Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #3 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!

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* * *

What had seemed like an unending wave of death had turned out to be the main assault of the Tenebrian group responsible for attempting to overthrow House Venator. With the leaders slain by Lucida, the Guardian, and their loyal followers, the rest of the sinister rebellion was crushed.

Traitors to the nation were brought into the dungeon by the dozens, and in the end, Acer found himself on his knees before his Queen, his sword put at her feet.

“I cannot even ask for forgiveness,” he said, still bloodied from fighting alongside her. “My father… I should have known about his treachery. I should have realized he would try something so foul. I led an army inside your walls, and you trusted me,” he murmured. “It worked, because my father knew what I fool I am, to want to please him so terribly,” he said darkly. “I put myself at your mercy, expecting nothing but retribution for my house’s disloyalty.”

Lucida sat on the dais, in her throne, while Jet stood beside her, avoiding the throne Immanis had used.

Gemma, Secta, loyal guards, Coryphaeus, other soldiers, other courtiers — those who supported House Venator, from the lowliest of servants to the highest officers within the city state — looked on, watching with expectant eyes.

Immanis had not been known for mercy.

Would Lucida be?

She stood, after Acer’s speech, and bent down to pick up his sword. She weighed it in her hand, swung it, and then flipped it to return it, handle-first, to the only surviving son of Lord Tenebrae.

“We stood shoulder to shoulder,” Lucida said quietly. “I have no doubt of your loyalty to me — and I have no hope of reclaiming your people, our people, in the sister-state if I bleed them of their honorable leaders. Your father has designs on my throne. Your elder brother clearly thought he was much more capable of running this nation. But I believe you will work with me, not for yourself. Am I mistaken?”

“My Queen,” Acer whispered, sitting up, back on his heels. “I will die before I betray you.”

“Take your sword, Plaga. Remain at the right hand of my Guardian. You are favored,” she promised, and the smile she wore, painted in blood, was proud and perfect.

Gemma looked almost smug, to watch her, while Secta kept his eyes mostly on Jet, who had been supplied with another mask, and wore it, hiding his expression from everyone.

One by one, the ruling houses of Ilona’s nations stepped before Lucida and bowed, knelt, paid tribute, confessed their loyalties, promised their sons and daughters, their blood, their sweat, their coin.

When it was over, Lucida went to rise, to adjourn, wanting nothing more than a bath and oblivion; she would even sleep alone, if Gemma were busy, and she knew she wouldn’t mind it in the slightest. Except —

“My Queen?” One last voice called to her, from the steps of the dais.

When she turned, she saw Coryphaeus’s face, looking up to her. He took stiff, aching steps, and as he knelt, his wounds broke open. His skin was ash — he had bled over the last forty-eight hours, not slept but blacked out, eaten nothing, had nothing to drink, but fought and killed and struggled.

He, like Jet, was still fresh from the Hunting Ground.

To look on his face was to see her brother’s as he knelt over him. Immanis might have killed Coryphaeus, seemed to be about to, when the Westlander attacked and drove them both over the edge.

“Speak,” she said to Coryphaeus, showing no love.

“I am Legatus–”

“I know very well who you are, Aecus,” Lucida said, deliberately not using his title. “What are you still doing here? This was a gathering for loyal followers.”

Pained, Coryphaeus nodded, saying, “If you question my loyalty to Ilona, look back at the telecast for the hunt. I knelt to him. I knelt to your Guardian. I kneel to you. If you believe me disloyal, if you wish my death in payment for his Majesty’s, it would be a poor trade, but I would die a thousand times over if it would return him to you. I have one life only, however — but it is yours. Spend it now, if you like, or keep it, and I will fight for you. For Ilona. I will gather armies and I will fight back against those who murder our citizens. I will wear the dust of Ilona’s soil and be washed in its rains and I will feel the pulse of its people in my veins. I am… I am not a good follower. I am full of doubt, and I am full of faults and failings. But one of them is not disloyalty.”

Lucida was silent, taking it all in; she narrowed her eyes and glanced to Jet, saying, “You were with him. Chased him. Hunted him. You knew my brother’s thoughts on his betrayal.”

