by Morgan Rice
“Is it true?” Conven said, examining his brother, clasping his shoulder, still in shock. “Is it really you?”
Conval nodded back.
“You were not supposed to see me for many years now,” Conval said. “But you chose to enter this land. It is a choice from which I could not deter you. So welcome to my home, my brothers. It’s bit damp and gloomy, I’m afraid.”
Conven broke into laughter, as did the rest of them, and for the first time since entering this place, Thor felt a momentary relief from the tension they had felt every step of the way.
Thor was about to ask Conval more about this place—when suddenly out of another tunnel, there emerged another man.
Thor could hardly believe it. Approaching him was a man who had once meant the world to him. A man he had respected more than any other man. A man he was certain he would never see again.
Standing there was King MacGil.
A wound in his chest where his son’s dagger had stabbed him, he stood there proudly, smiling down on them all through his long beard, a smile Thor remembered fondly.
“My King,” Thor said, bowing his head and taking a knee, as did the others.
King MacGil shook his head and stepped forward, grabbing Thor’s arm and helping him up.
“Rise,” he said, his voice booming, the familiar voice that Thor remembered. “All of you, rise. You can stand now. I am your King no longer. Death equals out us all.”
Reece rushed forward and hugged his father, and the King embraced him back.
“My son,” King MacGil said. “I should have kept you closer. Much closer than Gareth. I underestimated you because of your age. It is a mistake I would never make again if I had the chance.”
King MacGil turned to Thor and clasped his shoulder.
“You’ve made us all proud,” he said to Thor. “You have bestowed valor upon all of us. For you, we live on. We live on now through you.”
Thor embraced the King, as he embraced Thor back.
“And what of my son?” Thor asked him, leaning back. “Is Guwayne with you?”
Thor was afraid to ask the question, afraid for the answer.
MacGil looked down.
“That is not a question for me to answer,” he said. “You must ask the King himself.”
Thor looked back, confused.
“The King?” Thor asked.
MacGil nodded.
“All roads here lead to one place. If you are looking for someone here, nothing passes through here without passing through the hands of the King of the Dead.”
Thor looked back in wonder.
“I’ve come to lead you,” MacGil said. “One former King can introduce another. If he does not like your petition, he will kill you. You can turn around now, and I can help you find a way out. Or you can march forward and meet him. But the risk is great.”
Thor looked at the others, and they all looked back at him in agreement, determination in their eyes.
“We have come all this way,” Thor said, “and there is no turning back. Let us meet this King.”
King MacGil nodded, approval in his eyes.
“I expected no less,” he said.
King MacGil turned and they followed him down a new tunnel, into a deeper and deeper blackness, and Thor braced himself, gripping his sword tight, sensing that this next encounter would determine his life to come.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Volusia rode in her golden carriage, borne by her procession of men, a dozen of her finest officers and advisors accompanying her on this long march to Maltolis, the city of the touched prince. As they neared the gates, the great city unfolding before her, Volusia looked up and wondered. She had heard of the mad city, and of the touched prince, Maltolis, who took his name from the city, like her, ever since she’d been a girl, but she had never laid eyes upon it herself. Of course her mother had warned her, as had all of her advisors, never to venture anywhere near it. They said it was possessed; that all who went, never returned.
The idea excited her. Volusia, fearless, hoping for conflict, looked up at the massive walls, all quarried from black stone, and saw immediately that, as great of a city as Volusia was, Maltolis was ten times greater in scope and size, vast walls soaring to heaven. While Volusia was built on the oceanside, crashing waves and ocean blue visible from everywhere, Maltolis was landlocked, deep in the eastern lands, framed by an arid desert and a field of twisted, black cacti. They were a fitting adornment to herald this place.
They all came to a stop before a stone bridge spanning a moat, twenty yards wide, its deep blue waters glistening, encircling the city. There was only one way in and out of this city, across this arched, black bridge, guarded heavily by dozens of soldiers lining it.
“Set me down,” Volusia ordered. “I want to see it for myself.”
They did as she commanded, and as Volusia’s feet touched the ground, it felt good to stand after all those miles of being carried. She immediately began to march for the bridge, her men rushing to fall in behind her.
Volusia stopped before it, taking in the sight: lining the bridge was a series of pikes, all pierced with the freshly decapitated heads of men, fresh blood dripping down. But what really surprised her was what she saw above it: high above was a golden railing, and from it there dangled the torsos of soldiers, their legs torn off. It was a gruesome sight, and an ominous way to herald the city. It made no sense, as these soldiers all appeared to be the touched prince’s men.
“He us rumored to kill his own men,” Soku stepped forward and whispered into Volusia’s ear, he too gaping up at the sight. “The more loyal they are, the more likely to be killed.”
“Why?” she asked.
Soku shrugged.
“No one knows,” he replied. “Some say for fun; others say boredom. Never try to analyze the ways of a madman.”
“Yet if he is so mad,” she countered, “how does he run such a great city? How does he hang onto it?”
“With an army he inherited, vaster than ours will ever be.”
