Seven Devils

  Seven Devils

  JA Stone

  Seven Devils

  2017 JA Stone, all rights reserved

  Cover art, original poetry JA Stone

  Concept actuation, formatting M Stone

  jastoneauthor2@gmail.com

  Note from British Fey, Commander, Knights of Salvos

  We have worked these cases, taken in part from my field notes and subsequent journals, enhanced by the testimonials of those involved. These become my own words and perceptions documenting extraordinary events—fantastic phenomena on a large rocky moon orbiting a gas giant orbiting a yellow star orbiting a black hole.

  Case #38 The Savage Spirit of Salt Mountain

  Case #39 The Evil in Us All

  Case#42 The Bad Problem—About Murder

  Case #1 The Man who Killed Caelum Fey

  Case #43 The Dwarf with a Can-do Attitude

  Case #44 The Seven Souls of Shadoweye

  Case #46 The Man Who Took It Too Far

  Case #47 A King to Rule Cuts Deep and Cruel

  Case #38 The Savage Spirit of Salt Mountain

  Fort Salvos

  DANICA WARFELL TOOK long strides, her boots clacking on the polished marble of Tower Main. She should have been exhausted but rather she was starving—hunger rudely manhandling any needs for rest away.

  As a Human-Arenthian hybrid, she barely slept now, more like waking meditations. Dreams were gone, biscuits and beers too, but what bothered her the most was that everyone was subtly wary of her—everyone save her partner British, her Dane Torpa and of course, Iris.

  The six-foot warrior with long straight platinum hair falling down past her waistline rounded a corner—her left heel slipping on the smooth stone. Danica pushed off gracefully with her right and rode the slide, immediately resuming the well-timed strides as if planned.

  “Sure,” she said to herself, quite pleased with the newfound agility. Being tall had always worked against Warfell, giving the world a spindly-armed, clumsy kid turned grown-up. Now she had the reflexes of a mongoose, and the calculative perceptions of a feral wolf.

  She should have been exhausted.

  On the expansive greens of the courtyard, Warfell gazed upwards as Torpa came to her side, pressing his pony-sized body against her. She rubbed his neck, watching the swirls and ebbs of Mighty Ana consuming a third the sky. Green Occia plumed on the horizon amid a background of a billion Stars. It was two hours until the end of the equifade and deep night—Danica sighed as they strolled casually for the stables.

  She let the dog watch, choosing to stay clear of Rarity, her Painted Appaloosa stallion. Rarity was far from blood’s stranger, but Danica was ashamed in his presence, rather hoping to spare her equine friend from having to witness the act.

  They moved beyond the horses, past the kennels and down a long hallway to the aviary dome. Warfell pushed the door back, held it for Torpa, and then allowed the springs to clang the wood shut.

  Once they were inside, the Vulture Raptors squawked with trepidation, nervously hopping about on the thick driftwood branches suspended in the cage, fully aware of who was now in their midst. Each beast knew quite well what was about to happen. One of them would succumb and do it—powerful hunger pressing desperately against the reality of impending doom. One of them would give in—the bravest or most ravenous.

  Danica calmly removed a cloth wrap from the folds of her cloak, sitting on the stone floor with her legs crossed. The massive Dane lay perfectly still at her side as the agitated birds rustled.

  She extended an arm wide, dangling the fresh cut of raw meat to the air aside her and lowering her head, motionless in place as a snowy pine on a stark windless eve…

  She preferred the blood hot.

  One day prior, City of Oceanport, Archives Museum

  “I know exactly who you are Miss Fey and forgive me but the answer is still no until we pursue the proper channels,” Elder Marese, the new Curator was holding fast, being extremely brave, considering.

  “Look,” British took a steady breath, “How about just a viewing?”

  “You are aware that we have relics and artifacts from your family here too. Should I allow open viewings for the public as well?”

  “It’s just a sword,” the small pixie relented, temporarily defeated.

  “A sword? Why didn’t you say so Miss Fey? All of the weaponry from the Frantz Estate is already on display, third floor,” she extended a palm and began walking. British Fey, Robert John Stone and Logos Gravari followed.