Jet nodded, looking at Coryphaeus, his compassion hidden by the mask on his face. Quietly, he said to Lucida, “As our brother loved me, for choosing to serve, so can I see the love in Legatus Aecus. This is a man of principle. This is a man who does as he believes he must, even if and when it seems wrong to others. He will do what he fears. He will do what is asked, if he can. I will get no false loyalty from him.”

“He tried to keep something that was not his,” Lucida said lowly, dangerously.

“It was not money. It was not lands. It was a slave that Immanis had discarded after play,” Jet returned, putting a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “And when he had realized his error, he would have paid with his life. Immanis promised if he survived the hunt, he would be freed. He did survive, but he came back. To me. Remained with me so that I would not be alone when I woke. He offered me his life then, and he offers it now. It would be a great waste to throw away such loyalty.”

“I agree,” Lucida said, after a moment. “Indulgent as I have been, I am not prone to waste. I must recognize truth, even as I grieve for my Immanis.” She looked to the kneeling man and said, “You are spared, Aecus. And reinstated as an officer, Legatus. Sugite. Stand at the right hand of my Guardian, for you are a man of honor, and you will hold such a place in my household.”

“My Queen,” Coryphaeus whispered, his eyes wide. “I…”

Lucida’s response was as proud as she was, but the hint of a smile on her lips made Jet smile as well, in spite of himself. “Legatus,” she said gesturing for him to rise, and come to stand near her. “A Queen does not repeat herself.”

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This is Issue #2 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!

Happy Reading!

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* * *

“I shall never forget it,” Acer said, swallowing roughly, wiping sweat and blood from his eyes. He pulled back from the door, watching it shake as the men on the other side battered against it. He turned and looked back at Secta and Gemma, who tended to one another in the back corner, Secta pouring Gemma a small glass of aetheris, Gemma binding Secta’s wound. “But now what?” Acer wondered, looking to her.

“Now? Lucida said, setting aside her knife and moving to braid and wind up her hair to get it out of her face, tucking curls behind her ears and knotting them low against her neck. She tied the flowing scarves of her top down tight against her breasts and pulled her skirts up between her legs to tie them off like breeches. She selected a blade off the wall and tested its weight and balance in her hand.

“Now we take my Palace back,” she said, shrugging. “There are weapons aplenty, here. We simply catch our breath, open the doors back up, and kill them as they attempt to enter. I will rout the traitors of my kingdom, even if it is one slit throat at a time,” Lucida explained.

Eyes wide, Acer said, “There are too many, my lady, even for a woman as talented as you.”

“I do not remember asking you about my capabilities. Are you doubting your own? You may speak to those,” Lucida snapped. “Gemma. You are well-trained. If your head has stopped spinning, get a blade. Secta, honor your master, and pick up a sword. We will fight like the Ilonans we are.”

“Forgive me,” Acer said, his skin flushed, darkening. “I am not used to a woman as powerful as you, I–”

“Get used to it,” Lucida said, lifting her chin. “Stay used to it, Plaga. I am Lucida Venator, Sister to Immanis, Wife to the Guardian, Daughter of A Thousand Suns. And now I am Queen Venator as my mother before me, and I will see my enemies bloodied and burned before I see them touch one shred of my beautiful nation.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Acer said, impressed, smiling with determination, with love for his ruler.

Gemma knocked back the glass of aetheris she’d been given, and moved to tie up her top and skirts as well, gritting her teeth.

Secta strapped knives to her wrists, and put a sword at her hip, then selected his own sets of blades. Though he was meant as a page, a groom, a young man built for service, for honoring requests, he too had been trained — his life was only his to give in service of the Guardian. Gemma helped him fasten the sheaths to his wrists and calves. They kissed one another’s cheeks when they were done, and formed a wall by the door.

“Open it,” Lucida commanded Acer.

“We should let them exhaust themselves against it,” Gemma said.

“Then we will not be able to close it if we, ourselves are exhausted again,” Lucida said, dark eyes flashing. “Open. It.”

Acer nodded and lifted the bar. He danced aside from the opening, and all four of them bared blade and teeth as traitors stepped over the threshold, attacking all at once.

“Vivat Ilona! Vivat Venator!” Lucida cried, and the other three echoed her.

Though the treacherous enemy had slain many palace guards, others were still fighting. They heard Lucida’s cry and their strength was renewed. They pressed against the onslaught of traitorous soldiers — men that Acer was ashamed to have known, ashamed to have led.

