Jone took a deep breath of her own, rose to her feet and stood straight. “But what do you want, Drake? Why would you free me?”
Sir Francis Drake smiled grimly. “Worry about that later. Worry about freedom first.” Stepping past her, he leaned down and smoothly drew one of the dead guardsmen’s longswords, then flipped it over in his fist and presented it to Jone, hilt-first. “Shall we?”
“I, for one, don’t trust him. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure those Abyssal cell bars were killing me.”
Drake’s back made a tempting target on the hurried trip through empty halls. The longblade’s hilt seemed to itch in Jone’s hand, the inhuman hunger in her hollow core calling out for vengeance against the man who’d once driven his own blade through her heart.
It’d be so simple.
“It’s never so simple.”
I could strike him down, right now. Make him pay for...how many generations of crimes? For all of his deceptions. For destroying my homeland, twice.
“When has he ever died when you wanted him to? He still has millions upon millions of followers empowering him. Not to mention a little thing called Eternal Queen Elizabeth. While we’re dirty, naked, and exhausted. It’s not exactly our best match up.”
Justice aside, the spirit dwelling in her head made too solid of a point. The Eternal Queen of the Elizabethian Empire commanded the obedience of tens of millions of followers, and that leadership lent her power second only to the Old Gods themselves. And Sir Francis Drake was her Hound, wielding those powers like a sword on her behalf. Prior to her fall into the Abyss, Jone could have challenged him, but now, without her own network of believers—
“Hold,” The Drake stopped in front of her, his words a whisper of breath. He put his back to the stone, one arm across Jone’s shoulders encouraging her to do the same. “Four of my Queen’s inquisitors, straight ahead.” He nodded toward where four black-clad forms were barely visible past a set of bars, half-closed with only the middle of the corridor still accessible. “Not to be underestimated, even for me.” He tugged the dark cloth back up around his face, leaving only his stormy eyes glinting faintly in the dark. “Do you have any fight left, Jonelise?”
It was a good question. Now free of the muffling sigils that had lined her cell, Jone reached deep inside herself, searching for that vast webwork of silver lines and lights that represented her followers—
And came up empty handed. There were only a few, distant candles that still remained, that still believed in her after her failure.
Had they abandoned her completely? She deserved it. Maybe they simply thought her dead; it had to look like that from the outside, and it was too easy of a rumor to spread.
But abandoned or thought dead were both better than the alternative: that Adie, or Bellamy, or her Esmeralda had been—
“Jone.” The Drake tapped her nose, gently demanding her attention.
Jerking away from his leather-clad hand, Jone readied her blade, her face like stone. “I’ll take the one on the left.”
After only a moment’s consideration, The Drake moved toward the four shadows, a whisper sliding through the darkness. Jone followed, drawing her resolve around her like a cloak.
Whatever the situation, while she still lived, there was still hope.
“Uh, you sure about this? The last inquisitor we fought kinda beat on our face.”
Jone remembered that assassin all too well. No, she corrected silently, she beat on my face. She rushed forward in the dark, close on The Drake’s heels, careful not to let her bare feet slap down on the cool, smooth stones. Together, we destroyed her.
“Yeah. But I’m currently a far cry from what I was then.” Still, the tattered spirit curled up in the back of her mind and grinned its vicious grin.
Then there was no more time for words.
Sir Francis Drake burst from the shadows blade first and took the first inquisitor through the throat while her back was still turned. His straight, simple blade slipped deftly between the bars, embedded itself deep in the woman’s neck, and cut her throat in a spray of crimson.
The outcry was immediate, but sluggish—at least, compared to The Drake’s claws. The Queen’s Hand left his blade in the inquisitor’s throat as she reeled in shock; then stepped smoothly through the open bars, grasped his sword’s handle once more as she slumped and tore it from her neck, painting himself and the walls in red. Then he downed her with a brutal, precise pommel to the nose, rendering her unconscious before her magic could save her from death.
