Faithless Steel Read online

  The old man with silver hair and blue eyes—his Deerhounds! It fears them! I have prepared one for you—watch for the single eye—give all of your gems and coin for him…

  *

  Tommy bolted upright, sweat raging over his face, heart pounding in his chest.

  “Okay that was weird,” he whispered to himself and checked his timepiece. “Nine hours? Crap!” he leaped to a stand.

  Outskirts, Throne of Steel Citadel Ruins

  A lone tear froze on Tom’s cheek as he hiked the road carefully, examining the empty buildings and structures of the once vibrant Old City, now virtually covered with ice and snow. Seven weeks he lived there—seemed like seven lifetimes.

  “Hello Captain,” Tommy whispered to the blackened threshold of the Dormitory where he first bumped into his new Commanding Officer—Danica Warfell. He remembered his heart leaped when he saw her. She was beautiful, yet Captain Warfell was on the edge, beset with the rage of war and the streamlined seriousness of channeled anger towards her men and women. All good Captains carried this heir of urgency and Danica was no exception.

  He remembered she looked him up and down like a side of Elk for the spit, and then barked her orders concisely. Tommy jumped at her voice, because he knew Captain Warfell was the best. Her Company was the Winter Wasp, a singular precision strike force. Tommy was her new Lieutenant—the last one didn’t make the cut.

  But Tom Snow knew a few things. His own Company had fought fiercely on the same field with Warfell and the Wasp several times now, even taking moments to watch her fight, admiring her calculated paths of destruction, and the rage…her immutable rage.

  Once, he deflected an arrow, and the tall white-haired beauty gave him a glance of gratitude.

  Who would have known he would walk away from the bowels of White Mountain at her side, friends bonded for life having just—

  “Well, we killed them all girl,” Tom whispered to Tawnee’s six season Roan as they walked passed the abandoned Infirmary. “Slayed every single one; even the galley staff,” he wiped his eye with the back of a gloved hand. “Warfell did the women. I killed the old men myself—gods I am so sorry.”

  Tommy fell to his knees—the snowfall strengthened into tight spiral gusts. The wise Roan nudged him firmly, leaving her long nose pressing against his back, pushing Tommy to a stand in the snow.

  “Sorry, we need to find a wind-break, c’mon girl,” back to business.

  Jimbo’s Gun Shack

  “There it is—sweet horror—I so adore this Jimbo. I know you can feel it because I can smell it, you are about to die and you are frightened, yes? Frightened more than ever before?”

  Jimbo could brawl with the best and she just did. Bless her heart she put up a fight. Her shop was destroyed—blood and broken glass now spackled the Gun Shack.

  “Aaaaaaah, I wish it could last forever—this is a rush—tell me you feel it too?”

  Jimbo couldn’t speak, couldn’t break the chokehold, her vision fading, the final snaps and cracks of her neck painless, the terror finally subsiding.

  She didn’t tell Nigel a thing but it didn’t matter anyway, the scent of his prey was crisp in the air—very close.

  Back at the Citadel ruins, Tommy found an old ammo shed that was free of the harsh wind. He brought the six season Roan inside and immediately started grooming her, beginning with hooves. As he worked sitting on a crate, Tom narrated to the horse what his first days were like.

  *

  Captain Warfell stood before the Commanders of the Citadel with Tom behind her, to the right. Her First Lieutenant, a young warrior woman named Selene stood tall behind and to Warfell’s left. Selene did not like Tom Snow, seemed his new Captain didn’t either.

  “My Lords, the Wasp needs time to train,” Danica placed her scarred hands on the wide conference desk. “Certain, liabilities,” she glanced back to Tom, “are hindering our solidarity as a team.”

  Okay that hurt—liability?

  “Captain, General Hamstead has called for an Emissary to gather at White Mountain in six weeks. Warfell, they are talking about a treaty. Our intelligence says the Moorian Nationals are poised for surrender; so harsh this winter has been.”

  “My wise Elders, I would exercise ultimate caution with Hamstead’s Brigade.”

  “This is why the Winter Wasp has been chosen as Security for the detachment. This is a diplomatic mission Captain.”