He wondered if the army his father bestowed upon him was disloyal, to a man.

And then he didn’t have time to wonder, because he was fighting for his life alongside the others.

The rallying cry continued; Lucida danced into the fray, quickly dispatching soldiers, her sword carving into flesh without hesitation, screaming, “VIVAT ILONA!”

Secta, Gemma, Acer, and her Palace soldiers cried back, “VIVAT VENATOR!”

In the pitched battle, it was hard to keep track of who was who — knives and swords would go through ally as easily as enemy — but at one point, it seemed as though the shadowy uniform of the Tenebrian soldiers simply filled the hall outside the war room.

Until Lucida’s call rang out once more. “Vivat Ilona!”

Breathless, her three companions were about to cry out in solidarity, when a roar of defiance came bellowing in return.

“Lucy!”

Upon hearing the sound, Lucida cut through the soldiers with renewed strength. She laughed as she danced through the clang and clash of sword, ducked under swinging maces, leapt out of reach of thrown knives —

— and met, face to face, with her bloodied, battered, beautiful — “Black Stone,” she said, laughing.

In the midst of the fight, after pulling his sword from the face of a fallen attacker, Jet knelt at her feet, bowing his head.

Coryphaeus darted past them, shifting to continue his fights; he was every bit the warrior, assisting the remaining palace guards in protecting Lucida, letting Jet and Lucy have a moment to speak.

She paused, as well, heedless of the death surrounding them, and laid her hand on Jet’s shoulder, then reached to slide it through his hair.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

“No,” Lucida murmured.

He looked up at her, his eyes shining, wet — abject misery there. “Lucy,” he said, pleading. “Forgive me. Please.”

“No,” she whispered, and there was nothing but love on her face.

He closed his eyes, resigned, agony painting him more completely than any house patterns might have tried.

“I cannot forgive you,” Lucida said softly. “For you have done no wrong. You have died for Ilona, and you will die for her again. You have died for Immanis. You will die for me. Over and over. You will die for every Ilonan, Jet, my Guardian, my caro, my love.” She stroked his cheek, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “We will grieve our Immanis when this is done. And we will avenge him. But for now, we fight the enemy within, and for that fight, my precious black stone, you must be strong. Surgite, Jet. It is time.”

Jet nodded, rising, golden eyes burning as he turned back toward the oncoming Tenebrians.

Lucida lifted her sword high and called, “Vivat Ilona!”

The returning cry resounded with the addition of the Guardian’s roar.

“VIVAT VENATOR!”

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This is Issue #1 of DeathWatch, Book II, tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!

Welcome back, and Happy Reading!

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* * *

The knife of black glass sang through the morning sky, a ringing note of judgment.

Coryphaeus kept himself still, his chin lifted to allow the Guardian’s blade to slit his throat cleanly. He drew a long, slow breath, and exhaled, the thought of Jules’ red curls resting behind his eyes. He felt a sigh of air as the blade cut through it — but there was neither pain, nor oblivion.

He opened his eyes, looked up into the golden gaze of the Guardian, and saw an immeasurable amount of grief there — the sharpness of it cut into him deeper than any blade ever could.

“Surgite,” the Guardian whispered, his eyes drifting away from the spared man, looking back in the direction of the palace. “Come, Legatus. There is much to do, for our ruined lands. I fear my failure to save the Prince will have left a void that only the unworthy will be trying to fill.”

“You did not fail t–” Coryphaeus began.

“Immanis Venator, blood of my blood, brother of my heart, my own Prince, my own…” The Guardian’s voice broke as he searched for the word. His eyes were nearly wild as he turned back to Coryphaeus, the gold of them wide, wet, shining with tears. “…love,” he finished, grinding the words through his teeth, tasting the bitterness of them, “is dead. I failed him, Aecus.”

Jet could not comprehend the heartsick misery within him. While it threatened to darken everything he saw; it also mixed with a giddy rising of hope and awe that Kieron was alive. That he had survived. That he had escaped the murderous hunt that Jet himself had orchestrated for his Prince. The joy of it surfaced at odd moments and then was swallowed, drowned in the knowing that he had been so close, but was now gone again.

Likely forever.

