Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

Iltis gave a shout of frustration at finding their way blocked again, ducking under a sword swing and delivering a counter that left his assailant giggling as he regarded his severed fingers. The Lord Protector cast around, his features betraying a panic Lyrna had thought beyond him. It was his fear that restored her, banishing the sight of Benten, the blood flowing from his gaping neck to soak the temple floor. The gods are always thirsty…

“To the centre, my lord,” she told Iltis. “At least there are allies there.”

He hesitated a moment then gave a shallow bow. “I crave forgiveness for my failure…”

“Time is against us, my lord.” One of the Queenʼs Daggers lay nearby, a lean, dark-haired woman, her hatchet cradled in her arms as if clutching a beloved infant. Lyrna bent to retrieve the weapon and nodded at Iltis to proceed.

They were obliged to fight their way through to Lord Nortahʼs surviving defenders, perhaps fifty of them in a tight circle in the centre of the temple, ringed by a growing wall of dead. Iltis hacked down an Arisai from behind, laying about on either side with great two-handed blows of his sword, carving sufficient passage for Lyrna and Murel to force their way through with Alornis between them. Iltis tried to follow but fell as an Arisai delivered a kick to his legs, others closing to finish him but reeling back as Davoka landed in their midst, spear whirling to claim eyes and outstretched hands. She paused to haul Iltis to his feet, the Lord Protector barrelling through the throng of red-armoured men as she followed close behind, spear still whirling.

Lyrna was quickly conveyed to the middle of the formation where she found Snowdance slumped on her side, ragged flesh dangling from her claws, fur matted with gore and the stone beneath slick with blood. Despite her injuries the catʼs great yellow eyes stared up at Lyrna as bright as ever. She even uttered a soft purr as Alornis knelt to run a hand over her head.

Lyrna looked up as the cacophony suddenly abated, the clash of weapons fading to leave only the groans of the wounded. The Arisai were thick on all sides but seemed to have retreated somewhat. Many were wounded, some grievously so, missing eyes or standing with gaping wounds to the face or blood flowing freely from rents in their armour, but they were all smiling, not in mockery, or cruelty, but joy.

This is what they were made for, Lyrna thought, her eyes playing over the sea of happy faces. A new race born to delight in slaughter. The Volarian bred to perfection.

Around her the Queenʼs Daggers all stood, drawing breath in ragged gasps, tensed for the next assault. Most had bloody scars, some wide-eyed in shock or grief. But still no fear, she saw, seeing how their ranks tightened around her, many casting furtive glances as if fearing her disapproval. The Empress made something vile, she decided. I made something great.

“We make them happy it seems,” she said, rising from the war-catʼs side. She raised her hatchet above her head, the gore-covered blade evidence its owner had died hard, as she intended to do. “Stand with me and weʼll make them weep!”

As one the Queenʼs Daggers roared, a savage blast of defiance and bloodlust, waving their weapons at the Arisai and voicing taunts rich in obscenities. “Iʼll feed you your balls, you grinning fucker!” a stocky man with a halberd spat at the nearest Arisai, who seemed to find this even more cause for amusement.

Lyrna met Lord Nortahʼs gaze, reading a grim certainty in his expression. He glanced down at Snowdance, her eyes closed now, and his face spasmed in mingled rage and grief before he straightened. “We are taking our queen out of here!” he told his soldiers. “Assault formation!”

The response was immediate, the Queenʼs Daggers moving with the unconscious precision born of months of training, ordering themselves into a wedge shape in the space of a few seconds. Nortah raised his sword, preparing to give the order to advance, then paused at the sight of some commotion in the ranks of Arisai. The throng parted to reveal a tall figure, armoured in red as they were, but his face that of a much older man, the features long and lean, thin lips and pale blue eyes. Also, unlike the Arisai, he wore no smile.

Lyrna saw Nortahʼs sword arm sag as he gaped at the tall man, face drawn in mystification. “Aspect?”

“Why you not… afraid?”

Liezaʼs Realm Tongue was adequate but not accomplished, though considerably better than Revaʼs Volarian. She sat on the only bed, knees drawn up and clasped in her arms, eyes bright as she watched Reva go through her scales. On the first day of their confinement Varulek had provided her with a wooden short sword and some intently spoken advice, “Ready yourself with all vigour. The arena cares not who you were, only what you might be.”

Their quarters consisted of a windowless cavern-like chamber providing more than ample room for practice. Reva danced across mosaic-tiled floors, dodging between elegant pillars of black marble veined in white. The walls were decorated in faded paintings depicting various beasts and men in combat and she noted how Lieza did her best not to look at them. At the far end of the chamber a large bath was inset in the floor, supplied with hot water via some hidden contrivance of pipes. Besides the bed, however, there was little in the way of furniture, or anything of sufficient weight to make a decent weapon. Even her wooden sword was made from sandalwood and like to shatter at the first contact with anything substantial.

“Fear kills,” Reva told the slave girl, spinning through a final combination of parries and thrusts. “Youʼd fear less if you trained with me.”

The scale was her own invention, a much modified variant of one of Vaelinʼs Order standards, designed for confronting the Kuritai. Although from what Lieza told her of the spectacles Reva concluded a contest with the slave-elite might be preferable. She had quizzed the girl closely for several hours, leaving off only when she began to cry, tears flowing as she stumbled over a description of some kind of cat with teeth like daggers.

“I not a… fighter, like you.” Lieza hugged herself closer, resting her head on her knees.

“Then what are you?” Reva asked.

“Slave.” The girl spoke in a murmur, not raising her head. “Always just slave.”

“You must have skills, abilities.”

“Numbers, letters, language.” Liezaʼs shoulders moved in a shrug. “My master taught me much. Wonʼt help here. I am Avielle, you Livella.”

“And they are?”

“Sisters. One weak, one strong.”

Reva grunted in annoyance, going to the bed and grabbing the girl by the wrists, hauling her to her feet. “Look at me!” She took hold of her chin and raised it, shaking her until her eyes opened, wet and bright with alarm. “Enough of this. Whatever waits for us here will need all our strength, yours and mine, if we are to survive it.”

The girl sagged, tears flowing once again. “I not like you…”

Reva drew a hand back to slap her. Beat some spine into her, make her practice and beat her every time she falters. Sheʼll learn quick enough if I put some bruises on those perfect legs, the miserable, fatherless sinner…

Her hands gave an involuntary spasm, allowing Lieza to sink back onto the bed, head slumped in misery. “Iʼm sorry,” Reva said, retreating from the weeping girl, her heart thumping.

A jangle of keys came from outside the thick iron door. It swung open on squealing hinges to reveal Varulek with two Kuritai at his back. His eyes tracked from Reva to the still-weeping Lieza. “I have been instructed to punish this one if she fails to please you,” he said.