Savior of Arcadia

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  Out of nowhere, a wild, dirty face appeared on the other side of the bars; a gleefully mad grin appeared for just a moment before the unkempt man yanked a concealed lever high on the other side of the barrier.

  With a rumble of strained steam mechanics, the portcullis shuddered its way upward.

  “Go, lass, go!” Stewart shoved both Ladies and Garm through the opening as soon as they would fit. Jone ducked hurriedly under the ascending barrier, then turned back and extended her hand to the battered Highlander, her winged banner pumping life into his battered body and relentlessly knitting his wounds shut.

  The stubborn chieftain forced himself to his feet with a snarl—

  —and reeled as a lucky shot fractured his heavy, battered helmet, fragmented the metal plates and snapped the leather straps that held it in place. The pieces tumbled to the floor as he staggered, dazed from the shot’s concussive force.

  Jone lunged for him.

  The next shot split his head open in a rich splash of vermillion and bone, killing him on impact.

  Stewart the Red fell heavily to the stones, shaking the floor, as his candle instantly winked out of Jone’s silver web.

  “No!” Garm bellowed the denial, an echo of Jone’s own thoughts.

  For a long moment, she could only stare.

  A hand grabbed her arm, pulled at her, and Jone turned away.

  Lingering would only get more of her allies killed.

  With the yank of a lever, the portcullis slammed down behind them again, and Jone looked up into the maddened eyes of the very same street-preacher she’d met in Estori years ago.

  She stood there, stunned.

  The very same man she’d left behind in Elizabeth’s dungeons when The Drake “rescued” her.

  Time hadn’t been kind to the haggard, disheveled prophet, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Come along, Jonelise!” He rasped, his worn voice heavy with fevered excitement. “I know where you need to go, who and when you need to be!”

  With a moment’s insistence, Jone pushed Bellamy to follow, and they followed his quick, erratic footsteps around the trapped corridor and Elizabethian firing squad; he seemed to somehow know the area even better than Garm or either Bellamy. For good measure, Jone pulled in her now-useless battle standard, lest The Drake simply set another trap for her and her vulnerable friends.

  Poor Sir Stewart… If only...

  Jone missed a step, then stopped running altogether.

  The tall street preacher leaned down, close to her face, and grinned at her with broken, yellow teeth. “You see, you see?” His head bobbed emphatically. “You know the way to go for destiny to be destiny! Yes?”

  Slowly, she nodded.

  Then he squawked in surprise as Garm grabbed his arm and hauled him roughly away.

  Jone held out a hand. “No! Don’t hurt him. He’s here to help.” I think.

  “It’s not that.” The scarred Elizabethian shook her head, her face tight with repressed rage. “This corridor,” she pointed to a small passage at their side, tucked between another set of rusted, vacant cells. “Does it lead around behind where we just were?”

  He fumbled over his words, not speaking, and Bellamy nodded instead.

  “It should,” the pirate said, massaging her recently wounded arm.

  “Then I’ll be right back.” Before Jone could stop her, Garm stepped aside as her short-barreled, steam-powered autogun whirred wildly. “Do not follow me.”

  She walked down the hall and around a corner, the weapon screaming in her hands as it fired.

  It mixed immediately with another kind of scream.

  The people that just killed Sir Stewart.

  Belatedly, Jone moved to follow, Lady Jane at her side as they rushed to Garm’s aid.

  She met them at the corner, her autogun smoking and one side of her face bloody, her left eye completely missing, and one arm and the side of her face torn ragged.

  Jone winced at the sight; she pushed lightly at her battle standard, invoking a single thread of gold and watched as Garm’s face slowly repaired itself.

  When she looked back up at Jone, it was with both eyes once again.

  “I suppose the Highlander was right,” she said simply. “It is a night for vengeance.”

  “We need to go,” Bellamy said urgently, coming up behind them. “Drake already tricked me once tonight. I’m not about to give him the opportunity to prepare another.” She cracked her knuckles and put a gentle hand on Jone’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about Chieftain Stewart.” She glanced at Garm as well, her smile thin and grim. “We knew this wouldn’t be easy.”

