Age Recommendation: 16+
Continuing from where Lilacs & Violets left off.
Still recovering from being stabbed in the heart, a soldier turned gladiator is caught up in the destruction of a nation.
Cities burn, people bleed.
The smell of ash and blood filled her nostrils as she gasped for air, trying desperately to keep control of the failing flesh sack that she called a body. Her heart hadn't had a chance at all to recover from First Fleet stabbing it.
The ground shook as another explosion shook the city. Asphodel was doomed, and so were they if they didn't get out of here soon. She looked up just in time to see the great citadel of the palace falling towards the ground.
"Fuck me." Reticulata swore, staring, "It's really done. Someone has taken Asphodel."
Cristata shook her head, and looked out to the burning streets and the bloodied bodies lying in it. They only had a short time to get out of here. The attacker wasn't trying to conquer the capital of Asphodel. They were here to completely wipe it off the map.
She pushed herself upright with a wince, and shuffled into the street again. Reticulata walked beside her, flicking her half-blind gaze around them urgently. So far they had only encountered a handful of warriors, but neither of them had recognised the uniforms.
"Halt, Narcissian!"
The two of them paused, and Cristata ground her teeth in frustration as she heard a dozen drawstrings pull back. A soldier on a roof beside them held his hand in the air, ready to give the order to loose. "Surrender."
Reticulata looked at her and raised an eyebrow.
Cristata shrugged.
The soldier dropped his arm and the air became alive with weapons designed to injure and kill. The arrows tore across the space between them, the small metallic heads cutting scratches across her skin as she danced.
She stopped for breath as the barrage ended, and fell to her knees, clutching at her heart as it threatened to give out. Forget all the other injuries she had received. Being buried alive hadn't done this to her.
Reticulata stepped forward, "Boy, I don't know who you are, or who you're with, but... Walk. Away."
"Fire!"
Cristata felt the same awe she had when they were children and Reticulata had proved she was the better warrior. The arrows moved towards them, and her blades moved through them. Not a single fragment struck the armour of the woman standing over her, glaring out of her half-blinded gaze.
The soldier hesitated, and the woman planted her feet, "I am Reticulata the Tenth, of Narcissus. Stand and fall, or run and live."
"Charge!" The soldier switched tactics, causing his men to drop their bows and draw their swords, leaping from the rooftop towards them like a river of rage, crashing against the rocks.
Cristata staggered upright, a small curved bone of knife appearing in her unsteady hand. She didn't have her balance yet, and the strikes she blocked knocked her backwards, threatening to bowl her over.
Yet, with each blow she turned the momentum against her attacker, spinning out of the way, only to drive the knife into someone's back, separating their spine before drawing it free.
Even in her condition none of these were her equal. She danced with death, as everyone always did in battle, but she felt more alive than she had since waking up from First Fleet's attack.
Meliorchis was dead now, killed by Reticulata. He had been their friend once, and a warrior of skill. His arrogance and hatred had lead him down the wrong path, and by the time he had died, Cristata hated everything about him. He had become nothing but a traitor.
Her blade slit the wrists and throats of her enemies as they moved in to attack her. Her feet pinned theirs, so that the blade could push between helmet and breastplate, and into their throats. It took longer than it should have, but these children were not a match for her.
Cristata collapsed, her entire body going limp and ignoring her commands. A soldier stepped over her, pointing his sword downwards as he thrust it to end her. The blade was barely deflected to the side with a kick as Reticulata came in as a whirlwind.
The woman was sweating, droplets flying from her shoulder-length brilliant red hair. Her green eye shone with a hatred and determination that made those that fell under it hesitate. She didn't bother with the same attacks as Cristata.
Her knuckles broke as she punched steel plate, denting it inwards into the chest of the wearer. Her hands crushed the helmet on the head of the soldiers, causing them to scream and wail, before falling to the ground. Her hand broke necks as she reached around and yanked them by the chin.
Reticulata paused, leaning on her knees as the last one collapsed to the ground, "Please... Don't be... Dead..."
They had shared something, once. So much so that Cristata had become her Last Consort. It wasn't quite the equivalent to marriage, but it was as close as two Narcissian women could get.
Then, Reticulata had betrayed her. Her death faked on the orders of the king, whilst Cristata suffered. She had been defeated in battle and sold into slavery. She had been a tortured slave, raped over and over, whilst Reticulata was in the same city. And did nothing.
She couldn't bring herself to hate her. So, the warrior stayed. Reticulata promised to protect her, and to honour the vow that they had once sworn, even if Cristata never intended to ever do the same.
The warrior hoisted her over a shoulder, "Sorry, but we've run out of time. Those bastards are better than Asphodellians. I can't afford to fight a fucking army for you."
She couldn't complain. As far as she could tell, she wasn't even breathing. Her hearing was little more than a loud buzz, growing in cadence. Her vision was fading, a bright light stretching over it and obscuring her world into mist.
In short, she was dying.
© Copyright 2024, James Milne