Hero of Arcadia

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  “I’d manage,” Jone replied.

  “You’d die,” Owl retorted.

  “Heh. I like her, too.”

  Drake came to a corner and put his hand out, stopping them both. Just past his arm, Jone could see an open space, with market stalls and countless milling Elizabethians, all going about their daily lives with a lively rumble of commotion that spilled around the corner and down into the alley. “No more talk of such things,” The Drake cautioned. “Lest the wrong ears hear.” Owl and Jone nodded. “The Tower of Dover is part of an old set of fortifications, and one of the tallest buildings in—”

  Rote’s ripple of warning was the only indication Jone had before Drake buckled forward at the waist, clutching at his head. Jone stiffened and scanned the environment, her hand darting to the hilt of the gladius at her waist, but couldn’t bring herself to go to the man’s aid.

  “No blood, though,” Rote noted with obvious disappointment. “But I’m certain I felt something…”

  Leaning back against the wall of a shop, Drake put his hand to his head and closed his eyes; Owl tapped Jone lightly on the shoulder, put a finger to her lips and fell silent. After a moment, he relaxed, seemingly unharmed.

  “The Queen,” he finally commented, his smile thin. “Demanding a progress report.”

  Jone blinked, astonished. “She can...communicate with you like that? With words? Across distance? I didn’t know that was possible.”

  “Our Queen has come closer to achieving deification than any human since the Prophet overthrew the Old Gods,” The Drake replied, rubbing at his temples. “She knows many things that lesser mortals like you and I do not.” He took a breath, pain creasing the corners of his eyes. “And sometimes those things are not precisely...comfortable...for the rest of us.”

  In her head, Rote let out a long, low whistle. “Huh. So that’s who we get to fight in...what? A few hours or days or something? Fun times ahead.”

  Jone swallowed hard.

  “It’s okay, Jonesy. You might be a ‘mere mortal,’ but I’m not.”

  That’s not as relieving as you think it is, Jone replied with a quiet sigh.

  “At the top of the Tower of Dover is Elizabethia’s most powerful radio transmitter,” Owl explained while The Drake leaned against the wall for a moment. “One that is relayed to islands and continents all across the Seven Skies.”

  “One that if we can seize it, even for a few moments, will allow you to announce your survival and intentions,” Drake finished.

  Jone nodded as the plan sunk in. It wasn’t a bad plan. Just a risky one.

  “With you returning from the dead—again—word will spread quickly,” Owl added. “We already have agents in place to ensure that momentum will grow. Rebellion is already smoldering across the continents; this will ignite it into a blaze. Soon you’ll be able to challenge her on more even terms. You just have to survive her attempts to recapture or kill you until then. With nearly the whole city against you.”

  “With our covert aid, of course,” The Drake said. “Though it will get more difficult as time goes on to assist you; we can’t overplay our hand too soon, or we won’t be able to help you get into the palace when the time comes to strike. But I figure if any is up to the task, it’s you.”

  I certainly hope so, Jone thought. She took a deep breath. “I’ll do what I have to. I cannot allow this chance to pass me by.”

  Owl caught her eyes with a nod and a wink, before tugging up her hood and concealing her mask and her striking, cloudy gray eyes once more.

  Drake nodded as well. “Then come on. I worry we don’t have as long as I would like, what with the Queen’s level of attention.”

  The three of them dived into the crowd. They stuck to the fringes, but allowed the swell and flow of traffic to absorb them. They attracted a few glances from those close by, garbed as they were with hoods up and masks worn, but most people seemed entirely too absorbed in their own lives and daily routines to care about three strangers.

  Jone trailed Drake, with Owl ever at her shoulder, an almost—but not quite—comforting presence. As they walked, she couldn’t help but take in some of the dazzling sights of Elizabethia’s eponymous capital city. These were streets she had never hoped to see firsthand, and certainly not during any semblance of peacetime.

