Seven Devils Page 5

  “Once more, size matters,” she whispered.

  “BUSY MUCH?”

  “Yikes!” Fey startled like a kid, then shot her oversized lenses up to see who she already knew was there.

  “Sorry did I scare ya?” Shadoweye loved her uncanny ability to sneak up on the boss.

  “Tawnee?” British went back to work, speaking to her good friend and Knight. “Your talents do scare me,” the four-foot beauty with long brown hair pulled back tight in a pony raised those glassy browns again.

  “What’cha doing?” Tawnee entered the workshop, dodging equipment and books to get closer.

  “Final touches on the Fort’s new infrastructure. In two days, we will have a powerful, self-sustaining, wireless energy source. How is construction of the hangar bay coming?”

  “Good, really good, Robert should have been a carpenter. So how long will you be doing stuff like this?”

  “Rest of my life probably. I can design and build an aircraft within a year—fuselage is easy, but the thrusters will absorb most of that time. I need to begin teaching as well—soon as possible, like yesterday. How are Brooke and Garrett coming with recruits?”

  “Not that good. We have the Dean of the Galleon Reform School willing to send us some violent juveniles, more convicts from Tibor, but with the war going on between Atria and the Ravens, every soldier who has a knife is employed right now.”

  “Yeah, that bites,” British gazed into her friend’s brown eyes, lost in a sad memory. “Have them send us the kids.”

  “Already have. Danica, Tom and Iris are escorting them in—still a half-day out, which is why I’m here!”

  “Cool. When they touch boots to ground hit the station peal and assemble the Knights on Tower Main,” Fey went back to work. “Fully armed!” she hailed to Shadoweye’s back.

  “On it boss.”

  Fort Salvos War Tower

  Later that day, British, Brooke and Tawnee observed the Riders approaching fast from the south. They were hours early, Iris and her Sand Pony missing—one of the Danes as well.

  “Sound the mission horns, something has gone wrong, Tawnee with me,” British bolted for the steps with Shadoweye hot on her heels.

  Over the greens between the primary and honest wall, British bounded forth on Snowflake to meet the away team, her Dane, Antigua racing close to the side. She saw the look in Warfell’s eyes and instantly knew volumes.

  “Who took her?” she asked as the Snowhorse slid to a stop.

  “Ravens in the Proper,” Danica answered with her head down, displaying a very rare embarrassment over her failure to protect one of her Knights. Snowman saw the unspoken blame Warfell was shouldering. He interrupted fast.

  “Boss, Iris took her Dane to the eastside market lookin’ for a fresh pig and never returned—two hours max. Whoever did this acted quickly with well-planned actions and help. We suspect Raven insurgents because they knew we were coming to extract these idiots here,” Snow held a palm out to four road battered, filthy teenagers—three boys and a skinny girl mounted on even worse looking Quarter Horses.

  “Alright, get them cleaned up, let the horses roam the grasses free and assemble on Tower Main.” British brought Snowflake abreast and looked the kids up and down, studying them with an experienced eye.

  “You scrubs arrived at a bad time. Can any of you fight?” British asked curtly, no time for cordials.

  “Eat me—for real.”

  “Go sod ya-self.”

  “Are you guys rich?”

  “Die elfin magic.”

  The four spoke down the line as though they had been rehearsing—the skinny girl spitting on the back of her own horse’s head for punctuation—the beast tried to nip her knee with a snort.

  “Yeeeah, they have been somewhat less than helpful,” said Tom.

  “I like them already,” Fey raised her padded boots ever-so-slight on Snowflake’s sides and the massive Tiborean Snowhorse bounced in a circle, hooves grabbing the sod and vaulting them back towards home incredibly fast. “Give them to Eventine!” British shouted over her shoulder, “Knights to me!”

  Tibor Proper, Raven Resistance Stronghold, negative altitude one hundred twenty feet

  Deep beneath the old city, the original city of Tibor before the green-eyed racists built their glorified palace atop it; the Commanders of the Resistance gathered their Captains and Lieutenants close. Silent orders were dispersed among the men and women as they took to the streets to mobilize their individual strike forces against King Atria. Once everyone was gone, two men and a woman stood patiently, waiting for the chamber doors to seal tight.

