Survivors of Arcadia

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  “Of course I do. Just like you left me before.” Her estranged daughter took a step forward and chinked tallglasses with Bellamy, favoring her with a thin, cruel smirk. Like the edge of a dagger. “Cheers. Goodbye, mother. And try not to steal anything on your way out.”

  The younger Bellamy’s eyes were as unyielding as steel. At the edges of the Grand Ballroom, guards in black and silver gathered. The pair of near-identical Royal Guards stared her down, hands lingering near weapon hilts.

  There was nothing left for her here.

  She turned and walked away, burying it all deep inside. Again.

  “Shouldn’t we follow her? Capture her?” Bellamy’s magic-enhanced hearing caught the Royal Guardsman’s quiet words, even as she departed.

  “And leave me less protected in this den of well-dressed brigands?” Lady Grey huffed. “How dare you. Besides, as I said, she’s not really a threat anymore. She just pretends to be.”

  The Lady Bellamy strode back out through the massive stained crystal doors just like she’d entered, her head held high, her emotions uncertain, and her plans in shambles.

  Then she disappeared into the night before anyone could change their minds and try to stop her.

  - - -

  The Boar’s Underbelly was a far cry from the Duke’s Grand Ballroom, and just as seedy and dingy an establishment as its name made it sound. If not more so.

  But at least it had better drinks.

  Bellamy took another long draught of the local rum, assuaging her ill feelings with one more wash of sweetness, spice, and warmth. She packed quickly. For once, most of her current possessions would fit into a small shoulder bag, since she hadn’t dared bring any of her important implements or books. Not for the first time, she missed Esmeralda—not because the woman would help her plan or pack, but because the incorrigible pirate would take her mind off her troubles far more surely than the alcohol could.

  And because, somewhere deep within both their cold, secret hearts, they loved each other.

  Bellamy shook off the frigid grasp of loneliness; it didn’t suit her. Much like guilt. Then she tossed her sturdy satchel over one shoulder, adjusted her flowing skirts, armored corset, and tall boots with slightly rum-numbed fingers, then climbed out the window.

  A couple of strangers took note as she slid down the drainage piping into the reeking alleyway—bottle still in hand—but no one actually cared. This was the part of town where everyone minded their own business, save where they could sell someone else’s business to the highest bidder. Which, of course, was why she hadn't left in a proper manner; there was no sense in making it easier on the greasy tavernkeep to betray her to the Elizabethian Inquisitors who would all too soon come knocking.

  That, and she’d found his manners toward her person more than lacking. So she didn’t mind stiffing him her proper rent—or robbing his hidden safe on her way up to her room.

  Still, the minor thefts did little to boost her mood, much like her current surroundings. In all directions towered stone-and-wood structures dedicated to overcrowding and ambient poverty, the same accumulation of crime, decay, and ill fortune that one could find in any large city, perhaps especially one so massive as the capital of Gallia.

  She didn’t really mind. She wouldn’t be here much longer.

  Bellamy’s magic-sharpened hearing caught the muffled clink of heavy metal armor behind her.

  A dark-clad, dark-robed figure stepped into the alley to bar her way, with another hulking shadow at his back.

  She took another long draft of rum and staggered a little, leaning against the closest wall for support.

  “Micah,” Lady Bellamy favored the broad-shouldered Inquisitor with a nod and a smile. “Nice to see you again. How’s cousin Liz?”

  His only response was to narrow dark eyes with enmity.

  “But really dear, is this all you brought?” Bellamy pushed off the wall and swayed a little on her feet. “Honestly, you lot should turn around while you still can and—-” She paused. “You know, nevermind. After the day I’ve had, I’m not feeling particularly charitable.” She adjusted her rimless glasses, tightened her ankle-length raven ponytail. “So instead I think I’ll murder the three of you and leave your bodies in this alley.”

  “Take her.” The Inquisitor threw back his hood. “And don’t spare your shots.”

  Beside him, his bulky companion shouldered back a heavy, sound-muffling coat, revealing layered tritanium armor and a featureless metal-and-jade faceplate.

