Soul of the Swordsman Read online

  Mid-air, British rotated, slicing the beast across the arm with the short, fat skinning knife. She hit the deck, rolled and bolted away into the dark as creature number one’s body fell next to its severed head and creature number two collapsed, unconscious. It was over in seconds.

  “Are you crazy?” Tawnee asked when they finally manhandled the massive limp body back into the argon maze.

  “Yes,” British replied. “We need to study it, send it to Tibor.”

  “It’s awake people,” Warfell warned as Tawnee finished binding the wrists to the ankles in a classic hog-tie. She was right—the eyes were blinking rapidly to the light.

  “Knightssss of Platinum Palassss,” it spoke in a hiss, referring to the former name of Fort Salvos some three hundred feet above them. This told British volumes; so they knew or once knew the Duke who had the amazing complex built.

  “Yes! We are the Knights of the Platinum Palace—why are your people here now?” British was winging it. The scaly man-like lizard took several deep breaths, the eyes finally slowing down, settling at half open.

  “We bringssss it, you no Duke…” it paused and snarled, realizing the human’s foul intentions, pulling aggressively on the climbing tethers firmly wrapped about the ankle and wrist.

  “You killssss my Brother!”

  Suddenly, sharp, bitter urine began emanating from the groin, soaking the creature’s lower body as Warfell, Fey, Tawnee and Bigfoot shot hands to mouth in desperation to abate the choking stench.

  Torpa and Antigua went ballistic—both massive hounds assuming attack stances and circling the creature imperceptibly slow, growls vibrating the floor.

  “Easy boy, he’s not going anywhere,” Warfell reached to pat the shoulder but Torpa jerked away, his growl intensifying to a fevered pitch.

  “He pissed himself,” Bigfoot offered behind the massive hand.

  “No—he didn’t,” said Shadoweye, with the voice of dread.

  “Shit you guys he’s signaling for back-up,” British finished to Tawnee’s nod.

  “Stop him!” Bigfoot raised his fists.

  Warfell leaped for the head, decapitating the creature, sending blue blood over everyone.

  “That shut him down,” Bigfoot affirmed with a nod.

  “You can’t shut down molecules in the air, we’ve got minutes and we all have his death-scent on us—we’re marked!” Tawnee was correct. British Fey stared at the floor, realizing what she had just done.

  “Any hope of diplomacy was just ruined by me. I am so sorry everyone, but now I have to fight them,” British spoke with utter regret. “No time to send word topside, and I can’t let them reach our home,” she took off the smelting goggles, meeting eyes with each. “How many hours down here now?”

  “Fourteen,” Tawnee.

  “Okay, they know Salvos is above and made some kind of deal with the Duke. They brought something for him. I am going to kill them all and retrieve whatever it is. Any of you guys feeling skippy?” she replaced the goggles and grinned. “Like super skippy? Caaaause I cannot let any of them go back to their home with this news—this expedition will never return.”

  Warfell took a deep breath. If they made arrangements with the late Duke, they would be soon knocking on the basement door anyway.

  “Screw it, I’m in,” Danica said it.

  “Four humans and two dogs against a hundred lizard men,” Bigfoot gazed at the strange body. “They look strong. The tail looks dangerous, like a whip at the end,” Robert John Stone was so precious, tapping a finger on his chin. ”Yeah I can whoop ‘em Boss Lady— if they don’t bog me down.”

  “Good boy, Tawnee?” British was already dragging packs of gear out from the small cashe. She shot Shadoweye a coy glance.

  “Of course I’m with ya Boss, home is all we have, but we need to get back in the dark immediately so our eyes don’t lose that vision again,” she faced Robert and Danica. “Down here it’s all about smell, and sound, only pee on flowing water. Listen, purified water is everywhere, but cup a hand to a fast-flow or the walls—not the ponds. Grab a fistful of jerky—the rest should be just weapons and ammo. Also, beware of using firearms. The limestone gives-way easily and sonic vibration is a perfect trigger for collapse. Shoot only if there is no other option. For up close and personal, push the barrel hard against the torso to muffle.” Tawnee was an experienced strata diver—she knew what to do.