  “Bring me to her,” the woman said softly. She was old and thin with salty, faded red hair and a face that still held a trace of her former beauty. Her name was Mica Solace, and this was her rebellion.

  “Yes Ma’am, through here. We’ve made special arrangements for this Devil,” her Advisor, a pureblood traitor named Donovan motioned them through a hidden doorway. They walked slowly down a well-lit hall, distant, muffled screams and wails in the background.

  “That would be the retaining pin,” Donovan mused.

  “A pin, really?” Madam Solace was piqued.

  “You’ll see, through here Lady Solace,” Donovan took her wrinkled hand in his own for the short walk to the holding cell.

  Outside the steel-barred cage, Mica raised her eyebrows to the sight, a macabre smile creaking across her wrinkled cheeks.

  “Had to do it this way my Lady,” her Advisor seemed sorry.

  “Are you sure it will hold her?”

  “Oh yeah,” whispered to the floor. Donovan had a difficult time watching—only a psychopath such as Madam Solace could stare with calm intent and childhood wonder for so long.

  In the cell, Iris held the steel rod brutally impaled though her ribcage with both hands, blood coursing down the metal, tracing a path to the iron chains welded on deck, holding the Arenthian firmly in place. Her face was awash with terror and twisted in pain, her hair involuntarily shifting from grey to black over and again, her breathing coming in fluid rasps.

  “Those tissues will regenerate around that metal in less than a day, then we’ll rip it out and put it back in,” the lead Doctor came forward with an evil glint.

  “Do not allow this creature to get loose down here, it will kill us all,” Mica turned to leave.

  “Do you think the plan will work Madam Solace?” the man foolishly addressed Mica’s back—she turned on him with the cold gaze of murder.

  “You have the Arenthian Doctor Khin. Do your job with the tissue cultures; let me worry about British Fey and the other five Devils.”

  Fort Salvos Tower Main

  “Are you out of your mind?” Shadoweye was not having it. The Assassin shoved a goblet from a nearby table, taking one pace away, then turning back abruptly. “Let me do it,” she pleaded with Warfell and Fey in front of the gathered Knights of Salvos.

  “Wait!” British shook her head. “I know how this goes, we give firm orders to stay, and half or all of you follow. I’m tellin’ ya, we gotta protect this good Fort. If Atria loses the rebellion, they’ll come for this castle straightaway. Now is not the time to leave, savvy?”

  “EXACTLY, and you two are so recognizable boss. Tell you what. Give me Brooke, the Snowman and—that stupid kid,” Shadoweye motioned to the skinny girl, who in turn laughed aloud.

  “Aw man, I was gonna bake cookies with ‘elfin magic’ over there,” the kid shot British her middle finger and Fey did a double take, jerking her head back with rare surprise.

  “All right, do it before I change my mind,” British closed the distance on the impetuous teenage girl, shoving a finger in her face. “Listen to Shadoweye—she’ll save your life—otherwise good luck.”

  They left Warfell and Fey alone in the main chamber as the away team dispersed to gather gear, supplies and weapons. Danica and British walked slowly down the south wing towards Fey’s study and library. Once clear of earshot, Danica whi
spered her question to the marble tiles.

  “So we follow?”

  “Oh yes. But first I need to try to find Dad one more time. We’ll give them a half-day head start.”

  The Aequitas Caelum Vindictis was wounded severely in his battle with the Savage Spirit of Salt Mountain. He destroyed the consciousness of the ancient Dwarven Forge Master, but at great cost to his strength. Since the battle on the mount, the Spirit of Caelum Fey appeared only once for a brief moment to assure his Daughter, looking like he’d lost a fistfight with a bear—said he needed to heal and strengthen. Warfell and Fey both knew this would entail hunting live versions of himself in other dimensions, absorbing their power.

  No sign of him since—more than a month—the longest absence ever and British and Danica were more than just worried.

  Open Grasslands between Tibor and Fort Salvos

  The name given Galleon Reform School was Jessica, but everyone called her ‘The Mouth’ with no real wonder there. Spitting seemed to be the end action of every smart-ass thing she said. No answers were honest—no comments less than insulting.

