by Morgan Rice
Thor broke into action. He charged forward, raised his sword high with both hands, and brought it down on the beast’s foot. With all his might he plunged down, piercing through the skin, through its armor, and down into the bedrock, pinning it to the ground.
The beast shrieked. Thorgrin, exposed, knew he would pay the price, and he did. The beast swung around with its other hand and smacked Thor in the ribs. Thor felt as if all his ribs were cracking as he went flying through the air and crashed into the rock wall on the far side of the cave.
The monster tried to charge after him, but it was still pinned to the ground; it reached down, grabbed Thorgrin’s sword, and yanked it from the bedrock and out of its foot.
The beast turned and charged Thor; Thor rolled around, eyes blurry from the collision, and looked up, bracing himself for the attack. He couldn’t react in time.
The others broke into action. Matus rushed forward with his flail, swung it wide, and smashed the beast in the thigh.
The beast, enraged, turned, and as it did, Reece attacked it from the other side, stabbing it and making it drop to its knees. O’Connor landed another arrow, and Indra let off several shots with her sling, her stone hitting the beast’s eyes, while Elden rushed forward with his ax and brought it down on the beast’s shoulder. Conven leapt forward, landing on top of the beast’s head, raised his sword high, and brought it down on its skull.
The beast shrieked, beleaguered by all these assaults. It roared, and in one quick motion it rose to its full breadth and height, throwing back its arms and sending Conven flying. It swiped and kicked the others, sending them, too, flying in every direction, smashing into bedrock.
As Thor’s vision cleared, he lay there, looking up at it, and realized the beast was impervious. Nothing they did would ever kill it. Fighting it would mean sure death.
Thor realized he had to take charge and make a quick decision if he were to save everyone’s life.
“To the tunnel!” Thor commanded.
They all followed his lead, and they looked and saw what he was talking about—the tunnel was their only hope. They sprang into action, grabbing their weapons, racing as the beast charged after them, following Thor as he raced to the tunnel.
Thor stopped before its entrance.
“Go!” he commanded, wanting the others to escape first.
Thor stood there, holding out his sword, blocking the beast’s way so that the others could enter. One at a time, Indra, Elden, O’Connor, and Reece entered, jumping down feet first and disappearing into the blackness.
Matus stopped beside Thor.
“I will hold him off for you,” Matus said. “You go!”
“No!” Thor said.
But Matus would not listen. The beast charged the tunnel, aiming right for Thor, and Matus stepped forward and slashed down, cutting off two of the beast’s long claws as they reached for Thor. Thor slashed down at the same moment, ducking and slicing off the beast’s other hand.
The beast shrieked, and Thor and Matus stood there and watched in horror as the hand and claws immediately regenerated themselves. Thor knew that defeating it would be a lost cause.
Thorgrin knew this was their only chance.
“GO!” Thor yelled.
Matus turned and dove into it, and Thor followed, diving in head first, preparing to slide down.
But as soon as he began to slide, Thor suddenly stopped. He felt the beast’s claws digging into the back of his leg, puncturing his skin, and he cried out in pain. It was beginning to yank him backwards.
Thor turned and saw the creature yanking him back quickly, right toward its gaping mouth. He knew that in moments he would die an awful death.
Thor mustered his final reserve of strength, and he managed to turn just enough to reach around and slash backwards, chopping off the beast’s wrist.
Thor shrieked as he suddenly began to plummet, headfirst, down the tunnel. He tumbled end over end, hurling faster and faster, down into whatever lay beyond.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Volusia sat on her golden throne on the periphery of the arena, surrounded by dozens of counselors and advisors, and looked down, watching with jubilation as an enraged Razif with a flaming red hide charged, lowered its horns, and gouged a slave through the back. The crowd cheered, stomping its feet, as the Razif hoisted the slave high overhead triumphantly, parading its victory, blood dripping down its horns. The Razif spun and spun, then finally threw the corpses, which flew through the air, hitting the ground and tumbling in the dirt.
Volusia felt a familiar thrill; few things pleased her more than watching men die slowly, painfully. She leaned forward, gripping the sides of her chair, admiring the beast, admiring its thirst for bloodshed. She wanted more.
“More slaves!” she commanded.
A horn sounded, and down below, more iron cells opened. A dozen more slaves were shoved out into the arena, the iron gates slamming behind them, locking them in.
The crowd roared, and the slaves, wide-eyed in panic, turned and ran in every direction, trying to get away from the enraged beast.
The Razif, though, was on a warpath, and it was quick for its size. It chased each slave down mercilessly, gorging them through the back, stomping their heads, mauling with its claws, and occasionally, sinking its long teeth into them. Enraged, it didn’t stop until every slave was dead.
The crowd went wild, cheering again and again.
Volusia was delighted.
“More!” she called out. The gates opened, to the roar of her people, as yet more slaves tumbled out.
“My lady?” came a voice.
Volusia turned to see Soku, the commander of her army, standing beside her, lowering his head in deference, a concerned look on his face. She was annoyed, distracted from the show. He knew better than to interrupt her while enjoying her afternoon show, and she knew it must be important. No one spoke to her without permission, upon pain of death.
