by J A Stone
“You are a good liar Corella, I’ll give you that and nothing more,” Warfell spit on the floor.
“Oh I’m a damn good liar—and you self-righteous assholes make me fucking sick. Who are you anyway, the police force of the entire Moon?”
“Enough talk,” Aurora raised her gleaming Longsword to her face.
“Fair enough,” Warfell assumed a battle stance with Tung-Vohra. Tom Snow came aside her. Shadoweye squared off with young Corella and her Temporal Blade.
They engaged—each melee sending contact sparks through the darkened passage.
Tawnee quickly found herself in trouble. Corella was much more skilled than she had let on. Sneaky bitch! Shadow thought as they clashed weapons multiple times. Then the former Kotare Assassin had a remote idea. She reached into the recesses of her cunning mind and asked herself for a quick favor.
Tara—little help here? she sent the message internal and quickly returned all of her considerable attentions to the short Bloodsword coming at her incredibly fast.
Seconds later, Cora flinched, shaking her head and stumbling back several paces. Blood trickled from her nose and Corella’s eyes popped wide in shock.
“GET OUT!” the young warrior began punching her face with her free hand, desperately attempting to rid herself of the entity scratching at her brain. The Temporal Bloodsword clanged to the granite as the Second Dynasty heir clasped the sides of her face, screaming and falling to the stone floor in agony. Two more seconds and blood gushed forth from the ears, nose and eyes. Tawnee stood tall and unforgiving over the listless body and closed her eyes.
Thank you Tara, she said to her mind.
You’ve made me a killer as well, the teenage voice responded coldly.
Please forgive me.
We are no better than the Spirit you hate so intensely.
The Deerhound pushed through and howled over Corella’s corpse as Warfell, and Snow intensified the exchange. Faster and faster the blades struck, when the High Arenthian began to realize she simply could not defeat the two Swordsmen. She made the tactical decision, released her weapon and leaped, all or nothing for Danica’s throat.
Stroke caught her mid-air, clamping down on the slender neck and shaking side to side with fury, the Deerhound’s only intent—to tear the head free of the body. She scrambled with her hands, kicked, scratched and scraped to no avail, desperately attempting to remove the massive beast’s vice-hold on her nape. Aurora heard her cervical vertebrae give way. Her body went numb, casting to the cold granite as the dog viciously touched top and bottom fang, ripping the cranium loose and ending the High Arenthian Aurora forever.
Stroke let go and howled once again, this time joined by Torpa and Landreth, the three bell tones cascading through the tunnel, reverberating the war cries of victory and death.
Far ahead of Warfell, Shadow and Snow, the massive Dwarf and his human friend heard the distinctive bays of the canines and knew that the Arenthian and her human friend were no longer. Murdoc had to stop for a second. Two and a half miles is a pronounced challenge at a full run for any creature.
“Hold ye Son, hold a wee minute,” Murdoc placed hands to knotty knees and breathed deep. He himself was an Arenthian hybrid just as Tom and Danica, but the smaller legs were already giving out. He knew now that he would be too exhausted and unable to fight without a fresh source of hot….
Murdoc stared at Furtado and the Blackbird for almost too long.
“Can ye Problem find out if the Gudoshi are inside the Salt yet?” he asked.
Furtado nodded yes, and the bird disappeared to recon the situation topside.
No warning, Murdoc swung his axe, taking Furtado’s head clean at the shoulders. Furtado never saw it coming and never made a sound. The betrayer opened his mouth wide over the headless neckline and drank his fill of the blood. Sixty seconds later, Murdoc teemed with newfound energy, hoisting the air in and out of his lungs like a blacksmith’s bellows, wiping his face dry and smiling wide. He was about to take off running again when the dainty voice of a young human woman emanated from the darkness.
“Damn dude, no honor among thieves at all, eh?” British Fey stepped forward into the faint light. “We are far from done here, asshole.”
“Well I’m a guessing we aint then!” the five foot beast of a Dwarven-Kin stood there, stupefied.
