wise Shadow. Will you take care of British for me?”

  Tawnee did not know what to say.

  “Of course she will. We both will,” the girl Tara spoke, gently pushing Tawnee’s arm down.

  “Are you going somewhere?” asked Tawnee.

  “Far away from you Shadow…far away,” the Spirit replied, sheathing his sword and casting eyes to the city skyline. “I will always keep a small tether to my consciousness on your plane of existence, listening for your call should you or the others ever need me.”

  ”Why do your words seem so hollow?” Tawnee asked, though she knew her answer.

  “Mark me Tawnee Shadoweye,” the form of a living man began to fade away. The voice changed into the morbid scrawl of the Aequitas Caelum:

  She will betray the Knights, the Second Dynasty heir. Follow the blood Shadow—follow the trail of the blood.

  The spectral apparition dissolved and Tawnee turned, facing Tara.

  “What do you suppose that meant?” she asked.

  “I don’t know your world’s history, yet, but I will find out Tawnee. He’s gone for now. Open your eyes sister, your true eyes, your waking eyes.”

  “Thank you Tara,” Shadoweye took a deep breath and hugged her other self tight.

  “Will you kiss British for me?” Tara breathed her question into Tawnee’s ear from the background of the dissolving dream. “For me, from me, please?”

  “I will my friend, I promise.”

  Three weeks later, far away from Salt Mountain

  TOMMY REINED THE Roan in tight and left, squeezing his legs and leaning forward to the soft mane, urging the sprint to get clear of the road. They made the high brush just in time, the rider leaping from the saddle and twisting, taking a face full of nettles as thousands of leafy branches suspended him mid-air on his back.

  He lie in frozen silence with hands to grip and pommel as the small caravan of unknowns rolled by—hoof beats belying six riders and two wagons, no armor or heavy weapons. Most likely, they were farmers done for the day, returning somewhere warm and safe.

  Warm, that’s a good one—safe, even better.

  Why am I doing this again? he asked himself, staring at a lone pinkish-white cloud beyond the thorny cone bushes he was pin-cushioned upon.

  “For love and little else—and living—I like being alive,” he whispered back to the distant puff of airborne water molecules.

  His mare snorted when it was safe to stand and mount, jerking her snout up and down for punctuation. The Black Racer of six seasons had no name—Tawnee never titled the noble beast despite her long history with the Knights, having been there from the beginning seeing things most human beings cannot fathom.

  “Thanks girl,” Tommy stood, tromping free of the underbrush with one hand on the saddle, reminding himself to remove that saddle before he slept and hide it somewhere good. He was the last of the Salt Knights to strap all that leather to his horse’s chest—always insisting the need to bring extra stuff along—just in case, when in reality he simply wasn’t a very good rider. Master Po, (who never rode) took care to remind him constantly that the true warrior needs only his chosen weapon. ‘No
t even a toothpick?’ became Tommy’s standard response, followed by ‘canteen!’ The Snowman was never very good with men in robes…

  He had to stay out of sight, even second-hand sight. Locals remembered strangers traveling the countryside, and if Tom Snow knew anything it was how to disappear from the face of the moon.

  Chicken-butt, his thoughts smacked him aside the head like an evil stepbrother.

  Who in the universe would have known male Arenthians were aggressively territorial—possessive like nothing imaginable? One minute he’s being cool, as if the grandest of friends, the next? Who could have seen it coming?

  A scholar would have, sissy, more thoughts with no intention of shutting up.

  Truths—Tom liked being alive—he was not superhuman—people who are really suck—especially when they find out you’ve been in love with their new girlfriend for a long time.

  He leaped to the road, spinning about on a boot heel and bowing to his horse as though she were the Duchess of Equestria.

  “Faire Dane tis I what?—what did you say you tall skinny prick?—Oooooh—Faire Dane my freakin’ freckled ass,” Tommy held the mare’s cheek, moving closer to kiss her until the intelligent equine jerked her nose away, sensing his overplayed theatrics and wishing no role in them.