  Tom was ready to strangle her and dump the body in a creek somewhere, Brooke too, but Tawnee had much experience with brash, know-it-all girls. She felt the kid would come around—saw something in there like honor—maybe.

  Clearly, Jessica had been dumped on quite a bit, like a dog. Human beings are very trainable in both directions: hammer in despair or hope and the end product will reflect that environment like a mirror. Tawnee just needed to pump some of the right stuff into that stubborn head—beginning with respect. Jessica was an equal, an idiot yes, but another human being nonetheless.

  “Jessica?” Shadoweye began.

  “It’s The Mouth, ass-wipe,” her reply followed by the constant saliva.

  “We often adopt field names for Mission Ops,” Tawnee continued, “I need a better title for you.”

  “Don’t like names, they’re dangerous. My Momma had a name and she’s dead now, so, no thank you. Why is all that shit on your face?”

  “The tattoos are an initiation into the Kotare Assassin’s Guild,” Tawnee said solemnly.

  “Really? Well it looks like shit.”

  “Camouflage for the shadows,” Brooke added sagely from across the campfire.

  “How about I call you Fawnesa,” Shadoweye nodded. “It’s native Kotare, means Desert Spring.”

  “How ‘bout you just—don’t—shit cheeks,” the girl retorted with a pause, and there it was, the feint spark of approval in the dirty-brown eyes.

  Fort Salvos

  Danica Warfell watched from the rafters, resting, having just eaten from the nearby aviary. Below her, Eventine was addressing the three new recruits.

  “My name is Eventine Delacroix. Look, all of you need to drop the act, because this is your one chance to earn your freedom. You don’t have to be good guys or bad guys or anything, but I’m telling you now that British Fey has the money and the power to grant all of you total amnesty for your crimes. She can set you free with enough in your pocket to start anew anywhere on this moon,” Eventine paced back and forth as the three boys lounged about, seemingly bored.

  “Or, you can stay here and call Fort Salvos your home. None of you will ever be asked to fight or stand for any cause you do not trust in your hearts.”

  These boys looked fit enough. Eventine had no doubt they could handle themselves.

  “My question is, are you afraid to raise a weapon? Have the months of imprisonment and abuse softened your hands into those of children?” the Denga Master kept her eyes glued to the sawdust floor of the stable. “It’s the difference between washing dishes and carrying a sword at your side as a future Knight. What do you say boys? If you’re in, tell me your name and what you can do,” she pointed at the tallest, a large young man of eighteen with blond hair and a muscular build.

  “My name is Dobra, I’m a fist-fighter. Is it true that the Elf is a lesbian?” Dobra smiled.

  “I have no idea,” Delacroix faced the next boy, maybe sixteen, medium build, long blond hair. “You?”

  “Howard Humphrey Hall,” he answered, crossing arms. “Swordsman—I will gladly give the Elf my love, but only if you make-out with her first.”

  “Sure, sure, and what about you?” Now Eventine looked down on a kid of no more than twelve. He was thin with corded muscles, dark black hair and experienced eyes. Delacroix already knew this one’s true love—thievery.

  “My real name is Rob, as in you blind but my nickname is Raptor, which means Master Thief. Tell me nice lady—while my boys take turns with the Elf, will you show me where she keeps the treasure?”

  Eventine took a long deep breath, laughing to herself, kicking the sawdust as she paced back and forth before the three boys. Again, she spoke to the floor.

  “And the girl who spits—Jessica?”

  “Just met her last week, she can jump in, if the Elf likes ‘em skinny,” Dobra spoke with an evil grin. Eventine stopped her pace, turning to face the muscular young man.

  “Okay, we will begin with simple hand-to-hand takedowns, but first and foremost so you boys never forget this—a quick lesson about insulting the boss.”

  She attacked.

  Twenty feet above, Warfell raised her brows as the three equally astonished boys took a just beating from a barehanded woman.

  Outskirts of Tibor

  Shadoweye briefed her small team.

  “Brooke, you and Tom are married, Fawnesa you are their kid,” Tawnee was painting her exposed skin to match her face tattoos, dulling her gear with dirt and more paint.

