Savior of Arcadia

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  “How’d they find us?” Stewart roared over the clamor of sirens, explosions, and falling artillery. One big hand clamped down on the back of Jone’s breastplate and tossed her effortlessly upright as he ran past. “Do they know—”

  “Bad luck!” Bellamy snapped, her steely eyes sparking with aggravation. “Buckle up, this ride’s about to get a whole lot rougher.”

  Together, they hit the main street and sprinted straight for the Royal Tower, rapidly collecting airships overhead. Blinding spotlights pooled around them and followed their mad dash; Jone didn’t even see the squad of knights and riflemen that flanked them before both Bellamys tore through them with an evoked blast of lightning, leaving the soldiers staggering while the two-story home next to them collapsed and entombed them in rubble.

  But she did spot the group of heavily armored footmen that formed up in front of the Tower’s gaping front door, blocking the path while a thick portcullis rumbled slowly into place behind them.

  “Problem!” Jone shouted, sliding her greatsword free of the split sheath on her back. “They’re trying to—”

  The bloodthirsty roar of Stewart the Red drowned out her warning as he charged. The disciplined Elizabethian troops braced themselves, weapons ready—but it didn’t matter. The first wide sweep of the Highlander’s greatmace shattered their ranks and sent bodies, blood, and bent steel flying; polearms and spears splintered on his armor as Stewart crashed headlong through the formation, crushing underfoot any who were too slow or loyal to get out of his way. Then he fell to his knees and dropped his mace, sliding across the last few feet of the paved roadway—

  —and caught the rusted portcullis in both huge hands an instant before it settled into place.

  “C’mon, don’t leave all the heavy liftin’ to ol’ Stewart!” The Highlander strained, trying to lift the barrier against its weight and whatever mechanisms sought to seal the doorway. “I cannae hold it forever—”

  Jone seized the portcullis in one hand and shoved it upward, metal and distant machinery crying out as moving parts ground themselves apart against her strength. Iron screamed as she shoved the barrier back into the ceiling where it remained.

  “Here,” Jone held out the Chieftain's greatmace with her other hand, feeling the thud of the river of magic that pounded through her veins. “You dropped this.”

  Green eyes bubbled with mirth as the Highlander took the weapon and rose. Behind her back, Jone heard the sounds of battle die as her friends dispatched the last of the enemy soldiers, and pointed her fist forward, into the darkness of the Tower.

  Into the depths of The Drake’s trap-and-guard-filled lair.

  Where he was waiting for her.

  “Let’s go!” she shouted.

  o o o

  With the element of surprise stripped from them, the group plunged headlong into the maze-like compartments of the Royal Tower, an ancient structure designed to defeat exactly what they were trying to do. Two stories passed them by without incident; no one barred their way or tried to stop them.

  Like her friends, Jone didn’t trust it. Instead, the lack of opposition only made her nerves worse.

  Stones and stairs rushed by beneath their leather boots and heavy greaves as they ascended, their rush broken abruptly by a pair of The Drake’s Elite Knights that stepped out to bar their passage, clad in their gleaming, seamless tritanium armor.

  The first thrust their metal spear at Garm’s midriff; the Elizabethian managed to slap it aside with her short gunblade and knocked him back a few steps with a well-placed kick. But he settled back into position beside his shield-wielding companion, blocking the stairs upward.

  Only for Sir Stewart to slam into them, bowling both over like the squad of soldiers from before. With a roar of challenge, he rammed his armored shoulder into the shield-bearer’s heavy shield and knocked him prone, then trampled the spear wielder underfoot. Before the fallen knight could rise, Stewart turned and brought his greatmace overhead and down, crushing titanium plating against Tower stone despite the Knight’s best attempt to block.

  You know…” Rote stirred, staring after the Highlander. “I think maybe he was holding back before. Just a little.”

  Jone menaced the sapphire-visored Knight with her own weapon, only to see Lady Bellamy slip out of his shadow a second later, and slip her blood and rune-covered rapier free from the thinner armor protecting his throat.

  “Onward,” the Lady said, the corners of her eyes wrinkled with worry. “These ambushes will be designed to make us tarry.”