  So the stories aren’t all propaganda and rumor. Clearly, it wasn’t purely hubris that Elizabethians called their land the “height of civilization.” Jone had always assumed that it was more propaganda, more excuses to exercise their right to rule, based solely off of their wealth, mighty armada, and position floating high above most other lands. But here in Elizabethia proper, Jone watched towering spires of gleaming steel pass, ornamented with gold, hammered brass, and bronze. Once out of the slums, fine houses of every size and shape crowded shoulder to shoulder under the sky-scraping towers, and Jone saw as many libraries, arcanums, ateliers, and colleges on her way to the Tower as she’d previously seen in her entire life.

  Jone had also never seen so many people bearing enslaved spirits. Tiny cages dangled from garments like purses. Others were bound and tethered to gemmed bands on their wrists, and even more gemstone eyes glimmered from steam furnaces and plasma generators on every street; Rote bristled with ire at the sight. But the economy was obviously healthy, as was the populace, and in spite of the ongoing war, the people thrived and seemed happy. Storefronts lined busy avenues and wide open marketplaces, voices raised in chatter, mirth, or trade. Steam-powered carriages trundled continuously along the middle lanes of well-upkept cobblestone streets, while many varieties of steam-ships skimmed the wispy clouds overhead.

  It’s beautiful, Jone marveled. And this is the place I wanted to bring war to. Am I really any better than he is? Her eyes burrowed into The Drake’s back, and he shifted uncomfortably, unconsciously.

  “You didn’t start this war, Jone,” Rote retorted immediately. “I wish you could remember Arcadia before the first sieges, back when you were really young. A lot was lost. Remember those exorbitant taxes back on the Arcadian piers? Who do you think pays for those colleges, for those fancy streetlights powered by gas and spirits? Elizabeth takes taxes that other countries could use to do similar things, consolidates it all here, then points to it as the proof of her people’s superiority. It’s actually pretty clever. Enraging, but clever.”

  I wish I remembered all of those things as clearly as you. I know you think I’m better off not knowing what I lost, who I lost. But I can’t help wondering—

  “Is this about your parents?”

  Jone missed a step. Owl glanced her way, eyes discerning.

  “What, you think I wasn’t paying attention back home? I noticed how hard it hit you.” Rote shifted in her head, curling up and growing closer. Jone felt her skin warm, just a little. “And I’m...sorry. I don’t really mean to hurt you. Much.”

  The Arcadian stifled a snort.

  Their route wound soon enough away from the populated core of the busy city and toward the thick, crenelated white stone wall that formed the outer layer of defenses for the capital. Drake avoided wandering guard patrols by keeping them to the winding, twisting alleys and narrow lanes that burrowed through the dense, stacked layers of construction and housing near the great wall. Jone quickly became hopelessly lost; not only did she now realize how they expected her to evade the city’s guards on her own, but she was astounded that The Drake seemed to know every pathway like the back of his hand.

  Maybe after two hundred years, it would be the same for anyone. Or maybe he really cares.

  “Or maybe this whole thing is a setup.”

  Jone frowned.

  Even through the maze-like streets, the Tower of Dover was an easy landmark to keep her eyes on. The pale white stone shone yellow in the slanting rays of dusk’s light, with Aru the Sister having already set, and Venus the Mother making her dignified path toward the horizon far below. The streets emptied as they approached, with the people of the city preparing to tur
n in for the Dark Hours, as was right and proper.

  But in the alleys that gradually filled with deeper and deeper shadow lurked those with ill intent—those like the Owl, The Drake, and the Maid.

  “Here we are,” The Drake said, nodding across the street at the open double doors at the base of the Tower, and indicating the two well-armed and armored guards flanking it. “I assume the two of you are ready? The relay is on the top floor. We’ll need to be surgically quick; even with my and Garm’s soldiers’ attentions diverted, some resistance is to be expected. We don’t want to linger, lest we become trapped atop the tower.”

  Jone nodded once. “Then we’re wasting time.”

  The three insurgents darted across the street; with a mental apology and practiced ease, Jone drove her tritanium alloy gladius underneath the guardsman’s chin and deep into his head, then drew her longsword; freeing the gladius from the soldier’s skull would take too long. Beside her, The Drake handily downed the other door guard with a precise thrust through the throat into the spine. She held her weapon ready in both hands as they rushed up the white spiral stairs inside, but it was hardly necessary—The Drake took point, slashing through the sparse handful of guards they encountered, or simply using his superior strength and speed to toss them off the steep stairwell to their deaths.