  “Aye my Good Lords,” Danica Tom and Selene bowed respectfully. “May I ask Sir, will the Wasp retain its charter?”

  “Oh gods yes Captain. If you see or even feel something is amiss, your duty is to the protection of the Crown and its Officers. Act, don’t ask.”

  “Thank you my Lords. We serve with honor,” Warfell stood tall and snapped fingers for her First and Second. The three turned to leave.

  “And Captain?” one of the Elders called forth as they hit the threshold.

  “Yes Sir?” Danica turned to give the room her full attention.

  “Bring your Company up to speed quickly, we leave on the Eventide fade. Your new Lieutenant comes well recommended, please don’t kill him on the first day?”

  “Aye my Lord, we will be ready.”

  Training under Captain Warfell was a shock. Tommy was a five-year Veteran, broken down to clacking knives on the sparring deck and pumping out push-ups in the snow. Clearly, his new Captain was a fundamentalist.

  “Hungry?” Warfell asked.

  “I eat this shit for breakfast Sir!” replied Tommy as he pushed his body away from the ground over and again like a ticking clock.

  “Good,” Warfell placed a boot on his back adding fifty pounds easy. “I am a woman—chow is in ten,” she removed her foot. “Get up LT, nobody misses a meal, come with me.”

  Tommy bounced to a stand, snatched his Longsword and followed.

  As they walked to the bay doors of the Citadel, Warfell asked a few questions.

  “Didn’t I see you on the Greens of Moor?”

  “I was there Sir.”

  “I am a woman Snow.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I remember you—Bravo Company—Captain?”

  “Stone.”

  “Right, good chap Stone was, bad way for a fellow to go. Listen Snow, I need you to be sharp. Selene and I will not tolerate second best. The Winter Wasp is an elite Company; these are the best Swordsmen the Throne of Steel possesses, understand?”

  “Aye Captain.”

  “Good. Now what is your weapon of choice?”

  “Masters Longfoil and Poniard,” Tom said it and the tall Captain stopped cold on the steps.

  “Really?“ her disappointment was obvious. Many believed the Foil an inconsequential weapon for open-field combat, Warfell notwithstanding.

  “I excel with the stinger, but carry the Mighty Thronesword to the field Sir—Ma’am—Captain,” Tommy touched the pommel of the Throne of Steel Longsword at his side.

  “Stinger—that what you call it?”

  “Aye Captain.”

  “Okay, we will see at the sparring deck, on the eye of the equifade, bring your little needles. Now get in there and eat,” Danica motioned with two fingers, “and drink the green shit, I insist.”

  “Aye Captain,” Tom was starving. He ducked away before his new Commander changed her mind.

  “Gods of Shit!” Tommy contorted his face, hefting the glass to his eyes and then setting the glass of green liquid down carefully.

  Chopped up leaves? his mind queried, noting the chunks of plant matter floating in the horrid suspension he was supposed to down.

  Screw it, he picked the pine brew up and threw the tart fluid back, pretending it was whiskey or rot-gut alcohol.

  “Bleeeeeaaaaaaah!” his entire body shook to the feel and the taste, the god-awful taste!

  Others were watching, grinning, some laughing. Tommy took it in stride—part of barrack-life. Everyone got to see the newbie choke down the green stuff, yahoo. Tom glanced about to the men and women of
the Winter Wasp, noting they all had tall glasses of the bitter juice. And they were drinking it like it was water or beer. He also noted the muscles on each warrior—these soldiers were honed athletes—perhaps they were on to something.

  Tommy was anxious to show his new Captain what he could do. No pressure, but he would need to be better than all of them, save his Captain and her First Lieutenant.

  That equifade, Snow took the massive wooden decking with feigned confidence. He’d been through worse; just have to take ‘em down with the basics. So they were in better shape, younger, eager—Tom knew he could do it.

  The Winter Wasp was a team of hardened fighters, recruited from all over Aleutha, invited to join with rank, honors, and the responsibility to perform without question. Reconnaissance was for other squads—the Wasp possessed two duties—target elimination and protection of the Crown.