  Jone nodded. “Which is why you’re not coming with me, Sam.”

  Bellamy blinked, for once completely blindsided.

  “None of you are,” Jone clarified, looking at each of them in turn. “It’s me he wants. And honestly...I’ll do better without any of you holding me back.”

  Rote stirred sluggishly. “Should have phrased that one better.”

  The Lady Bellamy’s hard steel eyes glittered. “Hold you back? Jone, I—”

  “Sam.” Jone cut her off, taking her friend and lover’s bloody hands in her own. “I love you. There are so many, many things that you can casually do better than I ever will, even trying. But you’re not the conduit for tens of millions of people’s hopes and dreams, their desire to be finally free of three centuries of fear and chains.”

  “Not yet, anyway.” She sighed. Slowly, her eyes softened again, and Jone smiled.

  “Please, mother,” the Lady Grey leaned against Bellamy’s side, looking exhausted. “I concur. Please, I know what this means to you, but...let it go. I just got you back. Let’s not lose each other immediately. Poetic, that would not be.”

  The Lady Bellamy took a deep breath, her eyes momentarily as unreadable as the steel they resembled. “I planned a lot for this, you know,” she said quietly. “I intended to kill him myself, or at least facilitate the deed. It’s been a long time coming—more than any of you even know.” Her ruby lips twitched upward into a mirthless smirk. “And really, I wanted to see which of us was the better tactician.”

  Slowly, her clenched fists relaxed, and she put her hand atop her daughter’s. “But...you’re both right.”

  Jone nodded, relieved. “No hard feelings?” She glanced to the side, to where the ragged street preacher lurked. The way onward. Destiny, and all that. “I don’t want to go into this with us not okay—”

  The Lady Bellamy leaned in smoothly and kissed her; it lingered, soft, warm, and caring. “No, Jone.” She slowly pulled away, her beautiful face lingering close. “You’re right, that wouldn’t do at all.”

  At her side, Lady Jane looked amused.

  “Good.” Jone smiled fondly. “Besides, I need the three of you to do me a favor.” Three sets of eyes turned to regard her; Garm’s were rimmed with wet and anger. “I made a promise, and I need you to help me keep it.”

  Garm breathed deep. “You mean the Lady Mary, don’t you? The wild Highland Queen. That’s...that’s what you promised him in return for his people’s aid.” Jone nodded, and the Elizabethian soldier saluted sharply. “I’ll take care of it personally. If we leave her here, she likely won’t survive the night, no matter who wins.”

  “No need,” Grey put a hand on her companion’s shoulder. “We’ll do it together, old friend. No reason not to.”

  They shared a long look, then both nodded.

  Finally, Lady Bellamy nodded as well.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” the street prophet’s ragged, sing-song voice interjected. “Tonight’s not a night to linger, no, not at all.” He smiled a knowing smile at Jone. “Tick tock, business to be done.”

  “Alright,” Bellamy’s voice was laced with conceded defeat, her tone still reluctant. Her worried eyes settled on Jone. “But you’d better walk away from this in one piece.” She swept forward, wrapped a hand behind the back of Jone’s neck, and pulled their foreheads together. “Esme will be inconsolable if you
don’t.”

  Jone smiled softly, reassuringly. “I will if you will.”

  Bellamy squeezed her neck and let go. “Done.”

  6

  Dragonfire

  They went their separate ways, each hoping to see one another again at the end of the night.

  Three of them slipped away to free the Tower’s prisoners and escape.

  While Jone climbed the tower alone, in search of Dragons.

  “It’s for the best.”

  A squad of Elite sentries rushed her. Jone slammed into them; her tritanium greatsword rang as she cleaved through armor and flesh like she was harvesting wheat. Blood and bodies hit the floor, and she was gone again.

  I know. But that doesn't make it easier to do. To split from the last of my friends and decide this fight alone.

  Down the hall, a lone marksman with an arbalest pulled the trigger; she swatted the thick bolt out of the air, her pulse replaced with the thrum of pure power. She kicked him against the wall as she passed and heard the visceral echo of breaking bones.

