Morgan Rice - A Joust of Knights

Volusia looked out and admired her new city. Erected everywhere were the golden statues of her, just as she’d instructed her men to build. Every corner of the capital had a statue of her, shining gold; everywhere one looked, there was no choice but to see her, to worship her.

Finally, she was satisfied. Finally, she was the Goddess she knew she was meant to be.

The chanting filled the air, as did the incense, burned at every altar to her. Men and women and children filled the streets, shoulder to shoulder, all bowing down, and she felt she deserved it. It had been a long, hard march to get here, but she had marched all the way to the capital, had managed to take it, to destroy the Empire armies that had opposed her. Now, finally, the capital was hers.

The Empire was hers.

Of course, her advisors thought otherwise, but Volusia did not care much what they thought. She was, she knew, invincible, somewhere between heaven and earth, and no power of this world could destroy her. Not only did she cower in fear—but rather, she knew this was just the beginning. She wanted more power, still. She planned to visit every horn and spike of the Empire and crush all those who opposed her, who would not accept her unilateral power. She would amass a greater and greater army, until every corner of the Empire subjugated itself to her.

Ready to start the day, Volusia slowly descended her dais, taking one golden step after the next. She reached out with her hands, and as they all rushed forward, her palms touched their palms, a throng of worshipers embracing her as their own, a living goddess amongst them. Some worshippers, weeping, fell to their faces as she went, and scores more formed a human bridge at the bottom, eager for her to walk over them. She did, stepping on the soft flesh of their backs.

Finally, she had her flock. And now it was time to go to war.

Volusia stood high on the ramparts surrounding the Empire capital, peering out into the desert sky with a heightened sense of destiny. She saw nothing but headless corpses, all of the men she had killed—and a sky of vultures, screeching, swooping, picking away at their flesh. Outside these walls there was a light breeze, and she could already smell the stench of rotting flesh, heavy in the wind. She smiled wide at the carnage. These men had dared oppose her—and they had paid the price.

“Should we not bury the dead, Goddess?” came a voice.

Volusia looked over to see the commander of her armed forces, Rory, a human, tall, broad-chested, with a chiseled chin and stunning good looks. She had chosen him, had elevated him above the other generals, because he was pleasing to the eyes—and even more so, because he was a brilliant commander and would win at any cost—just like her.

“No,” she replied, not looking at him. “I want them to rot beneath the sun, and the animals to gorge on their flesh. I want all to know what happens to those who oppose the Goddess Volusia.”

He looked out at the sight, recoiling.

“As you wish, Goddess,” he replied.

Volusia scanned the horizon, and as she did, her sorcerer, Koolian, wearing a black hood and cloak, with glowing green eyes and a wart-lined face, the creature who had helped guide her own mother’s assassination—and one of the few members of her inner circle whom she still trusted—stepped up beside her, scanning it too.

“You know that they are out there,” he reminded. “That they come for you. I feel them coming even now.”

She ignored him, looking straight ahead.

“As do I,” she finally said.

“The Knights of the Seven are very powerful, Goddess,” Koolian said. “They travel with an army of sorcerers—an army even you cannot fight.”

“And do not forget Romulus’s men,” Rory added. “Reports have him close to our shores even now, returned from the Ring with his million men.”

Volusia stared, and a long silence hung in the air, broken by nothing but the howling of the wind.

Finally, Rory said:

“You know we cannot hold this place. Remaining here will mean death for us all. What do you command, Goddess? Shall we flee the capital? Surrender?”

Volusia finally turned to him and smiled.

“We shall celebrate,” she said.

“Celebrate?” he asked, shocked.

“Yes, we shall celebrate,” she said. “Right until the very end. Reinforce our city gates, and open the grand arena. I declare a hundred days of feasts and games. We may die,” she concluded with a smile, “but we shall do so with a smile.”

Godfrey raced through the streets of Volusia, joined by Ario, Merek, Akorth, and Fulton, hurrying to make the city gate before it was too late. He was still elated by his success at sabotaging the arena, managing to poison that elephant, to find Dray and release him into the stadium just when Darius needed him most. Thanks to his help, and the Finian woman, Silis, Darius had won; he had saved his friend’s life, which relieved his guilt at least a little bit for setting him up for ambush in the streets of Volusia. Of course, Godfrey’s role was in the shadows, where he was best, and Darius could not have emerged the victor without his own bravery and masterful fighting. Still, Godfrey had played some small part.

But now, everything was going awry; Godfrey had expected, after the match, to be able to meet Darius at the stadium gate as he was being led out, and to free him. He had not expected that Darius would be escorted out the rear gate and ushered through the city. After he had won, the entire Empire crowd had been chanting his name, and the Empire taskmasters had become threatened by his unexpected popularity. They had created a hero, and had decided to usher him out of the city and for the capital arena as soon as possible, before they had a revolution on their hands.

Now Godfrey ran with the others, desperate to catch up, to reach Darius before he left the city gates and it was too late. The road to the capital was long, desolate, led through the Waste and was heavily guarded; once he left the city, there would be no way they could help him. He had to save him, or else all of his efforts would be for naught.

Godfrey dashed through the streets, breathing hard, and Merek and Ario helped Akorth and Fulton along, gasping for air, their large bellies leading the way.

“Don’t stop!” Merek encouraged Fulton as he dragged his arm. Ario merely elbowed Akorth in the back, making him groan, prodding him on as he slowed.

Godfrey felt the sweat pouring down his neck as he ran, and he cursed himself, once again, for drinking so many pints of ale. But he thought of Darius and forced his aching legs to keep moving, turning down one street after the next, until finally, they all emerged from a long, stone archway, into the city square. As they did, there in the distance, perhaps a hundred yards away, lay the city gate, imposing, rising fifty feet high. As Godfrey looked out, his heart dropped to see its bars being opened wide.

“NO!” he called out, involuntarily.

Godfrey panicked as he watched Darius’s carriage, drawn by horses, guarded by Empire soldiers, encased in iron bars—like a cage on wheels—heading through the open gates.

Godfrey ran faster, faster than he knew he could go, stumbling over himself.

“We’re not going to make it,” Merek said, the voice of reason, laying a hand on his arm.

But Godfrey shook it off and ran. He knew it was a hopeless cause—the carriage was too far away, too heavily guarded, too fortified—and yet he ran anyway, until he could run no longer.

He stood there, in the midst of the courtyard, Merek’s firm hand holding him back, and he leaned over and heaved, hands on his knees.

“We can’t let him go!” Godfrey cried out.