by J A Stone
Holding your gaze ‘til I am through, and
Kicking thy corpus—into the jowls.
Pity shall not be mine
Death and I are doing fine
British Fey
Nook Valley
“COME WITH ME Snowman,” Captain Warfell was solemn.
“Aye Cappy, what’cha got?”
“Shut up and come.”
Snow was sleeping in uniform, taking half a second to vault into his boots and snatch his Thronesword. He followed her faithfully, rubbing his eyes, already wondering what the glass of green gravy would be made of that morning.
Nook Valley was unique. Caverns at the foot of one of the mountains led to a massive, Dwarven-run smelting facility, cultivating a live magma floe-vent, using molten lava to forge and purify their metals. The Throne of Steel was appropriately named as the nation revolved around its fine quality weaponry and armor.
They entered the folds of the facility.
“Lieutenant, I have requisitioned a piece,” Warfell almost shouted over the noise as they joined Selene, waiting there with one of the Dwarven Forge Masters. “Tom Snow, this is Bostomir,” she held an open palm towards the Dwarf.
“I am honored,” the Snowman replied, bowing low.
“Yes you are,” the curt little man stated as fact. “Come with me into the Temple,” he motioned and the three humans followed.
Once the reinforced doors shut tight to the roar of the forge, Bostomir guided the Throne Officers to an altar where a sword was on a stand, covered in silk cloth.
“Captain Warfell’s Thronesword was forged here. By her request, we patterned the weapon after the bayonet, using a technique never before tried. The result is a one of a kind masterpiece,” Bostomir gave Danica his chubby hand.
“I am forever grateful my Lord,” answered the tall platinum-haired beauty.
“As for you Son,” Bostomir continued, “the Captain says you favor the Longfoil and Poniard?”
“Aye Sir, but I bring the mighty Thronesword to battle,” Tom answered.
“Perhaps not so anymore,” Bostomir threw back the red silk shrouding to reveal a Masters Longfoil, thicker, slightly longer in blade and pommel and sparkling in the light.
“Gods of the Mount I—I don’t know what to say!”
“Just listen Son,” the wise old Forge Master placed a hand on Tom’s arm with a slight squeeze.
”What you see is an Epee. The Epee is the heaviest, thickest and most resilient of the three dueling blades, Rapier notwithstanding: Foil, Sabre, and Epee, respectively. As we all know, the mighty Longsword has ruled Aleutha for centuries. In ancient times it was the Katana.
“Now, in combat with the bashing cutting Longswords and Claymores, Captains needed a way to pierce the heavy armoring of the Frontliners on the vanguard. First came the Broadsword and the Bloodswords, smaller double-edged stabbers. Second came the Rapier, designed to enter the folds and creases of plate mail.
“The Rapier quickly became the preferred weapon for duels. However, in the cities, the governments could not have their citizens killing each other over every squabble. The ‘First Blood’ rule came into play and the deadly Rapier devolved into the much thinner and more agile Sabre. This of course led to the Competition Foil we know today, much like the one you favor Son.”
“I do like—”
“Shut up.”
“Yes Sir.”
“As I was saying. Combat Tacticians still called for a field stabber and the Foil evolved once more into this—the Epee,” Bostomir raised the sparkling instrument, placing a leather pad beneath the blade and cradling the sword like a precious baby.
“We made our own modifications just for your needs Son. The blade is a full three feet, much longer than standard—but you are a six-foot tall man so we accommodated. As you see the bell guard is bigger and the handle has been extended to allow a two handed grip—this is acceptable as the overall weight is twice that of a Competition Foil.
“Unlike the rectangular blades of the Sabre and Foil, the Epee has a triangular blade with three razor sharp cutting edges and a deep groove for quick retraction. The forte is thicker and stronger for the hard parry. Notice the striated Blue Diamond tip, which will easily pierce most armoring and slice through flesh like paper.
