by Morgan Rice
The crowd cheered wildly at the expectation of the blood sport that would follow.
Volusia’s cold black eyes turned and settled on the two men standing before her. She studied them with disinterest, and as she did, she watched the expression of these middle-aged men softening at the sight of her, saw a new hope in their eyes, and something else: lust. Volusia had always had this effect on men. Although she had barely reached her seventeenth year, Volusia had already lived long enough to witness the effect she had—every man and woman she’d ever met acknowledged that she was gorgeous, and she did not need them to tell her; when she glanced into a mirror, which was often, she saw it herself. With her black eyes and raven black hair falling down to her waist, her perfectly chiseled features, her skin white as alabaster, she was not like others of her race.
Volusia was different from them in every way, she, of the human race who had nonetheless managed to ascend to leader of the Empire race of this Empire city, like her mother before her. This city might not be the capital of the Empire, but it was, at least the capital of the Northern Region of the Empire, and if it were not for Romulus, no one would stand in her way. Indeed, Volusia considered herself, not Romulus, to be the undisputed leader of the Empire, and very soon she planned to prove it. There had always been a rivalry between the South and the North, an uneasy alliance, and up until recently, Volusia had been content to allow Romulus to think he held all the power. It was advantageous for her to be thought of as weak.
Of course, she was the farthest thing from it, as anyone in her city knew too well.
As Volusia stared at the two men gaping at her, she shook her head at how stupid they were, looking upon her as a sex object. Clearly, they did not know of her reputation. Volusia had not risen to become Empress of the entire Northern Empire through her good looks; she had risen because of her ruthlessness. She was, indeed, more ruthless than all the men, more ruthless than all the generals, more ruthless than all the great nobles that had served in the House of Lords for centuries—more ruthless, even, than her own mother, whom she had strangled with her own bare hands.
Volusia tracked her ruthlessness back to the day when her mother had sold her to that brothel. Just twelve years old when her mother, who had more riches than she could count, had decided that she was going to sell Volusia off into a life of hell—just for the fun of it—Volusia had been shocked when she had been escorted into a small, stale room and given her first customer. But her customer—a fat, greasy man in his fifties—had been even more shocked when he’d encountered, instead of an accommodating girl, a remorseless killer. Volusia had surprised even herself when she’d made her first kill, surprising him by wrapping a cord around his neck and strangling him with all her might. He had fought relentlessly, but she had not let go.
What had surprised Volusia most was not her courage, or her ruthlessness, or her lack of hesitation—but how much she had enjoyed killing him. She had learned at an early age that she had a talent for killing, and a great joy for it; she just loved inflicting pain on others, a far greater pain than they intended to inflict on her.
Volusia murdered her way out of the brothel, and had kept on murdering, killing her way all the way up into the house of power of Volusia, finally taking her own mother’s life, and taking the throne. She had slept with men too, when it suited her—but she always killed them when she was through with them. She didn’t like to leave a trail of anyone who had come into contact with her; she considered herself a goddess, and above having to interact with anyone.
Now, at only seventeen, Volusia, having consolidated power in her great city, sat on her mother’s throne, having amassed so much power that the entire city cowered before her. Volusia knew that she was special. Other rulers of other Empire provinces wielded brutality for the purposes of power; Volusia, though, thoroughly enjoyed it. She was willing to go farther, to be more extreme, to do more than anyone else who might get in her way. She thought it more than ironic that she was named after her city, as if she were always destined to rule. She thought it was destiny.
“My Empress,” a royal guard announced cautiously, “these two captives brought before you have been caught slandering your name in the streets of Volusia.”
Volusia look them up and down. They were stupid men, peasants, shackled, dressed in rags, looking at her with their lowly grins. One of them stared back at her during the pronouncement, while the other looked nervous and contrite.
“And what have you to say for yourself?” she asked, her voice dark, deep, nearly like the voice of a man.
“My lady, I’ve said no such thing,” said the captive who was trembling. “I was misheard.”
“And you?” she asked, turning to the other.
He stuck up his chin and looked at her defiantly.
“I slandered your name,” he admitted, “and you deserve slandering. You are a young girl still, and yet have built a sadistic reputation. You don’t deserve to sit on the throne.”
He looked her up and down as if she were a mere sex object, and Volusia stood up, sticking out her chest, which was considerable, standing erect with her perfect figure. Her eyes lit up as a he continued to stare at her; these men sickened her. All men sickened her.
Volusia stepped forward slowly toward them, looking them over, and finally approached the one who was leering at her. She got close to him, removed a small metal hook, and in one quick motion, she thrust it upward, beneath his chin, through his mouth, hooking him like a fish.
He shrieked and dropped to his knees as blood burst from his throat. Volusia pulled the hook harder and harder, enjoying his squirming, until finally, he collapsed to the ground, dead.
Volusia turned to the other, who was now positively shaking, and approached him, enjoying her morning immensely.
The captive dropped to his knees, quivering.
“Please, my lady,” he pleaded. “Please, don’t kill me.”
“Do you know why I killed him?” she asked.
“No my lady,” he said, weeping.