“It is said they all tried to revolt when he took power,” Koolian said, coming up to her other side. “They thought it would be easy. But he surprised them all. He killed the rebels in the most gruesome ways, starting with their families first. He turned out to be more vicious and unpredictable than the world could have known.”
“I urge you again, my lady,” Soku said. “Let us stay clear of this place. Let us find an army somewhere else. The touched prince will not lend you his armies. You have nothing he wants, nothing you can give him. Why would he entertain it?”
Volusia turned to him, her gaze cold and hard.
“Because I am Volusia,” she said, her voice ringing with authority, with destiny. “I am the Goddess Volusia, born of fire and flame, of wind and water. I will crush nations beneath my feet, and nothing of this world, no army, no prince, shall stop me.”
Volusia turned back to the bridge and led the way, her men hurrying to follow, until she reached the base and was blocked by a dozen soldiers lowering their halberds, blocking her way.
“State your purpose here,” one said, his face obscured behind his helmet.
“You shall address her as Empress,” Aksan said, stepping forward, indignant. “You speak to the great Empress and Goddess of Volusia. Queen of Volusia. Queen of the great city by the sea, and Queen of all provinces of the Empire.”
“We let no one pass without the Prince’s permission,” the soldier replied.
Volusia stepped forward, raised her hand to the tip of the sharp halberd, and slowly lowered it.
“I have an offer for your Prince,” she said softly. “One he cannot refuse. You will let us through because your Prince will kill you if he found you turned us away.”
The soldiers, unsure, lowered their halberds and looked to each other, puzzled. One nodded, and they all slowly stood erect, making way for her to pass.
“We can bring you to our Prince,” the soldier said. “But if he does not l
ike your petition, well…you can see his handiwork,” he said, looking up.
Volusia followed his glance and looked up at all the mutilated bodies adorning the bridge.
“Is it a chance you’re willing to take?” the soldier asked.
“My Empress, let us leave this place,” Soku said urgently in her ear. “Some gates are best left closed.”
Volusia shook her head and took the first step forward. She looked out, beyond the soldiers, at the daunting gates, two huge iron doors, each adorned with a grotesque iron sculpture, upside down, one screaming and the other laughing. Those iron sculptures alone, Volusia thought, would be enough to turn away any person in their right mind.
She looked the soldier right in the eye, resolved.
“Bring me to your ruler,” she commanded.
*
Volusia walked through the soaring gates of the mad city, taking it all in in wonder. A drop hit her shoulder, and thinking it was rain, she looked down at her golden sleeve, and was puzzled to see it stained scarlet. She looked up and saw a series of ropes crossing the city walls, from which were hanging a collection of limbs—a leg here, an arm there—all hanging like wind chimes, dripping blood. They swayed in the wind, the weathered rope creaking.
Some ropes hung lower and some higher, and as Volusia and her men passed through the gates, she had to brush up against them, swinging against her.
Volusia admired the Prince’s barbarism. And yet, she wondered at the extent of his madness. His cruelty did not scare her—but the haphazardness of it did. She loved being vicious and cruel herself, yet she always did it within a rational context. But this…she just could not understand his way of thinking.
They passed through the gates and entered a vast city courtyard, the ground made of cobblestone, the city boxed in by the towering city walls. Hundreds of troops filled the square, their armor clanging, their spurs echoing, as they marched about. Otherwise, the city was oddly silent in the morning air.
As they slowly crossed the square, Volusia felt as if she were being watched; she looked up, and all along the city walls she saw people, citizens, their faces etched with panic and concern, leaning out of small windows and staring down, wide-eyed. Many wore grotesque expressions, some of them smacking their own heads, others swaying, others rocking and banging their heads into the walls. Some moaned, others laughed, and others, still, wept.
As she watched, Volusia saw one young woman lean so far out a window, she fell flying forward, face-first, shrieking. She landed on the stone with a splat, greeting her death fifty feet below.
“The first thing the touched Prince did when he inherited his daddy’s throne,” Koolian whispered to Volusia, walking beside her, “was to open the gates to all the asylums. He let all the madcaps have free rein in the city. It is said it pleases the Prince to see them on his morning stroll, and to hear their cries late into the night.”
Volusia heard the strange moaning and crying and screaming and laughing, echoing off the walls, bouncing off of the square, and she had to admit that even she, undaunted by anything, found it unsettling. She was beginning to sense a feeling of dread. When dealing with a madman, all bets were off. She did not know what to expect in this place, and she had an increasing sense of foreboding that it would not be good. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, she would be in over her head.
Still, Volusia urged herself to be strong. She was a goddess, after all, and a goddess could not be harmed.
Volusia could feel the tension thick in the air as they were marched across the square, and finally, to a soaring golden door. Knockers as big as she were yanked slowly by a dozen soldiers, the immense doors creaking. A cold draft came out and hit her from the blackness.
Volusia was led into the castle, and as she entered this dim place, lit only by sporadic torches, she heard laughter and heckling bouncing off the walls. As her eyes adjusted, she saw dozens of madcaps, dressed in rags, pacing along the floor, some following them, others shouting at them, and one crawling alongside them. It was like entering an asylum. The soldiers kept them at a safe distance, yet still, their presence was unnerving.