  The new Curator of the Archives in Oceanport was a thorough conductor; a tall thin twisted branch of a woman and one of the few existing female Denga Masters, Elder Marese. British understood her caution and sense of severity—the last time they were in town the bottom floor of the museum was destroyed.

  “Through here Good Knights,” Marese gesticulated, giving the three a respectful eye and a warm smile. British saw her target item immediately, scooting up to the glass, touching fingers. Rob and Logos came to either side.

  “Ah, the Katana Longsword,” Logos admired the slight curve of the ancient blade, the polished bone pommel ending in the head of a snarling wolf. “Looks like a Lost Second Dynasty.”

  “Correct Master Gravari,” Marese nodded sagely. “The metal was forged by legendary Dwarven Kin here above, within Salt Mountain.”

  “I thought this style was Northern,” said British.

  “It is,” the Curator met eyes. “The Lost Second Dynasty were rebels in hiding, using the decades of isolation to forge the strongest folded steel ever crafted on Aleutha.”

  “How were they killed, with these incredible weapons in hand?” Bigfoot asked.

  “These good folk were scientists, not warriors. It is said they hid the massive cashe of fine steel deep within the mountain.”

  “Okay, thank you so much Madam Curator. I will return soon with authorization to remove the sword into my custody,” British turned to leave.

  “I would rather you just take it Lord Knight. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement concerning some of the artifacts in the Fey collection?”

  British spun about on a heel with a grin.

  “I approve—why so easy?”

  “Because I know who you are Miss Fey.”

  Salt Mountain Denga Temple, altitude eight-thousand feet.

  Gustav hadn’t slept in two days, his training in the Honorable Denga at a fevered pitch, the time on guard duty outside his only rest. He scanned the iron-chained path twisting down a jagged escarpment of granite, wind and snow flurries causing the images to disappear and reform with astounding clarity. Gustav pulled the collar of his nape tighter, shivering. Just why it was necessary to build a temple on a frozen mountainside was far beyond Gustav. The mind can be just as calm on a windswept beachhead with bungalows and hammocks to lie…down…in…

  Brown eyes popped wide to the blur of white. Something was there. A dark image of a small man, a Dwarven man appeared to Gustav not ten paces away, he took a step forward placing a gloved hand to pommel.

  “Hold it right there Sir. I have no admissions this evening.”

  It was indeed a Dwarven-kin wearing silk robes with a hood pulled down. Gustav noticed the shiny grey material could not possibly provide enough warmth.

  “Come with me,” he said with solicitude, stretching a palm out to the silent stranger, motioning to an interior door nearby. “You’ve got to be freezing, c’mon! What in the?”

  Gustav stumbled back to the icy wall of stone behind him as the dark figure began to levitate in the air. He threw back his own fur-lined hood, rubbing his eyes desperately to abate the snow-blind.

  I am in need.

  The Spectre spoke with a voice not human, scrawling the language like talons on slate.

 
; “What—who are you?” Gustav’s heart slammed the wall of his chest as the thing floated within striking distance, its eye sockets beginning to glow bright orange as though afire. It spoke again with insistence.

  I am in need. I am in NEEED!

  “But I don’t understand—” the Denga student tried.

  Without warning, it lunged with bony hands, thrusting them into the man’s chest. Gustav shot eyes wide to the sky and screamed as the thing raised him from the granite, then threw him to the side with incredible strength, his already dead frame tumbling down the jagged spire of Salt Mountain.

  Fort Salvos

  Something has happened—a grave disturbance, where is British?

  “Oceanport with Bigfoot and Logos,” Danica answered as she stepped quicker across the greens, now jogging past the stables. Torpa was darting in circles now, whining with excitement, slinging his butt side to side—wagging the tail not there. The crafty Dane knew they were about to take the road.

  “Torpa, go get Antigua and Landreth,” Danica said the names and the massive canine bolted away like a gazelle.

