Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

She lunged again, Reva pushing Lieza to the left as she dodged to the right. She saw an Arisaiʼs body no more than ten feet away, feathered with arrows and a sword lying under its hand.

“Mother would have loved you more than me,” the Empress told Reva, leaping into her path as she started towards the body. “I know this. But I donʼt mind, you would still have been my sister.”

Reva glanced at Lieza, imploring her to run, but the girl stayed, hefting her chains and adopting a clumsy approximation of a fighting stance. The Empress laughed at her, then sobered. “Such devotion,” she said, shaking her head. “All I ever received was fear and lust. I would have loved you, sister. But the envy would have been hard to bear.”

Reva looked again at the Arisaiʼs body, gauging the distance and calculating her chances of leaping over the Empressʼs sword… Then she saw something else.

“I am not your sister!” she shouted to the Empress, capturing her wide-eyed gaze. “You have known nothing but fear and lust because that is all you are. You are just a madwoman who has lived far too long.”

“Mad?” The Empressʼs humour returned, her sword lowering a little as she laughed. “What do you think the world is if not just an endless parade of madness? To make war is madness. To seek power is madness.” She laughed louder, throwing her arms wide. “And madness is glorious!”

Reva assumed the ape was simply attempting to complete the role it had been trained for, trailing a red stain across the arena as it dragged itself towards the Empress with its steel claws, taking her for Livella as she was the only one armed. With a rasping roar it reared up and lunged, claws lashing out as the Empress turned, taking the three steel barbs full in the chest.

The ape gave a final bellow, either of triumph or rage, and sagged onto the arena floor, sand flying high as it breathed its last. Reva moved closer as the Empress struggled, still somehow alive, blood flowing in torrents from her mouth as she laboured to heave herself off the apeʼs claw, finally succeeding with a shriek of agony. She lay panting, breath coming in hard, convulsive tics as she stared up at Reva with the same wide, unreasoning eyes, smiling with a genuine affection that made Revaʼs hand itch for a sword.

She became aware of the sound of battle once more, looking up to see that the conflict had spread across the tiers, the Volarian citizenry huddled together as the fighting raged around them. It appeared the Cumbraelins had been reinforced by Realm Guard, Lord Nortahʼs free fighters judging by the number of women in their ranks. Also she glimpsed the trailing blond hair of the Shield on the lower terraces, fighting alongside several dozen freed Garisai. She sent a prayer to the Father to ensure Allern was amongst them. The knots of red and black were shrinking under the combined assault, though, as ever the Arisai showed no dismay at their own imminent passing, fighting to the last and laughing as they died.

Reva started as the Empress issued a loud, hacking snarl, arms flailing as she sought to rise, gaze fixed on something at the north end of the arena, a single word discernible among her blood-choked babble. “Bitch!”

Queen Lyrna Al Nieren strode across the sand, accompanied by her hulking Lord Protector and a tall, aged brother of the Sixth Order Reva didnʼt recognise. A dozen or so Realm Guard fanned out on either side as she came towards Reva, waving away her bow and drawing her into a warm embrace. “My lady. Please accept my sincere apologies for not reaching you sooner.”

They were obliged to force their way through a horde of fleeing Volarians, all too panicked and livid with terror to even recognise a group of foreign invaders. Many pelted through the redflower on either side of the road, shorn of any baggage as they fled, recent horrors etched into bleached features. In contrast the families moved in dense, wary knots, clutching meagre bundles with their children held close, small faces bunched in tears or frozen in fear.

Astorek leaned down to pull a man from the throng, a balding grey-clad of middling years with a little boy clinging to his side. He answered the shamanʼs questions in clipped tones, habitual servility overcoming his dread.

“The Empress has set her Arisai on the city,” Astorek reported, releasing the grey-clad, who stumbled on without pause. “Theyʼre killing everyone. He seemed to think it was punishment for not attending the arena, even though the place could never hold all of them.”

Vaelin turned to the Ally, regarding the passing refugees with only vague interest. “Is this your doing?” he demanded.

The Ally shrugged and shook his head. “She was mad even before I took her. And these people have always stirred her hatred.”

They moved on, breaking free of the fleeing mob after another mile and proceeding into the city. The eastern district seemed to be the merchantsʼ quarter, rich in warehouses and canals, their dark waters thick with floating corpses. Here and there dazed people wandered into their path, wounded or shocked into passivity. Horrors greeted them at every turn, women wept over murdered children and mystified infants prodded fallen parents. Vaelin closed his heart against it all and kicked Scar to a faster trot, his gaze fixed on the arciform mass of the arena rising from the centre of the city. He shot continual inquisitive looks at Kiral, who could only confirm the urgent note of her song.

After a tortuous hour-long ride they broke into the parkland surrounding the arena where he forced Scar to full gallop, hearing a rising cacophony as they neared the great red-gold edifice. Something flickered in the corner of his eye and he turned to see a line of people running towards the arenaʼs south-facing wall, perhaps five hundred, all armed. His gaze went to the figure in the lead, picking out the dark blue cloak and the familiar, precise gait of his run. He angled Scar to the left, leaping corpses and thundering over marble and grass to charge into the path of the onrushing fighters, dragging him to a halt and raising his hand.

The charging line came to a slow stop as Frentis waved his sword. They were an odd bunch, men and women in motley armour bearing the marks of recent battle, some with Volarian colouring, others plainly Alpiran or of Realm origin. He breathed a sigh of relief at finding Weaver among them, standing amidst the only group in this company to present a truly soldierly appearance.

“Brother!” Frentis greeted him, running to his side. Vaelin was struck by his appearance, besmirched with blood and soot from head to toe, his sword blade stained red from end to end. However, he took comfort from his gaze, aged since he had last seen him, but steady and free of the madness that seemed to have gripped this city.

Vaelin nodded at Weaver and the well-ordered Volarians surrounding him. “Are those Varitai?”

“They call themselves Politai now,” Frentis said. “It means ‘unchainedʼ in old Volarian.”

Vaelin glanced over his shoulder as Orvenʼs guards and the Sentar rode into view, the Ally among them, his posture now considerably more alert as he scanned the arena. Vaelin saw the smile playing on his lips. No need to conceal his anticipation now.

“Unchained,” he repeated, turning back to Frentis. “As were you, brother.”

Frentis nodded, frowning a little in puzzlement. “Lady Reva,” he said, pointing his sword at the arena. “I have sound intelligence…”

“I know.” Vaelin climbed down from Scarʼs back and drew his sword, striding towards the arena and beckoning Frentis to follow, speaking softly. “We do not have much time, so listen well…”