With all eyes drawn to Drake’s dramatic entrance, no one noticed the fair-skinned, completely naked woman in the hall until it was too late.
Gripping the long blade in both hands, Jone lunged through the opening in the bars and aimed for the spine of Drake’s closest assailant. She missed at the last second as the inquisitor engaged Drake; instead of embedding the weapon’s edge in her foe’s spine, it passed through the woman’s ribs and caught in the bone, further mired in the tough black plating of her form-fitting ebony armor.
True to her training, the inquisitor barely reacted to the pain, even as the blade burst through the front of her stomach. Leaving her companions to face The Drake, she spun on heel, slapping the blade from Jone’s grip with her heavy, arm-length leather gauntlet. Her other arm lashed out, the flat of her palm smashing Jone’s nose and filling her nostrils with the scent of her own blood.
Dazed, Jone staggered back, trying to keep from being impaled in return. Reflexively, she called on her magic, pulling at her meager silver spiderweb of followers, trying to clear her head and enhance her strength and speed.
Undaunted by the sword through her torso, the inquisitor matched her retreat, cutting across with swift, sweeping arcs of her own blade that ventured closer and closer to striking true. Jone sucked in her gut and hopped back on her heels, throwing her arms out and her hips back as the inquisitor’s light, tritanium blade drew a shallow, bloody line across her lower stomach, too close for comfort.
Somewhere, in Jone’s flickering network of believers, one light blinked and flared suddenly bright with silver brilliance, but it wasn’t enough.
The razor-sharp tritanium gladius ripped low across Jone’s thigh, a jagged wound that was too slow for the trickle of magic to heal. As Jone fell to a knee, her foe simply pointed her open palm point-blank at Jone’s bloodied face, revealing a cherry-red ruby set into the palm of the heavy gauntlet. The gemstone flared bright and sudden heat baked the moisture from Jone’s eyes. Jone breathed smoke as Rote surged to the forefront of her mind.
The heat vanished instantly as the ruby split apart with a crack louder than a steamlock’s report as an ifrit half Jone’s size burst free. This time the woman did scream as the escaping ifrit ruptured the inquisitor’s arm in revenge, filling the hallway with the stomach-turning smell of burning flesh as it fled into the darkness.
Jone didn’t hesitate, tackling the taller woman to the ground while she choked on the sudden rush of agony. The inquisitor’s head struck stone and bounced, leaving her dazed long enough for Jone to crawl atop her, pinning her only working arm to the flagstones.
The Arcadian’s skin burned as Rote lent her power, the spirit’s foreign magic straining harshly at her human flesh, and Jone used that borrowed power to straddle her foe’s chest and beat her head into the stone until the light went out of her eyes.
“So that’s the secret my Queen tortured you for,” The Drake said quietly. Jone looked up, dark smoke mingled with blood trailing from her nose and mouth. The older soldier bent over his three freshly killed inquisitors and wiped his slender blade clean on one of them. “Fascinating.” He saluted the fallen trio with a quick sweep of his blade, but left it unsheathed and ready instead of putting it away. “Now.” A bundle of cloth hit her in the chest. “You should get dressed, or you’ll attract far too much attention when we reach the streets above.”
Jone flushed at the reminder, but The Drake had already turned away, averting his
gaze while she unrolled the bundle of plain clothes and tugged them on. None of them really quite fit, of course; Jone was too short, her chest was too big, and her arms and thighs were too thick with muscle to find an easy match.
But it was close enough. And as soon as she was done, she fumbled around for the closest Inquisitor to her own size and stole their boots.
The minor delay gave her a much-needed moment to catch her breath and slow her spinning thoughts. It also granted her a moment of introspection. As her aching wounds slowly crawled shut, she could feel that one silver flame blazing away relentlessly, like a beacon of faith on the darkest of nights.
And if she concentrated, she could feel the spirit it belonged to.
Adrienne.
