Savior of Arcadia

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  “We’ll figure something out,” Bellamy said, leaning down to plant a comforting kiss on Jone’s cheek, running a pale hand through the loose wisps of wheat-golden hair that had escaped from her heavy braid.

  Jone gave her a weak smile and nod, then turned away.

  He played me. This was what he wanted, all along. He played all of us. Me, his own resistance group, even Elizabeth herself. I did the one thing he could never have done on his own: kill the Queen that gave him her power. Then he took the rest for himself, and rules the remnant of the Empire with an iron fist. And now that he has the Eye of Osiris, he can’t even die.

  “And none of our evocations or magic can touch him. They just make him even stronger.” Rote sighed, a puff of dark wind at the nape of her neck. “Not really fair, you know?”

  Against the preeminent evoker in the world? No, not really. Jone sighed along with her. Once again, she felt useless. Almost helpless. Drake had, in one clever maneuver nearly five years ago, turned every advantage she’d had over him around on her. The only way to kill him now would be to get close to him and not let him escape, but how would she manage that when the man could incinerate a quarter of her fleet by himself? It’s like trying to extinguish a bonfire with a greatsword. It doesn't work; at best it annoys the bonfire and gets you burned.

  Rote chuckled, but Jone felt too exhausted to join her. Aside from the magic of millions coursing through her body, she was once again just a normal woman. One wrong move, and she’d be dead once again, and this time for good.

  “You’ve still got me,” the spirit grumbled, nuzzling against her softly in their shared mindspace. Jone nodded. Then she smiled as an equally weary-looking Adrienne put an arm around her waist from out of nowhere, her crimson ruffles and silvered armor plates singed, dented, and battered. Esmeralda left the helm to one of her pirates and joined them, letting them both lean against her strong, lithe body for support. Bellamy grinned, ruffling Jone’s hair as she leaned in and gave Esmeralda a kiss.

  Jone tilted her head back and stared up into the cloudy sky. To win the Elizabethian war, The Drake had to die. And for the first time, Jone didn’t think she was up to the task.

  2

  Unity

  “Ugh. I’ve never liked coming here,” Esmeralda complained. “Everyone’s always literally looking down at you.” She didn’t bother to lower her voice; one of the nearby Highlanders setting the feast table glanced at her with irritation, but quickly backed off when the pirate locked her unrelenting glare onto him.

  “You and me both, pirate,” Comte Aubry huffed. “Stature and altitude of birth have no correlation with talent and authority, much less supremacy. That’s how we got into this whole Abyssal mess in the first place.” The elderly, silver-haired noble shifted uncomfortably in his hard-backed, oversized sky-oak seat; while his health and mobility were still in slow decline, his wit and tongue were as sharp as ever.

  “Says the nobleman,” Esmeralda shot back without missing a beat. “Determining authority by whose legs you fell out of isn’t any better.”

  The Comte just grunted. “You’d be surprised how much I agree with you, pirate.”

  “Well everyone, please try to be as vocal as possible about your feelings,” Bellamy commented dryly. “I shouldn’t have to remind either of you how much we need this alliance.”

  Jone nodded her agreement. “The Highlanders would make for excellent allies. Not only are they indomitable in battle, if they allow us to dock and stage assaults from here, we can keep Elizabethia under constant siege from above.” She looked down at the table. That way we can destroy the city and their morale at the same time, while their civilians slowly starve due to our blockade.

  “You really think they’re gonna help us out?” Adrienne kept a slightly nervous eye on the hulking Highland natives as they tromped back and forth behind her chair, putting the finishing touches on the feast. “I mean, just look at ‘em! I think their babies are taller’n me. With size like that, ain’t no wonder they think they’re just plain better than th’ rest of us.”

  “An alliance is in their best interests,” Lady Bellamy replied with confidence. “This is their war too, like it or not.” The tall pirate had donned her best regal finery for the upcoming diplomacy, in a white jabot blouse with flowing sleeves, and an ebony silken skirt that hugged her hips tightly and dripped frills and flounces down the backs of her legs. Fine garments that likely hid a tight undermesh of enchanted silversteel and multiple spring-loaded derringers, just in case. “Though really, securing this alliance is up to Jone. She’s the one that will ultimately have to impress Sir Stewart.”

