With a fond, exasperated sigh, Bellamy leaned down and kissed her on the lips, then led them both out. Jone blinked, sighed, and made to follow.
“Jone,” a hand caught her arm, and Jone barely kept from slapping it aside out of reflex, recognizing the Mayor at the last moment. She hadn’t even noticed him in the room, what with all the commotion.
“I wanted to say something,” he motioned her lower, and lowered his voice accordingly. “I wanted to thank you again, and wish you well. I don’t dare speak ill of your two friends, but… watch out for yourself, alright?”
“Second time that’s happened,” the voice noted.
Jone nodded. “Thank you, sir. Fare ye well until we should meet again.” The Mayor tipped a nonexistent hat to her, nodding in return.
The last stop before departure was the smithy; Jone fancied her chances against a group of armed men a lot more with some good, hard steel between her flesh and their bullets or blades. She frowned an apology to the chained efreeti, as she would normally have patroned a purely steam-powered, industrial smithy instead, but her choices and time were limited.
She picked up the articulated breastplate she’d spotted the day before, had it quickly resized, and added some gambeson padding and thin under-chain, as well as some sturdy gauntlets and greaves; no one fought well with broken shins, wrists, or fingers. She replaced her claymore with a more traditional, polished, keen-edged greatsword. She didn’t like the idea of wielding something that had once been used for slavery, preferring to leave the battered weapon for someone less picky. Besides, she needed something better balanced to her small stature for maximum effectiveness.
“We should catch a ride out of town on one of those,” Esmeralda commented, checking her map and pointing toward a trio of steam powered wagons rumbling along the dusty morning road; the makings of a merchant’s caravan.
Jone nodded. “They’re apt to not mind our company, what with banditry about.”
The dark-skinned woman, visibly armed to the teeth like before, shrugged. “I wasn’t going to ask, but that works too.”
Jone glanced at her, but Samantha tapped them both on their shoulders. “Trouble,” the noblewoman said quietly.
Commander Carlyle stood, alone, leaning against the signpost that marked the boundary of the town proper, arms crossed and obviously waiting for them.
Esmeralda loosened her sword in its sheath. “Figures we couldn’t head out without some harassment.”
Lady Bellamy shrugged. “Perhaps she just wants to talk.” She adjusted her glasses with one hand, surreptitiously checking a pistol concealed in one flowing sleeve with the other.
Indeed, the officer halted them with a raised hand as they started to leave, beckoning them over to the side of the road. Jone could feel the beginnings of tension in her two companions, and hoped it was only a sign of caution, not impending violence.
“The Mayor probably already told you,” the redheaded officer began, “that you’re free to go, seeing as my investigation turned up nothing.” She eyed them both. “As a matter of duty, I wanted to reiterate that personally.”
The Lady Bellamy stepped forward. “Of course, madam. Is that all?”
The Elizabethian shook her head. “I also wanted to thank the three of you.”
Jone thought Esmeralda’s jaw was going to fall off. “Say what?” the woman responded.
The officer raised an eyebrow. “Despite what you and your kind may think, miss Thresh, my work here is not to simply preserve the letter of Her Majesty’s law. My first and foremost duty is to protect those under my charge, no matter the means or the cost. That was the oath I swore, and the oath I uphold.” She glanced between them both. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I must say my thanks regardless.” She dropped her eyes to Jone. “Especially to you.”
Esmeralda cocked a hip, seeming almost uncomfortable. “That all?”
Scarlett Carlyle nodded. “Indeed. Now get out of my town.”
The three of them turned and walked away, Esmeralda quietly singing some catchy tune Jone didn’t recognize. Jone hadn’t noticed how pretty her voice was until now.
“That was interesting,” Bellamy offered once they were a distance away.
Esmeralda nodded. “Time to go.”
From behind, well up the hill, Commander Carlyle called after them. “And fare you well, Jonelise Doramee.”
Jone missed a step, and the weight of her backpack almost sent her crashing to the ground, had both women not grabbed her arms just in time. “How does she know my name?” Jone hissed, glancing back at the diminishing figure of the officer.
