A Land of Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY

Volusia sat on her marble throne, impatient, impetuous, staring back at the two common prisoners who stood shackled before her. Beyond them, in the distance, down below, there rose the chants of a hundred thousand of her citizens, squeezed into the coliseum, all cheering as the Razif was let loose in the arena. Volusia, not wanting to be distracted from the big moment, looked past these riffraff and down over their shoulders and saw the beast, bright red, nearly the size of an elephant, with three horns and a wide square face and jaw, and a hide as thick as a hundred swords, charging madly through the arena. The ground trembled as it charged in circles on the dirt floor, again and again, in a rage, looking for any victim.

The crowd cheered wildly at the expectation of the blood sport that would follow.

Volusia’s cold black eyes turned and settled on the two men standing before her. She studied them with disinterest, and as she did, she watched the expression of these middle-aged men softening at the sight of her, saw a new hope in their eyes, and something else: lust. Volusia had always had this effect on men. Although she had barely reached her seventeenth year, Volusia had already lived long enough to witness the effect she had—every man and woman she’d ever met acknowledged that she was gorgeous, and she did not need them to tell her; when she glanced into a mirror, which was often, she saw it herself. With her black eyes and raven black hair falling down to her waist, her perfectly chiseled features, her skin white as alabaster, she was not like others of her race.

Volusia was different from them in every way, she, of the human race who had nonetheless managed to ascend to leader of the Empire race of this Empire city, like her mother before her. This city might not be the capital of the Empire, but it was, at least the capital of the Northern Region of the Empire, and if it were not for Romulus, no one would stand in her way. Indeed, Volusia considered herself, not Romulus, to be the undisputed leader of the Empire, and very soon she planned to prove it. There had always been a rivalry between the South and the North, an uneasy alliance, and up until recently, Volusia had been content to allow Romulus to think he held all the power. It was advantageous for her to be thought of as weak.

Of course, she was the farthest thing from it, as anyone in her city knew too well.

As Volusia stared at the two men gaping at her, she shook her head at how stupid they were, looking upon her as a sex object. Clearly, they did not know of her reputation. Volusia had not risen to become Empress of the entire Northern Empire through her good looks; she had risen because of her ruthlessness. She was, indeed, more ruthless than all the men, more ruthless than all the generals, more ruthless than all the great nobles that had served in the House of Lords for centuries—more ruthless, even, than her own mother, whom she had strangled with her own bare hands.

Volusia tracked her ruthlessness back to the day when her mother had sold her to that brothel. Just twelve years old when her mother, who had more riches than she could count, had decided that she was going to sell Volusia off into a life of hell—just for the fun of it—Volusia had been shocked when she had been escorted into a small, stale room and given her first customer. But her customer—a fat, greasy man in his fifties—had been even more shocked when he’d encountered, instead of an accommodating girl, a remorseless killer. Volusia had surprised even herself when she’d made her first kill, surprising him by wrapping a cord around his neck and strangling him with all her might. He had fought relentlessly, but she had not let go.

What had surprised Volusia most was not her courage, or her ruthlessness, or her lack of hesitation—but how much she had enjoyed killing him. She had learned at an early age that she had a talent for killing, and a great joy for it; she just loved inflicting pain on others, a far greater pain than they intended to inflict on her.

Volusia murdered her way out of the brothel, and had kept on murdering, killing her way all the way up into the house of power of Volusia, finally taking her own mother’s life, and taking the throne. She had slept with men too, when it suited her—but she always killed them when she was through with them. She didn’t like to leave a trail of anyone who had come into contact with her; she considered herself a goddess, and above having to interact with anyone.

Now, at only seventeen, Volusia, having consolidated power in her great city, sat on her mother’s throne, having amassed so much power that the entire city cowered before her. Volusia knew that she was special. Other rulers of other Empire provinces wielded brutality for the purposes of power; Volusia, though, thoroughly enjoyed it. She was willing to go farther, to be more extreme, to do more than anyone else who might get in her way. She thought it more than ironic that she was named after her city, as if she were always destined to rule. She thought it was destiny.

“My Empress,” a royal guard announced cautiously, “these two captives brought before you have been caught slandering your name in the streets of Volusia.”

Volusia look them up and down. They were stupid men, peasants, shackled, dressed in rags, looking at her with their lowly grins. One of them stared back at her during the pronouncement, while the other looked nervous and contrite.

“And what have you to say for yourself?” she asked, her voice dark, deep, nearly like the voice of a man.

