Morgan Rice - A Land of Fire

As Romulus studied her, slowly, he smiled wide, recognizing a kindred soul. She had killed her mother, no doubt had ruthlessly seized power for herself, and he admired that greatly. He made a mental note to find some pretext to stay the night here in this capital. He would feast with her. And when she least expected it, he would attack her, and have his fill of her.

“And what is your name, my dear princess?” he asked, taking a step forward, standing straighter, flexing his chest muscles, glistening in the sun, getting uncomfortably close to her so that she could understand the power and might of the Great Romulus.

She smiled back, and she surprised him: instead of backing away, as most people would, she stepped up closer to him.

“It is one you shall never forget,” she said, whispering in his ear.

Romulus felt his skin tingling as she came closer, and he gawked at her beauty, his entire body flushing at the sight of her. Already, he realized, she was throwing herself at him—it would make tonight even easier.

“And why is that?” he asked.

She leaned in even closer, her soft, sensual lips brushing his ear.

“Because it is the last word you shall hear in your life.”

Romulus looked down at her, blinking, confused, trying to process what she was saying—and a second too late, he noticed something in her hand, gleaming the sun. It was a dagger, shining gold, the thinnest, sharpest dagger he’d ever seen, and with lightning speed, Volusia drew it from her belt, spun around completely, and sliced his throat so fast, so sharply, he barely felt it happen.

Romulus, in shock, looked down and watched his own blood splatter down his chest, steaming hot, across the stone, collecting in a pool at his feet. He looked up and saw Volusia standing there, facing him calmly, emotionless, as if nothing had just happened. Her dark, evil eyes burned into his soul, as he raised his hand to his throat to try to stop the blood.

But it was too little, too late. It flowed across his hands, across his body, and he felt himself growing weak, dropping to his knees, staring up at her helplessly. He saw her black eyes staring down at him, knowing his life was ending, and he could not believe, of all things, that he had died here, in this place, that he had been killed at the hands of a girl, a young brazen girl, whose name, she was right, he would never forget. As his skull smashed down into the stone, it was her name, ringing in his ears, that was his final thought, a death knell, escorting him to hell.

Volusia.

Volusia.

Volusia.

Darius walked with a smile on his face, a buoyancy to his step as he hurried through the winding streets of his village, greeting the day, preparing for another day of labor.

“What are you so happy about?” asked Raj, walking beside him with a dozen other boys as they prepared for another day of backbreaking labor.

“Yeah, what’s gotten into you?” asked Desmond.

Darius tried to hide his smile as he looked down and did not say anything. These boys would not understand. He did not want to tell them about his date with Loti, did not want to say that he had found the love of his life, the girl he intended to marry, a girl who affected him like no other. He did not want to share with them that he felt he now had something to look forward to, that the blow of the Empire no longer bothered him as much. Because Darius knew that when he got the day off, she would be there, waiting for him; they had planned to rendezvous again that night, and he could think of nothing else.

Last night had been magical; Loti had blown him away with her pride and dignity—and most of all, her love for life. She had a way about her of rising above it all: it was as if she were not a slave, as if she did not lead a life of hardship. It inspired Darius, had made him realize he could change his life, could change his surroundings, just by perceiving it differently.

But Darius held his tongue; his friends would not understand.

“Nothing,” Darius said. “It’s nothing at all.”

The group of them were about to turn down the road for the hills, when there came a sudden wail, a cry of grief, coming from the village center; he and the other boys turned and looked. There was something about that wail that caught Darius’s attention, something that compelled him to turn and investigate.

“Where are you going?” Raj asked him. “We will be late.”

Darius ignored him, following his instinct, and saw all the members of his village filtering toward the town center, and he joined them.

Darius made his way to the open clearing and saw sitting before the well, a woman whom he was shocked to recognize.

It was Loti’s mother. She knelt there, rocking back and forth, eyes closed, weeping, alternately holding her palms up to the sky and laying them on her thighs as she bowed her head low, a woman in agony. A woman in grief.

The people crowded in, the town elders eventually circled around her, and Darius brushed past them, making his way to the front, his heart pounding in alarm, wondering what could have brought her here to this place. Wondering what could have happened.

Salmak, the leader of the elders stepped forward and raised his arms, and everyone fell silent as he faced her.

“My good woman,” he said, “share with us your grief.”

“The Empire,” she said, between sobs. “They have taken my daughter from me!”

Darius felt his skin grow cold at her words, and he dropped his tools, feeling his palms tingling, wondering if he had heard her correctly.

Darius rushed forward, bursting into the circle, gaping at her.

“Speak again!” Darius said, his voice barely a whisper.

She looked up and glared at him, her dark eyes glistening with hate.

“They took her away,” she said. “This morning. The taskmaster. The one who struck her. He decided to make her his, to take her as a wife. He has claimed the right of marriage. She is gone! Gone from me forever!”

Darius felt himself shaking inside, as he felt a tremendous rage rise up, a helplessness, an anger against the world. He felt something within him so violent he could barely control it.

“Who among you?” the woman shrieked, turning to all the village. “Who among you will rescue my daughter?”

All the brave warriors, all the men, all the elders, one by one, lowered their heads, looking away.

“Not one of you,” she said softly, her voice filled with venom.

Darius, trembling with a sense of destiny, found himself stepping forward, into the center of the clearing, standing before Loti’s mother, facing her.

He stood there, fists clenched, and felt his fate rising up within him.

“I shall go,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I shall go alone.”

She looked at him, her eyes cold, hard, and then finally she nodded back with a look of respect. Her look was one of obligation, one that bound them together forever.

“I will bring her back,” Darius added, “or I will die trying.”

With those words, Darius turned and marched through the village, the crowd parting for him, knowing exactly where he needed to go.

Darius twisted and turned until he found the small cottage, the one he had been to just the day before, and knocked three times as the man had instructed.

Soon, the door opened, and the small man inside looked out at him, eyes wide with intent and understanding. He beckoned him in.

Darius hurried inside and looked all about the cottage. It was like a large workshop, a fire raging in the fireplace on one side, and before it, a bench, on top of which he saw a blacksmith’s tools.

And all around him, weapons. Weapons of iron. Weapons of steel. Weapons unlike any he had ever seen. Being caught possessing any one of these, Darius knew, would get him killed. Would get the entire village killed.