Eye of the Equifade Page 3

  His residence was like a fortress within the walls of Moor. From the street it looked impenetrable, a steel tower with turrets and its own twenty-foot stone wall on a huge wooded Green more than a square mile in size.

  Warfell and Fey bravely sat mounted before the gates to the expansive property, studying the citadel-like structure two clicks away.

  “Looks easy from here,” British whispered, as though someone might hear, it was one hour into the equi-fade, four hours until the deep night.

  “Easy? What planet are you really from Fey?” Nevertheless, Danica was calculating possibilities in her own analytical mind—it can be done. “Think word has come back from the pub?”

  “Oh yeah.” British replied. “He knows, he’s ready—just not for me.”

  “Nobody’s ready for you sweetie.”

  Inside, Edinburg was indeed preparing for the Ghost of Caelum Fey, the Aequitas Caelum. With only hours until the deep night, he had his men seal him in tight…in his own polished iron safe. No one knew the combination save for Edinburg and inside; a release lever was installed to allow his escape once the equi-fade passed.

  Gaston was confident, maybe too confident. He knew the aberration, could not affect matter. His logic was that if the girl could not reach him, the Ghost could do nothing to him—this was his logic.

  Outside on the street, Danica and Rarity were becoming impatient. “So what’s the plan boss-lady?” Warfell had to ask.

  “Dad said to wait here—they’ll let us in shortly.”

  Shortly seemed like forever, when finally in the distance, a lone, unarmed rider came down the half-mile driveway less than forty minutes to the end of the equi-fade.

  Warfell and Fey were escorted within the empty walls and then led to the vault chamber by a solitary man. He said nothing, but both girls could see the terror in his eyes. He motioned to the final doorway and then ran the opposite way, desperately, shooting his head back frequently to see if he was being pursued.

  They entered the silent chamber to see the Father of British Fey, floating near the door of the shiny iron vault recessed into a granite wall.

  It is done…take all you can carry. Thanks to the swordsman. If she marries during the fade, I would be honored to see. Will she answer our call again?

  Warfell was nodding. “Yes my Lord I will.”

  The Ghost of Caelum Fey disappeared and the door to the massive safe opened slowly.

  Warfell peered inside to see the body of Gaston Edinburg, slumped on the floor amid stacks of coins and currency, precious jewels, swords and ancient daggers. The girls wedged the heavy door open and walked inside.

  Danica’s pockets and pouches were stuffed, when she suddenly shot her head up, sending white hair forward and then down in her face. She gazed at her own hazy reflection in the polished surface of the iron and wondered at what she had become.

  She felt a tugging on her eyes and her heart dropped in her chest as Warfell slowly turned to see the back wall of the safe.

  An image was there, coming into focus, a reflection permanently burned into the dull shine of the iron.

  It was Gaston’s shadow, mouth agape and silently screaming, face to the metal sky. His eyes were bulging, bursting as a dark nightmarish visage strangled the thick neck with two long bony hands.

  *

  The Man who wanted to be God

  DANICA WARFELL WALKED away from the Silvercrest pre-school with empty pockets and a warm smile on her weathered cheeks. It was the deep winter but she loved it, allowing her green cloak to billow out as she walked down a wooded path to the stables and her faithful Painted Appaloosa stallion, Rarity.

  Half-way there she caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye but continued as though nothing were amiss—even whistling a short song.

  Birds startled and took flight. Nope, Fey was not that sloppy, wait! Warfell came to a stop and lowered her head to the wooded trail. The stable was near, a sharp whistle could have Rarity booming in if needed, her sword was within reach, she listened…

  Nothing for a moment, then leaves rustled and twigs snapped as cute little British came from behind a tree, clumsily pulling up her leather leggings and high boots.

  “Sorry I had to take a humongous—well hello there Danica Warfell! Long time no see fair traveler.”

  “It’s been a week Fey.”

  “Really,” British remarked, “seems more like a few days to me—lifetime for some.”

