Bellica

by Katje van Loon

  You too, huh?

  Quite. A sigh, like the rustling of tree branches in a gentle breeze. I'll keep trying, however, and will make sure you are as informed as I. You're heading to Harbourtown after Mudflat?

  After a good night's sleep, yes, she said with a mental smile. ... How's my mother faring?

  There was a pause. She's stable, the magea said. But still comatose. Do you wish me to....

  No, said Ghia quickly. She doesn't want interference. They fell silent then, Ghia brooding on her mother's stubbornness. And some other things that were bothering her.

  What troubles you? Rosa said, instantly picking up on Ghia's mood.

  Relieved she didn't have to bring it up awkwardly, she launched right into her concerns. I'm wondering where all this strength came from. I was tired during the outbreak, but then I went to the clinic and worked like a fiend. The only thing that slowed me down was the drug. I've never felt such power flood me, Rosa. Her mental voice quavered. It frightened me.

  Ah, said the magea, and there was a slight pause. You have discovered the great secret and greater weakness of the Magi. Our powers expand to near limitlessness when we are consumed with anger.

  Ghia frowned. How is that a weakness?

  Another sigh, this one the sound of a tree barren in winter, branches creaking and clacking together in a cold wind. Have you ever been consumed by a fury so great you know naught else? An anger that eats away at your soul until you can feel nothing else...no love, no compassion, not even hate nor desire save the hunger for blood to be spilled. Just a terrible, cold madness that takes you over and makes you forget anything you ever were before.

  The magea went silent, and Ghia felt she'd opened a very old, very tender wound.

  I'm sorry, she said, unsure that was the right thing to say.

  Hm? Oh, there's nothing to apologise for, child. I just hope you don't ever understand what I'm saying. I'll let you get back to your journey, and tell you when I know somewhat of Anala.

  Before she could say goodbye, the magea was gone, leaving Ghia feeling strangely bereft.

  What darkness, what sadness and great fury existed in the magea's past? And why did Ghia get the sinking feeling that her own future would hold the very understanding that Rosa feared she might gain?

  Anala

  Anala woke in a large bed she didn't recognise. The room was dark. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

  Where was she? There was a fuzzy blankness in her head where memories should have been. The last thing she remembered was...Aro's lips on hers, in the library.

  What did that lead to? But when she checked, she saw she was alone in the bed. She breathed a sigh of relief -- or disappointment.

  She worked her way to the edge of the bed and swung her legs over and sat up. A wave of dizziness nauseated her and she fell forward to the floor to retch on the rich carpet.

  When the sickness had subsided she got shakily to her feet with a strange sense of deja vu, as if she'd done that recently. She just couldn't remember.

  Stumbling, she made her way to what she hoped was the bathroom. Even in the dark she could see it was, and she fell to sit on the latrine.

  What had possessed her to go to bed after drinking so much? Wherever this bed was. Wherever she was.

  She needed cold water on her face. Maybe it would wash away the cobwebs in her head. She leaned over the sink and turned a gold knob with difficulty. Cold water gushed forward, but before she could fall forward to splash it on her face she got a sight of herself in the old mirror--and stopped short.

  She didn't recognise the apparition in front of her. She looked...worse than death. Sallow skin on sunken cheeks made a face, once fleshed out, skeletal. Stringy hair fell in tangles around her sickly features. Eyes had sunk deep in her head, with shadows so dark they were black. A once white nightgown, now stained with things she didn't want to think about, covered what used to be her filled-out form -- but now her shoulders hunched, bony extensions of flesh shadowing a bony torso. Lips cracked and pale, and dried spittle on her chin. Since when had her spit been green?

  She smiled experimentally and her lips curled away to bare yellowy-green teeth in a snarl. Dear Goddess. How long 'ave I slept? And why...why so uncared for?

  She straightened her shoulders and ran a few fingers through her horrible hair. It made a little difference and she felt better for it.

  The water was still running and so she cupped some in her hands to splash her face. As the water hit her skin and lips, she smelled and tasted sulphur.