  “Oh, Jone.” She smelled smoke for an instant as the air whirled around her, tugging at her long golden braid. “You’ll never be alone as long as I’m here.”

  I know. Jone smiled as she drew on more and more power, her war banner burning bright so that the Drake couldn’t see anything else, so that he couldn’t find her friends and kill them. Thanks, Rote.

  An entire platoon of Elite Elizabethian Knights formed up in her way; Jone charged them with a ringing battle cry. She shrugged off bullets, bolts, and blades, the energy of a hundred million people flooding her body. Was this what Elizabeth felt? Jone wondered as she smashed through the wall of soldiers, barely slowing down as she left only broken bodies and terrified warriors in her wake.

  “Probably. Except she knew what to do with it.”

  Jone shrugged. Her friend wasn’t wrong. She was a farmer and a soldier, playing with forces well beyond her understanding.

  Because fate had seemingly decreed that it fall to her to do so.

  “I don’t believe in Fate.” Jone slapped a soldier’s weapon aside then winced as she broke the man’s neck with a simple punch. “But I do believe in you.” She caught the next woman’s sword in a mailed glove and snapped the blade in half, then let its frightened owner flee. “My people chose you...I chose you...for a reason.” Jone leapt half a stairwell and slammed her shoulder into a rusted portcullis, tearing the squealing metal from its moorings deep in the stone. “You and Drake were always on a collision course. It’s part of who you both are. And it ends tonight.”

  That’s what I’m worried about. A door, locked and barred, blocked her way; Jone kicked it open. Beyond it lay open sky; a hawk’s-eye view of burning Elizabethia. She swallowed hard. What if after all of this fighting, misery, and war...I fail?

  She smelled the familiar scent of smoke again. “You won’t fail. Those people out there need you, allies and enemies alike. Failure isn’t who you are, who we are. Not anymore.”

  Jone stared out over the darkness and dancing cinders, took a deep breath, and slowly nodded.

  Then she leapt out the window.

  Her fingers caught the windowsill, and she threw herself upward. She drew in more of her followers’ power as she leapt higher and higher, her battle standard a golden beacon in the night. As she ascended, she could feel the flare of a tainted, burning banner high above her and moved to chase it down.

  She burst through a tall window and sprinted down a long hallway. She was close to the top now; mazes and traps no longer mattered. Drake could no longer evade her, no more than she could hide from him. A collision course indeed. This was what Sam had brought her back from the grave for; this was what the last several years of this life and her previous one had built toward. This was what Rote had bound herself to a young Jone and changed both of their lives—and very identities—for.

  This was what a grieving, innocent farm girl had picked up a weapon for, now so very long ago.

  Almost there! Thick whitestone steps and a grand set of double doors beckoned; if the street priest’s instructions held true, they led to the Observatory—and Sir Francis Drake, the Butcher of Arcadia. With a grim smile, she made to leap the set of steps—

  And her feet froze in place as Rote stopped her.

  Rote?

  “I…” The spirit’s breath stirred the back of her neck, an invisible touch. “Before we go up there, I need to tell you something.”

  I can tell you’re scared, Rote. It’s okay. I won’t let anything—

  The spirit nudged her mind and interrupted her. “You’re not very good at listening, are you?” She sighed. “I just wanted to say, before the end…that, win or lose, I’ve enjoyed being trapped in your stupid body with you.”

  Rote swelled, warm under her skin, and Jone smiled.

  “Mostly, anyway.”

  She nudged the spirit fondly in return. I love you too, Rote.

  She planted a boot firmly on the first whitestone step. Now let’s end this. Together.

  o o o

  At the very top of the Tower Royal lay the Observatory. A single, round room the size of the tower’s top, crested with a pointed cap of sturdy stonework. There were no walls; only thick, clear glass between the simple whitestone support pillars that ringed the entire floor. From here, one could look out over half the city. Perhaps to direct a war, or simply to watch it burn.

  Sitting in a scorched and blackened throne, Sir Francis Drake seemed to have opted for the latter.

  But the Old Dragon didn’t look like how she remembered him.

