Morgan Rice - A Rule of Queens

King MacGil turned to Thor and clasped his shoulder.

“You’ve made us all proud,” he said to Thor. “You have bestowed valor upon all of us. For you, we live on. We live on now through you.”

Thor embraced the King, as he embraced Thor back.

“And what of my son?” Thor asked him, leaning back. “Is Guwayne with you?”

Thor was afraid to ask the question, afraid for the answer.

MacGil looked down.

“That is not a question for me to answer,” he said. “You must ask the King himself.”

Thor looked back, confused.

“The King?” Thor asked.

MacGil nodded.

“All roads here lead to one place. If you are looking for someone here, nothing passes through here without passing through the hands of the King of the Dead.”

Thor looked back in wonder.

“I’ve come to lead you,” MacGil said. “One former King can introduce another. If he does not like your petition, he will kill you. You can turn around now, and I can help you find a way out. Or you can march forward and meet him. But the risk is great.”

Thor looked at the others, and they all looked back at him in agreement, determination in their eyes.

“We have come all this way,” Thor said, “and there is no turning back. Let us meet this King.”

King MacGil nodded, approval in his eyes.

“I expected no less,” he said.

King MacGil turned and they followed him down a new tunnel, into a deeper and deeper blackness, and Thor braced himself, gripping his sword tight, sensing that this next encounter would determine his life to come.

Volusia rode in her golden carriage, borne by her procession of men, a dozen of her finest officers and advisors accompanying her on this long march to Maltolis, the city of the touched prince. As they neared the gates, the great city unfolding before her, Volusia looked up and wondered. She had heard of the mad city, and of the touched prince, Maltolis, who took his name from the city, like her, ever since she’d been a girl, but she had never laid eyes upon it herself. Of course her mother had warned her, as had all of her advisors, never to venture anywhere near it. They said it was possessed; that all who went, never returned.

The idea excited her. Volusia, fearless, hoping for conflict, looked up at the massive walls, all quarried from black stone, and saw immediately that, as great of a city as Volusia was, Maltolis was ten times greater in scope and size, vast walls soaring to heaven. While Volusia was built on the oceanside, crashing waves and ocean blue visible from everywhere, Maltolis was landlocked, deep in the eastern lands, framed by an arid desert and a field of twisted, black cacti. They were a fitting adornment to herald this place.

They all came to a stop before a stone bridge spanning a moat, twenty yards wide, its deep blue waters glistening, encircling the city. There was only one way in and out of this city, across this arched, black bridge, guarded heavily by dozens of soldiers lining it.

“Set me down,” Volusia ordered. “I want to see it for myself.”

They did as she commanded, and as Volusia’s feet touched the ground, it felt good to stand after all those miles of being carried. She immediately began to march for the bridge, her men rushing to fall in behind her.

Volusia stopped before it, taking in the sight: lining the bridge was a series of pikes, all pierced with the freshly decapitated heads of men, fresh blood dripping down. But what really surprised her was what she saw above it: high above was a golden railing, and from it there dangled the torsos of soldiers, their legs torn off. It was a gruesome sight, and an ominous way to herald the city. It made no sense, as these soldiers all appeared to be the touched prince’s men.

“He us rumored to kill his own men,” Soku stepped forward and whispered into Volusia’s ear, he too gaping up at the sight. “The more loyal they are, the more likely to be killed.”

“Why?” she asked.

Soku shrugged.

“No one knows,” he replied. “Some say for fun; others say boredom. Never try to analyze the ways of a madman.”

“Yet if he is so mad,” she countered, “how does he run such a great city? How does he hang onto it?”

“With an army he inherited, vaster than ours will ever be.”

“It is said they all tried to revolt when he took power,” Koolian said, coming up to her other side. “They thought it would be easy. But he surprised them all. He killed the rebels in the most gruesome ways, starting with their families first. He turned out to be more vicious and unpredictable than the world could have known.”

“I urge you again, my lady,” Soku said. “Let us stay clear of this place. Let us find an army somewhere else. The touched prince will not lend you his armies. You have nothing he wants, nothing you can give him. Why would he entertain it?”

Volusia turned to him, her gaze cold and hard.

“Because I am Volusia,” she said, her voice ringing with authority, with destiny. “I am the Goddess Volusia, born of fire and flame, of wind and water. I will crush nations beneath my feet, and nothing of this world, no army, no prince, shall stop me.”

Volusia turned back to the bridge and led the way, her men hurrying to follow, until she reached the base and was blocked by a dozen soldiers lowering their halberds, blocking her way.

“State your purpose here,” one said, his face obscured behind his helmet.

“You shall address her as Empress,” Aksan said, stepping forward, indignant. “You speak to the great Empress and Goddess of Volusia. Queen of Volusia. Queen of the great city by the sea, and Queen of all provinces of the Empire.”

“We let no one pass without the Prince’s permission,” the soldier replied.

Volusia stepped forward, raised her hand to the tip of the sharp halberd, and slowly lowered it.

“I have an offer for your Prince,” she said softly. “One he cannot refuse. You will let us through because your Prince will kill you if he found you turned us away.”

The soldiers, unsure, lowered their halberds and looked to each other, puzzled. One nodded, and they all slowly stood erect, making way for her to pass.

“We can bring you to our Prince,” the soldier said. “But if he does not like your petition, well…you can see his handiwork,” he said, looking up.

Volusia followed his glance and looked up at all the mutilated bodies adorning the bridge.

“Is it a chance you’re willing to take?” the soldier asked.

“My Empress, let us leave this place,” Soku said urgently in her ear. “Some gates are best left closed.”

Volusia shook her head and took the first step forward. She looked out, beyond the soldiers, at the daunting gates, two huge iron doors, each adorned with a grotesque iron sculpture, upside down, one screaming and the other laughing. Those iron sculptures alone, Volusia thought, would be enough to turn away any person in their right mind.

She looked the soldier right in the eye, resolved.

“Bring me to your ruler,” she commanded.

Volusia walked through the soaring gates of the mad city, taking it all in in wonder. A drop hit her shoulder, and thinking it was rain, she looked down at her golden sleeve, and was puzzled to see it stained scarlet. She looked up and saw a series of ropes crossing the city walls, from which were hanging a collection of limbs—a leg here, an arm there—all hanging like wind chimes, dripping blood. They swayed in the wind, the weathered rope creaking.

Some ropes hung lower and some higher, and as Volusia and her men passed through the gates, she had to brush up against them, swinging against her.

Volusia admired the Prince’s barbarism. And yet, she wondered at the extent of his madness. His cruelty did not scare her—but the haphazardness of it did. She loved being vicious and cruel herself, yet she always did it within a rational context. But this…she just could not understand his way of thinking.