“Time to go,” Esmeralda reiterated.
5
Bounty
“Nicolas Joseph de Crequy, the former marquis of Crequy, and a brilliant tactician in his own right,” Lady Bellamy commented, peering over the ridge, her sharp, steel-grey eyes buried in her custom binoculars. “Much like his father,” she mused.
“And now, just one more bandit. Shall we go collect his reward?” Esmeralda replied, carelessly picking her teeth with a boot knife. “Or rather, his head?”
“Of course, my dear…After we form a fucking plan.” The Lady replied, shimmying back down from the rise. Jone nodded her agreement.
Travelling with the two women had been…entertaining, to say the least. Esmeralda was crass and irreverent, and seemed to take far too much amusement in making Jone blush, but she was also sharp-witted, funny, and didn’t back down from saying what she thought. Lady Bellamy was cool, calm, and highly intelligent, but she wasn’t as distant as her ladylike manner would suggest. She also had a keen sense of humor and, to Jone’s surprise, treated her like an equal.
Jone found that she liked both of them quite a bit more than she had expected to. She thought that she might like them even more, if only the two of them were...quieter at night.
With a last glance and last assessment of the brigand camp, Jone squirmed away from the ridge as well and rejoined the ladies at the mobile campsite they’d shared for the last few days. Esmeralda crouched low, cooking something small she’d run down during the day. With food coming in regularly from such exploits, Jone had been happy to share her own stores, and lighten the load that had helped hammer her body back into shape over the course of the hunt.
They didn’t have to worry about firelight or smoke giving away their position; the Lady Bellamy worked on many minor mechanical and alchemical projects as a hobby, such as the grenades decorating Esmeralda’s bandolier, or the heat stone they were using for cooking. Even the pistols Jone knew were concealed up either of her sleeves and the binoculars from earlier bore signs of her handiwork. Their single, collapsable tent was covered in a waterproof, abysally black material that reflected little light, leaving their position concealed while they slept.
Well, it concealed the other two women while they slept. Jone had been invited to share the tent, but the women’s late-night “activities” were too much for her to ignore in close proximity, so she slept outside instead. That was fine. The stars in the clear, open sky called to her anyway, even if it was the Dark Hours.
“So what do you think?” Jone asked as she rejoined them. The smell of roasting salamander made her stomach rumble, and Esmeralda chuckled.
“Careful of that thing, or it’ll give away our position,” the woman’s dark, emerald green eyes twinkled with amusement in the starlight as she glanced at Jone’s midriff. Jone stuck her tongue out at her, and she chuckled again.
Bellamy finished making marks in the dirt, an outline of the enemy camp. “I think that—”
“We should rush in, throw explosives into their tents, then cut them down as they stagger out?” Esmeralda supplied eagerly. She held up her supposedly “magical” sword, a short, fat, obsidian glass cinquedea with a broken tip.
Jone made a face.
Samantha shook her head. “No, not really. I don’t fancy five to one odds against military grade hardware, and a foe that expects to be attacked
at any time. The Mayor certainly handed us a task in bringing this one down.”
“Do you think it’s too much?” Jone thought they could handle it, with careful planning; a well-executed ambush could turn any fight. Not that any fight was ever a sure thing. But either way, she figured it was best to defer to the more experienced Bellamy.
The Lady Bellamy looked back up, a cold twinkle in her own sharp, steel eyes. “On the contrary; I’m looking forward to it.” The excitement concealed in her low, melodic voice sent a shiver of anticipation down Jone’s spine.
“Wouldn’t be fun if it wasn’t hard,” Esmeralda commented, then shook her head. “No, nevermind, easy fights are fun too. Just a different kind of fun.”
Jone wasn’t sure she wanted to know what her new friend meant.
Thinking of friends reminded Jone of how much she missed Adrienne. She might have only known the cheerful, bubbly girl for a couple of days, but that was a significant chunk of time for someone who measured a life’s worth of clear memory in less than a fortnight.
