Morgan Rice - A Joust of Knights

Volusia had been thinking the same thing.

She grudgingly rose from her seat and marched from her chamber, beginning to take the steps down toward the streets of Volusia.

The Volks, she knew, were the source of all the power she had. She needed them. Yet at the same time, they were an even greater threat to her.

She knew she had no choice. She could not have people around her she could not control—especially sorcerers whose power was greater than hers. Perhaps her advisors had been right all along when they’d advised her not to enter into a pact with the Volks; perhaps there was a reason they had been shunned throughout the Empire.

Volusia, followed by her entourage, marched down the streets of the capital, and as she went, she looked up and in the distance saw hundreds of citizens on their backs, the green Volks on top of them pinning them down, sucking the blood from their throats as their bodies writhed.

Everywhere she looked she saw Volks gorging themselves, slaughtering her people. And there, in the center, beneath a statue of her, was the leader of the Volks, Vokin, gorging on several bodies at once.

Volusia approached him, determined to put an end to this chaos, to expel him and his people. Her heart thumped as she wondered how he would react—she feared it would not be good. Yet she took comfort in the fact that she had all her generals behind her and that they would not dare touch her, a goddess.

Volusia came up to him and stood over him, and as she did, he finally stopped gorging and looked up at her, still snarling, his sharp fangs dripping with blood. He icily recognized Volusia, darkness in his eyes, looking mad to be interrupted.

“And what do you want, Goddess?” he asked, his voice throaty, nearly snarling.

Volusia was furious, not only by his actions, but by his lack of respect.

“I want you to leave,” she commanded. “You will leave my service at once. I expel you from the capital. You will take your men and walk out the gates and never come back again.”

Vokin slowly and menacingly stood and rose to his full height—which was not much—and breathing hard, raspy, he glared back at Volusia. As she watched his eyes shift colors, demonic, for the first time, she felt real fear.

“Will I?” he mocked.

He took a step toward her and as he did, all of the Volk suddenly rushed to his side—while all of her generals nervously drew their swords behind her.

A thick tension hung in the air as the two sides faced off with each other.

“Would you be so brazen as to confront a goddess?” Volusia demanded.

Vokin laughed.

“A goddess?” he echoed. “Whoever said you were one?”

She glared back at him, but she felt real fear rising within her as he took another step closer. She could smell his awful smell even from here.

“No one dismisses the Volks,” he continued. “Not you, not anyone. For the dishonor you have inflicted upon us this day, for the injustice you have served, do you really think there will be no price to pay?”

Volusia stood proudly, feeling the goddess within her taking over. She knew, after all, that she was invincible.

“You will walk away,” she said, “because my powers are greater than yours.”

“Are they?” he replied.

He smiled wide, an awful look that she would recall for the rest of her life, burned into her mind, as he reached up with his long, slimy green fingers and stroked the side of her face.

“And yet, I fear,” he said, “you are not as powerful as you think.”

As he caressed her cheek, Volusia shrieked; she suddenly felt a searing pain course into her cheeks, run along her face, all over her skin. Wherever his fingers had touched, she felt as if her skin were melting away, burning off of her cheekbones.

Volusia sank to her knees and shrieked, feeling in more pain than she could conceive, shocked that she, a goddess, could ever feel such pain.

Vokin laughed as he reached down and held out a small golden looking glass for her to see herself in.

As Volusia looked at her own reflection, her pain worsened: she saw herself, and she wanted to throw up. While half of her face remained beautiful, the other half had become melted, distorted. Her appearance was the scariest thing she had ever seen, and she felt like dying at the sight of herself.

Vokin laughed, a horrific sound.

“Take a long look at yourself, Goddess,” he said. “Once you were famed for your beauty—now you will be famed for being grotesque. Just like us. It is our goodbye present to you. After all, don’t you know that the Volks cannot leave without giving a departing gift?”

He laughed and laughed as he turned and walked away, out the city gates, followed by his army of sorcerers, Volusia’s source of power. And Volusia could do nothing but kneel there, clutching her face, and shrieking to the heavens with the cracking voice of a goddess.

Gwendolyn ascended the spiral stone staircase in the far corner of the King’s castle, her heart pounding with anticipation, as she headed for Argon’s chamber. The King had graciously given Argon the grand chamber at the top of the spiral tower to recover, and had also vowed to Gwendolyn that he would give him his finest healers. Gwendolyn had been nervous to see him ever since; after all, the last time she had seen him, he was still comatose, and she was skeptical he would ever rise again.

Jasmine’s words had encouraged her that Argon was healing, and her cryptic reference to what Argon knew about finding Thor and Guwayne was consuming her. Was there something he was holding back from her? Why would he not reveal it? And how did a young girl know all this?

Gwen, desperate for any chance, any lead, to be able to reunite with her husband and son, burned with desire as she reached the top floor and rushed up to the large arched door to his chamber.

Two of the King’s guards stood before it, but when they saw the look on her face, they thought better of it.

“Open this door at once,” she said, using the voice of a Queen.

They exchanged a look and stepped aside, opening the door as she rushed inside.

Gwendolyn entered the chamber, the door slamming behind her, and as she did, she was startled at the sight before her. There, in the magnificent spiral tower, was a beautiful chamber, shaped in a circle, its walls made of cobblestone, its walls lined with stained glass. Even more shocking was what she saw: Argon, sitting up in bed, awake, alert, looking right at her, wearing his white robes and holding his staff. She was elated to see him alive, conscious, back to his old self. She was even more surprised to see, sitting beside the bed, a woman, who looked ageless, with long silky hair parted in the middle, and wearing a green, silk gown. Her eyes glowed red, and she sat perfectly erect, with one hand on Argon’s back, the other on his shoulder, and hummed softly, her eyes closed. Gwen realized at once that she must be the King’s personal healer, the one responsible for Argon’s recovery.

What’s more, Gwen immediately sensed the connection between the two of them, sensed that they liked each other. It was strange—Gwen had never imagined Argon falling in love. But looking at the two of them, they seemed perfect together. Each a powerful sorcerer.

Gwen stopped in her tracks, so startled at the sight, she didn’t know what to say.

Argon looked at her, and his eyes lit up with intensity as he stood to his full height, holding his staff. She sensed with relief that his great power had returned to him.

“You live,” she said, astounded.

He nodded back and smiled ever so slightly.

“I do indeed,” he replied. “Thanks to your carrying me through the desert. And to Celta’s help.”