Contents
First
Description
Dedication
1 Enmity
2 Unity
3 Strife
4 Devotion
5 Vanguard
6 Dragonfire
7 Closure
Special Offer
From the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
The Eternal Queen is dead. But the war she left behind rages on.
Without Elizabeth’s guiding hand, her Empire falls to pieces, and lesser souls seek to take her place. Meanwhile, Jonelise rises like a phoenix, uniting the free countries of the world behind her shining banner.
But the betrayer who would claim the Empire’s throne will not die, will not rest, and is always hungry.
As warfare threatens to make villains of friend and foe alike, Jone must reconsider who she can trust and how far she is willing to go to secure victory and safety, not only for Arcadia, but for the entire world. Together, Jonelise and the spirit who shares her body must negotiate treacherous alliances, intricate traps, and an endless siege—while keeping her lovers alive. But even with all the power in the world, victory may be impossible.
For in order to win, Jone must slay a Dragon.
Savior of Arcadia is the sixth and final book in Eternal Queen’s Skies, a genre-bending series of novellas by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane, author of the Dying Ashes series. Gaslamp and Steampunk fans will enjoy the floating islands, airships, and cultural anachronisms, while fans of action and adventure will love the daring battles and exciting chases. Those hungry for an edge of romance in a plot that stands on its own, with an interest in polyamory or harem—and definitely lesbians with steamy sex scenes—will find all they desire in this series of delicious tales about Jone and her sexy lovers.
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Reading Order:
Call of Arcadia
Knight of Arcadia
Champion of Arcadia
Survivors of Arcadia
Hero of Arcadia
Savior of Arcadia
To all of my girls, I miss you already.
May we meet again.
1
Enmity
With a sweep of her arm, Jone set Elizabethia on fire.
Something deep within her felt a false thrill of justice, of satisfaction, of vengeance as her airship fleet opened fire, as fire and lead smashed into the floating island’s forward defenses. After all, the people below had done the same thing to her own home time and time again.
She smothered that feeling. Ruthlessly.
Below her, those towering spires of gleaming gold and red and steel, those tall apartments of gilded brass and bronze...they belonged to people, just like anywhere else. Just like her own homeland, just like the men and women who crewed the sea of ships at her back. They were storytellers, families, teachers, farmers, merchants. Only a scattered few were the soldiers who had murdered her people, or were the lawmakers and nobles that had declared war on her home in their late Queen’s name.
And not even they deserved what was to come.
Alchemical cannon-shot—Louie’s latest invention—exploded on the white Walls of Dover. Explosions dripping acid dismantled ancient towers, destroyed occupied fortifications, and soaked the wreckage in volatile napalm. At her command, grapeshot rained down, pulverizing any troops foolish or unlucky enough to be caught in the open. Like every time before, enemy airships rose to defend the massive capital city, and her own expansive fleet swarmed them, laying into them with everything from cannon-fire and evocations to catapults and massive chain bolas. One by one, blazing ships fell toward Gravekeeper Jones’ hungry, Abyssal embrace: some of them Elizabethian, some of them her own.
From so high up, Jone couldn’t hear the screams over the keening of the wind. But she knew they were there all the same.
But even backed into a corner, the Empire Elizabeth had built would not fall so easily. Massive spears returned fire from ballistas hidden deep within the white walls or within the rocky base of the floating island itself. Overeager vessels that ventured too close were vulnerable to boarding parties of one: Elizabethian Inquisitors that would leap aboard and kill who they could before sabotaging the ship and retreating to the safety of the city. Imperial Arcanists raked ships’ vulnerable wings and balloons with blasts of fire and lightning, safely ensconced in the most well-defended city in the Seven Skies.
In Jone’s mind, silver flames flickered and died until finally, she could bear it no longer.
Blood pounded in her ears, a deafening tempo of the drums of war, as belief and support flooded her veins. Three continents. A dozen countries. Millions upon millions of followers. What had once been a rebellion, hidden and fragile, had become a full-fledged war between alliances.