“The grip is all metal—one piece with the blade, wrapped in soft suede. The balled pommel is a large rare Honey Diamond mined here on sight and forged into the handle for bashing away. She’s a one of a kind Lieutenant, use her well,” Bostomir motioned for the thin steel scabbard, sheathed the amazing weapon and handed it gingerly to its new owner. He gave Danica his tired, worn eyes. “Captain your Lieutenant now has a proper stinger.”
“Second Lieutenant Thomas Barrow Snow, welcome to the Winter Wasp,” Warfell pronounced with a smile.
“Wait—I wasn’t in before?”
“No one is in the Good Captain’s hive until the weapon is requisitioned and crafted,” Bostomir added with his own wrinkled grin. “We even forged gauntlets for the bare handed giant, Jack.”
“Come Snowman—we are not done,” Danica grew serious again and Tom nodded, still overwhelmed by the incredible gift.
“Yeah—you’ll really like this,” said Selene with an evil smile, who rarely spoke to Tommy at all.
“What is it?” he had to ask minutes later as the entire team gathered around him in the chow hall.
“Just drink it Lieutenant,” Warfell furrowed her brows and leaned in, pushing the tall glass of neon green liquid forward across the bar.
“Yeah, it’s the Captain’s special brew—drink it LT,” Dontabole stepped forward with a menacing grin and Tommy tensed up, realizing they were about to make him do it.
“Okay-okay folks—damn!” he raised the glass and held it up, gulping dry, watching the particles floating around in the semi-gelatinous suspension.
“TO THE WASP!” he bellowed proud setting glass to lip—chugging it down before the wide eyes of his comrades.
It took a second…
“Ai—brakka—yoi,” his mouth said as his body shook violently like a wet dog. The Winter Wasp erupted with laughter. The potent blend of stimulants and euphoric painkillers kicked in moments later and Tommy smiled from ear to ear like a dolt.
As the team issued pats and hugs, Danica held two hands aloft for silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, today we rest. Tomorrow we are escorting Elder Anderson as Ambassador to the White Mountain Valley—enjoy this day—you have all earned it my friends,” her look was…
Tommy never forgot the gaze of sadness in Danica’s deep blue eyes, the patina of tears that would not come, the breadth of horror, agony and death—as if somehow she knew.
Those penetrating, glassy sapphires slapped the smiles from every face there.
The soldiers of the Wasp gathered their things, finished their drinks, and dispersed quietly to spend that day in solitude.
White Mountain Range Foothills
They descended carefully from the long arctic chain known as the White Mountains, named so for the towering spire standing tall at its southernmost tail.
The Great White Mount reached twenty thousand feet with four unnamed children, (lesser mountains) at its base. The passes were tight, with vaulted walls and crags in many places, lending White Mountain a geographic isolation to all but the heartiest of adventurers. As such, even the mighty Throne of Steel chose not to claim the land for its own—the mountain remaining neutral territory for all Aleuthian nations, hence the chosen meeting place between the Governor of Moor and Ambassador Anderson.
On the southern foot, there was a lush green valley resting at sea level. Much as its neighbor to the far west, White Falls, White Mountain Valley enjoyed a temperate clime, Evergreen groves, hot springs, and eight square miles of beautiful rolling grassland.
A small clan of Sixth Dynasty Agate Dwarves peopled the peaceful hollow, maintaining a chambered facility hewn into the bottom of White Mountain known as the Agate Aren
a.
They were there when the Moorian Army arrived months early with squads of their own Dwarven Warriors—the families of the peaceful Agates were unarmed—they never stood a chance.
Northern pass, White Mountain
“The One, get me a visual on the west side beyond those crags,” Warfell lowered the hand scope and bit her lower lip.
“Aye Captain,” her Scout disappeared.
“Selene,” Danica called for her Number One. “Double around on the eastern flank, take the Snowman and get back fast.”
“Right,” she replied and took off running with Tommy on her heels.
The Winter Wasp was carefully navigating the northern passes to White Mountain Valley—the most treacherous of the four pathways down. It was a calculated risk, changing their entry points last minute—Warfell’s call.