  The Tower of Dover wasn’t as tall as it had seemed when looming over them from the outside. Owl darted ahead of them, dodged adroitly past a guardswoman too slow to react, then cut the woman’s hamstrings and slammed her face into the stone as she crashed to the floor.

  “So,” Jone said, gazing at the dizzying array of lights, knobs, meters, and switches, then up at the complex structure of copper wire above their heads, “do either of you know how to use this thing?”

  Owl brushed past her with a chuckle. “You two anachronisms just watch the stairs.”

  “Hurry,” The Drake replied, his dueling blade dripping crimson and at the ready.

  Owl didn’t respond, her hands flying across the controls. After only a moment, she looked to Jone. “Are you ready? Have a speech prepared, I hope?”

  Jone shook her head. “I don’t really prepare speeches.”

  With a shrug, Owl flicked a final switch. Lights danced across panels and glowing meters filled, and the room resonating with the hum of steam-generated energy. With expectant eyes, she handed Jone a small, curious oblong of black mesh wiring.

  “Hello?” Jone spoke the word hesitantly, almost nervous of the device. How did a machine like this even work? After this, there would be no turning back; she would be on a direct collision course with Elizabeth, and only one of them would survive. She wiped sudden sweat from her palms on her ill-fitting leggings, feeling unheroic and suddenly, completely out of place. This was her only chance; if Drake’s plan didn’t work, or she said the wrong thing...

  “Stop it. You can do this.” Rote leaned forward in her mind, close once more. “Just talk to it...like you would your soldiers, your people. Like Adie or Esmeralda. Go on.”

  “I....am Jonelise of Arcadia.” Jone took a deep breath and raised her voice, gripping the strange device firmly. “Knight Incarnate of the Order of the Iron Shield.” She grew more bold as she spoke. “And I live.”

  Somewhere deep inside, a meager silver spiderweb lit up with lights, bolstering her confidence as her mind touched a few familiar flames. “Not only have I survived; I have escaped.” Lights flared brighter across the controls in front of her as well. Even if it was only a fraction of what she had commanded back in Arcadia, it was a start. The plan was working. “Now I strive against the enemy in the heart of her own land, and I ask only this: keep your faith.”

  Far below them, a hollow boom rolled forcefully through the tower, shaking the white stone around them. Owl’s eyes went behind the mask, but Jone kept on speaking. “Believe in me. I remain your shield arm, your sword hand. With you behind me, I cannot break, and will not fail.” In her mind’s eye, sparks of light ignited, candles growing into a wildfire. “If you want freedom, I will see you free—”

  The tower shook. The object in her hand exploded. Around them, the air itself caught fire around as a searing ribbon of energy lanced through the Tower of Dover, lightning that splintered it from base to top, shattering the stone around them to chalk with its power. Dazed, skin tingling and blazing in turns, Jone felt nothing at all for a long moment, then only the wind whipping through her short hair and whistling by her face as she fell. She twisted and looked down, only for her stomach to clench in fear as she gazed directly into the steamy, infinite Abyss far below.

  Not again.

  A hand with a steel grip latched onto her elbow and dragged her to the side: Drake. Like his monstrous namesake, he exhaled, his breath a billowing gust of stormwind that slowed their descent to a crawl. Together, they shot to the side, dangerously close to the rocky base of Elizabethia, as white chunks of debris rained down all around them. As her senses returned, Jone spotted their destination, a massive, barred storm drain pouring an endless stream of dirty water into the Abyss below.

  Jone glanced up, and suddenly leaned hard away from Drake, almost breaking his grip and throwing them dangerously off course.

  With an incredulous glance, he fought her, exhaling harder to propel them toward the tunnel. Jone put her boot into his chest, straining—and at the last moment, snagged the arm of the unconscious guardswoman from the Tower before she could plummet past them to her doom.