  When needed, they were asked to surround the King for assemblies and addresses to the public. The security of the Throne’s Elders fell upon the Wasp as well. By the end of his first debrief, Tom could see that they were handling too much for a small Company with only twelve heads…maybe he could help with that.

  “LT, this is our Chemist, Jacaranda,” Warfell announced Tom’s first opponent. “Use the pig stickers, I want to see them.”

  “Aye Captain,” Snow moved to the gear table, set the Longsword down and raised his Foil and Poniard, turning to face Jacaranda, swinging a Scimitar side-to-side and low.

  “Engage!” the Captain called out.

  Tommy loved fighting Scimitars, especially ones with a deep curve in the blade. He approached the young Jacaranda with a hollow smile, knowing he would need to establish his superiority fast and without mercy.

  The bent weapon came in spinning. Tom used the long Dirk in his left hand to direct the movements of the shining Scimitar, holding back on the Foil.

  Five sharp contacts with the Poniard and the Snowman reversed his grip on the Foil and drove the balled pommel into Jacaranda’s solar-plexus, sending him to the wooden planking on his back, eyes wide to Ana in the night sky.

  “Not bad,” Warfell snapped fingers. “This is Christy, my Demolition Expert,” the beautiful Captain held a palm to the pretty girl taking the steps as others dragged Jacaranda away. Christy had short-cut hair dyed a deep dark purple. She excised a Longsword and spun the weapon like a champ as she took position.

  “Engage!” the Captain belted out with a grin.

  This time, Tom charged in low and fast. But the woman with purple locks was good, using her Longsword crossbars to catch the whipping Foil and its dagger and toss them back.

  Out of nowhere, Christy punched the Second Lieutenant in the face, jacking his head back to a flash of light. Tom leaped and rolled to gather a fast moment but Christy was there, bashing away with the heavy Longsword. Three blows deflected from a crouch and Tommy found his angle…

  But he couldn’t kill her. He made the split-second decision and clipped the Longsword, twisting with both weapons and jerking the blade from Christy’s grip. Tom jumped back a pace and whipped the long steel wire across Christy’s eyes so fast it cracked the air with a sharp snap!

  He pulled back on the facial strike and the Wasp’s Bomb-girl realized he could have blinded her easily. She stood there in shock and disbelief.

  “Next!” said Danica. “LT, this is my Frontliner, Dontabole, just call him Bull.”

  Snow could see why. Buggers, this man was massive! The Bull took the deck, pointing at the Second Lieutenant with a free hand and pulling a huge Greatsword with the other.

  “Can I kill him boss?” the eight-foot giant of a man asked politely.

  “By all means Bull, engage!”

  What the Seven? Tommy thought as the gigantic man charged. No time for complaints, Snow leaped to the side and strafed Bull’s britches in the back, exposing his hairy butt to the winter wind on deck.

  “Dammit! That’s not cool man!” Bull pulled his pants up with a quick glance of frustration to Warfell. When he looked back, the long thin tip of the Foil was on his thick neck.

  “Looks like he got ya!” Warfell was smiling now. “Next! LT this is my other Frontliner—meet Jack.”

  Tommy squared off with another brute, bigger than the Bull. This one had long black hair and the look of a barbarian.

  “Jack is a Tribesman. He does not fight fair, which is why we love him,” Danica leaned back in her chair. “Engage!”

  “Hey,” said Jack with the high-pitched voice of a child.

  “How old are you?” Tom had to ask, noting the brute held nothing in his hands.

  “Sixteen,” the warm reply, followed by, “RAAAAAAAAA!” the boy loped forward like an animal, pounding the deck with his impossibly huge fists and taking the air in an incredible bound.

  “Oh my Gods of—” Tommy sprinted away like a chicken until a meat-hook paw found his arm and twisted him around, suddenly hoisting him in the air.

  Fifteen feet off the ground, the boy named Jack smiled at Tom and then threw him across the sparring facility. A frozen moment of flight and Tom heard the screeching of the chairs on the tile as the group of observers scrambled the twenty feet to keep sight of the one-sided battle.

  More like a beating! Tom thought from his elbows as Jack came crashing in with that child-like yell of his. He’s just a kid, more thoughts. Then treat him as one! the finalization in the Snowman’s mind.