  “Oh, right, just kidding girl,” he looked about embarrassed before the trees, and then kept his eyes to the gravel until she nudged him, nose to shoulder.

  “Forgive me?” he asked and the mare nudged again, turning broadside of him for an easy mount. He vaulted aboard, being careful not to jerk the saddle as his boot left the ground out of respect.

  “Right, let’s find us a good enough place to get some sleep, c’mon girl,” he clicked tongue to teeth twice. “I know a safehouse in the next town.”

  Southern foot of Salt Mountain

  Arenthians can sleep for a very, very long time, entering a stasis of metabolism unparalleled by any multicellular creature known to man—living or extant. They typically bury themselves for safety but can perform the cellular shutdowns in any environ; oxygen poor, searing heat, underwater, even allowing the body to freeze solid.

  This is what Iris was doing, lodging her frame in the branches of a Sequoia at two hundred feet, closing her eyes yet opening her advanced senses of smell wide to the world from the southern side of the Mighty Salt. She settled down for the long cold winter in the Evergreen folds, hiding, staying clear of Danica and Nigel.

  Why are weh doing this? she asked herself before drifting away.

  Cause weh love her fool—Danica doesn’t want meh with him around, the answer came with an anxious calm and the sparkle of darkness…

  Moor, Golden Goblet Pub, Private Gambling Room

  “You asked to see me Mister?” Jesoa leaned in slightly—a powerful Crime Lord deserving a swift reply.

  “Call me Nigel. I thank you for your time my good fellow,” Nigel leaned forward himself. “I’m looking for a handsome chap. He may have passed through here.”

  “Name?”

  “Thomas, Thomas Barrow Snow,” the inquisitor leaned back in the padded chair with the gleam of confidence and knowledge. Jesoa studied the tall, thin man with pitch-black hair—long hair, too long for a man in Jesoa’s mindset.

  “One of the Seven Devils?”

  “Come again good fellow?”

  “This title is unfamiliar to you?” Jesoa furrowed his brows. “What about Warfell and Fey?”

  “Nona…I am from a decidedly different locale. May I ask once more with clarity and richness in my voice? Have you seen, or hast thou heard of a Dandy Gentleman, one Thomas Barrow of the Snow?”

  “No,” Jesoa set his stein of black lager down on the thick plank table, smiled and moved a hand to his thigh. “Can’t say as I have—we’re done here, Sir Nigel.” Now Jesoa leaned back, his hand a microsecond from his shotgun, waiting for the twitch he knew was coming.

  The fancy man with pale skin and a woman’s raven locks smiled back. He retorted with no heir of malevolence whatsoever.

  “Ah brava! Tis I wot gootenaub…”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wait. Forgive me my good fellow. It becomes me easily, slipping to the old tongue and the old ways. On such a fade as this, I might would make a meal of you, though I must confess a kinder taste for the softer flesh femalia. ”

  Jesoa formed the thought to reach for the sawed-off beneath the table, but the room suddenly began spinning—ceiling and floor flashing through Jesoa’s already fading eyes until his rolling head struck the wall and came to a stop.

  A pale expectant face suddenly filled Jesoa’s sideways view of the baseboards.

  “Blink for me if you actually did see this chap.”

  He blinked.

  The wraith-like man quickly grabbed the severed head by the hair, holding it face to face.

  “Once more for north? Was he heading north, ello-ello? Saloo? To the north—saloo?” said the strange man, shaking the skull like a broken toy, tapping the temple a few times and finally throwing it at the fireplace with a flash of sparks and a curse of regret.

  Perhaps he should have asked nicer. North it would be anyway—Nigel was on to a faint scent.

  Whiterock, Warfell’s Darkened Quarters

  “Are you coming today partner?”

  “No.”

  “Rarity needs to be ridden sweetie—he misses you horrible.”

