Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“Your hatred was birthed before the war, then?”

“Hatred? No, merely vague disgust in those days. My people are rich in faults, I know, but slavery has never been amongst them. Any Meldenean captain found to have carried slaves would soon find himself shunned and shipless.”

Reva looked up, feeling the wagon begin to slow, her gaze drawn to the driver staring at something ahead. It took a moment for the object of his interest to come into view, a tall pole set alongside the road, topped with a protruding beam in the manner of a gallows. Suspended from the beam was something so mangled it took a moment for Reva to recognise it as a corpse. The legs were blackened and charred to stumps, the stomach cavity open and empty, and the head… The face was probably male, rendered into an ageless cracked leather mask by decomposition, but the teeth bared in a wide, frozen scream, testifying to the agony with which this man had met his end.

The driver murmured something to himself, looking away from the sight and snapping the reins to urge the oxen to a faster pace.

“The three deaths,” the Shield translated. “An agonising poison first, then burning, then disembowelment. Traditional Volarian punishment for treason, though it hasnʼt been used for many years.”

Reva glanced up as another pole came into view, the corpse that dangled from it similarly abused, though this oneʼs eyes had been put out. She asked Ell-Nestra if this held any significance but he shrugged. “Only that someone enjoys his work, I suspect.”

By the time night fell they had counted over a hundred poles, ten for every mile they covered.

Volar came into view the following morning. Reva raised herself into a back-straining crouch to get a better view as they crested a hill a mile or so west of the Imperial capital. The road, flanked on both sides with more corpse-bearing poles, became an unerring straight line at the foot of the hill, drawing the eye to the western suburbs, consisting of tree-lined rows of one- or two-storey houses. Volar appeared to have no walls or defensive fortifications, the Shield explaining they had been swallowed up by the cityʼs growth centuries before.

“The largest city in the world, or so itʼs said,” he told her. “Though Iʼve heard there are a few in the Far West that might also claim the title.”

The height of the buildings grew as they moved deeper into Volar, plush individual dwellings giving way to close-packed streets and tenements. Mazelike avenues stretched away from the road, reminding her of Varinsholdʼs less salubrious districts, now of course razed to the ground.

“She wanted to burn all of this,” the Shield said softly, frowning as he gazed at the passing streets. “And we would have helped her wield the torch.”

Revaʼs thoughts flashed to Lehra, as they often had during this dreadful journey. She had been one of the free fighters to emerge from the forest country south of Alltor, leading a group of a dozen other girls, all freed from the slaversʼ clutches by their own agency, steeped in blood and hungry for more. Reva recalled how they had gathered around her, sinking to their knees in unbidden respect; the tale of the Blessed Lady had already flown far and seeing her in the flesh seemed a confirmation of a cherished legend, a sign that their sufferings had not been in vain. The awe in Lehraʼs eyes that day had been no less bright than the moment she died. Her voice was so full of joy… She died believing my lie.

“The barest chance is all I need,” she muttered to the Shield. “Just one chance at freedom and Iʼll burn this place to the ground.”

He slumped back down, voice faint and bitter, “It was all a madwomanʼs dream, my lady. And she made us mad with the sharing of it. Look at this place. How could we have thought to bring down an empire capable of crafting a city like this?”

“We crushed an army that should have crushed us,” Reva pointed out. “Their cities may be strong but they are weak, their souls blackened and sickened by ages of cruelty.”

He lifted his wrists, jangling the chains. “And yet, here we are. Brought here to die for their amusement.”

“‘Despair is a sin against the Fatherʼs love, for it is but indulgence, whilst hope is a virtue of the stronger soul.ʼ”

“Which one is that?”

“The Third Book, The Book of Struggle, Verse three, Trials of the Prophets.” She realised the Book of Reason had been absent from her thoughts since her capture. And why not? Reason will not avail me here.

The Volarians seemed highly fond of statuary, bronze warriors for the most part, standing amidst the cascading fountains and neatly kept parks that greeted them once they cleared the cramped outskirts. However, the most salient feature of the cityʼs inner region was the towers, great marble structures of hard-edged symmetry rising on all sides. Strangely this district seemed mostly empty but for the huddled forms of slaves tending the parks or scrubbing bird droppings from the statues. Reva supposed the absence of citizenry might be explained by the sight of the bodies that hung from the towers by the dozen. Some had clearly been strung up whilst still alive judging by the red-brown streaks that adorned the high walls.

“Their Empress seems keen to make an impression,” the Shield observed.

The wagon train drew up to the largest structure they had yet seen, a tall oval-shaped wonder of red and gold marble. It stood fully seventy feet high, constructed in five tiers, and differed markedly from the other architecture she had seen. There was little evidence of the Volarian liking for straight edges here, the tiers constructed from elegant arches and gently curved columns resembling the stem of a wineglass.

“The great arena of Volar, my lady,” Ell-Nestra said. “Enjoy the view, itʼs unlikely either of us will see another.”

A tight circle of red-armoured men surrounded the wagon whilst the driver unlocked the cage, standing well back and ordering them out with near-frantic impatience. From his guarded expression and the sweat sheening his face Reva surmised he was keen to be away from their guards. She climbed out with difficulty, legs and back aching with every movement. She had tried to flex her muscles during the journey but such prolonged constraint was bound to weaken even the strongest body. The Shield groaned as he stepped down, sinking to his knees with teeth clenched.

“Stand up.” The voice was uncoloured by any anger or threat, the words spoken in unaccented Realm Tongue. Reva looked up at a man perhaps forty years in age, dressed in a plain black robe, his dark hair, greying at the temples, drawn back from a smooth forehead and lean, inexpressive features.

The Shield glanced up at the black-clad, squinting in the sun. “Canʼt see a whip on you,” he said.

“I do not require a whip,” the man replied. “You obey me or you die.”

Ell-Nestra jerked his head at the arena behind them. “Here or there, what difference does it make?”

“In there you have a chance of life, at least for a time.” The black-cladʼs eyes went to Reva, narrowing in careful appraisal. His gaze was intense but she saw no lust in it, also, she noted with surprise, no hint of cruelty. “My name is Varulek Tovrin,” he told her. “Master of the Great Volarian Arena and Overseer of Garisai, by the gracious consent of the Empress Elverah.”

He turned and beckoned to a pair of red-armoured guards, Reva noting the mass of tattoos that covered his hands from fingertip to wrist. They were unfamiliar in design, much more dense and intricate than those worn by the queenʼs Lonak woman, and she could only wonder at the hours, and pain, endured to craft such a complex web into his flesh. He caught her scrutiny and his expression transformed into something shockingly unexpected: sympathy. “She wishes to see you.”