Fey struck two bioluminescent sticks, tossed them to either side, drew her blades and crouched low and ready as her faithful Dane limped to her side with fangs exposed and a growl like ocean thunder. Antigua’s leg was broken but the teeth still worked just fine.
“How’d ye get in front of me? I left ye two miles back there,” Murdoc pointed over a shoulder. He really wanted to know. Now he had to know.
“You clearly do not know who I am,” Fey sheathed her Scimitar and pulled her trusty Buck Skinner, spinning the cruel implement with a forefinger. “Remember this guy?”
Murdoc remembered—how could he forget? Deep beneath the Platinum Palace, he fought this tiny elf-woman tooth and nail. The giant had gouged an eye out, the white-haired wraith took his right forearm clean, tattoo-face ran him through, and a real Ghost was plowing through his Scouts as if they were made of sticks. It was a gods-be-damned nightmare. Had his reptilian comrades not given him the blood serum Murdoc surely would have died, the arm and eye growing back after weeks of gut-wrenching pain.
Something changed in the heart of the mad Dwarf, sending the unwanted message scratching at the back of his mind. How did she get here, it’s a straight path!
Blind superstition murdered common sense. True fear struck Murdoc for the first time in his life of a hundred and fifty seasons. Across from him, the little elf-girl instantly knew, casting an eerie smile across the bruised and bloody face, taking on the horrid visage of a Daemon—come for his murderous Soul. Murdoc took a step back with a palm extended.
“Ye get back from me, ye little dev—AAAAAGH!” he raged in pain over the fat tanning blade, now imbedded in his thigh to the hilt. He snatched the knife free and hurled it at her with another booming scream of fear and pain.
Damned if the little bitch did not catch it!
She threw it back! Murdoc’s green eyes shot wide in terror as the small piece of sharpened metal returned his way. Time slowed to a creep. Murdoc watched the short, fat blade tumble through the air, grip over tip, over and again.
The Buck Skinner found his left eye socket and continued well into the cerebral cortex.
Murdoc stood there, his thoughts coming at random, disjointed.
There was no pain—he remembered scenes from his childhood. He lived with Kinsmen, beneath the Grey Mountains. His good eye focused on British Fey and Murdoc smiled. He was home again, playing with the other Dwarven children and laughing.
Murdoc returned to clarity when he heard boots, dogs, and human voices. He saw the walls and ceiling shift and roll as his body fell down to the hard granite.
He felt a small suede boot on his face and the sharp tug, then total blackness.
“It was Corella and the High Renth,” said Warfell, not surprised at all with Fey’s appearance ahead of them in the tunnel. “They are both dead boss. Stroke got the kill on Aurora.”
“Good job,” Fey looked as if a wolf had mauled her in her sleep.
“Dwarf is dead too,” Tommy pronounced seconds later from a crouch as the girls fell into one another’s arms. “How in the Seven Hells did you get here so fast Boss?”
“The ventilation tube fifty feet behind me. Folks we need to move. Tommy, can I ride Stroke? Antigua’s leg is broken.”
“Not a chance boss, you’ll beat us—“
Too late, British leaped atop the Deerhound and the two sprinted away.
Danica, Tom, and Tawnee exhaled sharply, giving chase with Torpa and Landreth ahead of them and not another word spoken—half a mile to the mountain’s belly.
Separating the distance at break-neck speed, British and Stroke raced for the heart of Salt Mountain.
&
nbsp; “Gods let them be okay,” she whispered to herself in the dark. Stroke mumbled an incoherent reply and pounded the granite even faster as if he understood.
Whiterock’s galley
Iris stood on the same counter she had been making out with Robert on just hours before, firing and shucking a riot shotgun repeatedly. Next to her, Bigfoot swung the Greatsword left and right catching metal, meat and muscle with every thrust. They were pinned down solid, fighting for their lives.
Fifty feet away in the common area, Eventine and Bollo were back to back, surrounded. The young Knight was faltering, bleeding from head to toe. Eve was little better.