Despite everything, the Arcadian serving-girl-turned-revolutionary still believed in her. Fervently. How long has it even been? I don’t even know. Regardless, she still held onto her faith that Jone had survived, despite everything that had happened to them. That enduring faith was enough to fill Jone with loving warmth and soothe her injuries.
She made it, Rote! Adie’s alive!
“Now we have to pull off that same trick,” the spirit’s honeyed voice was dry with sarcasm and fatigue. “And you can’t keep calling on my power like that to do it. It’s going to burn your frail little human body out like a candle.”
Or she’s going to run herself dry trying to get us out of my mess, she thought. The Arcadian figured that without Rote, she would have been long dead—but not because of the spirit’s powers. Jone could see no good reason why Elizabeth would not have publicly executed her weeks ago, except for the repeated experimentation on her and her connection to Rote.
“We need to move quickly,” The Drake said, cutting into Jone’s thoughts. “My Queen will soon realize you’ve escaped, if she hasn’t already.” He turned to go, obviously expecting her to follow, but Jone caught his elbow.
“My people,” she said simply, her eyes hard. Even just touching the man roused that inhuman urge—the need—for his death, that same inhuman hunger that had gripped her in his presence ever since her resurrection. “What happened to them?”
The Drake sighed, his expressions muffled by his loose cloth mask and the dim lighting. “I spared what of your people I could. Some fought to the death; I made an example of them. But others fled, or surrendered, and are now simply under heavy sanction, or in one of the Queen’s many prisons. A handful of the Arcadian leadership is still at large—for now—which includes that serving girl of yours and those two pirates. You can thank me for that any time you like.”
Jone frowned and released him, wiping her hand on her borrowed clothing. “But why would you…”
“It’s not out of kindness, I can tell you that,” Rote’s voice dripped with disdain and suspicion. “He needs you for something. I’d bet your ass on it.”
My ass? Why mine—Jone paused as it clicked together. “Wait. I’m in Elizabethia, aren’t I?” Her eyes searched the aging admiral’s muffled features for clues. “My imprisonment and freedom. You brought me here on purpose, didn’t you?” she accused, incredulous.
“Of course,” The Drake replied, his stormy eyes keen and twinkling. “Who do you think recommended that you be left alive to study, instead of simply being executed? And what other plan would bring you into my Queen’s home, behind enemy lines and under her very nose, with even the least of your power intact?”
Jone put a hand to the stone wall to steady herself. “You seek to overthrow Elizabeth,” she said flatly.
“No. I want her to let me go,” Drake replied, his eyes hard like stones. “And she never will, not as long as we both live.”
Jone felt her face twist with that barely restrained rage. “Considering your crimes, I could fix that problem for you.”
Drake shook her hand off his elbow with a chuckle. “How vicious.” He shook his head. “I did just come to your rescue, you know. And it’s not as if you haven’t killed my loyal men as well. Families without husbands, fathers, sisters, daughters. You’re no hero to them.” His tone abruptly lost its hint of amusement. “We’ll simply have to agree to disagree on what’s honorable and right, Jonelise. Now if—”
“Someone’s coming,” Rote hissed, her honeyed voice edged with alarm.
She wasn’t the only one to sense it. Before Jone could do more than open her mouth to speak, The Drake stifled her with a hand over her mouth and drug her into a barely visible side passage.
“Stop it. Now’s not the time.” Even with Rote’s help, it was all she could do not to slam the man into the wall, or skewer him with the razor-sharp tritanium gladius she’d tucked into her belt.
A moment later, Jone felt it too; the heavy rumbling steps of golems. The Maid of Arcadia and Elizabeth’s Dragon melded into the shadows as best they could, inching away from the main hallway as a group of the war machines thundered past. Jone counted at least six of the huge, hulking siege engines—though mercifully not the goliaths from Rote’s homeland—all gilded with gold and sporting thick ruby visors. Close in their wake came a supporting squad of the Queen’s Elite, a dozen heavily armed knights covered head to toe in seamless tritanium alloy armor.
