Chapter Thirty-three

Campaign

Retrospect

“ Numerical superiority is of no consequence.

In battle, victory will go to the best tactician.”

George Custer (1839-1876)

* * *

Dawn came early as the troop broke camp on the slow trail to The Hollows. The winds of an early winter rustled the surrounding trees, high up on the valley’s ridge. The weather pattern was changing with the rising sun; but on the valley floor, shielded behind a blanket of early morning fog, the men were quiet as they continued their duties on empty stomachs. The camps gray surroundings looked ominous, an omen,— gloomy as the desperation the men felt packing their animals without even benefit of coffee,— their remaining meager supplies, after an accident, had dwindled out the previous day. The company’s scouts never returned from the last night’s reconnaissance, perhaps abandoning them to a fate of starvation, lost among the rocky hills of this empty wilderness.

Late for their rendezvous and without escort, the commander was determined to valiantly continue the journey, but unfamiliar with the territory and without the benefit of a guide, the Captain was in a precarious position.

The Gatling gun they were moving was awkward for the hilly terrain; a .30 caliber ten barrel design, that could shoot up to 1200 times a minute, won the approval of the Ordnance Department in 1866 as a weapon of promise,— an improvement over Dr. Richard Gatling’s 1862 model,— a .58 caliber hand crank machine gun that had only six revolving barrels and fired on average, about 400 rounds a minute. The earlier version never won acquisition by the U.S. Government because of numerous problems; but in the post war era, Richard’s later achievement was adopted officially and deemed a valuable asset in the continuingly, increasing conflicts with hostile Native Americans.

Captain Jenkins was a man of moderate temperament and a stiff manner of control that held an unnerving power over the men under his command. He was under strict orders to move into the Northwestern region with his small contingent and support the failing efforts of the cavalry to suppress the escalating skirmishes.

The Gatling was the pride of his company, but after a week of pulling the weapon over the rocky terrain, limiting their advancement to a mere 20 miles a day, the men longed to dump the wagon wheeled monstrosity,— wishing they had dropped it over the narrow gorge where they lost the chuck wagon the previous week.

Captain Jenkins was of a different mindset and ordered the riggings set for another day when a call went out, and a panic erupted throughout the camp. Two men on horses thundered into the site yelling, “They’re dead,— they got um... they’re dead.”

At first, because of the fog, it could not even be determined where the riders were coming from. Men scrambled to their horses not sure if the enemy was advancing, when Captain Jenkins’ strong voice of authority resounded over the chaos, assembling the men in a large circle: a man about every ten yards apart, each with his animal by his side. A crew of four men wheeled the Gatling to the center on the higher ground, and prepared the magazine.

The riders broke the line, turning the heads of the nearby linemen and dismounted by the captain; their horses agitated and lathered, pulling at the reins wanting to continue their flight. With a quick salute, both men spoke at the same time in a panic, struggling to control their mounts.

“Gentlemen! One at a time,” exclaimed Jenkins. “One at a time.”

Corporal Sandgum, a small mouse of a man looked at his companion and nodded, quelling his excitement as best he could and reported: “Sir... we found the scouts on our recognizance this morning not a mile from here.” Sandgum took a deep breath and expelled it quickly. “Someone skinned them,— Sir.”

“What!” the commander barked in disbelief.

“Kettle and Oggal are hanging in a tree just over the next set of ridges dressed out like a shot deer,” squeaked the man, pointing in the direction they had just come from.

“Was it hostiles?”

“Sir,— I’m not a tracker. We found them fellers and broke it fer here.”

Suddenly, all the horses in the configuration spooked. Their charges, distracted by the confusion, broke formation when a crack like thunder erupted; and one of the men at the Gatling slumped over the axle.

“Corporal, man the gun!” The Captain directed, while placing his left hand on his saber. Turning his attention to his command, he paced the top of the ridge and yelled, “Mount up.”

A second crack dropped a horse soldier.

“Watch the left flank,” Jenkins barked in a manner of full control while drawing his sword.

Sandgum and his crew spun the weapon preparing for a charge.

“Blanket that pocket Corporal!”

The Gatling exploded into operation, showering lead over the left bank as an almost white flame whistled from the opposite side dropping another warrior.

“We’re surrounded men,— fire at will!”

Carbines spit and popped, but the fog limited even the simplest sighting of their attackers.

Two more soldiers were cut down by streaks of white lightning when the silhouette of a giant slammed through the lines and a private’s head spun to the ground at the commander’s feet. The ghostly form faded in and out with wisps of fog, rendering death in its wake.

The captain tried to understand the nature of the attack. In disbelief, he watched as a second phantom breached his left flank amid the hand-cranked, rapid fire of his company’s pride.

The outlined form that appeared without substance danced along the borders of the cavalry’s resistance,— then disappeared completely, only to spring back into view as the heavy moisture of the lowland cloud seemed to condensate about the specter’s features. The captain drew his pistol and fired instantaneously at the seemingly substance-less form which sprung lightly away, only to reappear behind Corporal Sandgum. The little man never knew what hit him as he slumped over the revolving barrels and was thrown into the spokes of the wooden wheels of the weapon. Horses bolted from their dead charges as the Gatling went quiet.

The captain called for his men to regroup, but an eerie silence dispelled any hope as the commander walked along the top ridge of his last stand. An unknown enemy had leveled his forces in mere seconds; and now he stood alone amid an invisible death that appeared to haunt this wilderness like a ghostly pack of ravenousness demons, bent on war with flesh-and-blood. Could these wraiths even be killed?

“Show yourselves you bastards!” The captain screamed as he stumbled over his fallen. “Cowards,— show yourselves!”

Jenkins spun as a glimmer of movement raked his right field of vision. He raised his sword and parried a savage blow. The clashing of metal resounded over the lonely hill; but the man could see no physical form, only the empty shadow of an outlined embodiment. Strange that a ghost could exert such force against a steel blade.

The captain raised his pistol — shooting center of the shape and the specter lurched backward with the impact of the bullet; but immediately sprang to its feet apparently unharmed. The silhouette crackled, as a blue web of netted light, etched around its giant frame and in a twinkling of an eye the monster appeared,— dressed in what the officer guessed was battle armor. Bulging eyes with a deep red glow, burned behind the stone features of the insect shaped head. Curved horns pointed at the officer like Lucifer himself selecting a soul for special torment.

“What manner of demon are you?” screamed the captain taking a savage swing with his saber.

The beast jumped to the side and deflected the blow against a stout gauntlet with multiple blades that extended, forming hooks down its entire forearm. As it spun, it twisted sideways, backhanding as it moved.

The punch went wide as the officer ducked the sweeping swing, and locating a gap in the armor of his enemy lifted his colt and shot.

His opponent reeled under the impact, as a purple phosphorous fluid splattered from the wound and the creature howled in pain.

Captain Jenkins stabbed at the beast with his sword, but his antagonist easily rolled away and sprang back to its feet.

Two more of the creatures appeared as spectators around the life and death match, standing like chiseled forms of stone.

The commander was startled by their appearance and staggered backward to brace himself for a charge, but the enemy just looked on. The captain raised his pistol when his wounded enemy’s forehead lit up with a small red light and the horns on the creature’s head sprang to life spitting a streak of white flame that struck the commander’s left hand taking it off at the wrist; his pistol dropping to the ground a few yards away.

In shock, the captain stared at his injury when the beast unexpectedly charged, swinging a brutal blow with its strange bladed arm. Jenkins, with the grace of a skilled swordsmen, parried the strike which deflected off to his right, dropped to one knee and plunged his saber into the soft tissue of the creature’s left thigh, just behind its armor. Howling his enemy spun and swung again, but the captain stepped back as he pulled his sword free and easily dodged the mindless attack, again stabbing his enemy in a gap of its armor at its right side.

Bewildered, the creature paused with some distance between his opponent — seeming to examine its wounds as its pasty phosphorous blood flowed over its battle garb.

The captain took advantage of the break and looked at his own injury. It was strange to him. The initial impact felt like a hammer had smashed his hand, but now there was no pain or blood. In fact the captain wasn’t even sure if the events happening were real because it still seemed like the appendage was there,— just invisible and he was controlling and moving his fingers at will.

Noise interrupted the commander’s inspection as he raised his eyes back to his assailant. The creature was lifting off its headpiece, amid hissing gas, and dropped the mask unceremoniously to the ground. The giant was the ugliest thing the captain had ever seen. Wiry locks of stiff black rope that looked like a tangled weave of disjointed black widow legs. The matted and twisted jumble draped the contours of the small head exaggerating the appearance of the limited forehead. Its eyes were unusually large under the deep brow of a steep ridge that conveyed the thought of evil to the mind of Jenkins. But the most unnerving thing about the creature’s appearance was the tusks that lanced downward from the beast’s mouth. Like a saber tooth tiger’s fangs, the dagger like appendages, dripping with foam, — seemed to salivated like a disembodied soul hungry for blood.