Having lost half his heart to Kieron — having given the rest to Immanis, Jet could think of nothing left to do, and so he looked to Coryphaeus and said, with all gravity, “I have failed my heart. I have failed my city. If I must, I will pay for it with every remaining moment of my eternal life.”

* * *

“That handles the matter of the rioting, and gives the soldiers and guards a way to keep the populace calm,” Gemma said, frowning in thought, looking through piles of paperwork and screens of data as she sat with Secta, in the War Room. “Next, we will want to send messages to the other provinces; the princess cannot be seen as–”

“As what?” rang the throaty, languid voice from the door.

Gemma looked stunned, while Secta got up from the table to bow lowly. “Your majesty,” he murmured, casting his eyes to her toes, waiting for her to acknowledge or dismiss him as she chose.

Lucida Venator crossed from the doorway to Secta, and placed a hand on his shoulder, then slid it to his neck, his cheek, guiding him to rise. She met his eyes, and hers were bright with determination as she said, “Do I look broken, Secta? Do you think I look weak, or incapable?”

“No, majesty,” Secta said truthfully, keeping his eyes on hers, not daring to look at Gemma, who had gone pale. “If I have in any way caused off–”

Lucida placed one finger over Secta’s lips, hushing him, and leaned in to kiss his forehead. He blushed hotly, watching her in silence.

She turned and looked over her shoulder at Gemma, saying simply, “If you think I am weak, my darling, you should have stayed with me. I do not like waking alone.”

“Lucibella,” Gemma said, looking apologetic. “Please forgive me,” she whispered, rising from her chair to kneel before the princess. “I know you have never been weak. I only wish to protect you and your rule, you know this.”

“Of course I do. You are forgiven. I merely do not like it when choices are made for me — you know this,” Lucida said quietly. She went to sit herself at the table, and Secta immediately left the room to get her tea and something to eat, while Gemma looked loving, but worried, nevertheless, and more than a little uneasy.

“Meabella–” Gemma began.

“Where is my caro, Gemma?” Lucida wondered.

Flushed, looking pained, Gemma said, “He was — he was defeated, Lucy. He was killed.”

“No,” Lucida said, shaking her head. “No, my Black Stone was not killed. He cannot be killed. He cannot,” she said, clutching a fist over her heart. “You know he cannot. He will return.”

“We saw–” Gemma began, but again was interrupted, this time by a commotion in the hall.

Lucida rose from her place at the table, saying, “What is this?”

It was then that the doors to the War Room were opened by Secta who staggered in, bloodied and clutching one arm, not panicked, but pained. “Take shelter,” he hissed to Gemma. “Acer is fighti–”

Gemma tried to back away from the doors, one hand reaching for her temple, her whole body struggling against a sudden tide of seizures.

Lucida could tell from the way her eyes glassed over how Gemma was assaulted by visions of death — the princess wondered briefly if they would be their own.

Shouts of defiance could be heard; weapons clashed and clanged down the hall past Secta, past the half open door. Secta turned to shut it, but was driven into the room by men with swords.

Acer Plaga managed to shove and stab his way past the clutch of guards, past traitors who snarled, “Vivat Tenebrae!”

Acer turned and roared, “I AM TENEBRAE!” There was fury etched all over his face.

“Down with the usurper! Down with the sympathizer! Down with the weakling! Plaga’s eldest rules us even in death!” came the return.

Raging, red-faced, murderous, Acer beat back many of the men, felled them with his sword, but the tide of them was too strong, and they began to force their way into the room. He grew bloodied with the assault, staggered under the weight of the traitors.

Seeing this, Lucida commanded Secta to care for Gemma. She took a knife from within her robes, and went to stand beside Acer, putting her shoulder to his, baring her teeth as she cried, “VIVAT VENATOR! VIVAT ILONA!”

His shock at her ferocity, her willingness to fight was briefly replaced by worry that he would have to protect her, which was in turn replaced with the sudden realization that she was one hundred times moreover than he the faster fighter. The better fighter. Even with only a knife, she dispatched traitor after traitor, bloodying herself without care–in theirs; she took not one wound–until she had gotten to the door and was screaming for him to shut and bar it.

Acer did as he was bid, panting, leaning against the door once it was secured. He looked to Lucida, his eyes wide. “You… You are more than merely a princess,” he said, swallowing roughly.

Proud, unashamed, Lucida nodded to Acer, saying, “I always have been.”

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