  Jone sighed. She felt diminutive enough among normal people, much less the giant Highlanders. It was hard to take herself seriously here with her small stature, but when dealing with a people that tended to judge based on appearances, she figured she was starting out with a solid strike already against her.

  “On the other hand, you’ve got scars, muscle, and a huge rack. And you cut a pretty impressive figure in that new armor of yours...or so you lovers say, at least.”

  The Arcadian rubbed her face to better hide the blush she fought. While rumors of Rote’s existence abounded, few outside of her inner circle knew the truth of the spirit. Most of the common people and soldiers of the alliance seemed to think that Rote was Jone’s servant, not her equal or companion. Others insisted that the powers she manifested were Jone’s alone, further glorifying her status as head of the Continental Alliance.

  It wasn’t fair, but it was better than letting them think she was possessed. Or insane.

  “Just look at it this way.” Esmeralda leaned over and put an arm around Jone’s shoulders. “If you fail, at least there’s free food.” The pirate gestured at the long, grand table already laden with a massive feast, the likes of which Jone had never seen before. It seemed that many of the flora and fauna native to the Highlands were as gargantuan as the Highlanders themselves: she spotted a cloud-pear the size of her head in front of Aubry, and she watched as a pair of servants hoisted a roast boar that probably weighed more than her and Adrienne combined.

  As if hearing her name in Jone’s thoughts, the other gold-haired Arcadian smiled and threw her arm around Jone from the other side. Jone smiled back at both of her lovers, noting once more how the two girls were a study in contrasts. While the years of battle and command had hardened some of Adie’s soft edges, in many ways she was still the same: fair-skinned and freckled, with bright blue eyes and a happy, bouncy, smiling demeanor. While Esmeralda “Blackblade” Thresh was dark-skinned, lithe, and fit, with a wild mane of thick, unruly black hair, and dark emerald eyes that flickered with suppressed danger like an imminent thunderstorm. Adrienne wore a nice, fluffy, strawberry and white dress with plenty of ruffles and a bodice that accentuated her ample breasts, but neatly concealed the piecemeal armor plating underneath. Esmeralda, on the other hand, wore her arsenal on the surface; two bandoliers—one lined with explosives, the other with powerful one-shot steamlocks—criss-crossed her chest over her tight armored corset, and her deadly obsidian cinquedea was slung low across laced leather leggings.

  There was one thing they had in common, though, even on the surface: their scars. Esmeralda sported a deep, ragged patch of scar tissue across the right side of her skull; she kept the strip of skin shorn free of hair, proudly displaying it as a trophy of her survival against the Drake himself. Adie now sported several, but the most noticeable was the long, thin, white line that ran from scalp to jaw along one side of her pretty face. I bet it’s aching right now. Jone knew it often did at high altitudes like this, or just before a storm.

  “There’s also you,” Rote’s honeyed voice interjected smoothly into her thoughts. “That’s another thing they have in common. Don’t lose sight of that.”

  Jone pushed a pulse of appreciation towards the spirit. Rote was right. A few years ago, the two women had been at each other’s throats—over her, of all things. But loss and strife and year
s of conflict had polished those sharp edges into what remained a typically friendly rivalry.

  It was a strange little group they made. A pirate and unrepentant rogue. A noblewoman and arcanist. A barmaid turned revolutionary… And a farmer mistaken for a hero. Esmeralda and Bellamy remained lovers, as they had been for years before Jone had met them. Jone, Adie, and Esmeralda were lovers, but only separately—the pirate and former barmaid’s tolerance and almost-fondness for each other didn’t stretch that far. And while Jone still slept with Bellamy—with or without Esmeralda present—they were merely very close friends. Together, they’d even helped raise Louie, the now-adult heir to the Arcadian throne.

  Jone threw her arms around both women’s waists and squeezed until Esmeralda grunted, and Adie squeaked and giggled. Maybe it was weird, her little family that had forged itself from blood and fire, from piracy and rebellion.