“What manner of demon are you?” Jenkins spat with disgust.

“What manner of demon are you?” echoed back from the creature’s position, mimicking exactly the captain’s voice, followed by an eerie clicking and chirping.

Jenkins snarled and readied himself for attack. “Let’s finish this!”

The monster raised its left hand as the second gauntlet’s set of blades engaged with the grating sound of metal on metal. Then the creature paused crossing his weapon bearing arms over his chest and then dropped them to his side.

“Let’s finish this!” Repeated the captain’s words from the creature’s position and the demon charged.

The captain backed up gracefully dodging and parrying every blow even catching his enemy twice more with stabs in the right arm and left abdomen, but the creature seemed unaffected by the injuries and kept up its onslaught of blows in a mastery of a controlled attack. The commander was quickly learning his opponent’s moves, gauging his strikes and understanding his defenses when he tripped over the body of one of his fallen men. The blunder was disastrous. The creature jumped in for a final strike. The captain was able to jab his saber into the back of his enemies left ankle severing its large tendon, but as the demon fell it pinned the commander’s sword arm to the ground and plunged its right forearm into the man’s chest.

Captain Jenkins lurched foreword staring at his conqueror for but a moment,— spit in the demon’s face,— then fell back weakened and gasping for air.

The giant then peeled the vanquished’s flesh under the agonizing screams of the torture. The fiendish mouth seemed to revel in the atrocity. The demon’s fangs dripped of froth, as if salivating in the helpless terror of the dying man’s eyes.

Chapter Twenty

A Lost Son

The young man staggered, inhaling wildly. Stumbling over an exposed root,— he fell,— catching himself on a low branch but dropped his spear. Blood flowed from a gaping wound,— laid open across the side of his abdomen to his backbone:— painting his lower extremities, and staining the heavy woven-wool garment belted to his waist.

Panicking, the man looked over his shoulder. The top, left side of his face was laid open from above the eye and across his hairline to below the ear. The skin hung,— torn free of the skull;— the bone standing out in stark contrast to the dirty flap of loose hide on the man’s cheek. His unfractured cranium almost glowed in the soft light filtering through the upper terraces of the forest. With each racing pulse of the man’s heart, his life’s fluid dribbled from his still attached scalp and streaked down the white expanse, mixing with sweat and grease, draining into his eyes. He dropped to his knees blindly feeling for his javelin,— hurriedly raking the soil with both hands until his right made contact with the smooth shaft. Clutching it to his chest he used the blunt end as a crutch and staggered to his feet.

A heavy thud hit the ground behind and the man turned presenting his spear in defense. Void of pursuit he scanned the trail. Madly he tried to wipe the excessive moisture from his blurred vision,— then froze. A massive form stepped from behind the large conifer, lifting a broad bladed war axe.

* * *

Tawque stepped in close behind Haiwi, wrapping his right arm around her small waist and placing his left on her hip, turning her body slightly. Nudging her ankle with his foot he whispered softly, “Spread your legs about shoulder width apart.”

She stepped out lightly with his touch and raised her left arm.— While firmly holding the center grip,— she extended it full as she drew the bowstring back with her right hand.

“Draw the arrow complete to the first painted ring, resting the knuckle of your thumb just under your eye.”

The wood creaked as its shapely contours bent under the strain of tension exerted on the sinew cable. The fletching brushed by Haiwi’s lashes as she positioned for sight.

“Look down the shaft, but do not focus on the tip. Rather, focus on one specific point on the target. With time you will know right where the arrow will strike.”

Haiwi’s field of vision tunneled down the feathered rod to a distant mound of piled dirt. Spent arrows riddled the area, half a dozen holding a nice pattern in the small hill.

“Your whole body is the instrument and you must repeat the exact same form each time you draw. If you must turn,— your whole upper body must pivot. No change to the extension in your arm, no difference to the point where you extend the bow.”

Haiwi felt his warm breath caressing her cheek,— the soft restraint of his hand and gentle touch.

“Focus,——allow nothing to distract you. Take a deep breath.——And as you exhale slowly;—when you feel the target,—— release.”

Like a feathered missile, the flint tipped point cut the air, striking the pile center of the grouping.

“Very good,” Tawque said as he stepped back from Haiwi.

She looked over her shoulder and smiled at her instructor.

“Gather the arrows that are close together in your quiver. The rest we bundle. Those that went right give to Bobby. Those that flew left give to the others.”

Haiwi almost skipped down to the hill grabbing the shafts holding the pattern and placed them in her quiver. Turning around she noticed Tawque had stopped short of following her and was examining the ground. “What is the matter? I don’t think one landed over there.”

Tawque was silent and kneeled, touching the earth.

Haiwi approached, leaving the excess arrows that were scattered about. “What is it?” she asked, more emphatically.

“It’s a blood trail.” Tawque stood, totally focused on the area before him.

“Perhaps an animal was hurt.”

Tawque shook his head, “This was left by a man and he’s cut up pretty bad.”

“There is no one here. Could one of our people been hurt?” Haiwi paused, spotting an elephant leaf, heavily covered in blood.

“The moccasin isn’t right.” His expression was one of deep concern as he met Haiwi’s eyes. “We have company.”

Haiwi fidgeted and pulling an arrow from her quiver she stood ready scanning the jungle, “We must leave now! All,— are enemies to us.” She notched the arrow to the sinew and flexed it slightly and eased off, reading the weapon in front of her. “Even my people are a danger to us.” Her eyes turned pleading, “Let’s warn the others and break camp. We can push west.”

Tawque whispered, placing one finger over his mouth for her to lower her voice, “One does not run blindly from an enemy. You might walk right into his camp.” He moved silently to a new point on the trail.

Haiwi stepped up beside him,— weapon ready, “What should we do?”

“We follow the trail.”

“Could we walk right into a trap? Would it not be better just to leave?”

“We need to know if there are more.” And placing his hand into a new print, he carefully examined the instep, “Where their camp is. If they pose a threat.” He made eye contact with Haiwi, “This track was made by a different man.”

“There’s more than one?”

Tawque spent a few minutes studying the trail and surrounding area while Haiwi nervously kept watch. After a thorough search, he came back, “There’s at least three. They’re injured and ran that way,” pointing.

“Well,— let’s go that way,” Haiwi motioned the opposite direction with her right thumb.

“Just because they went that way doesn’t mean they won’t circle back.” Tawque’s attention was suddenly focused a short distance away. He spotted an anomaly about thirty feet from the trail on the break of a small ridge and left the path.

“What is it?”

“Our men are being followed,” and ducking low he worked his way over to a couple skid marks. The displaced pine needles revealed a scar of bare earth. Something had stepped on the loose debris, lost its footing and slid down the short incline. Tawque moved quietly to the ravine below the scuffs with Haiwi at his heels. At the landing point he found in the damp soil of the wash several footprints. They looked human, but huge. By the trunk of a tree next to the ravine he found more. Wedged in the bark of a branch, he pulled free a tuft of hair: stiff and coarse, about 3 inches long and quite pungent.

“Is it cats?” Haiwi asked, putting a hand on Tawque’s back, trying to look around him.

“No, it’s something worse.”

Haiwi stepped around and saw the print. It looked human, but it was massive. She saw the dark fur in Tawque’s hand and shrunk back at the revelation. “Nephraceetan! We must go. Death is walking in this forest.”

“A few men we can handle,” Tawque replied with a grim smile, “even if they are big.”

“Not the Nephraceetan,—— no man has ever survived an encounter,— and no woman would want to survive if caught. They’re devils.— Children of the gods and they usually hunt in packs.”

“That would explain the blood on the trail, but we still need to follow. I don’t want to be wandering around this forest and not know where my enemy is. Following their trail gives us the advantage. Besides, if a whole tribe has moved in, we’re in trouble.”

“Please, I really want to leave.”

Tawque placed a hand gently on Haiwi’s cheek and spoke soothingly, “Trust me, I would never let anything happen to you, but we must do this.” His hand slipped down to her shoulder as he turned, looking up the ravine. “Better to face a few than a whole tribe,” and with a nod of the head started up the trail.

Haiwi followed cautiously ever alert. An arrow resting notched and ready. Her muscles tense.

Tawque picked up speed. How swift and silent he can move, she thought to herself as she slipped behind. She knew if she tried to keep up the enemy would hear them both approaching. Better for the Hand-of-the-Great-One to come upon them with surprise.

Within minutes Tawque disappeared in a denser mass of the tangled forest, leaving Haiwi in the shallow ravine far behind.