  “You know the very second I get in there I’m telling on you assholes,” the skinny teenager stood with hands to skeletal hips.

  “Yeah, I know—that’s what this is for,” Tawnee scratched the side of Fawnesa’s arm with a wet needle.

  “HEY!” the girl shot her a dangerous eye and then collapsed on the grass.

  “Hold her up for me please,” the former Assassin placed another needle in the back of Fawnesa’s slender neck, twisting and tapping the instrument in further.

  “You’re shutting down her vocal chords,” Tom grinned, “brilliant.”

  “I know, right?” Tawnee was pleased with her decision.

  “Tricky boss, real tricky,” Brooke agreed.

  When Fawnesa came to her senses, she immediately knew what Tawnee had done to her. The girl sat up, rubbing the back of her neck, staring a murder-hole through Shadoweye’s head.

  “As I was saying,” Tawnee continued. “Tom and Brooke are the parents of a mute teenager named Poot. Poot is a very angry young woman who needs to find her calm because she will regain her smart ass mouth in about eight hours.”

  Now the Knights drew closer to the girl, ganging-up on her.

  “Follow our lead scrub. We’re going into a war-zone, straight into the arms of the people who want all of our heads, including you now. Iris is one of ours, not much older than you and she needs our help,” said the Snowman with severity.

  Beside him, Brooke nodded. “We will save her and kill those responsible because as a Knight of Salvos, she is our true Sister. We love her, do you understand?” Brooke said the words with pride.

  “Wait,” Tawnee stood tall, gazing down on Fawnesa, “forget it. She’s going to be killed or worse, captured alive.”

  Fawnesa blinked her dirty browns rapidly—alive is worse?

  “We could give her the option,” said Tom.

  “Okay fine. Fawnesa, Jessica, The Mouth, we ask for your help. Follow only if your heart feels this cause to be just and true. If you are in, tell me your name,” Tawnee repeated the words of the Aequitas Caelum as spoken to the Knights before each mission or mark. “Sorry about your throat,” Tawnee realized. “Nod yes or no.”

  Much to her surprise, the skinny girl leaned over and scratched a word in the dirt. Tawnee looked down and smiled as she read the name.

  Fawnesa

  “Do you use a knife?” asked Tom. The
girl shook her head, no.

  “Can’t give you a gun straightaway,” Brooke finalized, yet the girl shook her head again. She held a pretend bow to shoot an invisible arrow, nodding with a grin afterwards.

  “We’re not hunting big game critters here. These are people,” Tom again.

  Fawnesa nodded.

  “So you’ve killed?” Tawnee already knew she was locked up for murder.

  The girl nodded again with a disturbing wink and silent laugh speaking volumes. Before Tawnee could speak her trepidations, Brooke interceded.

  “She’s glad she did it. Somebody had it coming all right.”

  Now Fawnesa closed her eyes with more nodding, which was good, as Tawnee was seeing it from a slightly different context, like an experienced in death and enjoying the thrill of the kill kind of way. She chose to say nothing, quietly outfitting her gear.

  Tibor Proper

  Tom and Brooke rode twin Black Racer stallions next to Fawnesa atop an Appaloosa mare. The tar-paved streets on the east side of old town were filthy with trash and bottles accumulated in the gutters—urine and feces crisp in the stale air. Six blocks in, near the East Pub District, the three travelers secured a meager room and stables.

  “First thing’s first. I know a guy who steals dogs from rich folks and sells them on the black market. If a male Dane is out there, Jimmy will know,” said Snow.

  “Good angle,” said Brooke. “I’ll take Fawnesa to find a Longbow for her. She needs to have something in hand for defense. Then we’ll start checking stables and horse traders for that Sand Pony. Dare is a one of a kind beast—no missing that one.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Tom nodded.

  “Later—back here handsome husband—c’mon scrub,” Brooke leaned in and kissed the Snowman on the cheek, guiding Fawnesa to the door. The kid stopped and did the same with an awkward heir of embarrassment. Tom grabbed his gear to follow, smiling to himself with the glimmer of hope for the skinny kid. Maybe she would work out after all.