Eye of the Equifade Read online

  “Hey!” it was Warfell, “c’mon!”

  British cantered Bob 18 in pursuit of her friend and partner. Half a block closer, with a clear view of the Goblet, Danica leaped to the deck and handed a smiling, now wealthy boy the reins to her beautiful Appaloosa.

  “Remember Son, like he was your own,” she whispered.

  “Yes Ma’am,” the boy took the reins to the Dwarf Tinker and guided both beasts away.

  Two hours into the fade, British sat motionless at an open window with a hand held night-scope, surveying the entrance to the infamous pub. No sign of Holon yet. She paused and looked back into the room; Warfell was asleep, resting up. British studied her comrade.

  Danica Warfell was a decorated Veteran under the Throne of Steel, twelve years she served, retiring as Captain, a rank not easily achieved.

  Her retirement was—requested, following the White Mountain Massacre, where the young Captain unwittingly led her entire company, the Winter Wasp, into an ambush. It was a slaughter and set in motion the events leading to the assassination of Good King Macedon.

  They overcame the enemy and took the Citadel within the Mount, but Warfell left the field with only one other survivor. The enraged Captain, avenged her Brothers in another hand-to-hand blood bath, ending White Mountain’s governing body—executing the entire human contents of the Citadel.

  It was said, that Warfell dropped the head of the enemy at Macedon’s feet and the King wept.

  When reports came back of the aftermath and witnesses relayed what Warfell had done, she was asked to retire at twenty-six years old. Two weeks later, Macedon was assassinated in his bed. War ensued, but Danica was not called for. They did not want her anymore.

  Soon thereafter, the centuries old Throne of Steel fell and disappeared, becoming frozen mountain ruins and little more than the written word in the history of the Moon Aleutha. Caelum Fey told his Daughter the war could have been won, if the Elders had simply called for Captain Warfell to lead and fight. The men and women loved her, everybody loved her.

  After the ambush, Danica just lost it. Caelum believed that every field warrior experienced the blood rage fugue at some time. Question was, if it happened once, can the fighter contain the fury again, should it try to emerge.

  Ten years passed peacefully for Danica in her small hometown. Then, the Aequitas Caelum arose and the world perched on the precipice of war once again as all common ideals changed. A real Spirit was walking the land, appearing to Kings, Heads of State, military commanders, even scientists and philosophers.

  Then British and her Father’s Ghost started working on the cases, soon after seeking out Warfell. Her Father insisted on hiring a second set of hands and they wanted the best.

  British remembered the first time she saw Warfell from a distance. Danica was tall, an easy six feet. She had very long, very white, very straight hair that fell everywhere when Danica would just lean forward.

  Not a classic beauty, still British could see it when she smiled. Her eyes were a calm blue, reassuring—hard to believe she was the war hero of a forgotten nation, a seasoned killer…

  British felt her Father manifesting…

  She is brave and believes in what we are doing.

  “Yeah—good people—no sign of the target.”

  He will come. Did you know she gives her earnings to the poor in her town?

  “Yes I do. It is very honorable, she carries a great weight.”

  Across the room, Warfell cracked an eye to study the Spirit and Daughter talking about her.

  A very great weight indeed. I will be close…

  Caelum dematerialized.

  Eight hours into the fade and six hours until the equi-fade, Warfell and Fey entered the Golden Goblet wearing capes and cloaks. British favored a suede cape her Father gave her. It dragged the ground for years, shearing away the leather to the perfect length behind her. Danica wore a soft green Ranger’s cloak, hood back, long white hair falling everywhere she turned her head. They found a booth and leaped into it.

  “Two tanks, two bull dogs, smother that shit in the House Sauce,” Warfell met eyes with the waitress. “You know where I can get some ruby shooters?” the last spoken at barely a whisper.

  The waitress was seasoned, good-looking, good at her job. She studied the two girls in the booth and paused almost too long.

  “My Dad just died,” said British.

  “He was a shitty husband, so,” added Warfell.