  They hustled back into the dark within seconds, leaving the body of the Therian on the outside as marker for the entrance, sealing the door tight behind them.

  Two hundred and fifty feet above the away team, Logos Gravari and Tom Snow paced nervously back and forth. Emili Swift stood in front of the door, hands on her hips.

  “It’s only been sixteen hours boys, we have our instructions,” she said.

  “What? Seal them in there after two days? Logos, how long would it take them to reach the three hundred foot mark beneath south Honest Wall?”

  “Bout four hours Tom.”

  “More than enough, they’re already with whoever, whatever, which means they need help now,” Snowman was growing angrier by the second. He knew British would bite his head off, but if they needed back up, it would indeed be now. Like it or not, he had an idea. “Fine Captain Swift, we’ll be topside if you need us, c’mon Logos.”

  Three hallways away Logos looked up to his tall partner.

  “We are going in from the grasslands above,” not a question.

  “That would be correct.”

  Back at the door to the lower levels, Emili waited until the footfalls were gone. She slung back the latch and entered, hefting the gear she already packed for the trek. On the other side of the door, Swift smiled wide when she saw who was waiting for her.

  “Not without meh, pretty Lady,” Iris smiled back. “Follow meh, keep quiet,” the young Arenthian bounced once and took off for the first staircase down—Emili Swift hot on her heels.

  “BACK UP WOULD BE GOOD RIGHT NOW!” Danica shouted over the ringing of metal as she laced her Thronesword side to side, back and forth meeting the crude short swords, battle-axes, and knives wielded by the strange creatures.

  They were overrun as soon as they re-entered the cavernous tunnel system—couldn’t have apologized if they tried.

  The Therians were very strong, very aggressive, but they were poorly organized and slow with the arms. The long tails were a serious problem though, within minutes, Danica was lashed across the face hard, drawing blood. Her arms were also taking cuts from the muscular whips that seemed to move independently of their owners.

  Bigfoot Bob slung the same iron bat he used to bring down a section of the Platinum Palace’s north wall one year past. The creatures doubled up on him, realizing immediately how strong the eight-foot human was. He too, was taking heavy damage on his upper body, the red streaks from the tails, burning like fire from his own sweat.

  Shadoweye used her long, thin Scimitar as her own whip, choosing to cut as they do—a tactic that seemed to enrage them. With her free hand, the former Assassin tossed neuro-toxic needles into the underbellies and necks, where the skin was soft.

  Torpa fought alongside and behind his Master, Warfell. The creatures were clearly afraid of the huge dog, taking cautious swings. The amazing Dane held fast to Danica, resisting the urges to charge and maul—keeping her back clear.

  Antigua was a very crafty girl. The Dane saw what British was doing and was copying the tactic, which had lizard-men screaming like children deep in the crowd…

  And little British?

  The Daughter of the Aequitas Caelum charged forward like a bulldog—into the crowd of Therians. At waist level, most did not see her until she was already behind them and the intestines were pouring out into their hands, or the thick hamstring tendons snapped clean from the fat skinning knife or the Coralo Machete.

  British scampered up a big one’s back, cutting the whip-tail off and driving the buck skinner deep in the cervical spine. As the thing fell, sh
e afforded a look over the melee.

  Half the enemy dead or twitching—good. She hit the ground running, whistling for Antigua, the Dane responding with a howl. They met, lady Dane and elf girl. British kissed Antigua on the wide snout and shot off, back into the waistlines, legs and tails of the rapidly depleting Therians.

  They were tough, really tough. It took nearly an hour to drop the last on deck. When the creature finally fell, British looked over her team with pride…where was Warfell?

  “Danica? DANICA! Anyone?”

  British, Bigfoot, Tawnee and the two hounds searched around the fallen desperately when the distant cracks of Danica’s long-barreled Chesterborne reverberated throughout the vaulted chamber—the sharp echo stinging the team’s ears. British looked up, screamed, and ran for Shadoweye, tackling the Assassin and saving her from a massive section of limestone.