In a small clearing Tawque came upon two dead men,— one headless. Dressed in woven wool skirts and an array of arm bands and chokers,— jewelry of ivory and gold; their bodies were brutalized and bloody from numerous mortal wounds from battle. Tawque’s careful eye was scanning every detail to determine the weapons used, when a war-cry echoed over a narrow ridge ahead. The clashing of wood and grunts of battle carried through the woven maze of trees and brush.

Stealth and speed are the gifts granted the hunter. To the Blackfoot they were necessary attributes in life. Tawque was raised in a world fraught with danger. Tactics and warfare were taught from infancy. This day the gifts served him well. Within seconds he hit the top of the next ridge as silently as a shadow. From the cover of a large pine he watched the drama below.

Another man dressed in a woven wool skirt was battling with a massive figure. The hairy brute was accompanied by two other muscular foes. No taller than the man, but their hulk cast them as giants. The spectators, virtual colossi, seemed intent on just watching their comrade toy with his victim.

“Nephraceetan,” Tawque whispered as he thought of Haiwi’s words. Were these huge creatures of myth,— or men?

The engaged monster was hefting a double bladed war axe which the smaller man was fending off with only a spear. The weapon of the giant denoted intelligence, but the devilish ghoul looked more animal. Friend or foe to Tawque, the smaller man was going to die if the Blackfoot did nothing. According to Haiwi, the huge adversary was an enemy held in common. As swift as a·ah·rah,— lightning itself,— Tawque fitted a shaft and let it fly. The feathered missile struck deep, buried to the fletching, through the heart. The giant stiffened and turned when the smaller man drove his spear into the creature’s throat.

The man-beast backhanded the warrior, wrenching the lance from its neck as the gold and ivory clad soldier fell backwards, almost unconscious.

Tawque unleashed a second messenger of death as the flint punched through the base of the skull,— as the once spectators charged the Blackfoot’s position.

For the first time in Tawque’s life doubt and disbelief gripped him. He had pumped two arrows into one of the beasts and a war lance had severed part of the creature’s throat and still it turned with a fierce battle cry ready to attack. Two other demons were almost on him, but he stood his ground. With unflinching precision he buried another feathered shaft in the forehead of a new attacker. The wound slowed the beast but a moment. Then, from his right Tawque saw an arrow strike the other in the chest. He turned to see Haiwi fitting another in her bow. “Run!” he screamed, but Haiwi let a second flint point fly.

The creature turned on Haiwi as Tawque’s own assailant regained its footing. Without pause, Tawque, ignoring the danger to himself, unleashed a fletched missile at Haiwi’s antagonist, striking it in the groin.

The beast went down.

The arc of a double bladed war-axe grazed Tawque’s scalp as the warrior ducked the blow and turned, shifting his bow in his grip. With a mighty swing, Tawque severed the Nephraceetan’s leg just above the calf. Purple blood spewed forth as the creature fell, catching itself with its left hand; but the demon still tried to bury the axe in Tawque’s side.

The warrior pivoted, dodging the steel and spinning, took off the demon’s hand at the wrist. The big blade dropped to the forest floor as Tawque jumped and turned with a powerful swing. The ghoul’s head flopped forward, then rolled free as the body dropped, shaking uncontrollably, prone on the earth.

With a quick glance Tawque saw Haiwi, dancing around the injured devil, pummeling its body with arrows. The groin shot had apparently disabled the swifter movements of the thing, but the beast was still waving his axe in an attempt to kill its tormenter. Tawque approached, burying two more arrows into the creature’s back, through its heart. The Nephraceetan turned and Tawque took its head with a swing of his bow.

Looking down from the ridge, the man clad in gold and ivory was standing over the inert body of the last Nephraceetan. Haiwi saw the injured man and ran to Tawque, “We must go.”

“He’s hurt bad, he’s no threat. Do you know where he’s from?”

“He’s a free clansman of my city,— a hunter and trader. He mustn’t see me.” Haiwi tugged at Tawque’s arm. “Let us run from here, NOW!”

“If he’s from your city, isn’t he a friend?” Tawque watched the man collapse. Pulling his arm free he stared, distressed and disappointed at Haiwi, “In a dangerous place friends are hard to come by. This man will be a friend now.”

Haiwi bowed her head, “You are right,” she mumbled. Lifting her head, almost pleading, she looked deep into Tawque’s eyes, “But he poses great danger to us.”

* * *

https://theprose.com/post/135294/the-golden-city-i-posted-the-first-300-words-for-a-contest-but-i-thought-for-any-that-wanted-to-continue-i-would-post-the-full-prologue

Chapter 1

https://theprose.com/post/135238/the-golden-city-chapter-one-prison-bonds

Chapter 5

https://theprose.com/post/155256/the-golden-city

Chapter 8

https://theprose.com/post/136480/the-golden-city

Chapter 12

https://theprose.com/post/246382/the-golden-city

Chapter 38

https://theprose.com/post/165305/the-golden-city-chapter-thirty-eight

Chapter 52

https://theprose.com/post/136801/the-golden-city-chapter-fifty-two

Chapter One

A New Day

Dawn was cresting the eastern range with the soft grey hues of early light. The horizon: a strange contrast of dark shadowed mountains, painted against the silver-blue backdrop of atmosphere, suddenly ripped in-two by the tattered glow of the sun breaking the jagged peaks of the Sierras. Fall here — is an almost unnoticed shift in the seasons as the first rays of morn cascaded down the slopes, highlighting the dark green leaves of the aging scrub-oaks and the scattered pines blanketing the golden sun-scorched grass that seem to clash with the word home — and a heart’s desire for peace.

Back in the Midwest, October is marked by a shift in colors that spark hope and anticipation but here in California,—— the subtle difference creeps in — only noticed as the days grow shorter and cooler and hope seems lost in the dashed dreams of failure and ruin when winter finally takes hold. Escape ——— cries out as a refuge on the lonely game trail weaving through the brush but a shotgun and an overpriced hunting license is just the façade of freedom in a system stealing the “Pursuit of Happiness,” like the talons of an eagle plucking a wild trout from the river to guarantee its survival,— of course, at the cost of another’s soul: after all,— it’s only prey. One-by-one we gather like schools of trout only to fall helpless to the clutches of those with oversight, whom trust in our complacency — as we simply hold against the current, waiting for our next tidbit to float by.

The clicks and chirps ahead mark the game as near. Hunted becoming the hunter? Is taking up arms to shoot dinner a feeble grasp, — reaching for power; or more simply the dire attempt at self-mediation to temporarily hide indentured servitude to a government as foreign to freedom as the cage holding back a tiger at the zoo?

Here,— in the solitude of nature, the mind should clear and thoughts should focus on the task-at-hand; but the reality is our distant relatives, whom foraged to guarantee their very existence is but a lost truth, hidden in deleted memories of sacrifice, which truly teach the meaning of life.

The quail flush but I am so lost to thought: — the burst of escape does little to stir purpose within me,— the shotgun lifts to the shoulder mechanically; but too late, to click off the safety as the quail disappear in the thickly matted woodland.

“Why am I here?” as my barrel drops to a rest, the muzzle pointing to the ground, “…To dust you will return.”

The quail chose life.— And I wonder, where do I stand? …

How do you explain to your most significant other the misunderstandings when doubt supersedes faith?

My life was turned upside down five years ago with two FBI agents and a knock at the door. Kathryn was coming down the stairs with her bright morning smile as I returned the same glance over my shoulder, while unlocking the deadbolt and turning the knob and slightly opened the door a crack to peek out.

Mr. Bere? Asked two agents flashing identification. “My name is Special Agent Grant of the FBI,” stated a man in the cheap, dark-blue polyester sports jacket and a no nonsense smirk; then with a head tilt to his partner he added. “And this is Agent Lee. We’ve been sent to escort you downtown for questioning.”

“What is this in regards to agent?”

“It’s best if you just come with us.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Are you unwilling to cooperate, Mr. Bere?” the woman in matching attire asked as both agents put their identification away.

Kathryn’s hand covered mine, pulling open the door. “I demand to know what this is about before my husband goes anywhere with you.”

My wife could be a real bulldog when pushed, but these agents meant business.

Shock and awe, — meant to intimidate and humiliate, — yanked me from the threshold of my home. Agent Grant's vice-grip-pull on my wrist with a twist, forced my leg to post for balance on the porch as his right hand locked onto the back of my neck and his right knee took out my posted leg, dropping me to my knees with a painful thud. I was helpless and cuffed.

“Mr. Bere, you are under arrest for known ties to a terrorist cell and under the provision of the …”

Terrorist? At that point, it was a total blur. How quickly a happy life can be turned upside down. I glanced back at my wife and what I saw was fear. But with her hand covering her mouth and her silence, I knew that fear was doubt...