  Queen’s Elite. Blunderbuss, explosives, shortsword. Overwhelming force.

  “Sir, we’re supposed to take her alive,” the faceless knight protested. “Queen’s orders.”

  Behind her, metal clinked and shifted again, and she glanced idly over her shoulder at the shadows. Another Elite. Weighted chain, heavy cutlass. Cripple and capture.

  “Forget Her Majesty’s orders,” Micah responded, the hard lines of his face set in stone. “Unless you want to die.”

  After a slim moment of hesitation, the knight started forward. The business end of his blunderbuss shot up sharply, aimed at her eyes.

  Bellamy smiled and took a final, long drink.

  Then she tossed the heavy bottle of cheap rum casually at his face.

  A reflexive shot shattered the thin glass, showering the alley with lead and rum soaked shards. An arc of thick, dark rum sprayed out toward her attackers.

  Drawn from within, one spark of her magic ignited it and transformed the rum into a blazing veil that clung to clothes and armor, burned skin and clouded gemstone visors.

  The next whisper of magic burned away the alcohol in her bloodstream, a shock of pain that left her sharp and aware.

  Bellamy ducked the expected lash of chain and let it whistle over her back as the knight behind her struck without warning. She dropped gracefully low before throwing her weight to the side in an aerial cartwheel, defying any attempt to track her with the blunderbuss. As soon as her heels touched the earth, she leaped to the wall instead, a frigid sigil of the Old Magic blossoming beneath her fingertips and anchoring her to the stone.

  The knight’s blunderbuss bellowed with lethal intent. Her rapier was already in the way, the sweep of its elegant blade trailing simmering runes as the blunderbuss’ pellets were drawn close to the blade instead of finding a home in her flesh. With a flick of her wrist, a quartet of poisoned crossbow bolts joined the dense spiral of lead in orbiting her blade, leaving the Inquisitor cursing and reloading.

  The weighted end of a chain lashed out. Bellamy dropped off the wall, ducking aside as it smashed the stone—and stuck fast, anchored by hoarfrost that rapidly danced down the links, seizing his thick gauntlets in their icy grasp. She tucked into a tight roll through alleyway trash and came up within reach of the other knight as his blunderbuss auto-reloaded with a decisive click and hiss of steam. Keeping his body between her and the Inquisitor, she guided the wide-bore barrel skyward as it discharged lead into the clouds with an echoing boom.

  Then she slapped that same hand to his chest, to the bandolier of compact grenades, and evoked lightning.

  Electricity arced through the normally stable explosives, focused and directed by her will. As the knight looked down in horror and the small spheres began to tremble, Bellamy invoked her magic instead, spun him around, and kicked him toward the wall.

  Her rapier spun in her fingers as she closed the Old Magic conduit on the wall, yanking the other Elite face-first into the stones beside his ally.

  The alleyway shook as two dozen grenades detonated simultaneously.

  The roar of the explosion drowned out any screams as the first knight expired, torso and tritanium chestplate shredded to tatters. Behind him, his battered fellow hung, bleeding through busted armor, one arm still frozen fast to scorched stonework.

  There was no time to admire her success. A hand clasped down on Bellamy’s shoulder and held her still for an instant as pain blazed through her back. She gasped and managed to twist away,
but not before Micah the Inquisitor stabbed her once, then twice in the back.

  Exquisite pain blossomed from her ruptured kidney. Her breath wheezed from the fluid filtering into a nicked lung. With difficulty, she leveled her rapier at her final opponent to keep him at bay, the bolts, shot, and shrapnel still orbiting the blade in a dense flurry of stone and metal.

  “Now that,” the Lady Bellamy panted, “is more like it!” Grinning through gritted teeth, she reached back and yanked a stiletto from between her ribs. Her free hand came back coated in blood. Invoked magic set the worst of her wounds to slowly mending as another whisper of arcane secrets burned away the poison already coursing through her arteries.

  With difficulty, she straightened. Shoved aside the pain, acted like it didn’t exist.

  To her side, the trapped, injured Elite grabbed her bicep with his working arm.

