Morgan Rice - A Rule of Queens

“It is you who should take a break,” she said, still catching her breath. “They assign you with a cruel task. They do it on purpose.”

He laughed.

“I’ve been assigned much worse, my sister,” he said. “That is of no concern to me. It is you I am worried about. Tell me what has been troubling you. I can see it in your face.”

Without responding, Loti raised her rake and went back to work. They toiled together in a comfortable silence as she pondered how to express what was on her mind. She did not have the quick wit that others had; she needed time to think her thoughts through. Loc respected her, not invading her privacy, giving her time and space. That was one of the things she loved about him. She could tell him anything, but if she wanted her silence, he respected that.

They were falling into a steady rhythm, each lost in their own thoughts, when suddenly, Loti heard running footsteps. Loti turned and was horror-stricken to see an Empire taskmaster rush forward, raise his whip, and lash Loc across the back.

Loc cried out in pain, stumbled forward, and fell on his face.

“You fall behind the women!” the taskmaster boomed. “You are no man!”

The taskmaster raised his whip and lashed him again.

And again.

“Stop it!” Loti screamed, rushing forward, unable to stand it.

All the girls stopped working and turned and watched. Loti raced forward, not thinking, not realizing the consequences but unable to control herself. Shackles bound her wrists with a three-foot chain between them, and Loti rushed forward and stood between Loc and the taskmaster just as the whip came lashing down.

Loti took the lash instead, across her shoulder, and she screamed out in pain as she received the blow in place of her brother, who was lying on the ground.

The taskmaster, enraged, backhanded her, and she felt an incredible burn across her face, as she spun.

“You interfere,” he said. “I can kill you for that.”

He kicked her with his large boot and sent her flying face-first on the dirt and rocks.

Loti quickly spun and looked back to see him walking toward Loc, who still lay on the ground, raising a hand to protect his face.

The taskmaster approached and lashed him again.

“No!” Loti cried.

She jumped to her feet, seeing the cruelty in the taskmaster’s face, knowing that he would lash her brother to death.

Loti stood there, the taskmaster’s back to her, lashing Loc again and again, Loc covered in blood as he lay there, crying out in pain.

Loti saw red. She could take it no more.

Loti rushed forward, leapt high into the air, and landed on the taskmaster’s back. She wrapped her legs around his waist and in the same motion, she lifted her shackles and wrapped the chains around the taskmaster’s neck twice—and squeezed.

Loti squeezed and squeezed with all her might, locked in a death grip on the iron chains, knowing that if she let go, it would be her brother’s life—and hers. She would not let go; not even the hordes of the world could pull her off of him.

The man was huge, his neck all muscle, a foot wide, and he leaned back and bucked. Yet still Loti squeezed with all her might. It was like holding onto a flailing bull.

The taskmaster reached back, gasping, dropping the whip, and tried to grab her, again and again. He clawed at her, scratching her wrists.

And yet still she held on, squeezing tighter.

“You disgusting pig of a man,” she cried out. “You know my brother cannot defend himself!”

“Loti!” yelled one of her friends, another woman, running over from her duties, trying to pull her off of him. “Don’t do this! They will kill you! They can kill us all!”

But Loti ignored her; nothing would stop her.

The taskmaster flung her about on his back like a wild, crazy horse, throwing her left and right; Loti felt her strength being tested to its limits—but still she held on.

He stumbled forward, then suddenly, he went flying backwards, driving her back, down to the ground, and landing on his back on top of her.

The weight of him landing on top of her nearly crushed her.

Yet still she squeezed.

As she squeezed him, Loti thought of every indignity she’d ever suffered, that every woman had suffered here at the hands of these men. She let her rage loose, coursing out of her hands and arms and shoulders, and she squeezed and squeezed, wanting this taskmaster to suffer as she had. It was her chance for vengeance. Her chance to let the Empire know that she was powerful, too.

Yet still he struggled. He leaned forward and then threw his head back, head-butting her backwards, the back of his skull crushing her cheek—and a horrific pain shot through her head.

Lot, coursing with adrenaline, still did not let go, squeezing her shaking arms, the pain shooting through her head. She did not know how much longer she could hold on. He was too strong for her, and he just would not die.

Loti looked up and saw him lifting his head again. His head came flying back and he head-butted her backwards again, bashing her nose.

This time, the pain was too much, her eyes blinded with the blood of her nose. Involuntarily, she loosened her grip.

Loti knew she was going to die. She looked up, expecting to see the taskmaster about to kill her.

But what she saw surprised her: instead, she saw Loc standing over them, scowling for the first time in his life. She saw, in that moment, the warrior in his eyes.

Loc raised his wooden rake high, and he brought the point straight down into the taskmaster’s belly.

The taskmaster gasped, leaning forward as Loc brought it down, again and again, cracking his ribs. It was just what Loti needed to regain her grip on the shackles.

Loti grabbed them, doubled her grip, and she spun around, getting on top of him, pinning him face-first in the dirt.

She squeezed all her might, her wrists bleeding from the shackles cutting into them. Blood and sweat stung her eyes, and she lost all sense of time and space as she squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

It was a long time after he stopped moving that Loti finally realized he was dead.

She looked down. He lay there, perfectly still, all the world perfectly still, and she realized she had just killed the man.

And that nothing would ever be the same again.

Darius slashed and slashed, the click-clack of his wooden sword piercing the air as he blocked blows alternately from Raj and Desmond, each attacking him from both sides. They were driving him back, and he was working up a sweat as he sparred with them, doing his best to fend off one blow after the next. The sun was setting after a long day of labor, and as they had nearly every day during this last moon cycle, Desmond, Raj and Darius sparred, letting out all their aggression for the Empire, all their frustration with their taskmasters, on swordplay.

On the sidelines, Dray sat there, watching every slash, snarling at Darius’ attackers every time they landed a blow. Clearly he wanted to pounce, but Darius had finally taught him to sit there and watch patiently. Yet his snarling filled the air, and Darius did not know when he would finally snap and defy his command. He was so loyal to Darius, as Darius was to he, that there was no controlling him.

Over the last moon cycle, Darius and Raj and Desmond had become close friends, the two older boys determined to make Darius a better fighter. It was working. Darius felt his arms and shoulders grow tired, but not as tired as they had been in days before; and while in the past days too many of their blows slipped past, today he managed to block their blows as they attacked relentlessly.

Back and forth they went, Darius blocking side to side, spinning around after blocking one high blow and even venturing to fight back, slashing. He felt himself getting stronger, quicker, more confident. He knew that as their friendship deepened, so had his skills in combat.