  Sulphur.

  She coughed and spluttered as the memories flooded her brain.

  Voco. Volcanic island with sulphuric water. She was on Voco and...and she....

  Oh, Goddess. It was like waking up from a very bad nightmare to find it was true.

  Anala deHope Exsil Vis.

  She almost threw up again.

  Not that her mother was so terrible -- no more terrible than any other woman who couldn't leave a horrible marriage. But...Lord Exsil Vis. Yer father.

  It'd be a miracle I'd be as nice as I am, she thought, and winced, for she knew exactly how deep her mean streak went.

  What had happened between that dinner and right now? Her tongue probed her cottony mouth and she considered her appearance.

  Drugged. For how long, she didn't know -- but mayhap a sevenday, or more. It seemed someone had forgotten to renew her dose. Or else her body had finally fought back.

  She counted her blessings, fully aware of how soon they might run out. She had to leave--now! No time for the bath she so much desired. Quickly she rinsed her mouth with the putrid water and wetted her hair, which she tied back in a tight bun. She could try to tame it if she lived to escape this place.

  Then, a whirlwind, now that she had urgency and purpose to drive her, she dressed in riding clothes and packed her bag, somehow avoiding the pile of her sick on the floor during the many passes between wardrobe and bed.

  In the trunk at the foot of the bed, she found her sword, still in its scabbard and with no apparent damage to it. Another blessing, though she supposed she had the Lady Hope to thank for that. The woman was not without influence.

  She strapped her sword on and buckled her boots, which also still had her boot knife in them. Another miracle. When would her luck run out? Her pack she swung to her back and secured the straps over her shoulders. It seemed heavier than before, which she chalked that up to her current weakness. It didn't matter and in any event there was nothing she could do about that. She was ready.

  Now the only problem was, which way to go? Door or window?

  She strode to the window and opened the drapes. It was dark out, but if she looked hard enough she thought she could see the lights of Merry's ship in harbour. She prayed it was not her imagination tricking her, for to reach the shore, only to be trapped....

  I'd swim until they caught me or I'd drown. She peered down to gauge her chances of scaling the wall below her window. Not good. The drop was too far, the wall too smooth, and she could see nothing promising at the bottom -- just darkness. She doubted the bedsheets would reach far enough to get her to a safe dropping distance.

  The door, then. Tiptoeing, she walked across the room to it and pressed her ear against the wood, listening for the noises of bored guards. She heard nothing but the wood might be very thick.

  She loosened her sword in its scabbard, ready to draw and fight, and very quietly, very slowly, opened the door, checking to the right and left.

  Only one guard, to the left, sound asleep in his chair. Pathetic.

  She had no wish to kill him. That would only alert the palace to her disappearance sooner. She stepped over and gave him a sleeper hold. His head drooped even further and his breathing became deeper and slower.

  She did not envy him the headache he'd have upon waking nor the punishment he would receive for sleeping on the job. Then again, she could feel no sympathy for one loyal to Lord Exsil Vis.

  She took off down
the hall then, hoping she could remember her way out of the palace. After a few wrong turns she got her bearings back, and soon she was creeping through the shadows in the more populated areas of the castle.

  Through some stroke of luck she made it to the stables, where a young groom got another sleeper hold from her. She found her horse easily, it being the shabbiest creature there.

  She pulled the docile mare about halfway out of the stall when she stopped. What am I doin'? She needed to escape, not go for a gentle city ride. She pushed the mare back into its stall and took a horse from a few stalls down.

  This one was a huge, black stallion, who looked as if he normally had a terrible temper. Anala approached him cautiously and held out her hand. He sniffed it, then nickered softly and nuzzled her.

  She'd always had a way with horses.

  She moved to open the stall door and noted the small plaque on it: His Lordship's stallion, Endymion. She snorted. Well, I'd be 'is eldest -- only fittin I should be getting 'is horse.

