Soul of the Swordsman Read online

  “Aye Captain,” Tawnee.

  “Yahoo,” Warfell.

  “Light ‘em up,” Brey watched intently as Danica and Tawnee opened fire, the Barump of the plasma turrets muffled by the whine of the coils recharging. Even with the one second delay, both gunners got four solid contacts before Snowflake screamed by at near full speed.

  “Cut the aft—hard about!”

  “Aye Cappy,” Tom dropped power, rotated the craft one hundred and eighty degrees and then pushed the thrust bars all the way forward. Brey glanced back to see James flying across mid-deck. She grinned as the Assassin snatched the top of a couch and clung-to for dear life. Iris was on deck, gripping the steel grate flooring with fingers and toes.

  Warfell centered her sights on the damaged fleet just as the command burst over the com.

  “Port and Star, GO, GO, GO!”

  The pod turrets engaged, Tawnee pausing to fire between Warfell’s burst to keep a steady salvo pummeling away. The Tiboreans didn’t stand a chance. By the time Snowflake drew near it was over—the splintered remains of the enemy ships dotted the empty space with metal shards and electrically sparking remains. A man’s voice came through the speaker. It was the Captain of the Emissary vessel.

  “This is Captain Danton Derulio of the Moorian Flight Corps. Please identify,”

  “You’re kidding me—Danton?” said Warfell aloud, not realizing…

  “Denali? Is that you?”

  “Uhhhhh, yeah?”

  “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY WIFE?” Derulio screamed.

  Warfell had no clue that in this reality, Denali Warren was a Government Operative, even Derulio did not know, but there were many things he did not know about his good lady wife.

  Silence, as Snowflake’s crew looked to one another. Brey rose from the cockpit and strolled down mid-deck, casually poking her head into the port gunner tube.

  “Hey there…wife huh?” she asked, grinning uncontrollably at Danica’s bewildered look. “Wifey,” added the four-foot pixie as she tapped her ear com.

  “Captain, you did say wife, correct?”

  “You touch a single white hair on her perfect body and I swear to the Seven Devils in the Dark I will come over there and kill you. She’s just an innocent woman—emotionally and physically weak, I don’t know who you are but…”

  “EXCUSE ME?” Warfell chopped through the mic, forcefully undoing her straps…”you better check yourself asshole.”

  “Captain, more company!” Tom yelled from the cockpit.

  “It’s a host of Federal Moorcraft,” Bigfoot added.

  “We can’t stay,” said Brey as she and the girls burst on to the bridge. “Captain Derulio, your rescue is here. See you on a different day my friend.”

  “Negative, you take Denali and I follow.”

  “He’s adrift Captain—going nowhere,” said Bigfoot, eyes glued to his screen.

  “She said different day—pay attention dickhead,” Warfell talked tough, but a glimpse of the handsome Danton on the com-feed sent her heart spiraling out of control. Brey took note, plopping into her high-backed Captain’s chair, snapping her fingers and pointing forward. Tom nodded, bringing Snowflake aside the downed Emissary, pausing and then rotating, accelerating slowly at first and then shooting away...

  Warfell’s Aleutha, Fort Salvos, negative altitude four-hundred, fifty feet

  Emili Swift pulled her Longsword from the belly of a Therian, raising the blade in time to meet a jagged bladed chopping axe. Aside her, Shadoweye used her long thin Scimitar as a whip, slashing like lightning side to side, ripping the scaly skin open with every contact. Behind Emili and Tawnee, Iris fought like a wild animal, punching, kicking, tearing with her sharp nails and gouging throats with her extended fangs—she was growling low and constant as a wolf might whilst feeding. The sound was disturbing, especially to the enemy.

  After what seemed an eternity, the last Therian fell.

  “Criminy, how many are there down here?” said Emili, placing hands to knees, blood coursing down from a brow.

  “Thousands pretty lady,” Iris searched the walls, approaching Emili with something pasty in her palm. She smeared a tiny amount on the forehead and the bleeding stopped. “The fungus spreads into the wound and dies, forming a bandage,” she smiled in the feint glow of a nearby water rivulet.