  “EVERYONE, GRAB A WALL—NOW!” They leaped and clutched the slimy rock as the ceiling came down about them with a thunderous roar.

  *

  It was a dream, the capture, the struggle, the thing reaching for her pistol. Warfell was drifting through a grey mist…

  She felt the weight on her chest and legs, as her mind slowly began to come back to life. Something was pinching her waist…

  Derelict this is the Antiphone, Bulldog Company is go for Ops.

  Roger Flight Leader, Sergeant’s briefing them now, sixty seconds.

  Copy that, sixty seconds…on my mark.

  Danica opened her eyes, she was in a row of heavily armed men and women, behind a metal retaining bar, pinning her to a vibrating wall. A large rifle was in her hands, a helmet on her head. Across from her amongst identical soldiers, she saw British smiling back like a school kid. Fey held two fingers to her mouth and then pushed her tongue between them seductively, keeping her browns locked on Warfell’s blues. She mouthed the words ‘you promised,’ and nodded, winking…

  What ‘n the Seven Hells? she thought.

  “LISTEN UP!” a voice bellowed. “We are now in orbit over the moon Tibor. Atria and his rebels are holding the hostages here in an abandoned underground hydrogen facility,” the Master Sergeant raised a hand and a redlined topography map appeared on a clear screen to the left of Danica’s eyes—part of the helmet she was wearing. She jerked her head back, striking the wall of the fuselage.

  “Easy Warbuck, your chance is coming. PEOPLE! Commanders Warbuck and Faye are in charge once you leave my ship. Remember your training. Seventeen clicks due north of the drop site you shall engage the enemy, liberate the hostages, hold your position and signal for EVAC, nothing more. Commander Faye did you hear me? Nothing more. Tibor is a hostile moon. Soldiers, watch out for the indigenous wildlife—go, GO, GO!”

  The glass on her helmet suddenly closed tight by itself, the floor disappeared with a loud ‘hiss’ and Danica gazed down from space over a green and grey moon. She lost her breath in utter shock—then the retaining bar fell to the side.

  LESS THAN SIXTY seconds from opening her eyes, Warfell was in a low-orbit freefall, careening down as the small company of Marines panned out for the descent forming a circle in the plummet.

  “Watch the trees people, rally to me and Danny on deck, Tommy, check your oxygen,”

  British’s voice was in Danica’s ears.

  “How in the Seven Hells do we…?” Warfell spoke aloud, the answer coming from her armoring as the metal suit began to vibrate, her fall buffering as the forested landscape below began to swell, consuming her visual field with jungle and mountain.

  Magnetic rappelling suits gripped the airborne fields of energy, setting each warrior on the ground like babies in a crib. Incredible.

  Pumped with adrenaline from the freefall, Warfell chose to abandon herself and just go with the very tactile dream she was having. Within seconds of landing, she noticed one of the others releasing a lever at the waist, ejecting the magnetic plating to the leafy ground. Danica searched her torso and found the latch, pulling and dropping seventy pounds as British scampered up, rifle aloft and jerking—scanning the surrounding jungle.

  “Lookin’ good partner, just kiddin’ up there,” the four-foot beauty said nonchalantly. Danica crouched and peered through her riflescope at the dense brush surrounding them hearing a distant, deep growl.

  “No you weren’t,” she replied as the small Company of twelve joined them, forming a low circle-out. The mic in Danica’s helmet shot British’s voice into her ears again.

  Bulldog Company is on deck at thirty-two mark five degrees.

  Rodger Commander, the Derelict’s Navcom is tracking your vitals, biomass is too thick for us to isolate any hostiles…Okay Captain calls for com-silence, good luck, Derelict standing by.

  Warfell found the hasp and pulled her helmet off—she had her own eyes and ears…

  “Danny, what the hell is wrong with you?” Commander Faye asked.

  “I should ask you the same,” Danica responded, stripping away the remainder of her heavy plate suit—the heat was unbearable. Once down to boots, pants and tank top, the tall, platinum-haired warrior found her weapons: a short-barreled pistol, the massive rifle and a fighting knife. She outfitted a web belt and looked British in the eye.