  The Arcadian nodded, but at the moment her opinion didn’t really matter—mostly because Sir Stewart hadn’t stopped moving.

  “Hah!” The Highlander kicked his fallen opponent aside as he took the normal-sized steps four at a time, roaring again with glee and what was probably more bloodlust. “Move aside for Stewart the Red!” He glanced over his shoulder and waved for them to follow his charge. “After me, lasses!”

  The next few groups of Knights fared no better than the first. Stewart broke their formations with his thunderous charges, crushed them with sheer force and broke their bodies on his blood-soaked greatmace. Any that managed to recover in the Highlander’s wake were swiftly brought down by Jone’s tritanium greatsword, by a Bellamy’s blade and sorcery, or by the quick thrust and loud bark of Garm’s ready gunblade.

  But as the Elizabethian resistance mounted, their progress slowed more and more. The ambushes grew more canny and deadly; walls slid aside to reveal ready warriors backed by Royal Arcanists. Nearly invisible holes overhead dropped explosives or Inquisitors directly into their midst. Traps joined the fray as well; spinning blades bounced down the hallway, only for Stewart to slam them aside. Shifting walls and floors threatened to make them lose their way, countered only by the flawless memory of Ladies Bellamy and Grey. Some passages tried to crush them instead, but rusted mechanics were no match for Rote’s early warnings and Jone’s raw might. Flame and acid, spears and explosives, knights and Arcanists all failed in turn to stop them, or to even seriously harm them.

  But they kept getting closer.

  Jone was the first to notice when Stewart stopped walking away from the frequent engagements unscathed. While he shattered most weapons on impact, and others broke apart on his heavy Highlands platemail, more and more found the chinks in his defenses, and the scrapes and gouges in his bulky body had started to mount.

  Jone winced when she saw him limping from the wound she’d given him days ago.

  He saw her eyeing it and winked. “It ain’t half as bad as what I’m givin’ in return,” he chuckled.

  “You can’t keep this up, Highlander,” Garm growled, prowling along at his side. “One lucky shot will end even you.”

  “Then either it’s my lucky day, or it’s not, eh Elizabethian?” he grinned right back, then threw in another wink for good measure.

  To Jone’s surprise, when Garm shook her head and turned away, she saw the woman’s cheeks redden, just a little.

  “You should let me fix your wounds...” The Arcadian reached out, pushing her will against her battle standard as she did so, only to stop when Samantha seized her arm.

  “Not yet,” the noblewoman shook her head. “Drake can find you by your banner, remember? That’s why he forced you to reveal yourself during every engagement of the siege. If you let him draw you out now, you’ll give away our exact position.”

  “You think he doesn't already know?” Jone frowned. “Our current struggle says otherwise.”

  Up ahead, Garm grunted. “You think this is all the soldiers he has? He’s having to spread them thin to scout us and prepare a resistance. It’d be much worse otherwise, trust me.”

  “Not to mention that I’ve blocked at least sixteen scrying attempts since we entered,” Lady Grey smiled, wiping blood from her two short blades. “It’s unlikely he’d still be searching for us if he knew where we were.”

  With a sigh, Jone finally nodded. Then she watched Stewart limp for a mom
ent, humming a merry Highland tune, his huge hammer slung casually over one shoulder...and frowned.

  “Something’s still not right, isn’t it?”

  After a moment, Jone nodded once more.

  But there was nowhere to go but forward.

  Their momentum rolled onward. Despite the resistance, they broke both Elite forces and common soldiers like rain on a stone. The halfway point of the great Tower passed them by, and they picked up their pace as Samantha and the Lady Grey plotted a course around the defenses Rote sensed in their path.

  But despite their success, in the back of Jone’s head, the spirit only grew more and more anxious.

  What’s wrong? Rote’s anxiety was contagious. And not just because Jone could feel the spirit’s vibrations slowly bleeding through her own body, but because her own battle-honed instincts called out in agreement. You feel it too, don’t you?

  “Yeah. Something's about to happen. There’s an...apprehension in the air. Be careful.”

  After probably a hundred different battles and skirmishes, fights large and small, easy and deadly, Jone—like most career soldiers—had developed a sixth sense for when things were about to spiral Abyssward. And right now, that sense was itching at her relentlessly.