  “Cut to it boss, can we get away from the school, and the smell?” Danica started walking again.

  “Sure thing, they love you in there, should name it after you by now. Have you read about the killings in Oceanport?” British was still fixing her clothes and hopping to the trail.

  “No. I don’t keep up with the game until I am moved into play,” Warfell actually enjoyed the brief periods of rest and peace between missions.

  “My Father has marked a target; he’s killed seventeen people in less than a month, and get this—he’s a Druid.”

  Danica stopped cold and faced her small comrade. “What is he trying to do?”

  “Make a Spirit, like Dad.”

  “Which Temple?”

  “Salt Mountain,” British said the words and Warfell closed her eyes tight. She studied there for a short time and Fey knew that.

  “It’s Lord Waters, isn’t it,” not a question.

  “Yeah, sorry Danica.”

  “All good boss, come check out my new place. I gotta suit up anyway. You have a ride?” Warfell asked, but she knew Fey would seek out a new Pony for the mission, especially after what happened to the last one, Bob 21, damn good fellow, horrible way to go.

  “I was hoping to go Pony shopping, since Bob 22 died.”

  “Twenty-two? British, honey,” Warfell furrowed her brows as the stable boy brought out a freshly groomed and tamping Rarity. He was a beautiful sight and both girls involuntarily smiled. British whispered as Rarity lowered his head close. She touched his nose gently.

  “I could never aspire to find a creature as smart and handsome as you,” she pressed her cheek to nose and closed her eyes.

  “C’mon, maybe we can find a nice one and give him a real name?” Warfell asked, again, and understood perfectly when no answer came. She tried.

  “I really like it Warfell. It’s humble for a warrior of your caliber and wealth though,” British panned her eyes about the meager home, suspended in a Great Oak on the east side of Silvercrest, Warfell’s hometown.

  “I have nothing, therefore I need nothing,” Warfell recited a Denga oath with a warm look—she really was content giving most of her earnings away. “That being said,” she dumped armfuls of weaponry, straps and belts onto her kitchen table, among the gear were half a dozen leather pouches of various fine gems. Money never slowed them down on a mission—simply not an option.

  She raised her Captain’s Militia Sword and looped the scabbard around her left shoulder.

  “Need anything?” she spoke whilst outfitting her two daggers and something new, a long barreled pistol.

  “Been meaning to tell you I love your ten-shot Chesterborne, nice Warfell.”

  “I thank you,” Warfell holstered the shiny chrome-barreled weapon at the waistline behind her back.

  “Check this out,” British unslung her faithful Blunderbuss. “Dad walked me through several modifications. Pad chamber is still functional for desperate times, but above it, we’ve installed a repeat chamber, see?” she opened the little door and removed a rectangular cartridge with a click.

  “Holds twelve rounds, sharp-cut diamond scatter-shot, four foot spread.” British snapped the cartridge in tight and smiled wide.

  “I am impressed. A good back-up weapon, last resort type thing?”

  “Sure,” the girl repositioned her cape, concealing the unusual firearm. “Not a lead weapon at all.”

  “Hold that thought Miss Fey,” Danica said, locking her front door tight behind them.

  Bob 23 turned out to b
e a brown Rock Pony, stout and hardy. It was a fourteen-hour ride to Oceanport—eight hours until the next fade.

  Oceanport was a large city erected on the precipice of one thousand foot high cliffs, buttressing the Southern Ocean. Cattle and horses were the stock and trade of the town, not fishing as one might believe. From Oceanport, the actual ocean was quite unreachable by any other than professional rock acrobats and junkies of the rappel.

  Aside the city, filling the northern horizon from the cobble streets, Salt Mountain shot twenty thousand feet into the yellowish sky. Just under the ten thousand foot mark, the pagodas of a solemn Temple perched precariously, dotting the snow.

  The Druids of Salt Mountain were isolationists; outsiders were tolerated only for training by special authorization. They were rumored to be practitioners of the Black Arts as well, a path of faith ignored by the Aleuthian governments, ridiculed by the scholarly, embraced by the wealthy and foolish.