Chapter Thirty

Battle

Sioux Legend

The ax has fallen

the lance is free

The enemy has awakened

vengeance’s decree

There is no rest

for that of the wicked

A messiah has risen

coming forth is the call

Take Your Possession

In The Shadow’s Rising

Thirty enraged Indian braves and one blond mountain man hid in the trees watching the hated enemy approach the river. The cavalry’s numbers had increased by about twenty-five; probably joined by the patrol from The Forks that had chased the Sioux most of the previous day. Why the US cavalry had declared war on Isaac’s tribe no longer mattered to the warriors ready to ambush the soldiers coming to water their horses. What did matter was that the Sioux were thirsty for blood. Vengeance had fused this small, once peaceful branch of the Sioux tribe — reluctant for war, into a dangerous bond of merciless killers bent on the destruction of anyone associated with the US government. Death would come swiftly to the fools riding into a firestorm of men Isaac had positioned to take the best advantage of the natural cover afforded by the trees and tall ridges that guarded the seemingly safest course to the river. The green commander of the troop was oblivious to the danger, probably feeling safe in their numbers and training: armed with carbines and sabers, still toting the memories of their recent victory against the helpless victims of yesterday’s offensive: the elderly too old to fight and the wives and children of Isaac and Reuben’s adopted tribe.

Isaac’s plan was simple: lined along the ridges on either side, — wait until the enemy columns had made their way into the small valley, don’t fire until they’re so close no one would miss. In the first wave they would catch the soldiers by surprise and the numbers should swing closer to the tribe’s favor. Resist the first impulse to charge, but reload and shoot again from the cover of tree, hill, or natural rock bulwark. The startled soldiers will then call a retreat to regroup; but as they try and run, a rear guard, — that let them pass at first, — would make as much noise as possible and open fire in an effort to turn them back to the river. Undoubtedly by that time the Sioux would have the advantage and any survivors of the cavalry would feel the wrath of men outraged by the unthinkable and forged into a force with one purpose in life — to avenge.

Isaac‘s pistol rested on a rock ledge by his side within easy reach as he stood poised with grim determination; his muzzleloader trained on the captain near the head of the column. His shot would signal the attack as Reuben sat ready to then take out the lieutenant. Any other men of rank would be their next targets as the two marksmen would try and eliminate the command structure.

The blond mountain man took two deep deliberate breaths; exhaling them slowly as he calmed his nerves and steadied his muscles. With the ball at the muzzle end of his rifle resting smooth in the forked cradle of his sight he followed the captain’s head effortlessly as the unsuspecting target moved closer. Suddenly the officer reined his mount to a stop raising his arm to halt his command. The silent order spoke of trouble and although the enemy was farther away then Isaac had hoped he squeezed his trigger smoothly. The report of the weapon echoed over the small valley as a cloud billowed forth momentarily blocking the mountain man’s view, but the impact struck the intended man in the forehead, taking out half of the back of his skull as the ball exited, spinning the captain off the rear of his horse.

Within milliseconds Reuben shot the lieutenant in the chest. The man slumped forward in the saddle and then slid from his mount, his left foot still stuck in the stirrup as the horse bolted. The Sioux war cries and multiple rifle fire told the battle was in full swing within moments as Isaac and Reuben mechanically reloaded. The blond shot a sergeant yelling commands as he tried to organize the chaos and Reuben dropped the bugler amidst a hail of lead aimed at his position. Both men ducked the onslaught and reloaded as the cavalry un-expectantly charged the ridges, taking the offensive to the enemy.

Isaac popped up over his natural rock battlement to shoot again and met a mounted soldier with pistol drawn and aimed at him. The horse reared, startled at the sudden appearance of the blond and Isaac stumbled backwards to avoid the hooves and fell back to his left hip. Swinging the muzzle of his rifle upward toward his antagonist, he instantaneously pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the soldier in the chest causing him to jerk back and drop his Colt. The horse’s hooves hit the dirt to Isaac’s left as the blond rolled away from the danger and picked up his enemy’s fallen pistol and shot two more soldiers in quick succession from his prone position on the ground.

The charge quickly lost focus as some of the cavalry broke rank and bolted for the river. Reuben dropped the one leading the retreat and spun to the brush behind to recover his horse for pursuit.

Isaac scrambled to retrieve his own pistol from the rock ledge by his initial perch while the horse of the man he had shot with his rifle was still pounding the earth and striking the air with its front legs as the mortally wounded rider was fighting desperately to stay on. Isaac grabbed the reins to the rearing horse and swung into the saddle pulling the rider from his perch, then spurred the animal into a charge of the retreating enemy making a break for the river. The acquired cavalry pistol in his left hand clicked on an empty chamber as Isaac tried to fire the weapon so he threw it aside and pulled his revolver which he had tucked in his belt and shot into the fleeing soldiers.

Behind, his victorious brethren were also gathering up their horses to take up pursuit as ten yelling riders led by Reuben joined Isaac in his attack. About fifteen surviving soldiers regrouped at the river edge and turned to charge,— to the Indians surprise.

The blond mountain man noticing one of the men, with four crusted red marks down his left cheek, was flanking his companions nearer the river’s edge. Sashtee had, had skin and blood under her right fingernails and Isaac had assumed she had clawed the flesh of an assailant during her fight for her life. Now the blond felt sure he had found the very man that had assaulted his wife and left her and his unborn child to die. His rage surged as he thought of his beautiful Sashtee slipping away in his arms. Gut-shot was a slow unbearable way to die in itself, but this animal in his merciless assault had put a bullet in her stomach and left her to lie naked and alone on an icy snow bank in agony for hours before death had finally claimed her. Isaac’s soul screamed for revenge; to feel this man’s life drain under his hand sucked all reason as he dashed his mount in a direct line of attack on the man to the right of the regrouped offensive. Pounding down the ridge on a course undeterred by the shower of lead Isaac saw nothing but the single target of his revenge.

Isaac emptied his pistol in the direction of the advancing enemy then tossed the useless weapon aside and pulled his Bowie knife from its sheath. The soldiers drew saber to meet the onslaught of Indians as Isaac drove his animal into the charging scar-faced soldier’s mount. Both horses stumbled at the collision, but Isaac sprang over his saddle at impact, hitting the soldier in the chest, forcing the enemy from the saddle and causing the soldier to land with a thud on his back. The blond mountain man came up grabbing the solder’s throat with his left hand and stuck his blade into the man’s abdomen while spitting in the man’s face. Leaning down over the defeated, Isaac whispered in the helpless man‘s ear, “After I kill your comrades, I’ll be back to peel you slow.” Then he twisted the blade as the man screamed out in agony. Grabbing the man’s topknot he cut to the bone tugging with his left hand as he drove his right knee into the man’s shoulder, shoving the limp body to the earth. The scalp snapped free with a pop. With the Sioux war cry on his lips the enraged blond rose off his vanquished and pounded his chest in fury. Spotting the soldier’s sword in the grass by the bank, Isaac lunged after the weapon and picking up the fallen saber with his left hand — ran to meet the next enemy.

Clashing sword, knife, war-axe and lance echoed over the rivers surface as the battle pushed into the swift water,— when in the distance a bugle sounded announcing the near approach of support coming to the cavalry’s aid.

Reuben flew off his horse and landed behind the saddle of a fighting soldier. Wrapping his left arm around the man’s neck he plunged his knife into the soldier’s kidney and pulled the man from his mount when the bugle’s call caught his attention. A large force was pressing their way from the opposite side of the river. The young looking Crow brave scanned the battle spotting his uncle pushing waist deep into the river after a soldier who had fallen from his mount. The chase through the splashing barrier would lead the two into the path of the advancing support as panic melted over Reuben’s features. “Uncle we must fall back!” He screamed, but Isaac was blinded by revenge and oblivious to the danger’s swift approach.

Reuben seized the reins of his acquired mount and turned, charging his ride into the river after Isaac as a hail of bullets whistled over the banks of the channel. The first volley had little effect other than warn the Sioux of the advancing reserves and the sudden reversal of their victory, but the warriors refused to yield and continued to press on over the vanquished to the other side of the water misinterpreting Reuben’s course as a continuing offensive.

Isaac caught his prey and drove the saber into the man’s back then looked up to face the oncoming onslaught. With only a knife in his belt and sword in his hand he cursed. Taking no heed of his tribe’s following him into death’s jaws; he continued his path to the opposite bank. Resigning his mortality he would surrender his soul with grim determination as he faced the well-armed reinforcements as the survivors of his band came up behind.

The cavalry was almost upon them when a Sioux war cry echoed from the sparse trees around the approaching fresh soldiers and gunfire erupted from the hidden crags and brush of an almost barren landscape. As if from nowhere a party of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors intercepted the enemy catching them off guard. The battle immediately turned in the Indians favor as The Seer’s band, armed with repeating rifles, laid waste to the unsuspecting enemy and Isaac‘s tribe charged into the fray with sword, lance and powder.