  “I might know a guy, he’ll be in later. Two tanks and bloody bulls on the way sweetie. Sorry bout your Pops, I lost mine too.”

  “Thanks—you like these?” Warfell covertly displayed several rare emeralds and the server’s eyes dilated. Again, she paused almost too long until finally speaking.

  “Oh yeah honey. Mama loves those.”

  The sparkling gems moved quickly from Warfell’s scarred hand to the soft palm of the woman and all three girls smiled wide.

  “Tanks and bulls!” she bounced and scurried away, having just earned a year’s worth of tips.

  “So, we’ve been made?” Warfell.

  “Oh yeah honey,” British replied solemnly, “you feeling skippy?”

  “Always boss,” Danica nodded, lowering her head, staring at the intricacies in the grains of the fine wooden table. She popped her blue eyes back up. “Hey, what are you gonna do when this is over?”

  “What do you mean, over?” British was piqued.

  “Oh, nothing really, in times of war, it is everyman’s topic, you know?” Warfell was speaking to a friend who had never served in battle—watched her comrades butchered aside her in droves.

  The waitress returned and plopped the tanks down, setting a tiny package on the table next to the huge pewter froths. She winked and Warfell dragged the ruby painkillers under the table.

  “Yahoo,” British commented, reaching for the stein that seemed larger than she did.

  Warfell ate one of the red pills and British cocked her head slightly sideways.

  “What? Wait til you’re thirty-seven,” she said the words and then drowned her throat with beer.

  “You’re good. Killing is supposed to hurt. The pills tell me you still give a damn about it,” British replied as a massive sandwich was placed before her.

  “Wait!” British grabbed the woman’s hand and motioned her to come close. “Listen, if I can’t finish this sandwich because you talked to the big man at the bar too soon, your whole night will not end as you may have thought. I need ten minutes.”

  “She’s asking really nice. Go home to your children and never return—in just ten minutes, savvy?” Warfell looked hard into the woman’s eyes and she knew, this was her only out.

  “Sure, sure, ten minutes.”

  “The owner of the Goblet requests you speak with him,” a tall, handsome goon with a deep voice approached and relayed politely to the girls with a hand motioning them to accompany.

  “Now.”

  And that was the worst thing he could have said. British looked up from a half-eaten sandwich and growled like a little pocket-dog. She quickly scanned the scene past the tall man. The woman was gone, big man gone, and Holon himself was walking through the front door. Target acquired, her thought.

  She found her calm and met eyes with Warfell—yeah, the mercenary saw their mark enter as well.

  “Okay, sure buddy, what do we call you, man? Dude?” Warfell was already standing as British hurriedly wiped her mouth clean of the house sauce, one last glance of regret to the delectable bull dog.

  “I am not your concern.”

  “You are now Broheem,” British remarked under her breath as they walked across the busy establishment, passing the target as if they were supposed to be there. Holon did not care—he was watching the bartender pour his liquor.

  They walked through a set of bay doors in the back and the girls were brought before the owner, a huge man shoving food in his fish-like mouth.

  “Please sit, are you hungry?” the mass of meat
, sweat, and hair smiled. My name is Barnaby. I would like to know what you are up to in my establishment.”

  Warfell spoke, before British had the chance.

  “My name is Marsha Thompson and this is my partner, Mallory Malleable. We came to Moor looking for a dog, when we heard about the apparently famous bull dog here at the Goblet Sir, which I must say is positively delicious.”

  “When one is allowed to finish,” British added.

  “Forgive my impertinence; I am a man who likes to keep the glass unbroken. I cannot tolerate disruption. Do you understand? This is Danton,” the big man motioned to the tall handsome escort. “Head of Security for the Golden Goblet.”

  “Danton?” Warfell looked the man up and down like a piece of property—he was damn good looking, maybe they could save him for later. As though Danton could read her mind, the tall man cleared his throat nervously and spoke in his perfect baritone voice.

  “If you see me again, you are in trouble.”

  “Good to know sweet cheeks, good to know,” Warfell watched Danton leave—the tall tough guy was blushing like a stupid kid—hah!.

