Morgan Rice - A Rule of Queens

Thor turned and saw the creature yanking him back quickly, right toward its gaping mouth. He knew that in moments he would die an awful death.

Thor mustered his final reserve of strength, and he managed to turn just enough to reach around and slash backwards, chopping off the beast’s wrist.

Thor shrieked as he suddenly began to plummet, headfirst, down the tunnel. He tumbled end over end, hurling faster and faster, down into whatever lay beyond.

Volusia sat on her golden throne on the periphery of the arena, surrounded by dozens of counselors and advisors, and looked down, watching with jubilation as an enraged Razif with a flaming red hide charged, lowered its horns, and gouged a slave through the back. The crowd cheered, stomping its feet, as the Razif hoisted the slave high overhead triumphantly, parading its victory, blood dripping down its horns. The Razif spun and spun, then finally threw the corpses, which flew through the air, hitting the ground and tumbling in the dirt.

Volusia felt a familiar thrill; few things pleased her more than watching men die slowly, painfully. She leaned forward, gripping the sides of her chair, admiring the beast, admiring its thirst for bloodshed. She wanted more.

“More slaves!” she commanded.

A horn sounded, and down below, more iron cells opened. A dozen more slaves were shoved out into the arena, the iron gates slamming behind them, locking them in.

The crowd roared, and the slaves, wide-eyed in panic, turned and ran in every direction, trying to get away from the enraged beast.

The Razif, though, was on a warpath, and it was quick for its size. It chased each slave down mercilessly, gorging them through the back, stomping their heads, mauling with its claws, and occasionally, sinking its long teeth into them. Enraged, it didn’t stop until every slave was dead.

The crowd went wild, cheering again and again.

Volusia was delighted.

“More!” she called out. The gates opened, to the roar of her people, as yet more slaves tumbled out.

“My lady?” came a voice.

Volusia turned to see Soku, the commander of her army, standing beside her, lowering his head in deference, a concerned look on his face. She was annoyed, distracted from the show. He knew better than to interrupt her while enjoying her afternoon show, and she knew it must be important. No one spoke to her without permission, upon pain of death.

She glowered at him, and he bowed lower.

“My Empress, forgive me,” he added, “but it is a matter of utmost urgency.”

She looked at him, his bald head bowed low before her, debating whether to kill him or listen. Finally, out of curiosity, she decided to hear him.

“Speak,” she commanded.

“One of our men has been killed by a slave. A taskmaster, in a small village north of here. It seems a slave has risen up in an act of defiance. I await your command.”

“And why do you bother me with this?” she asked. “There are a thousand slave villages surrounding Volusia. Do what we always do. Find the offender; torture him slowly. And bring me his head as a birthday gift.”

“Yes, my empress,” he said and, bowing low, retreated.

Volusia turned back to the arena, and she took particular satisfaction as she saw a slave charge forward, stupid enough to try to wrestle the Razif. She watched as the Razif leapt up to meet it, goring its stomach, lifting it high over its head, and slamming it down with all its might. The crowd went wild.

“My empress,” came another voice.

Volusia turned, furious at being interrupted again, and this time saw a contingent of Finians, led by their leader, Sardus, all wearing the scarlet cloaks and all with the fiery red hair and alabaster faces of their kind. They were part human, and part something else, no one quite knew what. Their skin was too pale, their eyes a pale shade of pink, and they kept their hands hidden in their cloaks, as if always hiding something. Their bright red hair was distinctive within the capital, and they were the only members of the human race allowed to live freely and not be enslaved; they even held their own seat of power in the capital. It was a deal brokered centuries ago, and held up by Volusia’s mother and her mother before her. The Finians were too rich, too treacherous, to cross. They were masters of power and of secrets, traders of all manner of goods and ships that could hamper the city at their whim. They traded in secrets and treachery, and had always managed to gain leverage on the rulers of Volusia. They were a race with which she could not rule without. They were too crafty for their own good, and not to be trusted.

The sight of them made her queasy. Volusia would wipe out the entire Finian race if she could.

“And why should I give my time to a human?” Volusia demanded, impatient.

Sardus smiled, a grotesque smiled, filled with cunning.

“My empress, if I do not forget, you are human, too.”

Volusia blushed.

“I am ruler of the Empire race,” she replied.

“But human nonetheless. Human in a city where it is a crime to be human.”

“That is the paradox of Volusia,” she replied. “It has always had a human leader. My mother was human, and her mother before her. But that does not make me human. I am the chosen one, the human crossed with a god. I am a goddess now—call me otherwise, and you shall be killed.”

Sardus bowed low.

“Forgive me, my empress.”

She examined him with loathing.

“And tell me Sardus,” she said, “why should I not throw you to the Razif now, and have your entire race eliminated once and for all?”

“Because then half the power you cherish so deeply would disappear,” he said. “If the Finians are absent, then Volusia will crumble. You know that—and your mother knew that.”

She looked at him cold and hard.

“My mother knew many things that were wrong.” She sighed. “Why do you bother me on this day?”

Sardus smiled in his creepy way as he stepped forward, out of earshot of the others, and spoke in a whisper, waiting for the next roar of the arena to die down.

“You have killed the great Romulus,” he said. “The supreme leader of the Empire. Do you think that comes without consequence?”

She looked to him, her face setting in anger.

“I am supreme leader of the empire now,” she replied, “and I create my own consequences.”

He half-bowed.

“It may be so,” he replied, “yet nonetheless, our spies have told us, and we have many, that the southern capital as we speak prepares an army to march our army. An army more vast than anything we have seen. We hear Romulus’s million men stationed in the Ring are also being recalled. They will all march on us. And they will arrive before the rainy season.”

“No army can take Volusia,” she replied.

“The Volusian capital has never been marched upon,” he replied. “Not in such force.”

“We have ships to outnumber the greatest fleet,” she replied.

“Good ships, my lady,” he said. “But they will not attack by sea. You have but one hundred thousand men against the southern capital’s two million. We would hold these walls for perhaps half a moon before we will be sacked—and all mercilessly killed.”

“And why do you concern yourself with affairs of state?” she asked.

He smiled.

“Our sources in the capital are willing to allow us to broker a deal for you,” he said.

Finally, she realized, his agenda surfaced.

“Upon what terms?” she asked.

“They will not march on us if you, in turn, accept the rule of the south, accept the southern leader as Supreme Commander of the Empire. It is a fair deal, my empress. Allow us to broker it for you. For the safety of us all. Allow us to get you out of your predicament.”