Ambassador Anderson was a hearty old codger, faring well in the saddle on a large Tinker stallion, having left his royal carriage far behind in Nook Valley. For this mission, Warfell chose to outfit the entire team with the oversized Tinkers. The brown haired cousins of the Tiborean Snowhorse, these creatures thrived in the colder climes with longer thicker manes and tails and feathery tufts of hair about the hooves.
“How are you holding up Sire?” Warfell brought her stallion aside the Ambassador.
“Good Captain, in fact it feels great out here—I should be doing this more,” the reply followed by a deep inhale of the crisp air and a jerky twitch from his lumbar. Danica smiled. She knew the old man’s back must have been killing him. She reached out a hand and gave the Ambassador a small bottle of opioids.
“Picked these up from the Dispensary for you just in case—oh and I talked in depth to your Grand Daughter.”
“You did!”
“I did! She is a good kid—smart too—you are beset with unnecessary worry over her. She’s—” Danica paused.
“What Captain?” the old man leaned in.
“I am not supposed to say but the reason she has been sneaking away is to meet with the Combat Instructors at the Citadel about testing for the Tourney. She wants to enlist, but your Son will not allow it! And Sire, she is really good with a Thronesword, saw that myself.”
“Is that so?”
“It is Sir,” Danica popped her head up, “hold please.” The One came jogging in, placing hands to knees in a fast pant. Warfell dismounted, approaching her Scout.
“Clear for a five-click advance Cappy,” he stated to Warfell’s quick nod.
“Good, I’ve got Tom and Selene on the east side.”
“Thanks Cap,” Theoneidon was exhausted. His Captain was running him hard, taking no chances.
The five click advances were grueling, tough on the horses, even tougher on the riders as they balanced on the wide backs of the incredible beasts climbing the rock and jagged escarpments with slow precision like mountain goats.
“Hold,” Danica held a fist aloft. The pass was turning into a steep ravine, this would not do. “Bull—Jack come here boys!” she motioned for her two giants and the men clambered to her side—eye-level with Warfell on the Tinker.
“Aye Captain?” Dontabole spoke for the two.
“See the flats? About five hundred feet down?”
“I see them.”
“We’re gonna lower the horses with pulleys and rope—I need those muscles,” Warfell smiled.
They made a temporary camp to rest, eat and outfit the climbing gear. Harnessing the equines was a profound challenge as the breed could not stand to be held, cradled, or picked up in any way from the good solid ground. Nevertheless, Jack and Bull made it happen much to Warfell’s delight.
Eight hours later, the Wasp rested once again near the base of the massive crevasse, cut into the range like a wood chopping axe swung by an angry God.
From there, it was a clear shot for White Mountain Valley—less than two hours at a trot. Warfell brought her men and women in closer, stopping again as the fade gave way to the deep of night. Cold camp—no fire.
And in that darkness…
“Castamere, Wendee,” Danica huddled close. “Locate your vantage points now—I want this entire valley covered on visual, savvy?”
They nodded and bolted away into the dark.
“On the morning equifade I ride in first with Selene. Snowman, you will be in charge. When Selene signals the advance, bring the Ambassador in slowly, weapons to the fore, Frontliners ready. The One.”
“Aye Cap,” her Scout replied.
“We are counting on you. Cast and Wen have the wolf calls, you’ve got the owl. If you see anything, blow that fucker like there is no tomorrow, got it?”
“Damn right Cap—I gotcha,” Theoneidon bumped Danica’s extended knuckles and shot away like a rabbit.
“Okay, Lord Anderson?”
“I’m with you Captain,” the excitement had him feeling like a young man again.
“Soon you will be our Nation’s voice, but for now you are in the field as a member of this team. I’ll need you to don the steel plating now—stay between Bull and Jack as you guys ride in—I will be on the greens waiting. If you do not see me, get out of there. Trust in these big boys—they got your back and will protect you with their lives,” Warfell rose and patted Jack’s massive shoulder, stopping to squeeze one of the deltoid muscles. “Damn Son,” she commented at a whisper.
“It’s the goopy green juice Captain,” Jack grinned like the kid he still was and Warfell couldn’t help but laugh.