  She reversed the grip on her rapier and stabbed it into his visor. The tip stuck fast, but didn’t penetrate the jade. His gauntleted grasp tightened, threatening to break her arm. Micah raised his weapons and a pair of poisoned crossbow bolts hit her in the heart, barely caught up in her corset’s armor.

  With a shrug, Bellamy released the spell wrapped around her rapier’s blade.

  The projectiles suspended within suddenly reversed their captured momentum, exploded outward, and blew the knight’s head apart.

  The Inquisitor stared at her bloodied runeblade, then cautiously folded his pair of hand crossbows away, drawing another pair of thick daggers instead.

  “Now that we’re alone,” Bellamy smirked, “shall we?”

  Micah closed with her in an instant, blades seeking her throat and abdomen. She stepped away with a twirl of ruffled skirt, deflecting a thrown dagger with her rapier. She brushed aside a thrust for her face, ducked a slash, caught an elbow in the ribs that redoubled the pain already there.

  And smiled.

  The rum hadn’t done it, but this certainly would.

  She felt the chaos, the thrill of battle sink into her bones, steadying her nerves and smothering her worries as she dueled the Inquisitor. The world and the past faded away as she parried, spun, slashed and thrust, trading blows and losing herself in a rhythm far more primal than the beat of any orchestra.

  The Lady Bellamy danced.

  Micah’s eyes scrutinized her every movement, searching for weaknesses as they clashed and traded blows, moving faster and faster.

  Bellamy smiled, for he would find none.

  A dagger whipped past her head; she didn’t flinch. Metal grated on metal as she turned a thrust aside; her riposte nearly cost the Inquisitor his hand, but his wounds healed almost instantly. Lightning quick, he drew another blade and lunged; she spun gracefully, another step in the dance, and let it scrape off her corset’s midsection. He flicked a dagger at her face and followed it up with a sharp shard of evoked ice, but a hasty sigil stopped both cold, then sent them spinning back into his face.

  Again and again, the Inquisitor lashed out, with blades and blows and magic. But it didn’t matter. Try as he might, Bellamy was never there to receive his strikes.

  Still smirking, pulse thudding with the intoxicating rush of the fight, Bellamy watched his frustration and worry mount. It was visible in the tension along his jaw, in the tightening wrinkles around his eyes. As the Inquisitor’s control slipped, she countered his strikes with the ease of mastery, with the ease of unmatched years of experience, cutting her dominance into his flesh.

  But those cuts healed all too quickly before they could even hinder. His strength and speed only mounted as the seconds slipped past while hers was ultimately limited. After Arcadia’s fall, her followers were limited. But like any Inquisitor, he had much of Her Eternal Majesty’s power to rely upon if he had to…

  ...and it was only a matter of moments until he’d realize that was the only way he was going to survive.

  With a sudden battle cry, Micah rushed her. Her runeblade slid through his torso, a whisper away from his heart as he impaled himself, but he slammed her into the cracked stonework with bone-cracking force. Stars danced for an instant behind her eyelids. Impossibly strong, the Inquisitor pinned her sword arm, snarling victoriously in her face as she grasped futility at his neck, trying to push him away.

  “Surrender, or die,” he stated flatly, unmovable. “Both are fine with me.”

  “Or,” the Lady Bellamy smiled graciously. Viciously. “Third option.”

  A four-barreled derringer sprang from her sleeve to her hand and she pulled the trigger.

  The top of Micah’s head disappeared in a burst of blood and steam.

  Their dance spun to a close in a final flare of sound, motion, and light.

  Bellamy took a deep breath as the world crept back in. She resisted the fingers of pain and ache as time caught back up to her. She stared down at Micah’s body and frowned.

  No coming back from that.

  The two crossbow bolts came free of her corset with a little effort, and she tossed them aside. With a shrug, she reloaded her pistol, wiped away blood, and robbed the Inquisitor’s corpse. She cleaned her rapier on his cloak, noting the distant crowd of onlookers gathered in the narrow street.

  Then she disappeared.

  Several alleys later, Bellamy stopped and went still as the shadows moved.

  “Walsi,” the Lady nodded to the Duke’s spymaster as the woman—a petite girl with big eyes—emerged from the darkness.

