Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

The trumpets pealed forth once more, a less strident tune this time, almost joyful. The crowdʼs murmur rose again as Reva slumped next to the Empress, hearing no cheers amongst the tense babble of thousands exchanging fearful whispers.

A slave brought tea in small glass cups, along with a selection of finely crafted cakes, each a perfect cube of variously coloured icing topped with a tiny gold-leaf motif of some kind. “My crest,” the Empress said, holding up one of the cakes for Revaʼs inspection, the crest revealed as a tiny dagger within a chain circle. “Death and servitude, my two gifts.” She laughed and popped the cake in her mouth, frowning in consternation as she chewed, her face betraying no more enjoyment than if she were eating plain bread.

Reva turned her attention to the arena, finding the balcony offered a near-complete view of a great sand oval. She judged it perhaps two hundred and fifty paces wide and near four hundred long. The sand was tended by a number of slaves, busily raking over numerous dark patches, no doubt evidence of some earlier slaughter. Her gaze tracked over the crowd, noting how the pitch of their mingled voices had changed, the fear giving way to a collective buzz of anticipation. They fear her but canʼt resist what she offers here, she decided with a surge of contempt.

“Yes, horrible arenʼt they?” the Empress commented, sipping tea.

Reva swallowed a sigh. Feel nothing. Think nothing.

“Do you hate your people as I hate this lot?” the Empress went on. “Their gullibility must be trying at times.”

Reva knew she was being baited, this thing attempting to stoke an anger that might reveal some new insight. But she found her thoughts free of rage as they turned to her people, her trusting, believing people. “They fought off your finest army for months,” she said. “Starved and shorn of hope, they gave blood and life to save each other. Your people rejoice in cruelty and make murder an entertainment. Iʼll reserve my hate for them.”

“And your guilt for yourself.” The Empress took a bite from another cake, raising her eyebrows in faint disappointment. “All tastes like ash,” she muttered, tossing the cake aside.

Reva tried to ignore the weight of the Empressʼs gaze as she concentrated on a new commotion in the arena. Two groups of men were emerging from doors at opposite ends of the oval, the initial upsurge in cheers from the crowd soon fading as their condition became clear. They were all naked, most of middle or advanced years, pale and trembling under the scrutiny of the crowd, some with hands clasped protectively over their genitals, others standing in apparent bafflement or shock.

“Pardon me a moment, little sister,” the Empress said, getting to her feet once more. She moved to the balconyʼs edge where an Arisai waited, bowed to one knee as he proffered a short sword. “As yet more proof of your Empressʼs boundless largess!” she called, her arm sweeping in a grandiloquent gesture from one end of the arena to the other. “I add another two teams to the venerable Sword Races. To my right the Honourable Company of Traitors, to my left the Exalted Order of Corrupt Officials. Both have earned my displeasure with their disloyalty and greed, but my compassionate, womanly soul compels me to mercy. There will be only one victor of todayʼs contest, permitted to live out his days in slavery and his family spared the three deaths.”

She took the sword from the kneeling Arisai and threw it into the centre of the arena. Reva couldnʼt help but be impressed by the skill of the throw, the sword sinking into the sand up to the hilt. The Empress turned away as the trumpets blasted a short note, the crowdʼs murmur now a mingling of dismay and confusion.

The two groups of naked men stood immobile as the note faded, exchanging wary glances or looking up at the crowd with tear-stained faces, bereft of all but the faintest hope. For a time it seemed as if they would just continue to stand there, anchored by terror, until a group of Varitai archers positioned on the upper tiers sank a volley of arrows into the sand around their feet. One of the naked men immediately broke from the group, sprinting towards the sword in a surprising turn of speed for a fellow with such an extensive belly. Several men began running in his wake, provoking their opponents into belated motion. Soon both groups were pelting towards each other in a stampede of flabby, sweat-soaked flesh, voices raised in desperate challenge. The plump man was first to the sword, scooping it up and flailing at the onrushing team as they closed, a bright plume of blood appearing in the mass of colliding flesh. The plump man was soon lost to sight, sinking under a forest of flailing limbs as the combatants thrashed at each other with inexpert ferocity. The sword appeared again, held aloft in the hand of a stick-thin old man with straggly grey hair. He stabbed down at the surrounding throng again and again, eyes wide with madness, before he was dragged from view.

“Donʼt waste your pity,” the Empress cautioned Reva, taking her seat once more. “Black-clads all, and not a man among them without blood on his hands.” She moved closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if they were two girls exchanging gossip. “So, are you enjoying Lieza? Donʼt you find her the sweetest thing?”

Reva determined not to answer, keeping her gaze on the now-diminished throng of battling unfortunates. Many were lying on the sands, too injured or exhausted to fight on, but a dense knot of them were still struggling in the centre of the arena, a tight revolving scrum of reddened flesh with the sword at the centre.

“I can provide a replacement,” the Empress went on. “If sheʼs proving not to your… taste.”

Think nothing. Feel nothing. “She… is acceptable to me.”

“I am glad. You are the Most Honoured Garisai after all. The quarters you were given have traditionally been reserved for the most exalted of champions. In ages past the Garisai were not slaves you see, but free men and women, come to honour the gods with blood and courage. The undefeated would be raised to great status, lavished with all comfort and pleasures, for the gods favoured those who could slake their endless thirst.”

“What happened to them?” Reva asked, watching as a group of five survivors surrounded the man who now held the sword, edging closer as he attempted to ward them off with clumsy jabs, face grey with exhaustion. “Your gods.”

“We killed them,” the Empress replied, returning her attention to the arena as the contest neared its conclusion. The man with the sword hacked down a tall but aged opponent before the others closed in and bore him to the ground, fists rising and falling in a frenzy until one broke free with the sword, immediately turning to hack at his former allies, voicing a feral scream with every blow. The crowd had fallen silent once again and the manʼs rhythmic fury reverberated across the ascending tiers, coming to a ragged stop as he finished his last victim and slumped to the sands, weeping, his sagging, barely muscled torso red from neck to waist.

The Empress squinted at the slumped figure for a moment. “One of the corrupt,” she mused, before turning to Varulek. “Make sure he finishes the wounded, then send him to the mint. Hauling sacks of gold and silver for the rest of his days might educate him in the true value of money.”

She reclined, reaching out to trace her fingers through the tresses of Revaʼs hair that had escaped her long braid. “The gods,” she said in a reflective tone, “were of no more use to a people willing to embrace a great future, a destiny that could only be fulfilled by unity and unclouded reason. Or so my father once told me.”

“They werenʼt real,” Reva said. “Your gods died whilst the World Father endured.” She watched as a pair of Arisai dragged the lone survivor to his feet, pushing him towards the prostrate form of a man with a gaping stomach wound, one hand clutched to his spilling guts whilst he raised the other in a vain plea for mercy. “You built a nation of horrors.”