“Because he told the truth,” she said derisively. “I granted him a merciful death because he was honest. But you are less than honest. You shall get a less than merciful death.”
“No, my lady! NO!” he shrieked.
“Stand him up,” Volusia ordered her men.
Her guards rushed forward, grabbed the man, lifted him up as he quivered, and stood him before her.
“Back him up,” she commanded.
They did as she commanded, backing him to the edge of the marble terrace. There was no railing, nothing between the edge and the drop down to the arena below, and the man looked over his shoulder, terrified.
Down below stormed the Razif, to the taunting of the crowd, waiting for the contestants to arrive.
“I do not find you worthy to live,” Volusia pronounced. “But I do find you worthy of being my entertainment.”
Volusia took two steps forward, lifted her foot, and shoved him in the chest, knocking him backwards off the balcony with her silver boots.
He shrieked as he tumbled through the air, falling downwards, bouncing off of the sloped walls, then finally tumbling and landing down into the dirt arena.
The crowd cheered wildly, and Volusia stepped forward and looked down, watching as the Razif set its sights on the man. The man, bloody but still alive, stumbled to his feet and tried to run; but the beast’s rage was great as it charged, the crowd’s cheering goading him on, and in moments, it gorged the captive with three horns to the back.
The crowd was ecstatic as the Razif held him up high above his head, victoriously, and paraded his trophy in a broad lap around the arena.
The crowd went crazy, and as Volusia stood there and watched, taking it all in, she thrived on the man’s pain. It brought her a joy she could not describe.
Down below, horns sounded, gates were opened, and dozens of shackled slaves were dumped into the arena. The crowd roared as the Razif tracked each slave down and tore them all to pieces
, one at a time.
A distant horn sounded, from the ports, and Volusia looked to the horizon, already bored by what was going on below her. She watched people get torn to pieces every day, and she was craving a more interesting form of torture. The horn she’d just heard was unique, announcing the arrival of a dignitary, and Volusia looked to the horizon and saw in the distance, out at sea, three Empire ships sailing toward her, bearing the distinct banner of the Romulus’s army.
“It seems the great Romulus has returned,” one of her advisors said, coming to stand beside her, looking out.
“When he left, his fleet filled the horizon,” said another advisor. “Yet he now returns with a mere three ships. Why does he come here, to us? Why not to the South?”
Volusia watched carefully, hands on her hips, and she studied them, taking it all in. She had a great skill to grasp a situation far before any of the others, and she did once again, knowing immediately what was happening here.
“There is only one thing that would drive Romulus to return here, to us, to this part of the Empire, before going on. It is shame,” she said. “He comes here because his fleet has been destroyed. He cannot return to the capital without a fleet—it would be a sign of weakness. He’s come to us to replenish his ships first, before sailing to the heart of the Empire.”
Volusia smiled wide.
“He presumes that my part of the Empire is weaker than his. And that will be his downfall.”
As Volusia watched his ships approach, she knew that soon he would be in her harbor, and she felt her blood rush in excitement. It was the moment of her life she had been waiting for: her enemy was being brought right into her hands. He had no idea. He had underestimated her; they all had.
Volusia couldn’t stop smiling; the fates indeed smiled down on her. She always knew she was meant to be the greatest of them all—and now the fates had proven it true. Soon, she would kill him. Soon, it would all be hers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Darius felt every muscle in his body burning as he swung ten feet off the ground, hanging by his hands from a bamboo pole. Every muscle in his body cried for him to just let go, to hit the ground, to give in to the sweet release—but he would not allow himself to. He was determined to pass the test.
Groaning, Darius looked around and saw dozens of his brothers in arms already collapsed on the mud, having dropped from their poles, unable to take the pain of hanging. He was determined to outlast them. It was one of the rites of their training, to see which boy could last the longest before dropping, one of the ways to gain respect of the others. Only four other boys remained hanging, and he was determined to outwait them; as the youngest and smallest of the lot, he needed to prove his toughness.
Filling Darius’s ears were the cheers of the others, encouraging them to hang or to fall. Another boy beside him slipped, and Darius heard him hit the mud. There came another cheer.
Now there were three of them. Darius’s palms burned as he hung from the bamboo, the branch sagging, his shoulders feeling as if they would come loose from their sockets. Down below he saw the disapproving eyes of his instructors, watching over him, and Darius was intent on proving them wrong. He knew that they expected him to fail—and he knew what he did not have in size and age he could make up for in spirit.
Another boy dropped, there came another cheer, and now there were just Darius and one other boy left hanging. Darius glanced over and saw who it was—Desmond—a boy twice as large and tall as he, one of the most respected of all the boys. They were slaves by day, but they considered themselves warriors by night, and as they trained together at night, they had a hierarchy, a fierce code of honor and respect. If they could not get respect from the Empire, they could get it from themselves, and these boys lived and died for this respect. If they could not fight against the Empire, at least they could train and compete amongst themselves.
As Darius’s limbs ached with an unspeakable pain, he closed his eyes and willed himself to hang on. He wondered how much pain Desmond could endure, how much longer it would take him to drop. This contest meant more to Darius than he could say, and a reflex was prompting him to use his hidden powers.