  But it was hers, and by the Infinite Abyss, not even Gravekeeper Jones himself was going to take it away.

  o o o

  The feast itself was raucous and rowdy, and Jone found she almost liked it. Laughter and loud voices abounded, contributing to an air of jovial uproar. The food was plentiful and delicious, as well as subtly different from her familiar Arcadian and continental tastes. Occasionally, a few of her hosts would rise from their seats to engage in feats or contests of strength, with the winner being met with cheers and the losers riddled with good-natured jeers and jabs.

  The problem was that her group of “lowlanders” wasn’t really a part of it. They were outsiders, and the Highlands people made certain they knew it. Even their host, Stewart the Red, a bear of a man nearly twice Jone’s height with a crimson ponytail and rugged, fiery beard, hardly spoke to them. Instead, most of his commentary was directed toward his fire-haired sister Johanna and the other guests who shared the head of the table.

  After her repeated attempts to break the ice were ignored, Jone sat back in frustration, then decided to follow the Lady Bellamy’s impeccable example and simply wait. She dug into the food and forced herself to relax, engaging in silent conversation with Rote and mild chatter with Esmeralda and Adie at her sides. After all, she figured the proud Highlanders wouldn’t have bothered inviting them in the first place if their only intent was to throw a party and ignore them.“You might have made the right choice,” the spirit informed her after a while.“Now he’s watching you when you’re not looking. Sizing you up.”

  It was better than your suggestion to light his beard on fire, the Arcadian responded.

  “Nah, I’m sure that would have gotten his attention too. And been far more hilarious.”

  In retrospect, it made a sort of sense if their hosts were trying to take their measure. Jone could read the legendary Highlands disdain written plainly across many of the noble’s faces, when they deigned to look directly at their guests at all—though fortunately, never on Sir Stewart’s. Perhaps they simply want us to prove ourselves worthy of their attention, or that we’re willing to work to acquire it.

  It would also probably explain the chairs—Jone and each of her friends sat perched on tall-legged, high-backed chairs made for Highlander youths, lest no one but the Lady Bellamy be able to see over the table.

  “Maybe you should challenge them to an eating contest.” Rote remarked, the honey in her tone raw and dry with irritation.

  Jone chuckled, drawing another covert glance from her host. Maybe I should. Now no longer a revenant, most of her unnatural hungers had faded away, though she still found she could out-eat anyone, especially if she put her mind to it. And really, she was more than fine with that. It hadn’t been enjoyable to be ever hungry, with no way to truly sate it. Or to always struggle against unhealthy urges and inhuman needs.

  I wonder how Sir Francis fares under its assault.

  As the grand dinner went on, Jone resolved to ignore her hosts in equal measure to how they were ignoring her. She turned a blind eye to Sir Stewart and his circle of fur-clad Highlands nobility, instead choosing to sample as much of the unusual fare as she could reach and chatting with her friends. In time, the tone of the dinner seemed to shift, though Jone couldn’t quite put her finger on when or precisely how. A towering, finely garbed Highlander, with thinning, silvered hair commented sidewardly to Comte Aubry about the foolishness of his younger kin, and the old Arcadian responded with his usual acerbic sarcasm; the pair proceeded to spend the rest of the dinner complaining about everyone but each other. Another slender, red-haired Highlander in sailor’s leathers stole a seat next to Esmeralda and Bellamy; the three pirates proceeded to draw a crowd as they shared story after story, each less believable than the last.

  “Well, at least yeh eat like a Highlander.” Stewart’s deep, booming voice almost caught Jone off guard as she went back for her third plate of boar and potatoes.

  “While I appreciate the compliment,” Jone replied around the potatoes, “I must say I’m not as impressed by the extended silence.” She swallowed and immediately grabbed another spoonful; no one here save for Bellamy was eating with any sort of manners, so Jone certainly wasn’t going to bother either.

  Stewart the Red nodded. “I didn’t expect yeh would be. But it’s you who needs our help, lass. That’s the only reason I agreed t’ this meeting at all.”