“My lady, I’ve said no such thing,” said the captive who was trembling. “I was misheard.”

“And you?” she asked, turning to the other.

He stuck up his chin and looked at her defiantly.

“I slandered your name,” he admitted, “and you deserve slandering. You are a young girl still, and yet have built a sadistic reputation. You don’t deserve to sit on the throne.”

He looked her up and down as if she were a mere sex object, and Volusia stood up, sticking out her chest, which was considerable, standing erect with her perfect figure. Her eyes lit up as a he continued to stare at her; these men sickened her. All men sickened her.

Volusia stepped forward slowly toward them, looking them over, and finally approached the one who was leering at her. She got close to him, removed a small metal hook, and in one quick motion, she thrust it upward, beneath his chin, through his mouth, hooking him like a fish.

He shrieked and dropped to his knees as blood burst from his throat. Volusia pulled the hook harder and harder, enjoying his squirming, until finally, he collapsed to the ground, dead.

Volusia turned to the other, who was now positively shaking, and approached him, enjoying her morning immensely.

The captive dropped to his knees, quivering.

“Please, my lady,” he pleaded. “Please, don’t kill me.”

“Do you know why I killed him?” she asked.

“No my lady,” he said, weeping.

“Because he told the truth,” she said derisively. “I granted him a merciful death because he was honest. But you are less than honest. You shall get a less than merciful death.”

“No, my lady! NO!” he shrieked.

“Stand him up,” Volusia ordered her men.

Her guards rushed forward, grabbed the man, lifted him up as he quivered, and stood him before her.

“Back him up,” she commanded.

They did as she commanded, backing him to the edge of the marble terrace. There was no railing, nothing between the edge and the drop down to the arena below, and the man looked over his shoulder, terrified.

Down below stormed the Razif, to the taunting of the crowd, waiting for the contestants to arrive.

“I do not find you worthy to live,” Volusia pronounced. “But I do find you worthy of being my entertainment.”

Volusia took two steps forward, lifted her foot, and shoved him in the chest, knocking him backwards off the balcony with her silver boots.

He shrieked as he tumbled through the air, falling downwards, bouncing off of the sloped walls, then finally tumbling and landing down into the dirt arena.

The crowd cheered wildly, and Volusia stepped forward and looked down, watching as the Razif set its sights on the man. The man, bloody but still alive, stumbled to his feet and tried to run; but the beast’s rage was great as it charged, the crowd’s cheering goading him on, and in moments, it gorged the captive with three horns to the back.

The crowd was ecstatic as the Razif held him up high above his head, victoriously, and paraded his trophy in a broad lap around the arena.

The crowd went crazy, and as Volusia stood there and watched, taking it all in, she thrived on the man’s pain. It brought her a joy she could not describe.

Down below, horns sounded, gates were opened, and dozens of shackled slaves were dumped into the arena. The crowd roared as the Razif tracked each slave down and tore them all to pieces, one at a time.

A distant horn sounded, from the ports, and Volusia looked to the horizon, already bored by what was going on below her. She watched people get torn to pieces every day, and she was craving a more interesting form of torture. The horn she’d just heard was unique, announcing the arrival of a dignitary, and Volusia looked to the horizon and saw in the distance, out at sea, three Empire ships sailing toward her, bearing the distinct banner of the Romulus’s army.

“It seems the great Romulus has returned,” one of her advisors said, coming to stand beside her, looking out.

“When he left, his fleet filled the horizon,” said another advisor. “Yet he now returns with a mere three ships. Why does he come here, to us? Why not to the South?”

Volusia watched carefully, hands on her hips, and she studied them, taking it all in. She had a great skill to grasp a situation far before any of the others, and she did once again, knowing immediately what was happening here.

“There is only one thing that would drive Romulus to return here, to us, to this part of the Empire, before going on. It is shame,” she said. “He comes here because his fleet has been destroyed. He cannot return to the capital without a fleet—it would be a sign of weakness. He’s come to us to replenish his ships first, before sailing to the heart of the Empire.”

Volusia smiled wide.

“He presumes that my part of the Empire is weaker than his. And that will be his downfall.”

As Volusia watched his ships approach, she knew that soon he would be in her harbor, and she felt her blood rush in excitement. It was the moment of her life she had been waiting for: her enemy was being brought right into her hands. He had no idea. He had underestimated her; they all had.

Volusia couldn’t stop smiling; the fates indeed smiled down on her. She always knew she was meant to be the greatest of them all—and now the fates had proven it true. Soon, she would kill him. Soon, it would all be hers.