  He looked older; his messy, swept back hair now sported more silver than ebony, and lines creased his tanned, weathered face, especially around the eyes. He looked unhealthy; his tall, thin frame now disappeared into his loose crimson doublet and striped leggings, and his sparse, tarnished jewelry hung heavy from his neck and wrists. He looked weary; aside from the rampant sloppiness that degraded his once-refined appearance, he slumped in his high-backed ebonwood throne and leaned heavily on his dragon-hilted dueling blade, as if he required his old weapon’s support to remain upright.

  And the biggest change lurked in his eyes; the cloudy blue-gray had faded into a tarnished, near-lifeless slate, and the spark of clever mirth was so dim as to be almost extinguished.

  Far more concerning was the hunger that lingered deep within and stirred the last bits of storm in his gaze into a dangerous frenzy, lurking just beneath the surface. Likewise, Jone shuddered to note the ring of unnatural red that encircled his irises and spread like seething, bleeding cracks through the whites of his eyes.

  The Drake looked up at her and chuckled.

  “Yes, it’s taken quite the toll on me. Don’t you think so, Jonelise?” He leaned back in his singed, dragon-carved throne, tapping one piece of jewelry almost hidden by the folds of his crimson doublet.

  The Amulet of Osiris peeked out at her from the cloth, staring, unblinking, its onyx-and-gold gaze capturing even the barest hints of light. Its glimmering chain links dragged at its owner’s neck like an anchor, digging into the privateer’s flesh as it lay lethargically against his chest.

  Jone swallowed and looked away. Even though this amulet wasn’t the exact same as the one she’d worn for nearly a year, she still felt like it recognized her.

  “After all, I think you know me fairly well, all things considered.” He straightened, the shadow of a smirk pulling at the edges of the pirate-killer’s mouth. “Or, at least, you knew the man I once was.”

  Jone started forward, her blade ready. “Do we really have to do this? Is there even any point to this dialogue between us? We both know that tonight ends with one of us dead.”

  The Drake chuckled again, louder. Almost as if he felt it. “Oh, won’t you humor an old man at the end of his rope, Jonelise? You were never so cruel before. Or did the last few years of war change you as well? Allow your nemesis to feel a bit more like himself before the end.”

  Sh
e shook her head. “That’s oddly fatalistic for the Drake I knew. If you were truly so certain of your demise, why fight it?” Stewart’s last moments—and many others—lingered in her thoughts before Rote pushed them helpfully aside. “Why throw away so many lives tonight? Why not surrender? End the fighting. I promise that you will not suffer.”

  “I don’t, and you can’t make me.”

  He snorted, staring up at her as she approached. “Oh, Jonelise, you don’t realize how lucky you are. Or perhaps it was more than luck…” Jone tensed as the Drake took a deep breath—but he simply let it out again in a harmless sigh, smoke trailing faintly from his nostrils. “My plan was sound, and my execution flawless, but this...Abyssal chunk of gaudy jewelry is actually a curse of the highest order. You think I haven’t considered flight, or simply letting go, leaving, surrendering or making a deal? It won’t let me.”

  His eyes met hers, and the red within shifted in agitation, viscous and hungry.

  Jone shuddered.

  “And so; I find myself compelled, plagued by various hungers beyond my own.” He tapped the amulet again. “I don’t know how you evaded the worst of it, Jonelise; perhaps because I freed you of the burden early when I let you kill me.” His smile spread slowly, tinged with honest amusement. Then it faded again. “Or perhaps...well, I always knew you were the better of us,” he said quietly. “Either way, I appear to have checkmated myself, and now I can’t even cheat death.”

  “Either he kills you, satisfies the amulet, and it no longer keeps him alive through the war…”

  Or I kill him, and it’s over, anyway. No way to win.

  “Forgive me if I don’t shed any tears.”

  The Arcadian’s fingers tightened around her greatsword as the Drake slowly rose, leaning heavily on his dueling blade, then flourished the weapon as he dipped into a deep bow. Once he started moving, his weariness seemed to evaporate. “Well then. Are you ready, Jonelise?”