  “Thank you,” Emili met the black eyes, still flushed from the combat. “I like you, always have Iris. When this is over, you wanna hook up or do something?”

  “That means sex,” Tawnee added, already searching the fallen for anything of use—nothing.

  “I’ve known ya like meh pretty lady. What would ya want with a monster like meh?” the Arenthian lowered her head, hair rescinding to the dull grey—clearly ashamed of herself.

  “Stop that,” Emili took Iris’ cheeks in her hands.

  “Both of you,” said Shadoweye at a whisper, crawling atop a shard of rock, patting the stale air down with an open hand behind her.

  Within seconds, grey and green eyes joined Tawnee’s browns, searching the wide open caverns ahead…when they saw it.

  Bigger than the last one, thought Shadoweye, buggers!

  The massive constrictor shot its head aloft, seven feet of forked tongue lashing the air furiously like a whip.

  A second beast came aside it—another one appeared twenty feet to the right.

  The girls could not see British, the boys and the dogs, observing the hundred-foot snakes from the opposing end of the underground atrium—nor did they see the little pixie take off at full speed, charging in with her Machete and Buck-Knife out wide and low.

  Across the spans, the Snowman sighed.

  “Just no way to stop her from doing that is there,” said Tom.

  “Nooop,” Bigfoot answered as Antigua and Torpa gave chase, bounding after British into the heart of the snake pit.

  Alternate Reality, Moon Tibor, Woodlands Retreat

  Worlds away, a row of old men sat alongside a crystal blue lake.

  “No Sir, you want to hook him along the back, so he looks as though he’s swimming when you reel in the line, like so.”

  “Thanks,” Chancellor Atria held the baited pole awkwardly. “Could you please?” he looked to his Assistant and fishing coach; a good woman named Bobbi.

  “Sure.” She took the rod and cast the line like a professional, fifty feet into the lake.

  “Viggo, tell me about the new ship,” the Chancellor of Tibor accepted the line back from Bobbi and gazed out over the ice-blue waters. Three politicians to the right a head popped forward.

  “Relax Chancellor, this is your time to rebuild the mind and heart,” Forenz replied, turning his attention back to the water as one of the men got a bite. “Yes!” Twelve heads leaned forward as one of Atria’s Advisors scrambled to his feet, pulling back on the line, bending the pole to near-breaking point.

  “Easy Ambassador, nice and slow, tire him out,” Bobbi advised and the old man lessened the tension. “Give him some slack, there you go Sir.”

  Atria motioned to Forenz with his nose and the two set down their fishing rods, regressing from the small crowd on the dock, intently watching the man-fish battle.

  “Come, have a drink with me in the pavilion. Have you taken a woman for the weekend?” the Chancellor placed a hand on Viggo’s shoulder as they walked away from the wooden decking on the pristine shore.

  “Oh! Ah, no Sir, I am not smitten by the flesh, but I thank you.”

  “Capitol! Now, will you tell me about the new craft please?” Atria was insistent. They found a pub table overlooking the water—looked like the Ambassador lost his catch below, the gathered men throwing hands in the air, laughing and shouting.

  “Okay, the design is larger, with a flight crew of six. The armament is heavier of course. We have something new, something you are really going to appreciate my Liege. In fact, I was saving this, but…do you promise not to let on? We were not going to show you until the end of the weekend.”


  Atria leaned on the edge of his barstool, aged green eyes sparkling with excitement. “I will be cool Viggo, what is it?”

  “We call it the Badger,” said Viggo. “Technically, it’s a Forenz 17 Fightercraft…” he paused for effect, “and it’s parked in the east hangar bay right now, waiting for your inspection my Lord.”

  Atria smiled wide as the waitress approached. It was an attractive young woman with face tattoos and short brown hair.

  “What shall I be serving this wonderful morning gentlemen?” said James with a flirtatious glint.

  “Um…” Viggo scanned a paper menu. “A pint of hot lager and honey for me, the Chancellor will have milk and fruit.”

  James met Atria’s gaze for approval.

  “He knows me well, yes,” the old man waived her away, immediately leaning back in for more whispered information on the new prototype.

