A Land Of Fire (Book 12) (21 page)

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.

Darius walked with a smile on his face,
a buoyancy to his step as he hurried through the winding streets of his
village, greeting the day, preparing for another day of labor.

“What are you so happy about?” asked
Raj, walking beside him with a dozen other boys as they prepared for another
day of backbreaking labor.

“Yeah, what’s gotten into you?” asked Desmond.

Darius tried to hide his smile as he
looked down and did not say anything. These boys would not understand. He did
not want to tell them about his date with Loti, did not want to say that he had
found the love of his life, the girl he intended to marry, a girl who affected
him like no other. He did not want to share with them that he felt he now had
something to look forward to, that the blow of the Empire no longer bothered
him as much. Because Darius knew that when he got the day off, she would be
there, waiting for him; they had planned to rendezvous again that night, and he
could think of nothing else.

Last night had been magical; Loti had
blown him away with her pride and dignity—and most of all, her love for life.
She had a way about her of rising above it all: it was as if she were not a
slave, as if she did not lead a life of hardship. It inspired Darius, had made
him realize he could change his life, could change his surroundings, just by
perceiving it differently.

But Darius held his tongue; his friends
would not understand.

“Nothing,” Darius said. “It’s nothing at
all.”

The group of them were about to turn down
the road for the hills, when there came a sudden wail, a cry of grief, coming
from the village center; he and the other boys turned and looked. There was
something about that wail that caught Darius’s attention, something that
compelled him to turn and investigate.

“Where are you going?” Raj asked him.
“We will be late.”

Darius ignored him, following his
instinct, and saw all the members of his village filtering toward the town
center, and he joined them.

Darius made his way to the open clearing
and saw sitting before the well, a woman whom he was shocked to recognize.

It was Loti’s mother. She knelt there,
rocking back and forth, eyes closed, weeping, alternately holding her palms up
to the sky and laying them on her thighs as she bowed her head low, a woman in
agony. A woman in grief.

The people crowded in, the town elders
eventually circled around her, and Darius brushed past them, making his way to
the front, his heart pounding in alarm, wondering what could have brought her
here to this place. Wondering what could have happened.

Salmak, the leader of the elders stepped
forward and raised his arms, and everyone fell silent as he faced her.

“My good woman,” he said, “share with us
your grief.”

“The Empire,” she said, between sobs.
“They have taken my daughter from me!”

Darius felt his skin grow cold at her
words, and he dropped his tools, feeling his palms tingling, wondering if he
had heard her correctly.

Darius rushed forward, bursting into the
circle, gaping at her.

“Speak again!” Darius said, his voice
barely a whisper.

She looked up and glared at him, her
dark eyes glistening with hate.

“They took her away,” she said. “This
morning. The taskmaster. The one who struck her. He decided to make her his, to
take her as a wife. He has claimed the right of marriage. She is gone! Gone
from me forever!”

Darius felt himself shaking inside, as
he felt a tremendous rage rise up, a helplessness, an anger against the world.
He felt something within him so violent he could barely control it.

“Who among you?” the woman shrieked,
turning to all the village. “Who among you will rescue my daughter?”

All the brave warriors, all the men, all
the elders, one by one, lowered their heads, looking away.

“Not one of you,” she said softly, her
voice filled with venom.

Darius, trembling with a sense of
destiny, found himself stepping forward, into the center of the clearing,
standing before Loti’s mother, facing her.

He stood there, fists clenched, and felt
his fate rising up within him.

“I shall go,” he said, meeting her eyes.
“I shall go alone.”

She looked at him, her eyes cold, hard,
and then finally she nodded back with a look of respect. Her look was one of
obligation, one that bound them together forever.

“I will bring her back,” Darius added,
“or I will die trying.”

With those words, Darius turned and
marched through the village, the crowd parting for him, knowing exactly where
he needed to go.

Darius twisted and turned until he found
the small cottage, the one he had been to just the day before, and knocked
three times as the man had instructed.

Soon, the door opened, and the small man
inside looked out at him, eyes wide with intent and understanding. He beckoned
him in.

Darius hurried inside and looked all
about the cottage. It was like a large workshop, a fire raging in the fireplace
on one side, and before it, a bench, on top of which he saw a blacksmith’s
tools.

And all around him, weapons. Weapons of
iron. Weapons of steel. Weapons unlike any he had ever seen. Being caught
possessing any one of these, Darius knew, would get him killed. Would get the
entire village killed.

Darius reached out and laid his palms on
the hilt of the finest sword he had ever seen. Its hilt was emerald green, and
its blade had an emerald green tint to it as he turned it. He held it up high
against the glowing light.

“Take it,” the man said. “It is meant
for you.”

Darius examined it, and he saw in it his
reflection. He no longer saw the face of a boy looking back, a boy playing with
practice weapons, but the face of a hardened man. A man already morphed by
suffering; a man seeking revenge. A man who was ready to become a true warrior.
A man who was no longer a slave.

A man about to become free.