  They were naturalists, theosophists and very aggressive in the practices of a martial art form known as Denga. It was for training in the Honorable Denga that Warfell was sent there as a young Lieutenant, living apart from the Monks with five other gifted students. Of course, Master Waters conducted the sessions, six months of intense hand-to-hand combat drills, light meals and even lighter sleep.

  Penetrating the lofty Temple compound would be a challenge. The steps, inclines and ladders leading upwards were monitored by the Druids in rotating shifts. Scaling the steep mountain on the south face was virtually impossible. No, they needed to ascend the Salt formally or figure a way to get Waters to come down—yeah right.

  On the long road, British said she had an idea but Warfell was not ready for those details yet.

  “British?” she asked four hours in.

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you ever thought about settling…?”

  “Put down the Blunderbuss and go looking for a stick?” British interrupted.

  “Well, sure, but there are great men out there and a lot of life to live. You’re only twenty one but the next thing you know you are pushing forty like me,” Warfell held her head down—an unnecessary shame. British reined Bob 23 in and gave Danica her full attention. She studied her for a moment like a painting and spoke.

  “Warfell, you do not reflect a lifetime of violence at all, your features are still youthful despite more stress than most people can handle. Your hair is magnificent Danica; it flows soft like brook water and fans out as the wind itself. Your body is in perfect condition, beyond perfect! You have the boobs of a twenty year old, bouncy and firm…”

  “Are you redirecting me?”

  “Yes,” British continued. “Do not feel old my friend, because time itself has chosen to preserve you. I wish I had some of your attributes,” British unconsciously placed her hands over her own flat chest and sighed.

  “You do not need boobs British—you know how beautiful you are.”

  “Yeah, I’m stunning, I know,” said distastefully with a double-click re-boot to Bob 23. “I look like a kid, Warfell. The only sticks interested in me are creepy or twisted.”

  “Or maybe just someone your own age dingbat, really? You are self-conscious over your looks? Are you being vain when we are…?”

  “Cold-blooded-killing everything?” British smiled a wicked grin that made Danica subconsciously wonder if she actually enjoyed it. “Nah, in the zone it’s just spray and pray man.”

  Danica almost choked on nothing—then she cleared her throat of the same emptiness and moved her full, suddenly sober attentions to the road.

  They fell silent for a time.

  Oceanport, the massive city nestling the southern feet of Salt Mountain seemed utterly silent from a distance. No walls were needed—the city was under the rule and protection of the Denga Druids of Aleutha and remained neutral to the governments.

  It was a free town, where uncommon ideals and practices were accepted in an atmosphere unlike any other. Every permanent citizen trained above at the Temple and was required to keep advanced weaponry in each home. The people policed themselves, a system that actually worked quite well.

  In Oceanport, the sword ruled. Firearms were highly illegal in public, a law that many did not understand, given the fact that justice was delivered on sight, oftentimes brutally.

  The city’s men and women were at arms over the unexplained disappearance of what were now, twenty people. It was a mix of elderly, young, male and female and no one was close to an explanation—no witnesses to the abductions either.

  Six heavily armed Druids stopped the girls as soon as they entered the city.

  “HOLD!” Three of them shouted in unison as they surrounded Warfell and Fey. “State your business in Oceanport,” the Commander—commanded.

  “Kenzie Knicks. This is my colleague, Happy Tuesday. We’ve been sent from Moor to assist in the investigation? Lord Waters sent for me on the behest of his Sister, Detective Amanda Waters?” Warfell knew Waters had a Sister named Amanda, who really was a Constable in Moor. She followed through with confidence. “Do you not remember having this conversation?”

  “He does,” British faced the Commander. “He has a problem with this investigation. Kenzie this man is a sympathizer or a compatriot.”

  The arresting composure of seriousness overwhelmed the Druid Guards and already had several of them second-guessing their superior.