  The waitress walked casually to the kitchen, turning her back to the double doors and pushing through. She handed the first ticket to the Cook—Warfell. James continued through a different set of doors to yet another dining room with a bar. She handed the second ticket to the Bartender—Brey.

  “You have balls,” James whispered with a smile as she turned on a heel and winked at the Busboy—Tom Snow.

  “I love my balls,” said Brey, gushing the hot liquid into a heavy stein and placing the brew on a corked tray alongside a tall glass of milk. “Pick up, table one.”

  James snorted a repressed laugh with a sideways grin and two brown eyes on the back door. “The new band should be arriving soon. Sorry to hear about the last one.”

  “Yeah—tough break,” now Brey was giggling, imagining what Bigfoot was doing to the string quartet at that very moment.

  James hefted the tray, winked again at Tom and pushed backwards into the kitchen. At the line, Warfell placed a cup of thick honey next to an unsliced orange.

  “What?” asked Danica.

  “We’re good,” James replied, whipping a dagger out of nowhere, slicing the orange expertly thin with the razor’s edge and secreting the blade in the folds of her sleeve. ”On my signal,” added the Assassin.

  “Which will be?” Warfell really did not know.

  “Oh, screams, gunfire.”

  Danica gave a quick nod, looking down to the galley staff on the floor, gagged and tied up tight behind the prep-line. She moved a finger to her lips as the men and women squirmed—eyes bulging with fear.

  The Waitress who was not commanded the floor with graceful strides, allowing her mind a slight drift...

  James loved Tawnee. She obsessed over the woman—been like that for years. Funny how the more intense her love grew, the less she became aware of it, until one day it simply vanished…taking the girl’s sanity with it. Funny as well, how something as simple as an awareness can make or break the psyche entirely—James was wholly unaware of her bizarre actions and motivations behind doing whatever it took to make Tawnee happy. And what she thought Tawnee wanted was almost always far from it, her mind-set convoluted and distorted so much by the insane desire to please a woman who simply could not stand her.

  Killing for hire didn’t help much either. James maintained a position at Fovea Interests in Security, but dabbled in the dark ways at night, becoming a Phantom in the Aleuthian underworld of drugs, prostitution, and murder. She stood to rule the Syndicates but for one thing—James would only contract hits on bad people. She carefully researched each potential target, refusing to accept a job without good justification. If they did not have it coming, James would not do it. Tawnee once told her that only a jerk would kill a good man—she listened and remembered.

  This angered the Warlords and Crime Bosses, though none would dare touch her. She was that good at the job and none were safe from her reprisal. Once, Tawnee nonchalantly scoffed at an infamous Kingpin on the news-feed. Three days later he was found dead in the streets. One day after that, James returned from an unexpected leave of absence with the dead man’s signet ring on her forefinger and a broad smile on her pretty face. Brey had long suspected but said nothing—he was indeed a very bad man.

  “Noble Gentlemen, if you please?” James approached the small table with a warm voice, setting the tray down. Both men smiled back. Viggo took a long pull from the stein…

  He choked and spit the hot brew right back in.

  “Is something wrong my Lord?” the fake waitress leaned in, teaming with solemn solicitude.

  “This is not lager,” Forenz twisted his face to the bitter, acrid taste of the hot urine still in his mouth.

  “Let me call for the Bartender—oh well here she is!” James backed away a pace as Brey Fovea stepped quickly into the Server’s zone brandishing the eyes of a feral wolf. She flicked her wrist and the short Wakizashi clacked open, resting with the blunt side firmly against the pulsing throat of an astonished Viggo Forenz.

  “A quick word with your Advisor, Lord Chancellor,” said Brey, twisting the wrist, bringing the keen ventral edge of the blade to the skin, lifting Forenz’s chin high above the tabletop.

  Atria opened his mouth, and then he felt the dagger pressing tight against his ribs. He looked up to see James, slowly shaking her head.

  “Don’t do it my Lord,” said the Waitress who was not. Beside her, Brey tore her vision through Viggo’s brain with those deep, hollow browns. At length, she spoke in a cold voice.

  “My Father tells me you killed him. I simply cannot abide those actions Sir.”

  She pulled back smooth and clean until the vertebrae stopped the blade—then she jerked it the rest of the way.