  “Okay, we could do it that way and switch to the gauntlet-com,” the small woman began to remove her armoring. Warbuck was correct, the humidity and heat from the jungle would steam them like shrimp in their suits before they could make the target. British chirped twice, circling two fingers in the air. A tall soldier stepped forward, eyes glued to his left gauntlet.

  “You got me boss?” it was Tom Snow.

  “Gotcha Tommy, take Logo,” British replied, her browns scanning the small screen on her wrist. “Go, we move in five.”

  “Aye Commander,” he pointed to Logo, and the two bolted into the brush to scout a perimeter.

  “Got a minute?” British faced Warfell with a hand guiding her off to the side.

  “What’s going on, you seem like you’re somewhere else.”

  “I’m dreaming all of this. I know these people—they are the Knights of Salvos,” Danica observed her friends, not ten paces away.

  “Okaaay, are you out of opioids? Here,” Faye handed her partner a small bottle filled with painkillers. Danica smiled wide and shrugged—why not? She tried to open the bottle and could not—furrowing her brows and twisting harder.

  “Oh—my—God you are a decorated Flight-Ops Commander.”

  “What do these words say?” Warfell shoved the cap in British’s face.

  “Push down and twist, Danny, I can’t have you extracted right now on a psych ticket, push down and twist ya fuckin’ goober-head—here,” British snatched the bottle, popped it open and gave it back to Danny’s wide smile, realizing something was horribly wrong.

  “I can’t babysit you Warbuck…” she started.

  “Don’t you worry about me sweetie, good thing about dreams is you can do whatever you want. I’m good partner, pinch me,” Warfell was confident.

  British reached out, grabbed a nipple with two fingers, pulled, twisted and squeezed until it popped free.

  “OW! Bitch!”

  “There’s my girl, Company!” British faced the eight. “Nip-slip here is dreaming all of this, so I am assuming command, MOVE OUT.”

  They jogged to the brush and entered through the masses of branches and leaves, trunks and roots.

  Criminy, Danica thought as she passed her slender frame between two vines with razor-sharp thorns. The jungle-brush was difficult to say the least and she wanted to pull the knife to hack the vines down, but she knew better. Explorers in the jungle, slashing away with machetes attract every predator within earshot, like wounded fish flopping about in a shark-infested lagoon. She heard the Master Sergeant’s debrief, this was a hostile environ—yeah, she paid attention.

  Finally, the flora opened up and Warfell had the first chance to learn about her dream team.

  Tom Snow was just Tommy, and Logos Gravari was Logo. S
he couldn’t read the names embroidered on the uniforms but she recognized Emili, Brooke, Tawnee, Iris, Fenton, Garret and…was that Alorica? And Jaime Weathers? Wow, she smiled inside, glad to see them, if only but a dream. Robert John Stone was missing.

  “Where’s Bigfoot Bob?” she asked Commander Faye when they stopped to rest beneath a massive tree.

  “I dunno, hanging out with big dick Doug somewhere?” British kept her eyes glued to her topography map on the right gauntlet. It was starting to piss Danica off, being treated as a liability. Dream or not, she knew damn well how to conduct a hostage rescue mission. Forget the high tech shit, she had two guns a knife and a growing attitude.

  “How far to the target boss,” she asked.

  “Just two miles,” British replied, lifting her wide browns from her wrist. She moved over to Danica and carefully raised the right arm. “Here,” she turned Warfell’s redline map on. “The hydrogen reclamation facility is located beneath this mountain.”

  “Why under a mountain?”

  “Because they enriched and compressed the hydrogen there as well. The White Mountain Plant once supplied most of the hydrogen fuel for this sector…”

  “White Mountain?” Danica took a step backwards with a startled look, foolishly trying to distance herself from the device on her own forearm.

  “What of it?” Commander Faye asked as the others gathered in closer.

  “Well, I know exactly what is about to happen, and exactly what we must do.”

  “Tommy and Logo held hands to knees, panting for breath.

  “She’s right Commander,” Tommy.

  “They’ve positioned troops in the pass on the west side—it’s a goddamned ambush,” Logo gave Warbuck a respectful nod.