  “Dismount—both of you,” he spoke with his own confidence and the girls complied. “The cloaks please,” he motioned and Warfell removed her green ranger’s cloak, letting it fall to the cobble. She held her arms to the side and rotated full circle, exposing the Militia Sword, twin daggers and long barreled pistol.

  “You can check that firearm at the station over there Ma’am,” he turned to Fey. “You too Miss.”

  British deftly slung her suede cloak away from her torso, held it out to the side, limp. She rotated just as her partner had done. The girl was completely unarmed.

  “Alright girls, welcome to Oceanport. Thank you for your insight with the investigation.”

  “Aye Sir,” Warfell acknowledged sarcastically, clicking tongue to tooth for Rarity as both girls vaulted away down the street. The Commander watched them go and spoke to his Number One.

  “Follow them, keep your distance. Send word to the Temple, see if they are lying.”

  One block away, Danica had to ask, noticing the bulge of the Blunderbuss on Fey’s slender back and the Scimitar on her hip.

  “How did you do that?”

  “I’ll never tell.” British replied with a coy look and a quick smile.

  Ten thousand feet above the girls…

  “It is time. Bring her in.”

  “Yes Master Waters.”

  A Woman was forcefully brought into the chamber screaming.

  “Gag her,” Waters commanded and his fellows complied roughly.

  “Listen to me woman. You are a prostitute from Oceanport; your life has been nothing until now. You are about to die…make her BE STILL!” They chained her down to iron rings protruding from the marble floor.

  “If you wish to survive, you must close your eyes to the light and fight it, do you understand? I can bring you back, but only if you fight for me, okay?”

  Her muffled screams turned to broken whimpers, tears flooding her cheeks.

  Waters began chanting as he stood and approached the helpless prisoner. She found her strength and thrashed against the chains, desperate to get free.

  “STOP IT!” Waters screamed as he snatched her chin with three fingers and then struck the poor creature’s skull with his free hand so forcefully and sharp a distinct crack was heard in the chamber. He let go of the lifeless cranium.

  “Come back to me,” he whispered and then resumed chanting in a low rumble. The other Druids joined him, coming together in a circle around the dead woman.

  “Where are we going Boss?”

  “Warehouse District—got something to show you,” British replied as she spurned
Bob 23 into a run. “C’mon!”

  Soon after, the girls were ducking down the alleyway next to a building labeled Feed and Seed. At a rear entrance, British hopped down to the cobble. Quickly panning her eyes up and down the side street, the little elf girl busted the lock and pushed a bay door inward.

  “We’ll need to bring them inside,” she cautioned Warfell and led her Rock Pony through the door.

  Warfell examined the warehouse, full of water troughs for livestock, tack and gear, saddlery and rope…lots of rope.

  Four atrium glass bays dotted the vaulted ceiling to allow sunshine in, leaving four squares of light on the granite-tiled floor.

  “Before I retrieved you, I smuggled some stuff in here,” British removed a cloth covering. “Compressed hydrogen gas, stolen from Moor, polyurethane sealant, also from Moor—pretty smart huh?”

  “I am lost boss,” Warfell was searching her mind for an answer, when British removed a rubber bladder used for milking machines from a crate.

  “Watch,” she smiled and tied the bladder to a saddle with twenty feet of rope. Then, the girl pressed one of the canisters to the nozzle-end and opened the valve slightly.

  The bladder quickly expanded to five times its size and shot up towards the rafters, hoisting the saddle behind it effortlessly. The hydrogen balloon struck the ceiling and ruptured.

  British turned to face her comrade as the heavy saddle struck an empty wooden rack behind her, breaking it into pieces with a dust-filled crash.

  “I know, genius, right?” Fey smiled.

  Warfell realized what she wanted to do and her eyes went wide.

  “You—are kidding—Ten thousand feet British? The trade winds will swoop us away over the Ocean, then what?” Warfell was shaking her head vehemently.

  “I studied the wind patterns with Dad last Eventide. We have to start from over the water and the prevailing offshore winds will slam us right into the mountain. We just have to make the ascent quickly enough to reach altitude.”