  “What’s tasty at the bar?” British asked as though nothing had been previously said.

  “Well, I like the Fire Whiskey,” Barnaby replied with half a grin.

  “Sounds like a winner to me,” British bowed, announcing the end of the conversation.

  They left and reentered the loud, bustling pub. The place resounded with a cacophony of glasses clinking, people talking and laughing. There were workers from the steel mills, soldiers, Dwarves and yeah, plenty of sloppy drunks.

  “You want the dick or crowd control?” Warfell was removing her green cloak, exposing her Militia Sword and twin daggers.

  “I’ll take the dick,” British broke away and approached a half-smashed Holon, still sitting at the bar. She tugged on his coat as a child might, three times.

  “Demetrius Holon, I need to know who hired you to contract the kidnapping of the twins. Don’t lie to me yooooo big…fat…dick,” British Fey placed her hands on hip, pushing the sides of her suede cape back, exposing the Westbury Scimitar.

  Behind her, Warfell forcefully shoved a drunk into a soldier, spilling his beer onto a steel worker, jarring the table of three Dwarves, breaking one’s tooth on his own stein.

  The best thing about an all-out brawl is the anonymity, who started it? Who cares! Danica Warfell always loved the beginning of a bar room brawl. There can be great release in using one’s fists and feet—stage one is a blast.

  The second best thing about a Pub tussle is stage two, when the first knife is pulled. Then the room goes silent as everyone else pulls dirks and daggers, the clikety-clacking of the short steel weapons will sometimes fill the building as the massive fight approaches stage three. Then somebody pulls a real blade or a gun and things get serious.

  Apparently, the Golden Goblet regulars were all straight for the kill types and within moments, Warfell was forced to release her Thronesword into the smoky air.

  Warfell kept her Throne of Steel Captain’s Militia Sword, it never left her body’s touch. The blade was long and straight but single-edged like a thick Falchion. Down the blunt side ran a groove, three quarters the length of the four-foot blade, a blood groove that prevented the metal from vacuum sticking, when stabbing through flesh, allowing repeated penetrations. Warfell personally requested the weapon be patterned after the Bayonet and the Forgers of the Great Throne did not disappoint her. It was a Sword meant to put down all takers with one strike.

  Still, the mercenary used the butt of the pommel, her free fist and feet as much as possible until a Dwarven Miner with an axe charged her, the unmistakable bloodlust in his eyes. She knew they were like badgers in a fight, virtually unstoppable.

  She pivoted and clipped the short handled axe with her blade and strafed the edge across the little man’s bicep, cutting him deep, forcing him to drop his weapon. A boot followed, crushing the Miner’s face, sending him to the deck.

  Behind the bar, British was talking to a now paralyzed Demetrius Holon. The second Danica pushed the first man, British moved like lightning, jabbing the fat man three times near the solar plexus and then neck. His eyes were wide as he gasped for each breath, unable to move from his barstool.

  British walked behind the bar and used a pewter tankard to smash a dozen tall pub glasses in the metal sink beneath her. She spoke to Holon, her face illuminated by the argon lighting.

  “I know you cannot speak and that will pass in a minute,” she said loudly while gathering the shards of glass in a pile. She used the same tankard and carefully pushed all of the crystalline shards inside the safe metal tube with a handle.

  “So your first words are gonna be the name and a place of residence for your employer, savvy, don’t be a dick Demetrius,” British shrugged her cape higher on her right shoulder. What looked like the curved pommel of a fancy short sword popped out. She grabbed the big tankard of glass and casually walked from behind the counter to stand next to Holon, setting the tall mug on the bar.

  He moved a finger, then his hand and British smiled. “Good boy, now speak.” Just before the muted words began to form, the girl saw a reflection in the man’s bloodshot eyes.

  She whipped about and met a Broadsword with the Scimitar, somehow unsheathing the weapon in time. Warfell watched from the corner of her eye as British made three rapid contacts and then thrust the thin tip of the curved blade through her opponent’s throat, spackling her pretty face with warm red dots.