And after five years, it was almost over.
Jone gasped as streamers of energy burst from her back, through the open gap in her reforged, rune-carved chestplate. Dancing golden ribbons shot skyward as her battle standard blazed bright, its massive tendrils branching out like a great tree as they reached to aid her army. In her mind’s eye, silver candles flared and steadied as she lent her people strength and healed their wounds. No matter what her advisors cautioned, she could not simply sit by and watch as those that trusted her died, not when she could reach out and prevent it.
In the back of her mind, Rote tensed. “Nothing comes without a cost,” the spirit commented. “And here comes ours.”
The midday sky dimmed as a massive fireball erupted from the Royal Tower, roaring voraciously as it shot toward Jone’s flagship.
“Incoming!” the Arcadian general bellowed from the bow, her wing-like war banner rippling in anticipation.
“By the Abyss, why couldn’t he have stayed dead?” Esmeralda Thresh bellowed curses from the helm, right at Jone’s back. “I’m on it!” The notorious pirate captain spun the wheel, deftly dodging among the enemy warships suddenly out for their blood, but the gargantuan orb of dragonfire simply arced to follow them, no matter how fast or which way she went.
Jone broke out into a sudden sweat as the mighty evocation drew close, transforming one of the Elizabethian war vessels to cinders and ash when it failed to get out of the way in time. Rote hissed in warning and she grabbed the railing as the white-hot ball of fire smashed into her flagship’s hull—
Only to stop a foot or two away, held at bay by a fiercely glowing sigil of Lady Samantha Bellamy’s sorcery.
“Got it,” the pirate-noble commented quietly from her shoulder. As the hungry magic strained against her protective sigil, Bellamy stepped past her onto the bow, holding her footing against the wind and motion of the ship with perfect grace; Jone smiled, and the crew cheered. Samantha Segare Bellamy cut an impressive figure indeed: ankle-length ebony hair and ruffled swallowtail dress whipping magnificently in the wind, her intense steel-gray eyes flickering with traces of the Old Magic. Precise gestures with her rune-carved rapier cut the fireball to pieces, dispersing it harmlessly into the cloudy air.
Only to reveal another already bearing down on them, and yet another behind that.
Bellamy huffed softly as she caught those as well; she strained in opposition, but the flagship rocked from the dual impact, anyway. Jone put a hand to her friend’s back, lending her subtle support as Esmeralda continued to curse virulently behind them. The Arcadian cast out her senses, trying to get a feel for the greater battle beyond the blinding veil of hungry fire, and opened her mouth to shout orders—
A war-horn sounded from the deck behind her, drowning out anything she might
have said. “By the bloody Abyss, get some counter-fire on that bloody tower!” Adrienne’s magically-enhanced voice rang out, her bellowed orders quickly relayed from ship to ship over the sound of warfare and flame. “Before that bloody Dragon cooks our bloody Admiral!”
Jone smiled again and tucked her own horn back into her belt.
Dual globs of liquid fire burst apart on Bellamy’s intricate sigils, teardrops of blazing flame dripping down to fall into the city and endless steamy Abyss alike. As she mopped the sweat from her brow, Jone could feel the sheer hate and rage that emanated from The Drake’s evocations, and her smile withered and died.
“Next time...he should throw a real spell at me…” Lady Bellamy wavered on her feet; Jone was at her side in an instant, an armored hand on her friend’s pale arm before she could fall. The pirate grinned, steel-colored eyes twinkling with excitement even as blood trickled thickly from her nose. “...Don’t you think?”
Jone shook her head.
From the watchwoman’s perch high above their heads, the warning rang out once more; Jone peered over the side just in time to see a gout of dragonfire wash a pair of her ships from the sky, clearing a path to their vessel. A flash of hot crimson heralded yet another fireball that homed in on her ship from the tower beneath them.