Therians filtered in among the Gudoshi Assassins with clear instructions to leave the hooded humans in white alone. Four Salt Knights were outnumbered dozens to one. It was only a matter of time.
Bigfoot knew this—so did Iris and Eventine.
Suddenly, the air grew chill and static. The chaos subsided as both sides lowered weapons and the atmosphere shimmied in the center of the room. The visage of a tall man clothed in black robes appeared, a shiny Thronesword in his misty hand.
The man was a Spirit, an apparition—the Longsword was quite real.
DEATH IS HEEEEERE!
The Specter howled, as the steel weapon flew from his grasp and through the chamber on its own, cutting and gouging as if held by an invisible entity. The robed Spirit began grabbing Therians by the neck and choking them, staring into their faces with roving, bloodshot eyes, all the while howling bloody murder.
Bollo’s eyes shot wide in shock, the young Knight Squire had never seen British’s Father as such. Eve, Robert and Iris however smiled wide, so very happy to see the Spirit of Caelum Fey once again in their midst.
“YES!” Bigfoot shouted, dropping the Greatsword and opting for his iron kettle fists once again. “Sorry we tried to kill you Sir!” he added like a dolt.
Oddly enough, the Spirit broke contact and shot his way, smiled a quick demon grin, and lunged once more into the enemy.
“Heh’s always liked yeh,” Iris kissed Robert on his cheek, standing at eye level, still on the counter. “But I love yeh.”
That stopped Robert in his boots.
“You do?”
“ROBERT!” Eventine shouted from across the wide chamber and Bigfoot smacked an Assassin away without breaking eye contact with Iris.
“Yes, now pay attention!” Iris smiled wide, leaping from the counter for the nearest Lizard man.
Robert John Stone grinned as a schoolkid might, un-holstering Daphne and letting loose on the thinning crowd, (he had completely forgotten about his big game rifle turned handgun, go figure).
Now the invaders were fighting for their lives.
The Tunnel
The Blackbird Spirit who liked to call himself My Problem, materialized atop the decapitated body of Furtado. The bird squawked loudly, and then transformed into the image of a black cat.
I really liked you Furtado, the creature spoke aloud. It looked down the corridor, littered with bodies.
Not my battle anymore, My Problem bounced down and began walking towards the city.
Dane Den
British and Stroke climbed over the corpses of the Therians and entered their home once again. The intelligent canine bolted for the open doors to the interior, paused at the prone form of Samantha and mumbled loud.
British was there in an instant.
“I got ya honey, I got ya,” British cradled Samantha in her lap, quickly cutting her dress and fashioning a field dressing for the stab wound, though the bleeding was too far gone and British knew it.
“I crawled to the side but they stepped on me,” Samantha spoke in a breathy whisper. “I heard…I heard your Father up there,” she coughed, “he’s here boss, be careful.”
“Don’t worry about me,” tears mixed with the blood on Fey’s cheek.
“Will you find my husband?” Samantha asked, her eyes closing for the last time.
British leaned forward and held the woman tight, rocking back and forth. “I’ll find him for you Samantha, I promise,” she set her to the floor carefully, took one last look and made for the stairs with the Deerhound at her side. She pulled weapons to fore and stalked the steps two at a time.
Signs of the Aequitas Caelum were clear. Victims were not just fallen or downed; they were eviscerated and torn apart where they stood, flung to the walls with incredible force afterwards. She lost count after twenty or so, slowly making way for the common area, herself overwhelmed by the severity of the carnage. Whiterock was now crimson.
In the galley, among the bodies of human and Therianthrope alike, Robert sat with Iris atop him, kissing his face as though it might disappear if she did not keep it up. Next to them, Bollo and Eventine sat as well, covered in blood, drinking water at the counter and pouring it over their heads.
“Thank the Salt Gods, you’re alive,” British smiled with tears in her eyes as she ran to them and hugged each in turn.
“You might could say that,” Eventine finally relaxed when she saw British, realizing it was over and they made it.