“Uncle!” Reuben called out as his mount splashed out of the river on the opposite bank beside Isaac and extended his hand to his blond brother. The mountain man grasped the offer and swung easily into the saddle behind the Crow warrior. Together, with war cries on their lips they attacked. Isaac again pulled his knife, tucked into his belt, as Reuben shot an acquired colt pistol at an enemy hitting his target square in the chest.

The blond mountain man simultaneously launched himself from the back of the horse striking two soldiers off balance and taking one out of the saddle as he plunged his blade deep into the vanquished’s side. The other soldier struck by the blond’s jump, regained his saddle and leveled his pistol at Isaac; but Reuben fired twice, the third trigger pull falling on an empty chamber; but the two bullets were sufficient as the enemy slumped over his horse’s neck. The animal reared spinning the dead man backwards as two other soldiers, now horseless charged Isaac. The mountain man grabbed the sword from the dying man under him and stood in time to parry the saber blow of his first assailant and blocked the second’s jab with his long knife. Clashing metal echoed over the river valley as the two assailants pressed their advantage driving the mountain man back to the water’s edge.

Reuben, under attack by another rider dropped the pistol and pulled his war axe and charged. The steeds collided as saber and tomahawk missed their intended targets, but the close quarter limited the sword’s usefulness and the Crow brave caught the enemy with his next effort under the chin as the warrior’s horse regained its footing. The soldier’s busted jaw stunned his attack as Reuben then swung a savage backhanded blow, driving the blunt end of the ax into the man’s temple knocking the man cold.

Isaac, tied into close conflict with one of the assailants as the other had tripped, kicked the enemy in his manhood then plunged his blade into the man’s abdomen. With a cough the man spit up blood dropping to his knees as Isaac deflected another blow from the second man, intended to decapitate the blond. The mountain man ducked and spun, kicking at the soldier’s knee with his left foot. The strike landed against the joint as a thunderous crack sounded and the man’s leg buckled backward. The pain caused the saber to drop as the blond plunged his sword into the fallen’s chest. As the mountain man pulled his weapon free he scanned the battlefield. As the last soldier fell, the victorious Indians began whooping and cheering their triumph.

Isaac fell back against a rock catching his breath and scanned the devastation rent on the cavalry. An unknown tribe had come to their aid saving the day. How they got there the blond had no idea, but as the mountain man caught his breath he took notice of a short warrior walking toward him with purpose. With steely eyes locked on the small Cheyenne, Isaac took a deep breath and stood up, not sure of the man’s intentions. Others of the short warrior’s tribe began to gather around, but the blond remained undaunted at the unnerving assembly. Isaac, the only white man still standing on the battlefield and perhaps viewed as an enemy by this new group of Indians at war with the whites, felt alone among this new throng.

Silence fell over the once chanting victor’s as the apparent leader of the Cheyenne and Sioux war party stopped in front of the blond. The men from Isaac’s tribe began to gather to their adopted brother’s side not sure either of this leader’s intentions. The two men studied each other with a long pause then the eyes of The Seer dropped to the bear claw adornment around the blond’s neck. The mummified finger of The War God’s hand rested center on the mountain man’s chest and an expression of wonderment melted over the stone features of The Seer. The leader slowly reached out and touched the digit, taking it between his thumb and index finger and began to gently rub the token just as Isaac often did out of habit then let go and stepped back. Turning to his men he cried out in the Cheyenne language, “Behold! The one who is to come!” The medicine man looked skyward then back to his tribe. “The Great Spirit has heard the cry of his children and sent us a brother not of our flesh. A warrior forged by his battle with the gods. It marks the time of our end. A time of change... The gods have demanded sacrifice.” The warrior paused for a long moment — then shouted, “The time of the calling has arrived.”

The gathered men began to mutter. Questioning looks passed among the warriors — one to the other. The braves of Isaac’s tribe were bewildered as they watched in confusion the events unfolding. With the skill of a practiced orator the medicine man had the full attention of all as the throng stared in amazement at the blond mountain man standing like a statue before the gestures of The Seer. The preacher’s voice dropped to almost a whisper as he looked back to Isaac. “We must join under The War God’s lead.” Pounding his chest, his words then lifted in tempo to a rhythm of poetry. “We must kill the hated enemy.” And in a crescendo he cried, “We must finish the task the heavens have loosened on our land.”

The Seer turned back to Isaac with his last word and pulled a knife from his belt. The mountain man stood unwavering as the small man came near. Was he the sacrifice the gods were calling for? What prophecy was this medicine man referring to? Isaac met the steely gaze of The Seer. Any fear the blond had of death had washed away with the passing of his wife, but Isaac felt he had more to do. For what purpose did this little man speak of?

The short warrior unflinchingly dragged the edge of his blade across his own palm while his gaze never faltered from the mountain man’s. “You are the warrior who is young, but old,— a brother, yet not. To the death I pledge my life to you.” The Seer handed the knife to Isaac. “May our mingled blood seal my loyalty.”

The blond took...

Chapter Three: The Real Dom…?

Ancient Writing: Shalimar’s Reality

Chapter II:LXIX

Light can shine though misunderstanding sublime

But confusion rules when minds are blind

Truth betwixt realities confessed

In the darkness no glimmer can discern the distress

When thinking is locked in beliefs intertwined

Purity befuddled the lies subtle mimes

Onyxcity crossed her lavish apartment above her sprawling empire followed by a stern looking fellow.

Her bodyguard? Hum...—far to thin.

Luxury draped the walls in the finery of Asian tapestries and oil works by masters as her footfalls pressed light on the soft carpet of wool, padding and keeping warm each delicate step. Her sleek leather outfit appeared perfectly contoured to her shapely form augmented by stilettos under the heels of tight laced boots embracing her calves with the grace of a ballerina gliding across the floor on toes. She paused briefly at the wire formed bird cage and peered in at the small creature dancing like reflective crystals in the confines of the minimal space. “What do you presume she eats, Mead…?”

“Perhaps they drink blood just like vampires,” replied…

Lover?—— Rather ordinary looking.

“Nonsense,— everyone knows vampires aren’t real. We must head down to the archives and see if there is anything recorded about what fairies eat.”

“Madam,” He paused with a smile. “That doesn’t mean the little creature doesn’t drink blood.”

“What did you just call me?”

“Pardon,— Madam?”

“And just what are you implying?” She fumed, placing her hand on her hip while tapping a foot.

The Butler? Hum…

“It‘s just a polite address, Madam.”

Onyx… appeared doubtful.——”Well I don’t like it!”

The employee frowned, pulling a small leather booklet from his pocket. Thumbing through the pages he replied, “Longfellow’s Terms — states right here: ‘A polite term of address for a woman.’ See,— the respected expert reveals all, — knowing quite well what women want and deserve.”

“What would a guy named Longfellow know about what women deserve? Give me that,” grabbing the little book from Mead…’s hand.

He stepped closer and pointed to the words in the little black book; his head moving ever so slightly to take in the wafting fragrance of her perfumed hair.

Onyx… read quietly under her breath, “Used to address a woman politely.” But she read on: “Ah-ha, number two states: ‘a woman running a brothel.’— This is not a brothel!”

“I never said it was — Madam.”

“What are you implying? —— Stop calling me that!”

“Yes Mistress.”

“What do you mean by that!” She almost screamed.

“What?— my Mistress.”

She quickly paged through the little book; and then with a sneer of disgust, “I am not your extramarital lover! What subliminal messages is this pervert Longfellow teaching society?”

…That’s settled.

A faint snicker from the small cage broke the impact of …City’s declaration. The enraged woman in black-leather turned grabbing the small prison with her right hand. “You’re not so important I won’t crush you under my boot,” she growled, almost pulling the cage from its pedestal.

The crystalline light grew a little dimmer.

Mead… carefully took hold of the little book without taking it from Onyx…’s;— his hand —brushing slightly against her soft skin. He pointed within while keeping the tender contact present. “See, the second definition of Mistress is — ’owner or controller of something.”

…City let go of the cage and studied the words. “So what are you implying? I’m a controlling — Mistress or Madam— of a brothel?” she almost shouted.

“Why,— no Mistress,— you’re the owner of this establishment.”

“Stop calling me that!—— And what do you presume this establishment to be?”

Mead…’s head dipped and tipped forward as if questioning, “Saloon? Of course Mam.”

“Do I look like your mother?”

The little light in the cage snickered, “Well, you do employ Sirens.”

Both turned to the little prisoner. “It talks? my Goddess.”

She pause for a moment thinking,— then nodded with a slight curved lip of approval. “Yes,— it's like an annoying parrot mocking me.”

“Why don’t you ask it what it eats?”

Onyx put both hands on her shapely hips. “You don’t think I tried that?”

“What’s her name?”

She only speaks to annoy me.“

“Mnezz,” came the small voice, yet seemed to resonate everywhere.

“Hey little girl,— can I get you something to eat?” Mead… asked.