  He jumped, over the mass of muscles and bone, slapping the boy hard on the face as he passed beneath. Tommy rolled, crouched and then smacked the Foil’s edge over Jack’s buttocks, cutting through the suede and into the skin with sharp pain and a shout.

  But it wasn’t enough just to spank the brute.

  On the third charge, Tommy slashed his needle into the cheek, feigning the death-blow like lightning, pulling back on the thrust in time and rolling away to freedom as the giant clasped his face to hold back the blood.

  “STOP!” now Danica was standing. “Match!” she called the bout in favor of the LT. Danica saw it—damn right she did. “Jack, hit the infirmary now Son. Next! LT, this is my Scout, Theoneidon—call him The One, and don’t forget the ‘The.’

  Tommy gathered his wind as Jack bounded from the stage with hands to face and a new opponent took the steps. He bore facial tats and drew a long thin, slightly curved Scimitar—looked like a Kotare—great.

  Hours later, Tom sat across from Danica and Selene. He was exhausted, but did not let it show. On deck, he defeated them all with Warfell’s final proclamation that perhaps the Wasp could use a sharp stinger. This made the Snowman very proud indeed.

  The Infirmary got a taste of Tom Snow’s presence that eve. He felt a little bad for cutting most of the team, but it had to be done. The men and women of the Wasp now knew he was no one to be fooled with.

  “Castamere and Wendee cover flush and frontliner logistics,” said Danica. “They choreograph battles like stage directors, so learn their voices and always keep a third-ear peeled for those combat directions and sudden changes.”

  “Aye Captain,” Tommy was paying attention. Frontliners were first to engage and the Flush fighters filled in gaps, containing and mopping up the rest.

  “Good, Wendee’s first debrief is at dawn. The Wasp will be conducting a half-day OPS mission before escorting the Elders to the Senate Chamber in two days. I need you frosty on the morrow’s fade—get some rest LT—you did well today.”

  Danica smiled for the first time in Tom Snow’s life and he immediately fell in love for the last time in his life.

  *

  Back in the Citadel ruins, Tommy laughed to himself.

  “She is so beautiful girl, but then you know this,” Tommy hefted a cotton blanket over the Roan, rubbed the glassiness from his eyes, and settled in for rest until the snow abated outside.

  Whiterock, Salt Mountain

  British, Tawnee and Dobra entered the galley covered in mud; the product of sweat and rock dust from hours of chipping away with pick-a
xes. They waived to Howie who was there behind the massive sink.

  Three exit tunnels underway—three weeks of intense labor for the Knights in rotating shifts and no end in sight. British was ready to devise a device to make burrowing through granite and marble easier—she was already mentally designing a method using sound to cut a tube through—wondering how she would ever find the time. They could manually cut through quicker than the construction of a reverberating coil anyway, so.

  “Thanks Howie,” the little pixie accepted a jug of water from the young man wiping his hands clean with a towel.

  “Sure boss. You guys make any headway?” asked Howie as he passed identical bottles to Dobra and Tawnee.

  “Slow—and steady—wins the race,” replied British between gulps. “Did you see Eventine like I told you to?”

  “I did, she wants to meet again here in an hour. I thought I’d come early and do the dishes. We’re gonna talk while we make dinner,” the young man replied, embarrassed.

  “It’s all right Son, it’s always a good idea to talk out your feelings,” said British to Tawnee’s sharp snort.

  “What?”

  Another snort, followed by the eye rolling as Tawnee turned to leave for the steam room shaking her matted locks. British followed like a puppy, speaking behind her to the mighty Dobra as she left.

  “Give us a head start before you come in with that swingin’ third leg dude.”

  Dobra blushed red with his eyes to the tiles. On mission, the Knights often bathed together, it was no big deal in the field, but at home? Dobra quickly regained his shame around the women. He took great pride in being a true gentleman—a Good Knight.

  “I’m going underdeck boss,” he replied. Underdeck was the name given the lowest level of Whiterock—the den of the Danes—where Dobra spent most of his time. There was a shower down there. It would do just fine.