  Besides, she was starting to feel something else as well. Something dark and seething like a smoldering flame sat at the very top of the tower. Waiting. Hungry and angry. It felt unwholesome, and it unnerved her. I wonder if that’s...him. It shouldn’t be; it feels so wrong.

  They rounded a corner, and she reached out a hand to catch her friend's lacy sleeve. “Sam…”

  A thick tritanium portcullis slammed down in their faces with a clang, nearly plucking the crimson plume off Sir Stewart’s helm. Jone blinked. This heavy grate was shiny and new, unlike the rusted iron barriers they’d broken or bypassed on the way up.

  “This way!” Without hesitation, the Lady Bellamy grabbed Jone’s hand and diverted them down a side passage, her eyes narrowed.

  They were halfway down that one when another tritanium grate slammed down behind them.

  Frowning, Bellamy took a series of twists and turns, only to pull up short as it happened twice more, gears grating deep inside the thick whitestone walls.

  “Mother!” Grey darted forward and leaned close. “They’re herding us.”

  “You don’t fucking say.”

  Jone gritted her teeth as the spirit coiled tight in tension, her own hands already tight around the leather grip of her greatsword. Through Rote, she could sense that their enemies were gathering, but it didn’t matter if they couldn’t avoid them.

  Now there were no more traps, no more ambushes. Silence, save for the rush of their breathing and the ominous echo of gears grinding inside the walls. They made it up another set of stairs as passages closed down all around them, failing in their efforts to outrun the slamming of portcullises. The floor shuddered as stone crashed to the floor in front of them, a solid white cobble wall that cut off the main path ahead. Cursing virulently, Bellamy diverted them into the only path left to them, a long, narrow corridor flanked by empty jail cells.

  “No, no no no…” She hissed the words, her voice sharp and on edge. “We shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “Sam…” Jone tried to pull up short as the pirate suddenly stopped, but ran into her instead.

  “We can’t play this game.” Everyone hesitated as the Lady stood there for a moment, staring back the way they’d come. “We have to change the rules.” Bellamy absently pushed Jone back onto her own feet and conjured a bright, dazzling light with a snap of her fingers as she took off again. “There’s supposed to be a side passage…here!”

  A blank section of white wall faced them, free of the dirt and grime of the rest of the passageway. One that wasn’t mirrored by the opposite wall.

  “It’s fake,” Jone stated as Rote pushed her senses beyond the stone.

  “I know.” Bellamy nodded. “Sir Stewart?”

  “Hah!” With a quick laugh, flex, and glance to see if Garm was watching, the Highland Chief set his stance and swung his greatmace in a tremendous arc. With a crash and cascade of crumbling whitestone, the masonry yielded, chalky mortar and shattered stone blocks spraying down the open hallway.

  “Quickly!” Bellamy snapped. “Time to—”

  “Wait!”

  Jone reached out, too slow.

  A heavy tritanium portcullis slammed down, clipping Bellamy’s head as it hit the floor, the sharpened spikes at the base punching through her friend’s foot and pinning it to the stone.

  Samantha’s cry of pain and her daughter’s cry of alarm were lost in the echo of more grates falling into place: a trio of tritanium blockades both ahead and behind.

  “There’s no way out! This was the real trap!”

  A clank and clatter of heavy armor drew their undivided attention as a whole squad of Elizabethian Elite assembled just past the closest portcullis. With military precision, the soldiers rapidly arrayed themselves in staggered ranks, each and every one armed with a steam-powered longrifle.

  Garm’s gunblade roared first, and her shot cracked the amber faceplate of the closest Elite and snapped their head back.

  “Down!” Stewart bellowed.

  They returned fire.

  The bellow of two dozen high-powered longrifles firing in unison filled the corridor; there was nowhere to go, no cover to hide behind.

  With a roar at the top of his lungs, audible even over the gunfire, Stewart shoved Jone and Garm to the ground and turned his back to the longrifles.