  “The Duke is pleased to see you haven’t lost your touch,” the small woman smiled up at the taller Bellamy with fond familiarity. “As am I. You worried me a little, back in the Ballroom.”

  “You know me,” Bellamy lied. “Always in control.”

  “Indeed.” Walsi slipped a folded piece of yellowed parchment into Bellamy’s fingers, her touch lingering on her skin. “Matthias sends his regards, and his aid.”

  Bellamy smiled. “And here I wondered if he’d abandoned me.”

  The spymaster shrugged. “He has to do what’s best for Gallia. And for himself, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “But after your daughter’s show of brute force back there…” Walsi sighed, and Bellamy could see the worry embedded deep in her large eyes. “Well, let’s just say...it’s a dose of proof that you were right. We can’t take anything for granted where the Eternal Queen is concerned. Without anything to keep her in check, what will she and her Drake do?”

  “Anything they want,” the Lady answered with a grim smile, and they both nodded.

  “I just hope you’re right,” the small woman looked away. “About your Jonelise, about our chances of success. I don’t fancy seeing the interior of an Inquisition torture room. Again, anyway.”

  “Don’t worry,” Bellamy threw an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sure you wouldn’t make it that far.” Poor Walsi. But by the time she and Matthias know the truth—that Jonelise is dead—they’ll be far too deeply committed. And unfortunately, I can’t do this alone.

  A chuckle, a short exchange, and a hug later, they went separate ways. Walsi back to her double life, and Lady Bellamy back to escaping the city.

  But first, she had one final stop to make.

  - - -

  The Lady Bellamy silently pried open the windows to her daughter’s room, but not silently enough. Inside, the Lady Grey rolled off the bed and to her feet, rune-etched arming blade already in hand.

  “You,” she said, her fine-featured face wrinkling in disgust once more.

  “Just wanted to let you know I’m alive,” Bellamy replied, hiding her feelings behind a mask of stone. “And that, whatever you think...things aren’t over between us. Not by a long shot.”

  “How novel,” the younger Bellamy stared her down, unyielding. “For once, we agree on something.” From somewhere in her flowing nightgown, she produced a dual-barreled steamlock and leveled it at her mother. “Now get out of my room.”

  Two quick, booming thuds and a Highlander bodyguard in full armor shouldere
d his way into the room, ruby-gemmed ram-cannon in hand.

  Bellamy saluted him, smirked, and dropped out of the window.

  An Old Magic sigil absorbed her fall, and she sprinted away from the palace as the alarm began to sound. She disappeared into the maze of streets, resolving to put the past behind her—for now—as she found the night market and blended in with the ebb and flow of commerce.

  The Lady Bellamy hummed as she strolled casually toward the gates. After all, she always came out on top.

  No matter what.

  Even if sometimes, I lose some people along the way.

  My friend, I won’t let your sacrifice be in vain.

  I swear it.

  And I never fail.

  Just wait and see—I’m only getting started.

  3

  Vindictive

  Esmeralda ducked instinctively as shots rang out in the crowded cavern.

  A glowing crystal shard chandelier took too much damage and crashed down. Pirates scrambled out from under it as it fell, to the roaring laughter of their fellows.

  Thresh took another drink of watered-down honey rum and tried to relax again; the disruption was just part of a normal night down in the depths of Tortuga.

  Another drink followed it down, then another. Then another bottle. She tried not to think of the past, to keep her mind from lingering on doubts and fears.

  On love, and loss.

  The future beckoned like always, still pregnant with possibility. But for once she couldn’t stay focused on it. She still had plans and goals, ambitions and designs, but how much did any of it truly matter?

  Jone was gone; lost, hurt, or captured. Bellamy, her typical comfort, was off rubbing elbows with fancy, useless assholes. There was no telling if she was still okay either though Esmeralda knew better than to truly worry about the woman; Black Sam always turned up again on top. Even that bouncy, bubbly barmaid was gone, having gone into hiding with the tattered remnants of the Arcadian nobility.

  She was lonely, and Esmeralda Thresh never did well lonely.