She glowered at him, and he bowed lower.
“My Empress, forgive me,” he added, “but it is a matter of utmost urgency.”
She looked at him, his bald head bowed low before her, debating whether to kill him or listen. Finally, out of curiosity, she decided to hear him.
“Speak,” she commanded.
“One of our men has been killed by a slave. A taskmaster, in a small village north of here. It seems a slave has risen up in an act of defiance. I await your command.”
“And why do you bother me with this?” she asked. “There are a thousand slave villages surrounding Volusia. Do what we always do. Find the offender; torture him slowly. And bring me his head as a birthday gift.”
“Yes, my empress,” he said and, bowing low, retreated.
Volusia turned back to the arena, and she took particular satisfaction as she saw a slave charge forward, stupid enough to try to wrestle the Razif. She watched as the Razif leapt up to meet it, goring its stomach, lifting it high over its head, and slamming it down with all its might. The crowd went wild.
“My empress,” came another voice.
Volusia turned, furious at being interrupted again, and this time saw a contingent of Finians, led by their leader, Sardus, all wearing the scarlet cloaks and all with the fiery red hair and alabaster faces of their kind. They were part human, and part something else, no one quite knew what. Their skin was too pale, their eyes a pale shade of pink, and they kept their hands hidden in their cloaks, as if always hiding something. Their bright red hair was distinctive within the capital, and they were the only members of the human race allowed to live freely and not be enslaved; they even held their own seat of power in the capital. It was a deal brokered centuries ago, and held up by Volusia’s mother and her mother before her. The Finians were too rich, too treacherous, to cross. They were masters of power and of secrets, traders of all manner of goods and ships that could hamper the city at their whim. They traded in secrets and treachery, and had always managed to gain leverage on the rulers of Volusia. They were a
race with which she could not rule without. They were too crafty for their own good, and not to be trusted.
The sight of them made her queasy. Volusia would wipe out the entire Finian race if she could.
“And why should I give my time to a human?” Volusia demanded, impatient.
Sardus smiled, a grotesque smiled, filled with cunning.
“My empress, if I do not forget, you are human, too.”
Volusia blushed.
“I am ruler of the Empire race,” she replied.
“But human nonetheless. Human in a city where it is a crime to be human.”
“That is the paradox of Volusia,” she replied. “It has always had a human leader. My mother was human, and her mother before her. But that does not make me human. I am the chosen one, the human crossed with a god. I am a goddess now—call me otherwise, and you shall be killed.”
Sardus bowed low.
“Forgive me, my empress.”
She examined him with loathing.
“And tell me Sardus,” she said, “why should I not throw you to the Razif now, and have your entire race eliminated once and for all?”
“Because then half the power you cherish so deeply would disappear,” he said. “If the Finians are absent, then Volusia will crumble. You know that—and your mother knew that.”
She looked at him cold and hard.
“My mother knew many things that were wrong.” She sighed. “Why do you bother me on this day?”
Sardus smiled in his creepy way as he stepped forward, out of earshot of the others, and spoke in a whisper, waiting for the next roar of the arena to die down.
“You have killed the great Romulus,” he said. “The supreme leader of the Empire. Do you think that comes without consequence?”
She looked to him, her face setting in anger.
“I am supreme leader of the empire now,” she replied, “and I create my own consequences.”
He half-bowed.
“It may be so,” he replied, “yet nonetheless, our spies have told us, and we have many, that the southern capital as we speak prepares an army to march our army. An army more vast than anything we have seen. We hear Romulus’s million men stationed in the Ring are also being recalled. They will all march on us. And they will arrive before the rainy season.”
“No army can take Volusia,” she replied.
“The Volusian capital has never been marched upon,” he replied. “Not in such force.”
“We have ships to outnumber the greatest fleet,” she replied.
“Good ships, my lady,” he said. “But they will not attack by sea. You have but one hundred thousand men against the southern capital’s two million. We would hold these walls for perhaps half a moon before we will be sacked—and all mercilessly killed.”
“And why do you concern yourself with affairs of state?” she asked.
He smiled.
“Our sources in the capital are willing to allow us to broker a deal for you,” he said.
Finally, she realized, his agenda surfaced.
“Upon what terms?” she asked.
“They will not march on us if you, in turn, accept the rule of the south, accept the southern leader as Supreme Commander of the Empire. It is a fair deal, my empress. Allow us to broker it for you. For the safety of us all. Allow us to get you out of your predicament.”
“Predicament?” she said. “What predicament is that?”
He looked back, baffled.
“My empress, you have started a war you cannot win,” he said. “I am offering you a way out.”
She shook her head.
“What you fail to understand,” she said, “what all men have always failed to understand, is that I am exactly where I want to be.”
Volusia heard a roar, and she turned her back on him, turned back to the arena, and watched as a Razif gored another slave in the chest. She smiled, delighted.