“I have to be free to eat.”

Mead… looked to Onyx… with pleading eyes, “Why don’t we just let her go?”

“I can’t. The sandflea… ordered her capture. I’m just holding her until she arrives.” Onyx… continued the few steps to the large picture window overlooking her successful business venture below. Bunny was taking the stage for the next act of musical excellence. …City took in a deep breath of satisfaction. — Then she noticed HIM. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Mead… stepped to the window and looked down. “You hired him.”

Just then the door burst open with two employees dragging in a tied up individual.

“AndyBetz, —— Andrometa, what is the meaning of this intrusion?”

The two bouncers looked at each other and then OnyxCity, “We caught this nefarious thief sneaking around the back of the store trying to climb in a window,” …in unison. “All we can get out of him is his name, — SalingerTwain.”

The prisoner looked up at his captors and then their boss. “Not true. I just heard the most beautiful music and it was calling to me. It was like I had no control.” He smiled as his eyes scanned the shapely form in tight leather.

Mead... looked to …City, “We do employ Sirens.”

“Nonsense,— sounds more like the actions of a spy trying to steal the secretes of my business.” Onyx… took a step toward the prisoner then stopped, looking at Mead… “Get down stairs and get rid of that meddling interloper.”

Mead… looked puzzled, “You mean the old fart? How am I suppose to do that? You hired him Ma…” The man stopped short. “Won‘t he become suspicious? Don‘t you want to know what he‘s found out?”

“I already know what he knows.” She peered down at the old man. “He’s wearing a stupid parrot on his shoulder. What does he think he is? A pirate? And he has a kitten right there. Tell him no animals are allowed in this place of business and toss him out. He’ll be none the wiser.”

“Ma… my Goddess,” stumbling,— Mead… frowning as he stared at the supposed pets. “That doesn’t look like a kitten to me. Hear tell, he’s a powerful wizard. Surely this is dangerous to poke the magic.”

“We have the sandflea… with us. What’s one old man?” …City gritted her teeth, “Now get down there and get rid of them.”

“But my Goddess, who is this sandflea… when it comes to magic?”

“She’s a sorceress of the most powerful kind. Rumor has it she’s heartless. She’s already killed 68 husbands to date. I got it straight from the horses mouth.”

All four men looked at Oxyx... with shock and suprise. Mead… spoke, “You’ve actually met with the sandflea… in person?— When?”

“Of course not.— She’s much too powerful. But I did bump into her magnificent horny stallion that revealed all to me.”

AndyBetz straightened as all the men’s expressions appeared distraught,— except for the spy who was grinning. “My Lady, you mean you had a liaison with sandflea…’s — gigolo?”

…City’s expression turned heated as she barked at Mead…. “Get down there this instant, and get rid of HIM.”

Mead… left reluctantly, appearing devastated.

Onyx… turned to Andy…”What are you talking about?”

“Your secret liaison with sandflea…’s stud.”

“Have you gone mad?” Her anger burned. “One of the messenger’s horses pulling her carriage talked to me. Beautiful animal with this amazing spiraled yet straight horn protruding from its forehead. It told me such stories.” She smiled, looking off as if mesmerized.

“My lady,” Andrometa interrupted. “That’s impossible. You’re describing a Unicorn; they were all killed in Noah’s flood.”

“Why would anybody kill such a magnificent creature,— and who is this Noah anyway,— some god?”

Andrometa cleared his throat. “He must be, the flood’s named after him…”

AndyBetz cut his friend off. “Apparently they weren’t on the menu?”

“Say what?” Onyx…'s right fingers closed lightly covering the side of her mouth as her left remained resting on hip.

“Noah gathered two of all different kinds of animals on his yacht and then a massive flood killed everything else.” AndyBetz answered with a smile.

“Why wouldn’t a god have saved these unicorns?”

Andrometa shrugged. “I guess they don’t tasted good.” The two bodyguards looked at each other, nodding in agreement.

…City looked appalled. “Someone would eat those glorious creatures?” She shook her head. “This is all nonsense, I just talked to MilesNowhere yesterday.”

“Who’s that? My Goddess,” all three men asked in unison.

Onyx… focused on the spy with a slight head tilt. “Why, the nonexistent unicorn of course.——When the fairy was delivered with instructions,” she said with a sneer of superiority. “And he said the sandflea… was the most powerful sorceress living!”

Laughter erupted from the little cage. All eyes turned to the fairy.”

“You have something to add Mnezz?” …City asked angrily as her foot began tapping impatiently.

Mnezz was rolling around on the bottom of her cage. “I can’t take it anymore.”

“Then tell us what you know.” …City ordered.

Alright,” the little crystalline light squeezed out between chuckles. “My sister, saltandink is sandflea…’s fairy godmother. Sandflea… is a beautiful princess from a faraway place called LA where they all worship the sun.”

“Ha,— I knew it!” …Twain Interrupted.

…City stepped over to the prisoner. “What do you know,—— spy?”

…Twain cleared his throat: “That the sandflea… is a sun-worshiping, dominatrix, goddess.” The spy’s grin increased as he stared at the woman in tight leather. “Who’s decided to run for office on the platform of better shipping.”

Onyx… turned her attention to her two men. “What’s wrong with my shipments?”

“We lost one yesterday, my Goddess,” Andrometa shrugged. “An infestation of plague forced the harbormaster to burn the ship.”

Onyx… looked devastated. Her attention returned to the spy. “Tell me what you know or I’ll have you racked.”

“Please,— rack me, — Goddess. In that fine leather,— have your will with me.” The spy’s tongue wetted between his tight lips in anticipation.

Onyx…leaned in. Her hot breath light upon his cheek. “Tell me everything you know and I’ll personally apply the draw.”

“Oh god yes!” And he began to spill, “She wants world domination, yet she has no political agenda.”

“What lies are you telling me?” Onyx… said infuriated. “You just told us she wants to fix shipping.”

“My goddess, the spy interrupted. “Agenda, — as in a personal underlying motivation.”

The two guards were nodding in agreement.

Salinger… eyes turned pleading. “Please, give me this chance. I will service you loyally. Do with me as you will. I am your slave.”

Mnezz couldn’t stop laughing. Her high pitched giggle resonated throughout the upper apartment disrupting the spy. All turned their attention again to the fairy.

…City took a step closer to the cage. “You have something to add.”

Through the laughing Mnezz squeezed out, “Sandflea…’s already been crowned queen on the night of her prince’s homecoming. She already rules her empire with her king at her side.”

Onyx… turned to the prisoner. “What do you have to say about that, spy?”

“Yes,” Salinger… replied. “She rules now in a distant land, but she seeks world domination.”

Onyx… focused back on Mnezz, “Tell me more of this rule in this foreign land. How did she come to power?”

“Oh, it’s a torrid tale of intrigue and war.”

All present voiced in unison, “Tell us.”

Mnezz stopped laughing. “It all started when some creature called a skank knifed the sandflea… in the back breaking her heart.”

Onyx… was riveted as she asked, “So she’s immortal? Is this how she became the Ice Queen? Is that why she has no love for men and has killed 68 husbands?”

Salinger…. Interrupted. “You could send me into her court. I could win her over and become her next husband. I will gladly take the position of 69 with the sandflea… and she will be none the wiser that you have a spy in her court.”

“Quite fool,” …City ordered. “Please continue Mnezz.”

“Let me go and I will tell all.”

Onyx… whispered into the little cage, “Tell me more.— If I like what I hear, I may consider your loyalty worthy of rewards.”

The tiny fairy thought as the three men glared, nodding-approval,— reassuringly.

“Fine,” Mnezz continued, “It all started the day of coronation. Sandflea…’s evil step mother had grounded her for getting involved in a maul, while shopping.

“Is that where she killed the 68 men? They weren’t her husbands?” …City asked concerned.

“No,—— no one died in the maul, but the wicked step mother’s carriage was damaged.”

AndyBetz interrupted. “So why is there a 68 in the sandflea…’s name?”

“Shhhh!” Onyx… ordered.

Mnezz smiled. “68 is the number,— I think,— was on the pennant her prince carried into battle.”

“What kind of battle?”

“I’m not completely sure, but from what I could gather there’s a lot of kicking and men’s genitals are involved.”

All three men leaned down slightly, cupping their privates with hands.

“The battle’s even called Football.” Mnezz spat as if angered.

“Sounds brutal.” Onyx… whispered. “Is this the land where the ridiculous codpiece was developed?”

“Mnezz nodded affirmatively.

“Oh’s,” sounded from all listening with understanding.

Mnezz continued, “So, the sand…”

Onyx… interrupted. “So why sandflea68? That’s a very unusual name.”

“OH, I know this one.” …Twain almost shouted. “She’s the leader of a cult of beach-loving sun-worshipers.”