“We dodged a bullet there,” said the Voice. “Then again… Could you feel how many gemstones those things had on them?” Jone felt her skin heat up with the spirit’s ire, smoke oozing from beneath her fingernails.
We can’t, she thought back. Now it was her turn to restrain them both. You’re exhausted. You might could dismantle the golems, but we’d still likely die to the Elites. And we dare not trust Drake.
Rote sighed in her mind. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“Come on,” The Drake whispered, his face uncomfortably close to Jone’s ear. “I know another way out, but we must utilize it before she calls the entire Queen’s Guard down here, or worse, seals the dungeons.”
Jone padded along as silently as she could behind Drake, trying not to stumble too much in her too-large boots. They followed the connecting tunnel until it met up with another long hallway, more soulless gray stone punctuated by a swath of cell doors.
The clamor of metal sabatons stamping on stone cut them off; another troop of Elizabeth’s elite suddenly arrived at the intersection ahead of them.
Before Jone could do more than loosen either of her blades in their sheaths, Drake spun on heel, his cloak unfurling and spreading wide, falling over them both like a thick, black shroud as he ducked under it and fell to a knee.
She almost pushed him aside and threw it off without thinking, but caught on in the nick of time and let the cloak settle over her instead, staying as quiet as possible.
Now a spot of shapeless black in the shadows of the dungeon hallway, the footfalls passed them by. Jone finally let out the breath she was holding, and the two of them remained hidden until the sound of marching soldiers was well past them.
Drake snorted quietly as he tugged the pitch-black camouflage off them. “Three hundred years of combat experience, Jone. It means never fighting unless you have to.”
She nodded at the wisdom. The fewer fights you were in, the fewer fights you might not walk away from.
With a glance down the hallway, they hurried in the opposite direction of the heavy patrol. “How are your injuries? We’ll have to move as swiftly and silently as you’re able,” The Drake murmured quietly. “I knew my Queen would become aware as soon as we killed her inquisitors, but she still responded more quickly than I expected.”
“He seems nervous,” Rote rumbled thoughtfully. “I like it.” Jone could almost see the spirit curled up in the back of her head, the dark, smoky figure still licking the wounds caused by Elizabeth’s arcanists.
“Why didn’t she know as soon as you killed the guards at my door?” Jone hopped quietly after him, trying to tug one of her ill-fitting boots back into position.
“She knows of her inquisitors’ deaths, of course,” The Drake explained, not slowing down as they passed another series
of cells, some occupied, some not. “She always does. But the Queen decided not to leave anyone too important directly guarding your cell, considering how many you’ve managed to kill during your captivity thus far.”
“Heh,” Rote chuckled darkly. “There’s more where that came from—”
Jone jumped as something slammed into the bars at her shoulder, shattering the silence; she leaped straight into the air, barely strangling her own squeak of shock.
“We meet again, m’lady!” A man’s face pressed against the bars a foot away from Jone’s, his voice rough and harsh, his wrinkled features stitched with scrapes and scars.
She would have known that voice anywhere.
It was one of her first waking memories, after all.
“Your friend seems tense!” The street preacher grinned through missing teeth, his heavy, stained robe shifting on his too-thin frame as he leaned his weight against the bars. “Almost like he’s hiding something.”
“Come on, Jonelise!” The Drake took her by the arm, hauling her away from the man’s cell. “Lest his racket bring them all down on us.”
“We must free him,” Jone stated. “All of them! They do not deserve to be down here, any more than I do.”
“All of that, my dear lady, is still a matter of opinion,” Drake replied dryly. “And we cannot.”
Jone frowned stubbornly and dug in her heels, though it was useless against The Drake’s vastly superior strength. “We must.”
The Drake sighed from behind his mask and released her. “There are hundreds like him down here. Thousands. Will you gamble your freedom and the future of your revolution on saving them all?” He shrugged. “Besides, I don’t have the keys to unseal all of these cells, only yours.”
Hero of Arcadia Page 6