  Steamlock fire ricocheted off thick Highland armor and rock walls, but for every ball of high velocity lead that deflected harmlessly away, two sunk into flesh, accompanied by a grunt of pain endured. The Highlander gripped the portcullis in one hand, arms spread, his bulky torso blocking half the corridor as he bent protectively over his four companions.

  With a snarl, Bellamy tore her foot free of the portcullis, painting the whitestone with an abrupt pool of crimson. Pushing herself into a crouch, she ducked under Sir Stewart’s protective arm and knelt at the bars, already working a sharp-edged sigil in front of the tritanium.

  A ball of lead hit her in the bicep, tore through her pale flesh and blasted out the other side in another rich spray of blood.

  Bellamy cried out again, half in pain, half in anger, cradling her shredded arm as her spell fizzled, and tried to duck deeper into cover against the portcullis and strip of stone wall. Lady Grey made to crawl to her side, a protective sigil already dancing along her fingertips, and had a rifle shot knock her prone and embed itself deep into her shoulder for her trouble.

  All the while, massed gunfire rained down on Stewart the Red, no single shot powerful enough to make an exit wound.

  Blood dripping thickly from his grinning, clenched teeth, the Highland giant forced his fingers under the portcullis. Stewart’s eyes flickered as he invoked his own magic, forcing the thick grate up a couple of inches despite the heavy grinding of gears that called out their resistance.

  Enough! No more hiding! Jone reached for the massive silvery spiderweb of her followers and pulled. The bright, glowing gold wings of her battle standard burst from her back and filled the hallway with their own ambient light, streaming across the blood-drenched whitestone as ribbons of energy dove into the bodies of her companions.

  Garm peeked around Stewart’s body and fired again; one of the Elite marksmen fell, his already-cracked amber visor shattered by the same ball of lead that split his skull. A shot grazed her in return and tore a bloody channel through the side of her face—

  —that healed almost instantly, just like the wound in Lady Grey’s shoulder and Samantha’s shredded arm.

  Jone invoked more and more magic, pouring it into herself and her allies. She braced herself and gripped the base of the portcullis; her hands fell into place to either side of Stewart’s huge fist as she heaved. A couple of lead balls pinged off her breastplate harmlessly, an
d she ignored them, prying the barrier slowly upward. Another lucky shot sunk into her back just behind the shoulder, only for the torrent of magic blazing through her to eject it immediately; she ignored that too as she and Sir Stewart strained against tritanium and tireless, hidden mechanisms.

  The portcullis shuddered, the gears and metal cried out, and together they forced it upward.

  Another few inches.

  “Jone!”

  The portcullis dipped as Rote pulled her senses away from the task at hand, focusing her eyes and mind back the way they’d already come.

  Toward the second squad of Elizabethian Elite piling up behind the bars, explosives and autocannons already in hand.

  Stewart followed her gaze, his face set in hard, defiant lines.

  Bellamy’s eyes flashed with alarm as she threw up a half-formed sigil to protect herself and her daughter.

  “NOT ON MY WATCH.”

  Jone choked as smoke billowed from her nose and mouth without warning, momentarily blind as her flesh burned hot. The whirr of autocannons mingled with cries of fear as Rote reached out, and the shadows responded.

  Blades of darkness bound explosives to their owners, clenched fingers tight around triggers as soldiers turned their guns on their own companions. Shadows danced in a dense ball as if gleefully alive, manipulating screaming soldiers like terrified puppets. Steam and fire billowed, flickering embers in a bloody alcove, until there was only one Knight left standing.

  With a rumble of cruel mirth that soaked through Jone’s mind, Rote cut her into a dozen pieces.

  “Now where was I…” Jone breathed pure smoke as Rote turned her toward the other end of the hallway.

  Sir Stewart slumped against her, choking on his own blood.

  “No!” With a gasp, Jone swallowed a surprised Rote in a single gulp, and both of them hissed in pain as it swelled and washed through their body. Then she pushed her will outward instead, and her war-banner burst from her back once more.

  The Highlander laughed through the agony in his eyes and seized the grate again. Jone joined him as the gunfire behind his back redoubled, her gauntleted hands slipping in the blood that dripped thickly from the tritanium bars. The portcullis trembled in place, seeming to resist her clumsy grip out of sheer spite.