  Together, all three of them slammed into the metal bars and tumbled to a stop.Their feet once more on solid stone—if calf-high in swiftly running water—Jone propped the woman against the wall and trudged dutifully to the edge, fighting the rush of expected vertigo as she looked out over the vast nothing, fervently scanning the dimming sky.

  Owl was nowhere to be seen.

  “It’s possible she was thrown inside the wall,” The Drake commented, watching her. “Or was caught in the tower collapse and survived. Not likely, but possible.” Jone frowned, but The Drake shook his head. “There’s no time—”

  Squeezing his eyes shut, The Drake cut off mid-word and put a hand to the side of his head.

  “What did she want now? Does she know?” Jone queried as soon as he began to recover. “Does she suspect you?”

  “If she suspected me, I’d already be dead.” The Drake shook his head, pulling his cloth wrap down and using it to mop away sweat. “Otherwise, not yet. But she’s demanding my presence.” He gazed upward. “Hopefully I still remember a quick path back to the street level. Let’s go, before I take too long and she figures out where I am.”

  Jone paused, glancing down at the fallen, unconscious soldier, at the burns along the side of the woman’s face and down her neck.

  “We don’t have time to help her,” The Drake said, a note of impatience barely hidden in the old soldier’s tone.

  Jone shook her head. “It’s not that.” The Drake raised an eyebrow, and she shrugged. “Turn around, if you would. She’s actually about my size.”

  Once re-armed—she’d lost her longsword in the fall—and clad in a better fitting, long chainmail hauberk and an unfortunately one-size-too-small breastplate, Jone trudged through the Elizabethian drainage tunnels behind her nemesis, listening to the echo of repetitive, rhythmic booms rolling down from the city above.

  “What is that?” She finally asked.

  The Elizabethian Admiral frowned. “I’m actually not certain.”

  The sound of occasional sirens hastened their footsteps, but it wasn’t until they neared the surface that they finally could make out the first sound: the magnified voice of a loudspeaker, the booming voice of a city herald demanding Jone surrender at the palace, to the Queen herself.

  “Or she’ll start executing prisoners,” Rote hissed, echoing the broadcast above. “One hundred an hour, starting with the accomplices that aided in your escape. Dirty, but clever.”

  Jone scowled, grinding her teeth in anger. Did that mean that Garm and Raven h
ad survived after all? Then again, it hardly mattered who Elizabeth was going to execute.

  She couldn’t allow it to happen.

  6

  Checkmate

  Jone slipped into the palace through an unguarded entrance, only to find it empty, its massive hallways devoid of life or activity.

  No one barred her entry with violence, nor raised the alarm. No guards, no servants, nothing except for cold lights and wide, drafty hallways.

  It creeped her out. The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention like tiny soldiers, as if she were stealing into some vast barrow-mound, the ghosts of the dishonored dead waiting for her to take one step too many.

  Drake had tried to stop her, of course. He’d tried to reiterate that if she waited, she would stand a far greater chance of facing Elizabeth, and that the Queen’s trap was clearly designed to prevent Jone from doing just that.

  I could never wait idly by while others died in my stead. Less so while the body count rises by the hour.

  Now every step on the plush carpet was another step toward the Eternal Queen of Elizabethia, the woman who would rule over the world. The most powerful woman in the Seven Skies, who Jone had struggled against for almost two whole lifetimes, the woman whom Sir Francis Drake had plotted against for decades.

  I never thought it would be like this, you know?

  “How so?” Rote stirred after a long stretch of unusually contemplative silence.

  I never thought I would face her at the height of her power. More like after defeating her armies, or as her last stand on a final battlefield. Or never at all, with me long dead before those I supported ever got that far.

  “Can’t say I’m sorry to miss that last one.” She shifted, a soft swirl of smoke close to the front of Jone’s mind. “Are you scared?”

  Yes. Jone stopped in the middle of the empty hallway and discarded her arming sword. I would be insane not to be. She dropped the weapon to the carpet and took a broad-bladed Highlander sword from the wall instead, a weapon longer than she was tall and as thick as her thigh. It was a blade far too large for someone of her size, but it didn’t matter.