  “But you’d think that would involve, I dunno, talking to us. Like a normal asshole.”

  Jone shook her head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Sir. You need our help as much as we need yours, if not more.”

  Stewart raised one bushy auburn eyebrow as the table around them fell quiet. From the corner of her eye, Jone noted the Lady Bellamy watching her carefully, and a few beads of cold sweat popped out along her hairline. Had she messed this up already? She pushed the doubt firmly aside. No time for that now.

  “I know that down below, yer someone important,” Stewart snorted. “War leader. Hero. But up here, we Highlanders need no one but ourselves.” A rumble of assent rose from the table, but Stewart squashed it with a raised fist. “We, the first to fight. We, the last to surrender. The thorn in the Eternal Queen’s side, the people whose freedom could never be taken.”

  “Except that you lost too, in the end.” Jone raised her voice and pushed ahead stubbornly, despite the warning in the Highland leader’s tone. “Elizabeth crushed three of your rebellions in the last century alone and took your own Queen hostage in repayment. It was Arcadia, not the Highlands, that finally rose against her and won.”

  Stewart’s dark eyes flickered as an angry murmur of dissent made its rounds around the banquet table. “That’s fools’ talk, empty words from the old Queen’s throne. We never gave up, never fully surrendered. Some of us have always fought.”

  Jone matched his glare. “Insurrection and rebellion are not the same as freedom; in fact, one precludes the other. I know that all too well. Some of my people fought back against the Elizabethian occupation for three centuries. But we don’t pretend that we didn’t lose, simply to salve our pride.” The angry rumble of protest grew in volume, and Jone had to raise her voice to be heard over it. “That loss was a lesson that made us stronger. If we’d pretended we were always free, we never would have won our true freedom.”

  The wave of outrage rose, washing away any lingering sense of camaraderie. Finally, Stewart raised his mailed fist again to crush it as well. “Yeh may be wrong,” he said finally, “But at least yeh speak yer mind and don’t back down. I can appreciate that, lass. So maybe some of the tall tales about yeh are true.”

  Jone shrugged. “I’m not here to debate legends, or stories. I’m here to help your people and mine to finally be free of the Elizabethian Empire, once and for all. To end the suffering on the island below and start the long road to rebuilding our world’s future. Hopefully with as many survivors as possible, on all sides.” She stared down the huge Highlander. “Make no mistake. The Drake is as dangerous as Elizabeth ever was, in his own way. I know him. If the Continental Alliance fails to defeat him, he will never leave a
hostile, powerful enemy alive on his very doorstep. If he throws his might against any one country first, it will be yours.”

  The Arcadian raked her gaze around the table, daring the proud folk to deny her words. “All of you know what the Queen’s Dragon was capable of, the devastation he caused. He killed your people, destroyed your cities and families when you would not submit. Just like he did in my homeland, and many others. No one could stop him—until I did. But now he is unleashed, and in some ways stronger than ever. So what do you think he is capable of now?”

  Some of the assembled Highlanders met her eyes defiantly, stubbornly. But in others, she saw reluctant consideration, or hesitance. And in more than a few, she recognized the pangs of loss. The Drake’s talons cut deep across all lands, not just Arcadia.

  “Even if yeh were correct,” Stewart rumbled, “there remains a problem. Yer asking us to throw our faith behind yeh, instead of us taking command of yer army. Highlanders follow no one they cannae respect. Even my chieftains cannae and would not order them to do otherwise. And unfortunately, respect fer yeh lowlanders is a rare thing indeed.”

  Jone frowned. “Then, are we at an impasse? Is there no way that I—”

  “There is.” Stroking his scarlet beard, Stewart nodded. “But I doubt yer up to it, Arcadian.” He rose from his massive wooden seat at the head of the feast table, towering over Jone and her friends, and tugged off one mailed gauntlet.

  The chunk of armor crashed down in front of her, crushing her plate and scattering food, a single piece of his armor that was easily the size of her head. She glanced up, meeting his dark, deadly serious eyes once more, and recognizing the imminent danger they held. “Jonelise, Maiden of Arcadia, I challenge yeh to a duel.”