A Land of Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Romulus stood at the bow of his ship, hands on hips, and stared out at the looming shores of the Empire, and felt mixed feelings. On the one hand, he had been, in a sense, victorious, having done what Andronicus and no other Empire commander had ever been able to do—conquer and occupy the Ring. It was a feat that none of his predecessors could accomplish, and for that, he felt he should be celebrated, a returning hero. After all, now there was not a dot left on earth that did not belong to the Empire.

On the other hand, his wars had cost him dearly—too dearly. He had embarked from the Empire with a hundred thousand ships, and now he returned with a fleet of but three. He felt rage and humiliation at the thought of it. He knew he had Thorgrin to blame, whatever mysterious power he held, and of course that rebellious girl, Gwendolyn. Romulus vowed to one day capture and flay them both alive. He would make them pay for forcing him to return in humiliation to his homeland.

Romulus knew that, any way he tried to spin it, his returning with only three ships was a show of weakness. It left him vulnerable to revolt, and he knew that his first order of business would be to restore his fleet immediately. Which was why he had sailed here, first, to this northern city, to Volusia, before making his grand return to the Southern capital. He would replenish his fleet, and then return with all the pageantry he could muster. He would need it to consolidate the Empire. He looked about and saw the hundreds of gleaming ships in the harbor and knew that for the right price, any of them were for sale.

Volusia. Romulus looked out and studied this city by the sea as the tides pulled his meager three ships into the harbor, and he felt a fresh wave of resentment. The northern provinces of the Empire had always felt superior, had always reluctantly followed the commands of the Southern capital. It was an uneasy alliance, subject to flare ups every dozen years. Volusia, in Romulus’s mind, should have been complacent and quick to obey, like all other Empire provinces; instead, it was filled with the overly rich and indulgent leaders of the northern hemisphere, and ruled by that awful old Queen, with whom he had clashed more than once. Romulus could think of nothing he could despise more than having to see her ugly face while he haggled with her over buying a fleet of ships. He knew of her greed, and he had come prepared, his holds filled with gold. He hated being in this position of weakness.

Even worse, Romulus glanced up at the sky, saw no trace of the moon, and worried for the millionth time about that sorcerer’s spell. His moon cycle was over, his period of invincibility had ended, and that, more than anything, terrified Romulus, left him feeling weak and vulnerable. He opened and closed his fists, flexed his muscles, and as he did, he felt no less weak, still felt the strength rippling through his muscles. He had no dragons left to do his bidding, but that did not matter now. The dragons were dead, and while he did not have them, no one else did, either. He had been a great warrior all his life, he reminded himself, even without the spell, and he saw no reason why, being back to his old self, he would be vulnerable.

Romulus tried not to think of the sorcerer’s words, of his agreeing to that grand bargain, of giving up his soul to a dark devil in return for the moon cycle of strength he had been granted. Perhaps if he returned to that sorcerer’s cave, he would grant him another cycle of power. And if not, perhaps if Romulus killed the man, that would end his bargain. Romulus warmed up at the thought—yes, perhaps killing the man would be the best route after all.

Romulus, feeling optimistic again, shaking off his fears, looked out at the approaching city, and he smiled for the first time. The Queen might have the advantage now, might take all his gold, but he would get his ships. And once he had them, he would return to this place, this city on the sea, when they least expected it, and set it to fire. First he would murder every last one of them. He would take back all of his gold and use it to create an immense, golden statue of himself, standing at the shore, and pointing at the sea.

Romulus smiled wide, happy at the thought. This would shape up to be a great morning after all.

Trumpets sounded all up and down the harbor, and Romulus saw Volusia’s troops lining up on all sides, dressed in their finest, standing at attention, waiting to greet him. This was the sort of welcome he deserved. He knew they feared and respected the Southern capital, and yet Romulus couldn’t recall Volusia welcoming him so warmly in the past. Perhaps these people had changed their tune, and had decided to step in line; perhaps they feared him more than he realized. Maybe, he thought, he would not burn down the city after all. Maybe he would just rape their women and steal their gold.