“My lady,” Finian continued, more desperate, “if I may speak boldly, I’ve heard the most awful rumor. I hear you intend to march to the Mad Prince. That you hope for an alliance with him. Surely you must know that is a futile endeavor. The Mad Prince is aptly named, and he refuses all requests to loan out his men. If you visit him, you will be humiliated, and you will be killed. Do not listen to your counselors. Us Finians, we have lived for thousands of years because we know people. Because we trade with them. Accept our deal. Do the cautious thing, as your mother would have done.”
“My mother?” she said, and let out a short, derisive laugh. “Where is she now? Killed by my hand. She was not killed by a lack of caution—but by an abundance of trust.”
Volusia looked at Sardus meaningfully, knowing she could not trust him either.
“My empress,” he said, desperate, “I implore you. Allow me to speak frankly: you are not, as you think, a goddess. You are a human. And you are frail, vulnerable, like all other humans. Do not start a war you cannot win.”
Volusia, enraged, stared coldly at Sardus, who was horrified as all the others witnessed their conversation, all her commanders, all her advisors, all of them watching to see how she reacted.
“Frail?” she repeated, seething.
She was in such a fury that she knew she had to take drastic action, had to prove to all these men that she was the farthest thing from frail. She had to prove what she knew to be true: that she was a goddess.
Volusia suddenly turned her back on them all and faced the arena.
“Open the gate,” she commanded her attendant.
He looked at her, eyes wide in shock.
“My empress?” he asked.
“I will not command you twice,” she said coldly.
Her attendant rushed to open the gates, the cheer of the crowd much louder as he did so, the heat and stench of the arena coming at her in waves.
Volusia stepped forward, out onto a balcony before stairs heading down, and held out her hands, wide at her sides, facing her people.
As one, all her people suddenly fell silent, shocked at the sight of her, and they all fell on their knees, bowing.
Volusia stepped forward, onto the first step leading down. One step at a time, she descended to the arena, walking down the endless set of stairs.
As she did, the entire stadium grew even more quiet, until one could hear a pin drop. The only sound was that of the Razif, breathing hard, running through the empty arena, anxious for its next victim.
Finally, Volusia reached the bottom and stood before the final gate into the arena.
She turned to the guard.
“Open it,” she commanded.
He looked at her, in a state of shock.
“My empress?” he asked. “If I open these gates, the Razif will kill you. It will stomp you to death.”
She smiled.
“I won’t say it again.”
Soldiers rushed forward and opened the gates, and the crowd gasped as Volusia walked through, and the gates quickly slammed behind her.
The crowd stood, in shock, as Volusia walked slowly, one step at a time, into the center of the dusty arena. She walked right to the middle, toward the Razif.
The crowd cried out in shock and fear.
The Razif suddenly set its eyes on her, and as it did, it leaned back and shrieked. Then it charged at her at full speed, horns out, right for her.
Volusia stood in the center of the arena, held out her arms, and let out an enraged cry herself, as the Razif charged at her. Volusia stood her ground and stared back at it, determined, never flinching as it charged and charged, the ground shaking beneath her.
As the crowd cried out, all expecting her to be gored, Volusia stood there, haughty, arrogant, scowling back at the beast. Inside, she knew she was a goddess; she knew that nothing of this earth could touch her. And if she wasn’t, if she could be killed by a mere mortal animal, then she didn’t want to live at all.
The Razif raced for her, then suddenly, at the last moment, stopped short a few feet away from her. It raised up
and reared its legs, several feet away from her, as if afraid of her.
It stood there, not coming any closer, and looked at her. Slowly, it dropped to its knees, then to its stomach.
Then the crowd gasped as the Razif lowered its head and bowed before her, touching its head to the ground.
Volusia stood there, arms out wide to her sides, taking in her power over the animal, her fearlessness, her power over the universe. She knew she really was a goddess. And she feared nothing.
One by one, every person in the arena fell on their knees and bowed their heads low, tens of thousands of people, all of the empire race, all deferring to her. She could feel all of their energy, she sucked in all of their power, and she knew that she was the most powerful woman on earth.
“VOLUSIA!” they cried out.
“VOLUSIA! VOLUSIA!”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Gwendolyn stood at the entrance to the cave, watching the sun begin to set, preparing. All around her, men were packing up the few provisions they had and bracing themselves to leave this place, to begin the long trek across the Great Waste, on a quest for the Second Ring.
It was time, Gwen realized, to seek out a new home, a permanent home. Her people needed it, and they deserved it. They might all die trying, but at least they would die on their feet, striving for something greater—not holed up here in a cave, cowering, waiting to die. It had taken her an entire moon cycle to realize it, to shake off the depression of missing Guwayne and Thor. That depression still clung to her, yet now, Gwen was able to work through it, to not let it stop her from functioning in the world. After all, giving into her depression would not change her circumstance—it would only make her life worse.
Of course, Gwen felt a deep sense of sorrow and loss in accepting the fact that Thorgrin and Guwayne might not ever return to her. She felt little left to live for. Yet she thought of her father, and his father before him—a long line of kings who had seen great calamity, and who had put their faith in her—and she drew strength from their example. She forced herself to be strong, to focus on the task at hand. She had a people to lead. She had to get them to safety.