All looked to Mnezz for confirmation. “This is true.” She nodded.— “Her given name, I think was something like Sandy Lee. But with her prince’s battle pennant and all her over nine thousand sun-worshiping followers, she was re-named something with real meaning.”

Suddenly, a commotion erupted down stairs…

****

Chapter 1:

https://theprose.com/post/167803/castle-prose

Chapter 2:

https://theprose.com/post/168268/castle-prose-prose-universe-challenge-by-salingertwain-continuation

Chapter Two: Behind Closed Doors

Ancient Writing: The Whisperer’s Sonnets

Chapter IV:II

Shall I relinquish to thee, a winter’s storm?

Hell is cold in thy empty void.

The heart does long the peace of death,

Yet the brisk northern howl of — nothingness?

Darkness blinds the cruel crystalline eyes,

From hate will burn and frost immortalized.

Thou harsh winds cut more brutal than blade

Blood can’t drain, yet life remain?

The blizzard white in no way clean.

Will not wash the sin off thee

Thou curse of vengeance blocking heaven’s shine.

“Human rule has had its time!”

Will life endure — the spite of thee?

The call: “To Arms;” gives meaning to breathe.

***

In the dark shadows at the back of the small tavern, the two men whispered secrets hidden from those who might question intentions. The undersized bar where politics were often on the menu,— always tied to the emotions of strong opinion, and where policies were continually questioned,— seemed the perfect place to vent possible conspiracies. But here, talking the end of days was deemed the highest order of ‘nut job’ and relegated to only the bravest of souls willing to press agenda to gain followers.

The hour was late as the two men sat across from each other with tall steins full,— and only a small candle in-between to ease the darkness of the seemingly empty establishment.

SalingerTwain took a swig of his ale as he stared at the page from the very old leather bound book. “What the hell is this all about?”

“It’s prophecy dude,” Replied JamesMByers.

“Looks like a bunch of gibberish to me.”

“It’s talking about the Ice Queen and Domination.”

“Tell me more.” SalingerTwain leaned in with anticipation.

“She’s coming soon.”

…Twain stared back down at the page. “Humm…. I don’t see it. How are you getting that?…Ice Queen, Dominatrix, cumin:— so, it’s an erotic poem?”

“Nooo,”—James… winced running his parted fingers through his hair in frustration. “She’s not a Dominatrix. She’s determined to summon — ‘THE DARKNESS.’”

Salinger… looked out from the corner booth to the window at the front of the establishment,— nodding, “Looks like incantation achieved. What’s so bad about that? I have trouble sleeping during the day anyway.”

“Not the night, night you idiot: ‘THE DARKNESS.’”

“Ohhh, we’re talking a knight here. A dude called Darkness. What can one Knight do, even if he is a badass?”

…Byers sighed with disgust. “Not a person or Knight. It’s all about an encompassing evil.”

Salinger… studied the words.— “I only see darkness mentioned with eyes? How are you coming up with–— ‘THE DARKNESS?’”

“It’s right there in the prophecy, ‘Thou curse of vengeance blocking heaven’s shine.’”

…Twain‘s right eye arched high. “I think that’s open to interpretation.”

James… raised his hands above the table, palms up, moving them passionately. “Dude, the prophecy is in soliloquy from the heart…” closing his right fist to his chest. “…bending to the inevitable doom of destiny, or taking a stand —that is the essence of what gives life purpose.” His fist came down hard on the oak surface; “The Ice Queen’s rule will consume all.”

Salinger… took a swig of his ale, wiping the excess from his mouth with sleeve. “So why is her rule evil? What’s her political agenda?”

“She doesn’t have a political agenda.”

“So she wants to rule, but has no political agenda? That might not be a bad thing.”

…Byers shook his head in disbelief. “The domination’s not about ruling. It’s about bringing on ’The DARKNESS.’”

“So she wants everybody to get a good nights rest? That platform sounds pretty good to me.”

“Nooo,” …Byers moaned in frustration. ‘THE DARKNESS’ is a metaphor for unearthly evil.”

“Why? When I think of darkness, I think sleep.”

“I guess because bad things happen at night.”

“And bad things don’t happen in the daytime? Maybe she’s going to bring ‘The LIGHTNESS.’” …Twain placed his hands on his cheeks. “Ewwwww! I‘m scared.”

“Look,— we need to take a stand against the Ice Queen. She’s got over nine thousand followers and each seal of the 68 broken will bring death and destruction in their wake. She’s like a sand flea whose bite will mean the end of the world.”

“Oh, I see now, you’re an animal rights activist. I agree, hunting baby seals is really bad.”

“No, not seals,— seals as in locks to contain or hold in.”

“So, there’s 68 seals that have invaded the canals and she has to hunt them because they’re disrupting shipping?”

“Seals,— not mammals.”

“But I was taught seals were mammals. You probably don‘t believe in any leather goods either. Is that why your vote isn‘t… What’s the Ice Queen’s name again?”

“sandflea68.” …Byers mumbled under his breath.

“How do you get ‘Ice Queen‘— from sand flea? — sounds more like a beach-loving sun-worshiper.”

“I didn’t pick her name.“

“Well who did?”

“Probably her parents.”

“And they named their kid Sandflea? What were they thinking? Carrying a name around like that had to build character. She would have to have a strong constitution. Besides, I thought sand fleas were fictional?”

“Oh, she’s real alright. She’s a beautiful seductress, that weaves her spells to entice and enchant the wayward souls caught in her web of deceit.”

“First she’s a biting flea and now a spider, Which is it?”

“Dude, it’s just an expression.”

Salinger… smiled wide. “This all sounds like a lot of propaganda to me: a no nonsense ruling seductive sun-worshiper dominatrix, enchanting in her feminine wiles. And the whole package comes without a hidden political agenda? I’m sold. Loved the sales pitch. Where can I find her? Tell me, are you her agent or her campaign manager?”

James… shook his head. “I don’t believe this. The prophecy’s warning death, destruction, and you’re ready to jump from the battlement to the flagstones in her path, yelling, “Trample me, Trample ME!”

…Twain chuckled and turned away spying the beautiful view hanging over the bar-top, grabbing something from a shelf behind. “Hey bar wench, bring me and my friend here another round.”

“Dude, that’s rude.” James… whispered with a frown.

“Nonsense,— you need to lighten up. She works in a tavern for Christ’s sakes. They’re use to it.”

The waitress, InLoveWithWords slipped from her perch and turned to her last patrons of the night. “We’re closing up.” There was a strong look of distain in those fiery brown eyes.

Salinger… snapped his fingers. “Brew-ski,— chop, chop, don’t keep your customers waiting.”

…Byers, shook his head no,— “Dude?” and then to the waitress. “I’m just fine miss.”

InLove… looked over to the bartender, CreativeChaos, who slid a fresh stein …Words’ way with a wink.

As the bar-goddess approached the duo, James… inched away — to the back of his bench seat.

Salinger… sat smiling at the gorgeous view.

InLove…’s eyes burned cruel and emotionless as she dumped the ice cold ale over the annoying patron’s head and slammed the pewter mug down on the table, “We’re closed;” and stormed out leaving the front door open.

“You can see yourselves out,” CreativeChaos barked from behind the bar and turned out the oil lamp and then moved toward the upstairs lodging.

Salinger… stared at his friend, “Shit, I guess that was last call.” Then turned his head and watched …Chaos leave.

James… licked his fingers and doused the candle. Blackness encompassed the duo.

Everything went still.

“What’s with — “THE DARKNESS?——

James…?———James…?———Anybody? ”

Nothing but silence. 

“Dude, I’m cold. Now I could really use a hot shower. Can someone please light a lamp?”

Through the open door a chilly breeze sweeps across the floor carrying with it a few snowflakes. The frosty beer magnified the winter wind as Salinger… stood still staring at the open door. It appeared a huge storm was rolling in.

“Hum, I guess it’s time to blow this joint:— Bedtime‘s calling me.”

****

Chapter 3:

https://theprose.com/post/169506/castle-prose-prose-universe-challenge-by-salingertwain-continuation

Chapter 1:

https://theprose.com/post/167803/castle-prose

Chapter one: The Quest

The gray hues of dusk were already casting shadows on hewn stone of the Prose medieval fortress. The old man in a black frock stumbled along the cobblestone street,— his pace slow and methodical hiding the urgency of his mission. The witching-hour was fast approaching and the deadline loomed like an angry bar-wench demanding coin from a pauper for services rendered.

At first glance one might think: aged monk, — in desperate need of a shave; with each step,— staff positioning for balance,— blending with his large sleeved garment — walking with purpose. Yet others would deem the pure white feathered companion on his shoulder depicted the occupation: falconer——still needing the shave. But on closer inspection: the small barn owl perched high and proud pictured more the parrot of a pirate, mocking its owner’s shuffling gait,— endangering both on the treacherous paved road,… shave?