  I will fly ahead Swordsman, something is happening on Salt Mountain.

  The Aequitas Caelum dissolved and Warfell walked on. She had forgiven him for killing Brey, accepting the fact that none of them lived free of the bloody path behind, beside and before them. She entered Tower Main. Everyone would be asleep but the con-tower. Danica took the steps, not wanting to sound the alarms just yet.

  Brooke met the tall platinum haired warrior mid-way on the catwalk between the spires.

  “I wanna go boss.”

  “Negative.”

  “Listen, please!” the former Tiborean Knight stepped boldly into Danica’s path. “I have skills Captain.” Brook’s green eyes were pleading to go on mission—praise the odds and damn the gods she just did not know. Warfell gave her the business blues and Brooke backed away quickly.

  “Negative, Fort Salvos needs your skillset, this is critical,” Danica sighed and continued. “Buggers girl, you know what we usually walk into—are ya sporting a death wish?”

  “No Captain, I just want to do my part,” Brooke was defeated again. She followed, skipping a step to catch up.

  “Would you feel better if the Therians attack while we are gone? Or Tiborean insurgents charge the wall?”

  Okay, there was that. Warfell took the steps to the war deck.

  “Now would be a good time for recruits. We need loyals who are not afraid. We want them young too Brooke, I’ll take a strong greenhorn over a skilled know-it-all any fade.”

  “I heard that,” the Knight stepped out on deck. “I’ll ring Tawnee, Tom and Iris,” Fort Salvos’ Security Chief sat down, toggling the alarms in each room with a system British recently installed, the pixie now overflowing with technical knowledge.

  “Thank you Brooke,” Warfell stared out over the grasslands surrounding the vast estate—lost in distant memories.

  Pine forests between Fort Salvos and Oceanport

  Thomas Barrow Snow rode his Black Racer with his head high. He adored the assembly, the clatter of gear and provisions, the anxious Danes leaping and murmuring. ‘Casting their duty’ and taking the road was a matter of great pride for Tom.

  Aside the Snowman, Danica rode Rarity, her white hair flowing back as they galloped over the waist-high grasses.

  Ahead, Iris rode a Sand Pony named Dare, taken from a failed mission nearly two years past. Most horses would not abide the Arenthian on their backs, but Dare was a cunning beast. Second only to Snowflake in size and strength, Dare was an alpha, brave enough to accept the strange animal-human, and eventually giving her his love and devotion.

  Behind Tom, Shadoweye rode a sleek Roan mare with no name, despite the fact she had been with the Knights from the beginning.

  The Danes, Torpa, his mate Antigua, and Landreth darted in and around the four riders like jackrabbits, yelping and howling—communicating their charge and answering to the Alpha.

  And Mighty Torpa stuck close to Danica, hovering near, shooting away and returning quickly to his Master.

  The animals were all dedicated to the Knights and in return for their loyalty they were treated as equals, loved and projected into the lives of each warrior as brothers and sisters. Tom smiled, Danica shot him a coy glance with those amazing blues and his heart jumped beneath his chest plating.

  “Looking good Captain,” he stammered before her, unwittingly admiring his friend. Danica was different alright but for the better. She was in top physical form, sporting new muscles, tone, and that incredible, dimpled, perfect apple…

  “Snowman? Hey buddy?” Warfell grinned as Torpa nipped his boot in play, the unspoken message ‘answer her dummy!’

  “Uh, right here boss,” snapping back to his senses.

  “Stay focused,” Danica warned with a grin.

  “Always Cappy,” he replied.

  “On the mission Tommy.”

  Later that fade, the Aequitas Caelum appeared to the riders as they settled in for a brief rest.

  There is another Spirit.

  They did not know what to say. Certainly, it should be possible given their current conversation with one.

  Something or someone has triggered its release unto Aleutha. I cannot get close enough, it hides expertly and travels where I cannot pursue. It is very powerful…and it’s killing the Monks and Druids one by one atop the Mount.

  I sense a great evil within the beast.