As the sky gently brightened, Danica Warfell made her way with her Number One Selene, through the pine groves and on to the bright green grasses of White Mountain Valley. They found a small band of the Agate Dwarves tending a potato patch. The farmers pointed at the base of the Mountain, where Danica could see the dark portico leading to the hollowed interior.
“Will you send for someone?” she asked of the silent Dwarven-Kin.
“Oy,” one replied and scuttled off towards the chambers carved into the granite.
Warfell scanned the surroundings as the Sun began to paint a horizon she could not see. Everything looked fine so far—they were two days early on purpose. She saw nothing amiss. The distant stables were bustling and smelled loud of fresh feed and droppings telling her the Moorians were definitely there.
After several moments, three unarmed men in robes emerged from under the mount with smiles and open palms.
“Greetings!”
“Captain Danica Warfell—Winter Wasp. Are you ready to receive?”
“You’re early.”
“Yeah you like that buddy?” she answered as an equal—an insult.
“We are ready good Captain, is the Ambassador near?” handled like a true diplomat.
“Near enough,” Danica studied the men, searching for clues of deception.
“I must alert the Governor,” one of the Emissaries turned to go. He stopped when Warfell brought the massive Tinker stallion about.
“I SHALL AWAIT MY CHARGE WITHIN THE FOLDS OF THE PINE!” she shouted for no reason at all, other than to rile the Moorians.
“As you wish Captain. The Governor is anxious to—”
Warfell did not reply. She and Selene rudely galloped away to the border of the lush grasses and the thick pine stand. Once clear, she blew her whistle, mimicking the call of a Skylark. She waited, listening carefully…
Cast was in position—first to respond. Wen was next from the opposing side of the grasses—Two wolves with rifles announcing their readiness. Finally the lone screech of a Great Horned Owl cascaded through the valley, telling Danica The One was clear as well. Everyone was in place. Warfell gave the hand signal and Selene issued the horn for the remainder of the Company, now led by Snow.
Two clicks away, Tom was ready.
“Off we go, STAY FROSTY PEOPLE! Ambassador—shall we Sire?” Tom Snow lent the old man a confident smile.
“We shall Lieutenant,” Anderson urged his faithful Tinker onward and the small procession emerged cautiously from the northe
rn passes.
Once whole sans Scout and Snipes, the Winter Wasp escorted Elder Anderson to the mouth of the substrata facility. They were greeted in person by Davisi Argon, Governor of Moor.
“Well met Ambassador,” Governor Argon was cordial, friendly. He motioned the riders to dismount. Nobody moved until Danica nodded her approval, touching her own boots to grass first.
“And you must be the famed Captain of the Winter Wasp,” Argon smiled, extending a hand to the tall white-haired woman staring right through him with clear attitude.
“Captain Danica Warfell, Commander of this detachment and my right hand,” Lord Anderson clasped Argon’s palm in Danica’s stead. Without acknowledging the exchange, Warfell spoke as if to a crowd, her cunning blues roving over each man there like a slaver choosing a new bitch.
“I will need to examine this facility before my Charge sets foot,” Warfell commanded emotionlessly.
“Yes absolutely, uh, right this way?” the Governor was already tired of the discourse—he was much too old for attitude. He walked into the shadows. “Well, are you coming pretty lady?”
Danica clicked once for Selene, and the two followed the old politician and his entourage into the bowels of White Mountain. Three flights down, Danica removed a small pill from her vest and swallowed it dry, mentally commanding her body to take the steps into the abyss. Selene took note and purposefully moved in close astride her Captain, touching her bare upper arm and shoulder to Danica’s several times as they descended the steps below sea-level, her unspoken assurances solidifying Danica’s courage to withstand.
Warfell finally relaxed, her business brain consuming the phobia whole.
“Here we are, welcome to the Agate Arena,” Governor Argon pushed through the reinforced steel doors and stood to the side with an arm extended so Warfell and Selene could see.
It was an indoor amphitheater—the walls were resplendently adorned with the sparkling crystals mined by the Agate Dwarven families who maintained the place for decades, the ceiling held faceted Emerald chandeliers so huge, Danica heard Selene catch her breath at the sight.