“To fight our enemy, we need to understand our enemy,” Bellamy was saying. Jone refocused her attention. “These men are no simple bandits; by and large, most were once soldiers. They kept their armaments, but likely, they also have kept their training. The way they maintain their camp suggests it.”
Jone nodded. “I agree. It looks like a military encampment, just a small one. Perhaps like what a scout company would maintain in enemy territory.”
Lady Bellamy smiled at her. “Exactly right.” She tapped a long-nailed finger to her red lips. “Which in turn, tells us how they think.”
“That they’re still soldiers, fighting a war, and expecting an enemy to come crashing down on them?” It made sense to Jone.
“Fools,” Esmeralda said softly, turning the fat salamander and stirring a small pot of root broth. “War’s over.”
Bellamy looked her over. “Then we are all fools, I suppose,” she said, just as softly. “The Marquis de Crequey’s troops were part of the final resistance against The Drake’s airships as they concluded his ‘victory tour’ of the mainland, forcing all of the city-states and local governments to bend knee and deliver tribute to Elizabeth. But the resistance was a foolish, token gesture, fated to fail and break. Nothing could stand against the full might of her armada.”
Crequey. The more Jone heard the name, the more it sounded familiar. But another name caught her attention even more. “Drake?” She queried the raven-haired Lady.
Bellamy tilted her head, studying Jone with clouded, unreadable grey eyes. “Surely you know. The Queen’s Hand, Bane of Pirates, Her Majesty’s Enforcer, leader of her Grand Armada, Conqueror of the Seven Winds, the Old Dragon himself.” Their eyes met as she spoke the final words. “Sir Francis Samuel Drake.”
Jone’s world abruptly came free of its moorings. Images flashed against the back of her eyelids, warm with anger, wreathed in flame, too quick to process. She fought the dizziness that came with the quasi-memories, but she wavered on her haunches and almost pitched forward onto the heat stone.
Esmeralda caught her arm, her strong hands supporting Jone until she could support herself. “You okay?” The dark-skinned woman’s exotic face hovered close, her breath warm and mingling with Jone’s own. “Don't go getting sick on the eve of battle, now. I wouldn’t want you to miss out.” She helped settle Jone back to a sitting position, then glanced toward Bellamy. “Wait. If she craps out, do we split her share?”
Samantha rolled her eyes. “Shhhh.” She looked toward Jone with a soft smile. “Are you alright, Jone?”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing.” It wasn’t until the words fell from her lips that she winced inside; she’d just lied to two women who had more or less helped take her in and had asked nothing in return. She’d have to find some way to make it up to them...without telling them that she was some sort of week-old, unliving abomination.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” The voice curled up in a corner of her head, lingering nearby but mostly quiet. That suited Jone just fine.
“I’m sorry,” Jone continued, clearing her head by force of will. “You were saying you had a plan?”
The Lady Bellamy nodded. “I do indeed.” Her smiled deepened. “One thing that all soldiers fear, regardless of creed, is being set upon by a better positioned, better armed, superior force. And this force fears that even more than most.”
“Well, yeah.” Esmeralda raised an eyebrow, tugging at one of the vibrant ribbons in her hair. “But we don’t have any of that stuff.”
Jone shook her head, catching on. “True, but they don’t know that.”
The Lady Bellamy smiled a slow, vicious smile.
- - -
Jone rode the last of the scouts to the ground, clinging fast to his back, her strong arms and all of her weight cutting off the flow of blood through his throat until he passed out. She’d kill when she had to, but right now it wasn’t necessary.
Counting down in her head, she sprinted toward the enemy camp. Weight wasn’t an issue with her backpack left behind.
Ever since the Gods had fallen—or been overthrown, or died, depending on your preferred view of history—their power had rested in the hands of mortal men and women. Belief, faith, loyalty, the embodiment of a cause—those things made leaders more than mortal. It made them sorcerers, magicians whose power depended on their will and the loyalty of their underlings; there was no difference between command and magic, one simply was the other.