Cursing, Jone drew her warhorn and pulsed out a quick call, the sound of the signal amplified by the handful of windy, amber-eyed sylphs that had taken up residence inside it. A thick tendril of her golden standard stretched out, singling out Lord Francis Drake on his tall tower far below. “Esme, get us out of here!”
“Sure!” the pirate captain snapped. “Not like I’m already dueling two Elizabethian dreadnoughts, or anything!”
Jone looked up to see the pair of hulking ships-of-the-line closing in, trying to pinch her vessel between them. “Oh.”
Esmeralda spun the wheel, gripping it with white-knuckled hands, and their flagship pivoted sharply. Jone dug in her heels before the shift in momentum could send her and Sam over the edge, then flinched as an electric jolt arced along her brilliant war banner and into her body. Far below them, monstrous, flaming wings burst from the figure on the tower as The Drake swatted her standard away with his own.
At the helm, the dark-skinned pirate captain whooped with excitement as she skimmed along the hull of a dreadnought, using it as a shield against the swiftly closing fireball. At a shout from Adrienne, the crew opened fire, raking the enemy vessel with cannonfire and evocations. The enemy ship blazed, listing in the air as its steam engine vomited black smoke; this time, Jone could hear the screams as the warship’s hull cracked under their assault, spilling its crew into the Abyss as it began its slow descent into oblivion.
But it was only one of two.
The other royal dreadnought circled deftly around and raked them with a broadside of its own. Jone’s vessel shuddered under the impact, but its enchanted ironwood sides held firm. Bellamy raised a hasty sigil as the ball of flame finally ran them down; it slammed into her spell with an audible crunch as the Old Magic sigil fractured like cracking supernatural glass.
More concerningly, the ball of Dragonfire held them in place, Esmeralda straining as she fought the wheel. The enemy dreadnought took the opportunity to maneuver behind them, and the flagship lurched as if in pain as their foe landed a direct hit with its massive forward ballista.
The deck hopped and shuddered beneath their feet as an oversized spear punched a hole through the ironwood and metal plating near the rudder. The thick chain jerked taut immediately and yanked the flagship off course and directly toward The Drake’s seething fire.
Jone dragged Sam back onto the main deck as the ship danced wildly beneath them, then leapt forward and caught one of Esmeralda’s sailors as the woman tumbled screaming from the mast, catching her an instant before she would have smashed skull-first into the ironwood deck. Bellamy turned, her eyes blazing, and slashed the empty air with her rapier; a ripple of magic cut across the deck and sundered the thick ballista chain, the wood of their battered vessel groaning as it tore abruptly free.
But soldiers and sailors screamed as, in the moment of Bellamy’s distraction, Dragonfire ate through the side of her sigil and poured across the aft deck, setting it alight before finally dissipating.
Esmeralda steered frantically as her ship’s bow dropped and she lost altitude; a quick glance showed several of the hammered brass winglets on its port side already aflame. Behind, the larger Elizabethian dreadnought doggedly pursued them, Elizabethian sailors busily reloading its deadly forward ballista.
The fiery assault from below finally ceased as the Royal Tower came under concerted assault by Jone’s siege ships, forcing the Drake to take cover or die once more. Bellamy slumped in momentary exhaustion and relief before shrugging it off and standing tall, wiping the blood from her face, and forcibly reassembling her regal demeanor.
But despite Esmeralda’s best efforts, they still spiraled steadily downward, deck and wings aflame, hull punctured.
“Hold on to your ass!” the pirate captain shouted over the rush of wind. “This is going to seem really crazy!”
“Jone!”
Time slowed down as Rote grabbed her attention. Jone turned as a massive chain bola, launched from one of the city’s anti-air batteries, ripped across the deck. It was a perfect shot: one that would destroy their mast, kill everyone at the bow and helm, then drop their ship promptly into the Abyss.
“No,” the Arcadian whispered, her mouth leaking black smoke.
Jone’s flesh flushed hot in an instant as the spirit inside her poured out. Ribbons of shadow wrapped tight around the oversized bola as Rote caught it, stopped it in its tracks, and slung it back across the deck of the pursuing warship, shattering its mast and scattering sailors like insects.