“At this pace we’ll both be dead before….”

“Shh, shh, shh, OwlLite, I’m moving as fast as these tired bones will allow.”

“Perhaps an oxen cart would be faster?” Remarked a shadowy figure licking its paws on the seat of a horse-less carriage: as in, no horse harnessed; I said medieval, remember?

The old man stopped and stared at the tiger cub.

“Oh that would never due,” OwlLite chirped in. “Oxen move far to fast for peace-of-mind.”

The cat burst out laughing. “What’s the big hurry anyway?”

The old man cleared his throat, “We are on an important errand Tigerista. No time to talk, no time at all.”

The tiger stood and jumped off the carriage. “I guess we’ll have to talk on-the-way.”

Disgruntled, the old man continued his journey.

“Where are we headed?” The cat asked as she darted ahead in a quick leap.

“OnyxCity,” OwlLite beamed. “It’s life and death.”

“Yes, life and death,” agreed the old man.

“Isn’t that, that tavern next to the Black Tower?”

“Yes, yes,” the old man replied when a young woman ran out from behind a stone wall fence and collided with the old man,—— knocking him down as a stack of papers went airborne. OwlLite took to flight with feathers ruffled; but Tigerista simply paused, sitting down on her hunches and began cleaning a paw.

“Ohhhh,” the old man moaned. “…Are you on a mission to kill the old farts?” he grunted while carefully adjusting to his knees.

“Yes,— kill the old fart?” OwlLite corrected, perturbed: Tigerista really wants that paw clean.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there,” the young woman replied, hurrying to gather up her lost work. “I’m really glad I took the time to number these.”

The old man picked up one of the sheets, barely discerning the scrolled quillwork detailed fully across the page — in the limiting light. “You’re a chronicler; aren‘t you my dear?”

“Well,—— I like to write.”

“This is fate,” OwlLite offered in confidence.

The young woman reared back clutching her gathered papers to her chest, somewhat excited, “Your bird talks?”

The cat stopped licking, “That’s not all she does.”

“Holy shit! The cat too?” The woman winced almost fearful.

“Who might you be?” the old man asked.

“That’s SelfTitled,” OwlLite answered.

“How did you know my name? We’ve never met,—— at least I don’t…”

“She’s a soothsayer my dear,” The old man replied, handing the gathered sheets back to his new acquaintance. “She dreams, dreams — that speak of life and love, of heartbreak and glory.”

“How is it your animals talk?”

“Well,——nobody owns these girls. But to answer your question, all things are possible when our eyes are opened to imagination.”

“And, who are you?” The young woman asked.

The old man paused looking down, “I am nothing.”

“But he aspires!” The owl chimed in.

“Wasting time,—— to quote a phrase,” the cat growled.

“She is coming with,” declared OwlLite.

“Where are you headed, my dear?”

“I need to get my chronicles into OnyxCity before the deadline.”

“Then it seems our paths have crossed, my dear.”

“Tick, tick, tick…” The large cub reminded,— standing and cocking her head in the direction of the Black Tower.

“Yes, yes, Tigerista, let’s be on our way.”

The old man posted his staff and struggled to stand as SelfTitled took hold of his arm to help him up. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m more spry than I look, my dear.” Tigerista could be heard snickering.

The four musketeers continued onward,— the Black Tower’s silhouette forged within the silvery glow of the full moon like a beacon of doom looming over the quest ahead.

From the left they could hear voices beckoning, “Come hither and see. Just come, you must see.”

“What’s that all about?” SelfTitled pause as if to answer the call.

The old man pointed to the sign above the saloon. “The Simon & Schuster’s Wishing Well:—— Patrons there often vie for company and tips.”

“I would like to see!” SelfTitled exclaimed as she turned toward the door.

Tigerista broke her trance. “I thought you had a deadline?”

“Oh yeah,” the young woman frowned looking to the papers clutched to her chest.

As they neared, the sound of music marked the trail’s end with large red double-doors and lanterns on either side beckoning: the weary soul refreshment and pleasure amid song and drink. Walking through the heavy paneled doors, the small party moved to the side, scanning their surroundings for the goddess and owner of the establishment. Scantily dress dancers staged over the audience seductively graced their patrons with beauty and elegance.

“Who are they?” SelfTitled asked, mesmerized.

“Those are sirens my dear: Winterreign, SamanthaFowler, Scooby, Soulhearts.… Their songs chronicle life. Some choose not to listen to their words, but these sirens are respectful of others, singing within the realms they call home.—— To each their own, I say.”

“I think they’re beautiful,” SelfTitled said in awe.

Just then the front doors burst open, swinging like batwing-doors announcing the new arrival of a pard’ in full Western Gear of the 1880’s replete with colt not lashed.—— Silence fell over the crowd as all stared.

“Who is that?” whispered SelfTitled.

“TheTallOne,” OwlLite meowed with a gleam in her lovely green eyes and then purred.

“WHAT? that’s my line,” Tigerista roared.

OwlLite gave the superiority head tilt, ignoring the feline.   

“Hey Dumb-Ass, — wrong portal,” came a nearby catcall.

So fast,—— no-one even saw the pistol drawn as TheTallOne leveled his piece at the rude customer. “Shit for brains, we’re all about to find out what’s between those ears.”

Dustygrein stood cautiously with both hands motioning calm. “Woe, woe, — dude,—— he was just sayin’,—— Westerns are on deck three.”

OwlLite chirped in, “Don’t mess with a real man.”

“And just how am I to get beamed there?” TheTallOne re-holstered his weapon.

“Harry_Situation’s in charge of the elevator,” Dusty… replied.

TheTallOne’s left hand still resting on the butt of his sidearm, “And you’re going to find him for me,—Right?” tapping his finger lightly on the leather, ready to draw again.

“Consider it done.” And Dusty… disappeared into the crowd.

TheTallOne’s voice boomed;—— “In the MEAN-time, I was summoned here by a voice in my ear.”

The old man looked to the bird perched on his shoulder.

…Lite shrugged, “What can I say,——I’m a sucker for authentic men.” If it weren’t for the beak, you’d swear she was smiling.

“Was it an annoying owl… who,— who—spoke? Tiger… questioned, sarcastically.

“Who you calling annoying, bitch?”

“Now, now girls,— no cat fights over the dark stranger,” The voice of reason beckoned from the old man.

OwlLite repositioned her perch to face the sleek cub at the old man’s side. Her large eyes narrowed. “He’s all mine, Sister! Keep those clawed paws off.”

“Oh,—please,” Tiger… snarled.

“He is kind-of cute.” SelfTitled pitched in.

“Who invited you?” OwlLite almost growled.

SelfTitled looked dumbfounded, “You did.”

The little owl’s head did a full 180. “Who?”

The old man nodded, yes.

“Damn!” Ruffling her feathers, the little owl‘s eyes narrowed. She was pissed.

“What’s all this then?” TheTallOne said turning to the old man with a fierce, no shit stare down. “I need answers,—— and fast.”

****     

Chapter 2:

https://theprose.com/post/168268/castle-prose-prose-universe-challenge-by-salingertwain-continuation

Chapter 3:

https://theprose.com/post/169506/castle-prose-prose-universe-challenge-by-salingertwain-continuation

Excerpt Quotes: 

1) He knew the insulting name implied he was the son of a traitor: Arguing with the ignorant, once their minds are set on a path, will achieve nothing. Vlad took a deep breath; but continued fixated on the floor, “Not at all, my lord. I have come to the only one as dedicated to our Order as myself in stopping the incursions from the south.”

2) Vlad lifted his head slowly, “Sometimes convention frowns on necessity, my lord.”

Probably one of the least understood personalities from history, Dracula is often painted as the very essence of evil — morphed into an eternal demon. But little is truly understood as his history was documented by his enemies. Propaganda is a powerful tool in the destruction of truth. Of course you might say, “But the history’s real;” and I would have to say: “But the perspective could be tainted.” Consider:—— Vlad ruled at a time when excepted rules for punishment and execution demonstrated extremes in all cultures; from burning at the stake, gutting and disemboweling while still alive, leaving ones in small cages to slowly starve to death. And these are just a few of the accepted atrocities of the past. Vlad’s judgments were swift against law breakers and enemies alike: heigthening fears while demonstrating his strong sense of right and wrong; ruling with the proverbial “Iron Fist.” Vlad’s rule was marked by defense against an enemy that the phrase, “outnumbering his own,” would be considered an extreme understatement and yet he held against this well trained empire and fought back against losses with few resources or allies. Bram Stoker seems to have forever tainted the name Dracula as the personification of the devil; but in my alternate history novel, The Devil’s Remnant, the “Order of the Dragon’s” alien connection and immortality will be unveiled regarding this exiled prince seeking retribution in the old west. 

https://theprose.com/post/132760/the-devil-s-remnant