Morgan Rice - A Land of Fire

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.

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.