  Within minutes he was saddled and they were outside in the cool night air. She mounted with a bit of difficultly, legs unused to the movement, but soon she was atop Endymion and they were off through the streets of Clifton, going as fast as stealth allowed.

  Dagon

  Trent was the first to hear the commotion outside.

  The three sailors had booked a room at the inn, as Anala had ordered, and they'd waited, not so patiently, for six days.

  They all worried about their lady, Dagon knew, though the younger ones found it more difficult to hide their frustration.

  Trent had suggested they go to Clifton and join the bellica, for he was sure she was in danger.

  "And disobey 'er orders?" Dagon asked him. "Ye want her ta slap ye again?"

  "No, but I dinnae want her ta die either. A slap shows she'd still be alive, at least," the man had retorted.

  Merrik cut in then, before Dagon could reply, shaking his head. "We could be endangerin' 'er life, Trent, if'n we'd be of a mind ta go. It was 'is Lordship who ordered us ta stay 'ere, not Anala. 'e might kill 'er if'n we think ta disobey," he said, and they all fell silent, for he'd said out loud what none of them wanted to think about. None of them liked feeling helpless to save their bellica.

  Trent kicked the wall in frustration. "I'd be going fer a walk," he said, and left without waiting for permission.

  Merrik moved after him but Dagon held his hand out, stopping the other man. "Dinnae. He'd not endanger 'er."

  The two had gone downstairs to have a drink. Or four.

  They sat by the fire for hours, Trent joining them eventually, nursing pints of ale.

  Late in the evening, close to midnight and the new year (not that anyone on this Goddess-forsaken island seemed to care), Trent sat up straighter in his chair, head cocked to listen to something only he could hear.

  "Ye hear that?" he asked, voice a whisper.

  The other two shook their heads; Dagon cocked his head to listen and saw Merrik do the same.

  Trent listened a moment longer, then his eyes widened. "It'd be Anala!" he said, and then he was leaving, flying out the door before the other two understood the import of his words.

  A second later Dagon and Merrik followed, rushing out after Trent onto the street.

  There, at the corner of the road, where it curved to leave Tellangia and go further up the mountain, there was Anala on a great black stallion, her sword drawn, fighting off a party of guardsmen from the palace. She'd taken down two already, but there were easily ten, fifteen more.

  Trent was running and shouting out battle cries already, cutlass drawn to slash at the tendons of the nearest guard. The man screamed and fell off his horse, and then Dagon lost sight of Trent for all three were in the fray at that point, hacking and slashing, careful not to injure the horses.

  Anala fought with renewed vigour at the sight of her honour guard, but Dagon could see she was unwell. They had to win, and quick.

  They were down to a few men and many scared horses milling about. Dagon mounted one in time to see reinforcements come in -- elites, by the look of them, with those strange weapons on their belts.

  "Merrik, Trent!" he shouted a warning, and Merrik looked up from the guard he'd just dispatched to see the new force. Dagon couldn't see Trent but he hoped the other man had got himself a mount.

  "Feck!" Dagon heard Merrik say, and then he was mounted too, and they stood to face the men coming down the hill towards them. Dagon still couldn't see Trent, but had no time to look for him, as the elite troops were upon them.

  They fought for what seemed an eternity, hacking and slashing at whatever they could reach that was unprotected. Soon they'd taken down another four men, but Dagon knew already they'd lose. He was bleeding from a dozen small wounds and doubted the others fared much better. If only he could get Anala to run -- at least she'd have a chance.

  "Bellica!" he shouted. Her head snapped in his direction briefly before she turned back to the man she was killing.

  "Bellica, ye must go -- leave us!"

  She shook her head as she thrust her sword at another elite. "I'll not leave ye, Dagon -- till death!" With a savage stroke of her sword the man fell to her horse's feet, and she turned then and Dagon saw who he really served.

  "Fer Bellona!" he screamed, and took to battle as his standard the image of his Lady, blood-soaked hair plastering a sweaty, dirty face, teeth bared in a non-human smile, sword held in a strong arm ready to cut down everything in her path. It gave him courage.