  “More evil than—” Bigfoot shut his fat mouth, about to say ‘you?’ The giant man paused and turned his head sideways as though contemplating. “Okay, we do not have to play pretend Mister Fey. We’ve all seen you fight, and well, it’s pretty evil lookin’…sorry,” Rob closed his big brown eyes in self-shame.

  I know Robert, I tear them apart now. The unbridled power becomes me and I…

  I revel in the act.

  The Aequitas Caelum spoke with a tone of sadness. Warfell stepped forward, her hair sparkling in the reflective light of the small campfire.

  “My Lord, you have never taken a life without great need or justification. Outright murder is why we are here this fade, an act none of us are free of,” she bowed, adding with a neutral tone. “The Ravens in Tibor Proper have begun calling us the Seven Devils and for good reason.”

  “Again with the Ravens? I am SORRY ABOUT TIBOR,” Shadoweye stood, scoffing at Danica. Their last mission became a downright massacre when Tawnee picked a fight with the wrong guy—a riverside dockworker with a boatload of friends, literally.

  Danica wasn’t sorry—her point made clear. All of them were grudgingly accepting the fact that they were killers, plain and simple…they just aimed for the ones who had it coming.

  Denga Temple, Salt Mountain

  Master Eventine Delacroix sat eyes closed and head low in meditative pose on a wooden pedestal, her Noble Druids gathered around, waiting patiently for her word.

  “Genevieve,” she opened the wise brown orbs to her Second.

  “Yes my Lord.”

  “Seal every door and window. Internalize the Druids here—something is coming for us.”

  Genevieve’s eyes glassed over, the fear so evident. She saw that thing take Anton first hand. Twelve highly trained Druids, veritable killing machines, brutally torn apart or tossed from the sheer spire one by one. Genevieve could not get the images from her mind and heart. It was the eyes! Horrid, orange glowing orbs blinking, roving side to side. It spoke to her search team—said it was in need. The insanity that followed…

  “Ginny? I need you here and strong honey.”

  “Yes Ma’am, on your word.”

  “No,” Master Delacroix left the pedestal, suddenly kneeling before her faithful Second, scarred hands gently cupping the frightened cheeks. “No, we can dispense with all formalities now Ginny. I am attempting to reach the Aequitas Caelum but I will need the collective concentration of everyone here. Fear cannot pervade our search.”

  “Do you thin
k the Spirit will help us? Will he bring the Seven—?”

  “SSSH!” Delacroix’s sharp eyes turned feral. After a tense moment she continued. “I do. I believe he will feel his way to us.”

  Ginny nodded and rose to a stand, darting her eyes to the gathered Druids, snapping fingers, hand signaling the orders to seal the entrances and return quickly to the Temple Sanctuary.

  “We will be ready my Lor…Eventine, we will be ready Eventine,” she bowed. Genevieve earned her position as Second with astounding physical skills and meditative prowess, but she was vulnerable to fear. Eventine watched her Second leave with six of their best, silently praying to lend Ginny the strength she would need.

  Oceanport

  British Fey cantered her massive Tiborean Snowhorse, Snowflake, over the cobbled road. Next to her, Logos rode a full-sized, hearty stallion, a brown and white Tinker with feathered hooves—he and the boss looked like kids bouncing atop mountains.

  Bigfoot walked eye level to the riders, his long strides equal to that of the horses.

  “Missus British?” he asked.

  “Go,” the pixie returned.

  “How are we gonna kill a Ghost?”

  “Good question, Dad and I have a couple of ideas. I need to build a magnetic resonance refractor.”

  “Boss, those words scare me,” Robert looked up and Logos laughed aloud.

  “Worry not laddie-boy, remember, she has other British’s in there—knowledge we cannot comprehend from worlds where we fly amongst the Stars,” the Dwarf tapped his temple.

  “Aaaaand that scares me too!” Robert replied but Logos scoffed back.

  “You are so reticent, and yet when the time arrives, you tear limb from socket,” the Dwarven Knight smiled wide, clacking tongue to teeth for his Tinker.