  “I THOUGHT YOU HAD A PLAN!” Danica yelled behind her Longsword as the Tiborean Agents poured through the wide double-door threshold.

  “Well, I did!” Brey clipped an arm, spinning the woman about, brutally severing the hamstrings just below the buttocks, and sending her to the floor screaming in agony. Brey shoved her boot into the windpipe for silence. “It already worked!” added the pixie, promptly engaging her next opponent.

  Bartender, Cook, Busboy and Waitress were surrounded, waiting for some kind of break—for a way out. They were waiting for the band to start playing…

  And it did, with Bigfoot Bob charging the crowd swinging a cello made of chrome like a wheat-reaping Sycle. Tawnee and Iris were there as well—finding and grabbing a terrified Chancellor Atria and pushing him forward, into the mass of Government Agents with arms pinned behind his back and a sawed-off shotgun firm on his left ear.

  “STAND DOWN! PLEASE!” Atria begged his men.

  The fighting ceased, and Snowflake’s crew came together in a circle-out with the Ruler of Tibor in the middle—slowly scooting sideways towards the outside greens, the hangar bays beyond, and the only way out of there.

  Warfell kept her blues on the Pavilion and the mass of men and women waiting for the first opportunity to move. Behind her, Brey lashed the Chancellor to a wall.

  “Tom, take that Jumper,” Brey pointed to a nearby transport craft. Snowflake was hidden in the nearby jungle so they had to get there. She then gave her attention to Atria. “Sorry about this mess Sir. I only came to avenge my Father,” said the pixie.

  “I knew Caelum Fovea, he was a good man. I would have done and shall do no less,” Atria lowered his head.

  “Will you ask them to not give chase and let us go?”

  “I cannot Miss Fovea. We will act quickly, for Tibor. You killed my Grandchildren.”

  “I know Sir, yet I cannot apologize, they had it coming,” Brey patted the old man’s shoulder. “My Lord, do you believe in Ghosts?”

  Atria looked at the petite woman in surprise.

  “Of course not, are you serious young lady?”

  “Well, in a few minutes, remember these words—you are not crazy Sir. You are not crazy,” she smiled, bounced on a booted heel, and then ran like mad with Danica for the small Jumper-craft—engines already whining, Bigfoot at the hatch waiving them to run faster.

  Warfell’s Aleutha, Fort Salv
os, negative altitude four hundred feet

  “Gods of the Dark that little woman is crazy,” said Shadoweye, desperately scrambling over the limestone, leaping to the deck and bounding into a sprint, Iris passing her, Emili lagging behind in seconds.

  Snakes are calculating creatures, intelligent reptiles with lightning strikes and deadly reputations. In the wild, they are rarely accosted or attacked by simple virtue of what they are. Here, in the unique bio-habitat beneath Aleutha’s surface, the gigantic alpha snakes had no natural predators, nothing to be afraid of—until they discovered a cute little elf girl in their breeding nest with a machete, a knife and a definite can do attitude.

  They recoiled like frightened kids, drawing the massive heads back to avoid British. She instantly knew she very well could not run them down before they turn, so she made the choice, slinging the Buck Skinner with everything she had…

  The short, fat blade hit the mark, sinking into and through the eyeball, thudding to a halt in the poorly developed cerebral cortex and dropping the reptilian behemoth flat on deck.

  She raced, leaping free of a strike, reversing the blunt-tip Coralo Machete and strafing the neck of the beast—not enough. British rolled to a crouching stand with the small chopping blade wide to the side; Blunderbuss still in its holster on her back. She froze in place, watching the two remaining snakes as they raised their huge heads, preparing to lunge.

  “Nope,” said the girl, removing a green glow stick and snapping it. She tossed the bright light between the creatures, pulling her goggles up and running again. They were blinded by the flash of bright green, giving British the steps and bounds she needed to gouge a throat wide-open. She leaped free and froze in place again. Crap! She thought, with her back to the last one, the biggest one, also the smartest one.

  The beast thrust forward like a bullwhip, mouth springing agape, revealing the fangs—glass-like scimitars, sparkling with saliva in the eerie glow.