  “No thank you,” answered to the marble floor.

  “Tawnee is up and around—she’s coming.”

  “I don’t wish it British. Please leave me alone for now.”

  “Sure honey, I’m sorry—can I get you anything from town?”

  “Bring me a bird?” the platinum strands rose slightly.

  “You bet Danica.”

  The Winter Wasp

  Faith, I find to be

  A fool’s fiction fable, the

  Sworn Oaths supplanted so easily.

  With me

  Set forth the cunning edge.

  Stand at my side, and

  Drink of that crimson knowledge.

  Faith, I find to be

  The blinded wraith of an equifade,

  Sweet-sanctioned uncertainty.

  With me

  Follow the fantastic feel

  Of the deep hollow, the glistening tide gallows,

  The fist and the faithless steel.

  British Fey

  Pine Valley, Northern Outpost

  “What can Jimbo do for ya?”

  “I want to charter an expedition into the Old City,” the road-worn traveler bellied up to the counter of Jimbo’s Gun Shack. The meaty woman across the glass nodded wisely to his request, pushing forth pen and paper.

  “How many?” she asked.

  “Just me Jim.”

  “Jim is a boy’s name, my name is Jimbo, and one person is not an expedition. Do you need a guide for the passes?”

  “No thanks, I’ll rephrase, I alone need gear for the mountain climes, a hearty bear cloak, and a wrap for my horse. I need jerky and grain, whiskey, and a large pack.” Tommy intended to carry the extra gear on his back for a change.

  “Horseshoes?”

  “Negative, I keep her hooves clean with every stop, but I’ll take some padded socks for her if you have them.”

  “I do, Jimbo is impressed.”

  “Also, my friends said you can hook me up with a safe place to sleep?”

  “Really? And which friends would that be?”

  “British and Danica, Danica War—”

  “Come through here,” Jimbo interrupted, motioning her instant friend behind the counter. “I’ll bring your mount around back myself. Shhh, through here with me before someone sees you!”

  “Tom Snow,” said the traveler with a quick outstretched palm. She recognized the name and clasp the hand tight, hustling her new charge to an interior hallway.

  “You are one of the Seven—Jimbo has your back my friend—are you hungry?”

  This was the fir
st time that card was being played and Jimbo was proud to help any friend of the girls who made her very wealthy not five years past, bringing her family out of poverty with a single transaction.

  “Starving,” Snowman finally relaxed after three weeks hiding on the road as Jimbo guided him down the quiet passage. He thought he smelled stew cooking.

  In a back room, Tommy gulped down the warm food with gusto.

  “You were not kidding,” Jimbo took a seat across the small table and lit a rolled vine.

  “Yeah, I’ve been hiding from the public eye.”

  “Jimbo would ask why?”

  “Long story.”

  “Jimbo has clearance.”

  “I guess you would. Well, Danica is being courted by an Arenthian.”

  “Miss Iris?” the muscular woman’s eyes glinted with Sapphic expectation. She held palms together, involuntarily flexing the arms of a burly bodybuilder. Tom’s eyebrows raised slightly.

  “No, it’s a male.”

  Jimbo’s shoulders slumped in disappointment to Tom’s answer.

  “Wow, but why are you hiding?”

  “Because he is actively hunting me.”

  “Because you like her?”

  “Love—yeah—that’s the long and short.”

  “Well settle in and rest my friend who’s in love. You are safe here. I need to take care of your mount and assemble your supplies. I’ll check in on you in a little while,” Jimbo smiled warm and left him there. Tommy moved to a couch, set his head down and fell immediately asleep.

  He dreamed of blood, death, and the Aequitas Caelum.

  *

  Why are you going to the Old City? Are you pushing destiny’s shoulders? The question resounded through the slumber. Tom knew it was the Spirit.

  “I want to see it once again—I need a safe place to hide,” his dream consciousness answered.