She and her entourage followed them all down an endless corridor, and finally into a massive entry hall.
There, before them, Volusia was shocked to see, was the touched Prince. He did not sit on his throne, like a normal ruler, or come out to greet them; indeed, his throne, Volusia was surprised to see, was turned upside down—and the Prince, instead of sitting, stood on it, arms out wide at his sides. Barefoot, he wore nothing but shorts and the crown on his head, mostly naked despite the cold day. He also was covered in filth.
As they entered and he spotted them, he suddenly jumped down.
They all approached, Volusia feeling her heart pounding in anticipation; but instead of coming out to greet them, the Prince instead turned and ran to one of the walls. He ran alongside the ancient stone wall, adorned with the most beautiful stained glass, holding out his palms and running them alongside it. As Volusia watched the precious limestone walls turn red, she realized the Prince’s hands were covered in paint. Red paint. He ran back and forth along the walls and smeared this paint along the precious stone, along the stained glass, ruining them; he smeared banners and heralds and trophies, all, no doubt, of his ancestors. And no one dared stop him.
The Prince laughed and laughed as he did so.
Volusia glanced at her men, who all looked back with equal apprehension.
It all might have been amusing, had not the chamber been filled with hundreds of deadly soldiers, all standing at attention, perfectly lined up along the center of the hall, surrounding the throne, all clearly awaiting the Prince’s command.
Volusia and her men were led down the hall, right up to the Prince’s throne, and she stood there, waiting, facing the empty throne turned upside down, watching the Prince run about the room.
Volusia stood there for she did not know how long, growing impatient, until finally the Prince broke free of what he was doing, ran across the room, the jewels on his crown jiggling as he went, raced to his upside-down throne, and jumped on the back of it. He slid down it like a little boy, landed on his feet, laughed and clapped hysterically, and then ran back up and did it again and again.
Finally, on the fifth slide, he landed on his feet and ran toward Volusia and her group at full speed. He stopped abruptly a foot before her, and all of Volusia’s men flinched.
But not Volusia. She stood there, resolute, staring back at him, calm, expressionless, as she watched a rainbow of emotions pass over his face. She watched him go from happy to furious to neutral, to happy again, to confused, all in the span of a few seconds, as he examined her. He did not really make eye contact, but rather had a distant gaze to his eyes.
As Volusia summed him up, she realized that he was not unattractive, an eighteen-year-old man, well-built, with fine features. The madness on his face, though, made him seem older than he was. And of course, he needed a bath.
“Have you come to help me paint?” he asked her.
She stared back, expressionless, debating how to reply.
“I have come for an audience,” she said.
“To help me paint,” he said again. “I paint alone. You understand?”
“I’ve come…” Volusia took a deep breath, measuring her words carefully. “I’ve come to ask for troops. Romulus is dead. The great Empire leader is no more. You rule the eastern lands, and I, the shores of the east. With your men, I can defeat the capital, before they invade both our lands.”
“Both?” the Prince asked. “Why? It is you they are after. I am safe here. I have always been safe here. My parents were safe here. My fish are safe here.”
Volusia was surprised by how astute he was; yet he also was mad, and she could not tell how much of him to take seriously. It was a confusing experience.
“Troops are but troops,” he added. “They fill the skies. You want to use them. They may use you. I myself don’t care for them. I have no
need for them.”
Volusia’s eyes widened with hope, as she struggled to understand his erratic speech.
“We may use your men then?” Volusia asked, amazed.
The Prince threw back his head and laughed hysterically.
“Of course you may not,” he said. “Well, maybe. But the problem is, I have a rule. Whenever someone makes a request to me, I must kill them first. Then, sometimes, after they are dead, I grant it.”
He stared at her, sneered viciously, then just as quickly smiled, showing his teeth.
“I cannot be killed,” Volusia replied, her voice cold as steel, trying to project authority although she was feeling increasingly off guard. “It is the great Volusia you address, the greatest Goddess of the east. I have tens of thousands of men who will die at my whims, and it is my destiny to rule the Empire. You can either loan me your men and rule it with me, or you—”
Before she could finish, the Prince held up a palm. He stood there looking up, as if listening—and the silence was shattered by the distant tolling of bells.
Suddenly, he turned and sprinted from the chamber.
“My babies are waking!” he said, as he ran from the hall. “Time to feed them!”
He clapped hysterically as he disappeared from the hall.
Volusia and her men were directed to follow, as all his soldiers fell in line, beginning to march after him. Volusia wondered where on earth he could be leading them.
Volusia found herself led back outside the castle, through soaring gates, and to another arched bridge, leading over the moat at the rear of the castle. They all hurried after the Prince as he stood there alone in the center of the bridge, nearly naked despite the cold, and reached out and held onto a long pole, struggling.
Volusia looked out over the bridge and saw that at the end of the long pole was a rope hanging down; at first she thought he was fishing, but then she looked closely and saw that at the end of it there was a man, with a noose around his neck, dangling in the waters of the moat. Volusia watched in horror as the Prince grasped the pole with both hands, holding on furiously with all his might, his muscles straining.