But more than that, it made them dangerous. An experienced leader could be as much of a threat as the rest of their forces combined.
That’s what made Jone’s job essential, and proved to her just how much her new companions trusted in her ability: her task was to strike free the head, before it could bear its fangs and consume them.
Her target tonight was Nicolas de Crequy himself.
At a thousand count, Bellamy’s enhanced voice rung out over her collapsable speaking horn, a shout magnified tenfold. Her call wasn’t terribly easy to understand, except for the important part, the one that mentioned “assault” and “artillery.” The part they wanted the enemy to understand.
Shock and awe.
Tents exploded, bursting into flame; they’d found a use for Esmeralda’s part of the plan, even if it did deplete much of the girls’ explosive supplies. Cries of pain indicated it wasn’t just the tents themselves that suffered, and shouts filled the night.
Jone’s instincts went on edge as she heard the distinctive whistle of incoming, airborne explosives. Their plan wasn’t pure smoke and mirrors; there actually was one piece of artillery, a small, automated mortar turret apparently designed by Bellamy herself. It wasn’t nearly enough to rout a fighting force by itself, but half-awake, panicked, surprised soldiers would handily magnify the threat it posed. Esmeralda’s explosions only helped cement the reality they were trying to impose.
The first gunshots split the air; if all was as planned, that was Bellamy personally entering the fray. Each of them had their own job, and their own part of the camp to suppress.
Jone shot through the night, sprinting directly into one of the largest enemy tents. Three foes looked up, caught by surprise, still prepping for battle. With Samantha and Esmeralda engaged elsewhere, these three were all hers.
So Jone closed her eyes.
She also dropped one of the small, fragile, black-glass spheres Bellamy had given her. Sudden, phosphorescent light blasted the air, outlining the veins in her eyelids and leaving notes of bright, glowing light dancing in the air.
The three men staggered, none of them quick enough to both recognize the weapon and react appropriately. Jone slammed the pommel of her new greatsword into the temple of one man as she drew it, planting her heels and twisting at the waist to add to its momentum. He dropped like a rock, asleep once more, and Jone swept her blade around and into the legs of the next one in line. The two-handed blow broke his femur through the chainmail he was still tugging into place
, and he dropped to hands and knees in a whining, crippled heap.
The last raised a hand crossbow and fired several bolts blindly in her direction, but Jone was already in motion. She rolled across the back of the kneeling soldier with the broken leg, greatsword held tight to her chest and down along the core of her body. The crossbow shots went high above her, with only one tinking off of her breastplate from the odd angle. The crippled soldier collapsed to the dirt underneath her, and she rolled across the floor of the tent, coming to a stop close to the feet of the last soldier standing.
Jone thrust upward, and her blade slipped under the curve of his breastplate to find soft abdominal flesh, but the man only growled and pulled his mace from its belt loop, not realizing how much better of a chance he’d have if he simply stayed still.
But a threat was a threat, so Jone twisted and kicked him hard in the shin with her steel-toed boots, wrenched her blade to the side, and threw coarse, grainy dirt into his eyes. And when he finally fell, overwhelmed and bleeding, she rose and took a pillow off of one of the nearby beds and pressed it to his abdomen with a foot. Hopefully, his training to apply pressure to such wounds would kick in and save his life.
In the fading, flickering motes of light, she examined the faces of the men she’d downed.
None of them were the Marquis.
Jone cursed quietly and made to rush from the tent, but ran headlong into a fourth soldier. Both of them staggered back, but Jone was the quicker to recover, being that she was sturdier and had a lower center of gravity. He wore a simple steel breastplate, with greaves and plate armguards, so she tucked her boot firmly into his groin; she only had one more light bomb, and one grenade, so those tools had to be conserved.
The soldier yelped loudly and reflexively reached to protect his sensitive areas, so Jone spun and sidestepped away from his weapon hand, bringing the edge of her greatsword across the unprotected backs of his thighs and cutting deep. He fell with a second howl, and Jone knew he wouldn’t be up and fighting again anytime soon.
Call of Arcadia Page 7