  A Dwarf rushed her and British punched him square in the middle of his wrinkled face with the ball of the pommel, busting the man’s nose and sending blood into his mouth. He stood there and smiled a red, broken-toothed grin.

  She brought her head up and to the side, the anger welling on her face. The Dwarf raised a Short Sword and British severed the hand that held it, immediately closing the distance, thrusting her free hand upwards, a ridge-hand jab, crushing the small windpipe and sending the man down, trying desperately to hold his crushed throat with a hand that was no longer there. A woman with two daggers came at her. British shot a fast eye to the bar—Holon was gone!

  Warfell tackled the stumbling target across the pub and snatched his head up by the scraggly hair. Face to face, she howled.

  “THE NAME! WHO HIRED YOU?”

  “How many of you are there?” a meek Holon responded.

  “RAAAAA!” Warfell screamed in frustration as four grubby hands grabbed her shoulders and yanked her back into the fray.

  British snatched her tankard and fought with the mug in one hand and the Scimitar in the other. Sixty seconds and three mangled bodies later, she found Holon, now crawling towards the door.

  “Hey Bub,” British smiled, striking the fat man on the temple just so, knocking him senseless, again.

  She stood aside her target and surveyed the room, calculating. Warfell was dominating over two opponents at once and British could almost see the bloodlust—almost. Warfell had good control over her Spirit, even better control over that Bayonet-Sword, impressive. British could tell Danica was enjoying it.

  Then across the room, someone pulled the trigger on a gun and the bar went silent for a split second.

  Stage three. Warfell and Fey met eyes. Danica shook her head no, ever so slightly but it was too late. What happened next is difficult to interpret with the written word, Warfell was watching intently, and still could not follow the motions.

  Like a dancer, British gracefully sheathed the Scimitar, pulled the Blunderbuss out, and jerked the grip sideways, popping the pad chamber open. She then poured a fistful of glass into the chamber and jerked the grip again, snapping the little door shut. This, the pretty elf-girl did five times, leaping about and rolling with a consecutive ‘BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!’

  Nearly a dozen folk flopped about like fish on the wooden deck, faces and arms now full of glass, screams and wails overcoming the room, silencing all but those nearest British.


  Four men and one woman were dead, faces just—gone.

  Holon was shaking his head and attempting to crawl backwards, tears in his fat, wrinkled eyes.

  “Please...don’t,” he whimpered as British stepped closer and opened the smoking pad chamber on the Blunderbuss.

  She removed a felt pouch from her vest.

  “Do you like diamonds?” she emptied the fortune of sharp faceted beads into the small rifle and pushed the cover until it clicked.

  No more bravado, British leaped like a cat on to the fat man’s chest and thrust the hot trumpet barrel against Holon’s neck. She held her head sideways, close to his disgusting face with several nods as Demetrius Holon divulged everything he knew in his last attempt to stay alive.

  “You are a bad man Demetrius Holon. I will come back for you—if you make me, savvy?”

  The pixie sized girl stood and backed away from the target, she got what she came for. A quick glance to Warfell and the unspoken, we’re done here, when her big blue eyes shot wide.

  The sharp edge of a knife pressed firm against Warfell’s ribs. It was Danton, the tall, handsome fellow with the beautiful voice that said things like…

  “You are in trouble,” he spoke into Warfell’s ear from behind. “BACK AWAY!” he then boomed to the crowd as he muscled his captive towards the door.

  Outside, Danton let Warfell go with an unwarranted shoulder shove. She turned and gazed angrily at the overconfident man as British came aside him.

  “I like her,” he said to British.

  “I know. She’s hot,” the casual reply.

  “I’m right here,” Danica added uselessly.

  “You gonna shoot me now?” Danton looked behind to the barrel in his back.

  “Nah, diamonds are forever, besides, she likes you too.”

  “Right here people.”

  His name was Gaston Edinburg, the Son of a steel Baron, a filthy rich sack of shit who dabbled in the human slave trade as if it were a hobby. Children brought the most gold, twins even more.