Relief was fleeting. Jone’s feet left the ironwood as her ship slammed hull-first onto the upper deck of another Elizabethian dreadnought, their descent to the Abyss cut short as Esmeralda bounced them off the enemy’s deck and used the impact to right the vessel’s bow. Her footing lost, Jone tumbled toward a section of broken railing, only to have something close fast around her forearm, halting her slide toward certain death.
The pirate whose life she’d just saved gave her a wink and helped her back onto her feet.
With an umbral roar, Rote waved a smoky arm, swirling like a stormcloud around Jone’s body. Behind them, the pursuing dreadnought’s oversized steam engine burst apart as a huge, hungry undine exploded out of it. A multitude of smaller spirits ripped free as well, and the ship listed as its fluttering brass-and-gold wings stuttered and stilled.
All around them, dozens of enemy vessels that had been closing in on them followed suit in a chain reaction, their engines extinguished in an instant. Their weapons fell silent as suddenly liberated spirits rampaged across their decks, berserk and angry. The air was momentarily still as the vessels dropped one by one into the steamy clouds swarming below.
Jone choked on smoke as Rote poured back into her body without warning, curled up in her head and emitted a feeling of satisfaction. Now it was Bellamy’s turn to take her arm as a swell of weakness followed, nearly dropping her to her knees.
Esmeralda caught her attention. “I’m pulling us out! The New Adventure can’t handle any more punishment.”
Jone nodded reluctantly, glancing over her companions before returning her attention to the rest of the battle.
With her out of range, The Drake rejoined the fight and turned his attention to the other vessels. Fireballs and gouts of liquid Dragonfire tore even her heavily armored siege ships from the sky, some taking nearby vessels with them as their caches of ammunition detonated from the intense heat. As the Lord Drake once again turned the tide of the battle, the Elizabethian forces grew bolder; long-range anti-air ballistae punched holes in cargo carriers and merchant freighters repurposed for war, as well as the older, less armored ships of the line from allied nations. Any ships overhead were at risk of drawing th
e ire of Imperial Arcanists, while smaller, faster vessels were targets of spirit-powered auto turrets. While her enemy had learned long ago that using spirit-powered weaponry against Jone herself was tantamount to suicide, once she had been driven from the field, all such bets were off.
Meanwhile, the flagging Elizabethian Armada fought doggedly; fractured and fragmented in the wake of Elizabeth’s apparent demise, the battles fought in the skies over the other continents had been a matter of divide and conquer, a series of victories through Bellamy’s impeccable strategy and Jone’s force of arms and leadership. But here, driven back to the White Walls of their homeland, the Royal Armada was unified and resolute, having vowed to fight to the last man before surrendering the city to invaders.
As the New Adventure slowly retreated, hemorrhaging steam and smoke, Jone felt light after light fade away in her mind and knew that the price was undoubtedly the same on both sides of the battle line.
And it’s only going to climb higher.
Reluctantly, she pulled out her warhorn once again and signaled the retreat.
“So much for the last step to victory.”
Jone nodded. Like the last several battles before it, this wasn’t a rout, or even a solid defeat for the allied forces. Instead, the Siege of Elizabethia was a death by inches for both sides. Elizabethia had a large force of well-trained troops and layers upon layers of defensive positions and emplacements, along with some of the most technologically advanced weaponry in the world. On top of that, they had their backs to the wall, fighting for their homeland. So they fought like cornered Highland garm, never yielding and rarely giving ground.
Jone knew what that was like. She’d been there herself not so long ago, and her stomach churned at the bitter irony.
And then there was The Lord Drake.
The allied Continental Armada began its orderly retreat, long ranged warships providing covering fire for the slower vessels, pushing back against the parts of the Royal Navy dead set on harrying them. Jone supervised the withdrawal, feeling useless, and directed her war banner to help and heal and cover the retreat as best she could.
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