Romulus grinned as he imagined it in great detail, as their ship pulled up to the harbor, dozens of troops casting out gold-plated plank to his ship, as his men anchored their ship.

Romulus marched across it, strutting proudly, pleased at the welcome he was receiving, realizing that it would be easier than he thought to get the ships he needed. Perhaps they had heard of his conquest of the Ring, and had realized he was supreme leader after all.

Romulus stepped onto the docks, and dozens of soldiers parted ways, bowing their heads in respect. Romulus looked up and saw in the center of the crowd, hoisted up on a carriage of shining gold, the leader of Volusia. Her carriage was lowered, and Romulus expected to see the wrinkled old woman he had last seen years ago.

He was shocked to see a young, strikingly gorgeous girl, looking to be hardly eighteen years of age, staring back at him. She looked strikingly like the former Queen.

Romulus was completely caught off guard, something which rarely happened to him, as he stared back at this girl who stepped down off her carriage and walked proudly up to him, flanked by dozens of her soldiers. She stood but a few feet away, and stared at him without speaking. As he studied her features carefully, Romulus realized that she could be no other than the former Queen’s daughter.

He suddenly flared up with anger, realizing he was being slighted by the Queen, sending out her daughter to greet him.

“Where is your mother?” Romulus demanded, indignant.

The girl remained poised, though, and stared back calmly.

“My mother of whom you speak is long dead,” she replied. “I have killed her.”

Romulus was shocked at her words, and even more so, by how deep, dark, and forceful her voice was. He studied her, caught off guard by her strong tongue, by her confident manner, by her deep, dark voice, by her sinister black eyes, and by her beauty. She wielded it like a weapon. He’d never encountered such strength before, male or female, in any commander, citizen, sorcerer—anyone. She was like an ancient warrior trapped in a young girl’s body.

As Romulus studied her, slowly, he smiled wide, recognizing a kindred soul. She had killed her mother, no doubt had ruthlessly seized power for herself, and he admired that greatly. He made a mental note to find some pretext to stay the night here in this capital. He would feast with her. And when she least expected it, he would attack her, and have his fill of her.

“And what is your name, my dear princess?” he asked, taking a step forward, standing straighter, flexing his chest muscles, glistening in the sun, getting uncomfortably close to her so that she could understand the power and might of the Great Romulus.

She smiled back, and she surprised him: instead of backing away, as most people would, she stepped up closer to him.

“It is one you shall never forget,” she said, whispering in his ear.

Romulus felt his skin tingling as she came closer, and he gawked at her beauty, his entire body flushing at the sight of her. Already, he realized, she was throwing herself at him—it would make tonight even easier.

“And why is that?” he asked.

She leaned in even closer, her soft, sensual lips brushing his ear.

“Because it is the last word you shall hear in your life.”

Romulus looked down at her, blinking, confused, trying to process what she was saying—and a second too late, he noticed something in her hand, gleaming the sun. It was a dagger, shining gold, the thinnest, sharpest dagger he’d ever seen, and with lightning speed, Volusia drew it from her belt, spun around completely, and sliced his throat so fast, so sharply, he barely felt it happen.

Romulus, in shock, looked down and watched his own blood splatter down his chest, steaming hot, across the stone, collecting in a pool at his feet. He looked up and saw Volusia standing there, facing him calmly, emotionless, as if nothing had just happened. Her dark, evil eyes burned into his soul, as he raised his hand to his throat to try to stop the blood.

But it was too little, too late. It flowed across his hands, across his body, and he felt himself growing weak, dropping to his knees, staring up at her helplessly. He saw her black eyes staring down at him, knowing his life was ending, and he could not believe, of all things, that he had died here, in this place, that he had been killed at the hands of a girl, a young brazen girl, whose name, she was right, he would never forget. As his skull smashed down into the stone, it was her name, ringing in his ears, that was his final thought, a death knell, escorting him to hell.

Volusia.

Volusia.

Volusia.