But Darius shook the thought from his mind, forcing himself not to use magic, not to have any unfair advantage; he wanted to beat the others with force of will alone.
His sweaty palms slipping from the bamboo, one inch at a time, he was beginning to slide. He was seeing stars as his ears were filled with the shouts and cries of the boys below, sounding a hundred miles away. He wanted more than anything to hold on, but as he slipped, soon he was hanging on by just his fingertips.
Darius grunted as he closed his eyes and felt himself about to pass out. He knew in another second he would have to release.
Just before he let go, Darius heard a sudden slip, heard a body fall through the air and land in the mud, and heard a loud cheer. He opened his eyes to see Desmond on the ground, collapsed in exhaustion. The boys cheered, and Darius somehow summoned the strength to hang on for a few more seconds, basking in his victory. He did not just want to win; he wanted a clear and firm victory, wanted the others to see and to know that he was the strongest.
Finally, he let himself go, his shoulders giving on him as he fell through the air and landed in the mud.
Darius rolled to his side, his shoulders on fire, and before he could nurse his exhaustion, he felt a dozen boys jumping on him in congratulations, cheering, yanking him to his feet. Covered in mud, Darius struggled to catch his breath as the crowd parted ways and his commander, Zirk, a true warrior, wide as a tree trunk, with no shirt and rippling muscles, stepped forward.
The crowd quieted as Zirk looked down on him, expressionless.
“Next time you win,” Zirk said, his voice deep, “hold on longer. It is not enough to win: you must crush your opponents.”
Zirk turned and walked away, and Darius watched him go, disappointed he had not received any praise. Then again, he knew that was the way of the instructors. Any attention, any words from them, should be considered approval.
“Choose a partner!” Zirk boomed, facing the others. “It is time for wrestling!”
“But our shoulders have not even recovered yet!” protested one of the boys.
Zirk turned to him.
“That is exactly why we must wrestle now. Do you think your opponent in battle will give you time to recover? You must learn to fight at your weakest, and learn at that moment to fight your best.”
The boys began to break off into positions, and as they did, Desmond came up beside Darius.
“Nice job back there,” Desmond said, extending a hand.
They clasped forearms, and Darius was surprised. It was the first time Desmond had paid him any attention.
“I underestimated you,” Desmond said. “You’re not as weak as you look.” He smiled.
Darius smiled back.
“Is that a compliment?”
They were separated in the chaos, as boys got between them, hurrying every which way to pair up with each other for wrestling. Beside him, the one boy in the group that Darius did not like—Kaz, a bulky boy with a square jaw and narrow, mean eyes—ran over to Luzi, the smallest boy of the group, and grabbed him by the shirt. Luzi had initially paired off with someone close to his size, but Kaz yanked him away and made him face him.
“You will wrestle with me,” Kaz said.
Luzi looked up at him, terrified.
“It won’t be a match,” Luzi said. “You are three times my size.”
Kaz smiled casually back, a cruel look to his face.
“I can wrestle with anyone I choose to,” he said. “Maybe you will learn something. Or maybe, after your beating, you will leave our group.”
Darius felt the heat rise to his cheeks as he felt the indignity of it. Darius could not stand to see injustice anywhere, and he could not allow himself to sit idly by.
Without thinking, Darius suddenly stepped between them, facing Kaz. He looked up at Kaz, ta
ller than him by a head and twice as wide, and he forced himself not to look away, and not to feel fear.
“Why don’t you wrestle with me?” Darius said to him.
Kaz’s expression darkened as he stared back at Darius.
“You can hang from a branch, boy,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean you can fight. Now get out of my way, or I’ll pummel you, too.”
Kaz reached out to shove him away, but Darius did not move; instead, he stood there, resolute, and smiled back.
“Then pummel me,” he said. “You might—but I will fight back. I might lose, but I will not back down.”
Kaz, furious, reached out to grab Darius and throw him out of his way. But as soon as Kaz’s hand reached his shirt, Darius used a trick he’d learned from one of the teachers: he waited until the last moment, then grabbed Kaz’s wrist in a lock and spun it around, twisting his arm behind his back. Darius threw him face down to the mud, sending him sliding across the clearing, then jumped on top of him, beginning the wrestling match.
All the boys in the forest clearing took notice, and they all crowded around them, cheering, as Darius felt himself spinning, being thrown by Kaz’s great bulk as he wheeled around. Darius slid across the mud, and before he could react, Kaz was on top of him. Kaz’s weight and strength were too much for him, and soon Kaz pinned him down.
“You little rat,” Kaz seethed. “You’re going to pay for this.”
Kaz spun around, and Darius felt his arm being yanked behind his back; the pain was excruciating, and it felt as if it were about to be broken off.
Darius felt his face buried in the mud, as Kaz leaned in close behind him, his hot breath on the back of his neck. The pain in his arm was indescribable as Kaz yanked it back even further.
“I can break your arm right now if I choose to,” Kaz hissed in his ear.
“Then do it,” Darius groaned back. “It still won’t change who you are: a coward.”
Kaz pulled his arm back harder, and Darius groaned, feeling that Kaz was about to break it.