“It was your Dad, Missus British,” Robert stood and Iris still clung to him, now kissing his neck. “He saved us boss. Even after what we did to him. He said Shadoweye called and he came as fast as he could. He tore through them like nothin’ I’ve ever seen.”
“He’s much, much stronger now Boss,” Eventine spoke solemnly, cradling her cup and staring at the marble floor. “He had a Thronesword with him, a real one, and it was moving on its own British.”
“True to form—saw that meh-self,” Iris broke contact with Robert’s muscular neck, “like there were two of them, one invisible.”
“Incredible,” British stared. “Say, are you two guys a couple?” the battered little warrior tried to smile past her already stiffening cheeks.
“Hello?” Danica’s voice came from below.
“IN HERE!” British called back, quickly turning a head sideways to Robert and Iris, now making-out roughly with mouths wide and tongues dancing.
Iris broke contact with a loud ‘smack!’
“Am I too obvious?”
British laughed, touched her face and winced in pain.
Whiterock, one month later
The cleanup took weeks. They dragged the bodies of the fallen deep into the tunnel, abandoned the bar in the city, setting mining charges throughout the entire underground complex and collapsing Boomers into a chasm half a city block wide on the east end of Oceanport. The Druid Elders screamed bloody murder the following day that is, until the surviving Seven Devils brought the Second Dynasty weapons down from the mount and surrendered them faithfully to the Archives museum—five hundred ancient swords in all. None of the Knights kept a solitary item; even Warfell threw the Harpy Dagger in with the lot. “Get that shit out of our home,” was Danica’s final word on the massive stow of precision weaponry.
Archaeologists and Denga Monks were allowed in to carefully remove the bones of the Dwarven Kin and excavate the site for further treasures. Meanwhile, the remaining Knights cleaned their home, and prepared to seal off the catacombs when the crews of scientists were finished with the job.
British sent Bollo back to his family, agreeing with the others to take on no more students, endangering lives was no longer an option for them. Maybe one fine day, but for now, the Seven Devils wished to be left alone with their own.
“Robert?” Iris asked one equifade as they lie together.
“Yes?”
“British and I were talking about offering all of you a chance to beh hybrids, strong like Tom and Danica.”
Bigfoot thought hard. British took the blood weeks earlier for one reason only—her face. When the swelling began to lessen, it was clear she would be scarred for life. Tawnee said no, that it did not matter, but the pixie felt her pretty face was all she had. She approached Iris in secret, drew the blood and injected herself before Tawnee could stop her. The following day, Shadoweye asked for the same
infusion in writing and Iris complied, understanding that she did not want to be left behind.
“Not for me just yet,” Robert stared at the marble ceiling and smiled. If I ever get wounded that bad, do it, but until then I’m good.”
“Fine with meh,” Iris snuggled in tight, “fine with meh luv.”
That night, just before the end of the fade, the Aequitas Caelum Vindictus appeared to the Knights in the center of the common area.
“Father,” British stood, taking Tawnee’s hand.
Daughter, you have injected the Arenthian blood into your system, Shadow as well. It was a wise survival decision.
“Yeah, my face was all jacked up sideways. Dad, listen, I—“
Can you ever forgive me for killing your parallel selves?
“No, but does that even matter anymore? Why are you here Father?”
There is a situation in White Falls—the Governor’s wife has been murdered. Six victims to date, each Dwarven woman remembered a human man with a poorly drawn tattoo of an Elk on his neck.
Warfell and Fey met eyes, and then cast collective browns and blues to their friends.
“You’re here with a mark, really?” Tommy had to ask. The Spirit nodded solemnly.
I cannot deal with this serial killer, as I have yet to stop a different one on another world.
“The Man with the Bad Tattoo,” British pulled out her field journal and smiled. She wrote the case number and title down on a clean blank page.
“Robert, time to boot up buddy,” Tom patted Bigfoot’s shoulder, “this guy has no idea what’s coming for him.”
Only the beginning….
Books by JA Stone
Ascensions of Serenity
Taros Comes Wanting
The Crystal Stone
Daughter of the Corpse King
True Terran Legends