  He fought viciously, eyes barely registering the sight of Trent's broken body on the cobblestones of Tellangia, trampled by the horses he'd not avoided. He did not notice the wounds he sustained. All he could see was the image of his Lady, Bellona Incarnate, battle queen, sovereign of death.

  A bang and a flash of smoke got his attention, and he heard a woman scream in pain. He looked to see Bellona-Anala clutch her side and double over, fresh blood leaking around her fingers.

  He followed the line of sight and saw an elite pointing that strange weapon at her, smoke curling from its tip. Before he could move Merrik was there, his cutlass slicing through the man's wrist like it was butter. The man cried out and clutched his arm, but his cries were replaced by gurgles as Merrik's cutlass then sliced through his jugular and his lifeblood spilled out onto the sailor, the horses, and the street.

  Merrik smiled at Dagon, happy to have killed the man who'd wounded their lady. Another BANG!, and Merrik's smile was replaced by a look of surprise. His hand lifted to his chest, where a red flower bloomed across his tunic, a symbol of impending death, and then he fell to the cobblestones, body limp.

  "NO!" Dagon heard his own voice scream, but he knew it was useless.

  He looked to see the nose of one of those weapons that had killed his friend and injured his lady pointed in his direction, and knew it was over. There were two against two now, but Dagon could never beat them with just a cutlass, and Anala had fainted onto her horse.

  He kneed his horse to walk forward, in front of her, so that he might be her shield in his last moments. Then he faced the elites, and waited.

  BANG! BANG!

  ...but the darkness didn't come.

  Dagon opened his eyes to see the two men slide off their horses and to the ground, eyes blank. He frowned in surprise. Did they shoot themselves?

  A clatter of hooves was his answer as their dour-faced escort galloped up, one still-smoking weapon in each hand.

  The man nodded at the stunned Dagon. "More are on their way. We need to get her to the ship -- now," he added, moving to the stallion's side, where he lifted the unconscious Anala into his arms and sat her across the saddle. He gestured with his head to the stallion. "Mount Endymion. He'll be better off with us."

  Dagon found his voice back. "Me friends -- they need a sea burial."

  The man made an exasperated noise. "We don't have much time."

  Dagon was already gathering up Merrik and carrying him to the stallion. "The
n go on without me. I'd be able ta catch ye up." He tied Merrik's lifeless body to the back of the saddle and went to gather up what was left of Trent, keeping the tears that threatened to come back out of sheer stubbornness.

  The dour-faced man still waited for him, holding Endymion's reins. Dagon did not question it but simply mounted and angled the stallion in the right direction.

  A crowd had gathered at the noise, and people were pointing and whispering in shock. Someone had dared to kill elites? And wasn't that His Lordship's man with these strangers?

  They ignored the commoners' confusion, and with a shout the dour-faced man was off, Dagon hot on his heels.

  Mara

  Nightmares woke her with a scream. In her panic she spun in her hammock and fell to the ground, legs tangled up in the ropes.

  She freed herself and stumbled to her feet, crashing into the wall. The sharp pain woke her fully and she remembered where she was. She calmed down, slowing her breathing, and tried to remember her dreams.

  She'd had nightmares for years, and a long time ago she realised that remembering them and writing them down gave her power over them. They sometimes shared information with her -- mostly the truth about how she felt about a certain situation, like that nightmare she'd had about Morgan Meriweather. The dreams didn't solve her problems, but the information they revealed sometimes gave her insight into her reactions and how she might change them.

  Sometimes they were just frightening.

  Regardless, she tried to remember them. It was if she was thumbing her nose at them, saying "Ye're just dreams and I control ye." She had no writing materials here, but she could draw the dreams out of the darkness of forgetfulness and memorise the details. She closed her eyes and concentrated.

  A dark road. A clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Loud bangs and a cry. Anala collapsing, wounded. Flight down the mountain. Being met at shore by...no one.

  Her eyes snapped open and she gasped. Anala was coming. They had to send the boat to shore.