Godfrey looked over to see Akorth, Fulton, Merek, and Ario, all awake, some pacing, some sitting, none of them looking too pleased. What a quick turn their fate had taken. It had not been long ago that they were all up on the streets of Volusia, all laden with riches and about to strike a deal to save his people. Now, here they all were, common prisoners, unable to even sleep on a muddy floor without being assaulted.
Godfrey scratched his arms and saw the red marks and realized he’d been bitten up by some sort of insect on the muddy floor. He scratched and scratched, annoyed. Probably fleas, he thought. Or perhaps bedbugs.
Akorth and Fulton looked even more disconcerted than he, their hair a mess, unshaven, dark rings beneath their eyes, both of them looking as if they could badly use a drink. Merek and Ario, though, despite their smaller size and younger age, despite being surrounded by such hardened criminals, appeared calm and fearless, resolute, as if they were taking it all in stride and preparing their next move. In fact, they looked much more composed than Akorth and Fulton.
“Don’t get in my way again, boy,” suddenly came a harsh, guttural voice.
Godfrey turned to see that same cretin, having finished his rounds, now facing him, with the largest belly he’d ever seen, getting close and scowling down at him.
“I wasn’t in your way!” Godfrey protested. “I was sleeping! You are the one who kicked me!”
“What did you say?” The man glowered and began to walk threateningly toward him.
Godfrey began to back up, and as he did, he slipped on the mud and landed on his rear—to the laughter of all the other prisoners in the cell.
“Kill him!” one yelled out, egging on the cretin.
Godfrey’s heart pounded wildly as he saw the cretin grinning and getting closer, as if ready to devour his prey. He knew that if he did not do something soon the man would crush him with his weight alone.
Godfrey scooted back on the mud, sliding, breathing hard, trying to distance himself from him.
But the cretin suddenly groaned and charged, and Godfrey could see he was going to pounce on him, land on him, and crush him with all his weight. Godfrey tried to back up more, but bumped his head into a stone wall. There was nowhere left to go.
Suddenly, Ario stepped forward, stuck out a foot, and tripped the cretin.
The man fell flat on his face in the mud, and Godfrey spun out of the way before he did, sparing himself from being crushed.
All the prisoners in the room now turned and watched, hollering, laughing uproariously. The cretin spun around, wiped the mud from his face, and locked eyes on Ario with a look of death.
Ario stood there, staring back, unflinching, calm and fearless. Godfrey, incredibly grateful to Ario, could not believe how calm he was, given that the cretin was five times his size and that he had nowhere to run.
“You little punk,” the cretin said. “You’re finished. Before I kill you, I’m going to tear you apart limb from limb. I’m going to teach you what it means to be in a prison!”
The cretin began to regain his feet and charge Ario, when Merek suddenly took two steps forward, raised his elbow and cracked him across the jawline, catching him perfectly just as he was rising, and sending him down to the ground, unconscious.
“I spent most my life in a prison,” Merek said to the unconscious man, “and I don’t need you to teach me. Where I come from, they call that a hatchet job. It shuts up a big fat mouth like yours.”
Merek spoke loudly enough for all the other prisoners to hear, and he looked around slowly at all of them, challenging them, daring them to come close.
“The Empire took away my dagger,” he continued. “But I don’t need it. I got my hands. With these thumbs and fingers I can do a lot more damage. Anyone else want to test it out?” he called out loudly.
He turned slowly, meeting each and every person’s gaze, until finally, the others looked away and the tension dissipated. Clearly, they all got the idea: Merek and his friends were not to be messed with.
Ario walked up to Merek.
“I had him right where I wanted him,” Ario said proudly. “I didn’t need your help. Next time, don’t get in my way.”
Merek smirked and shook his head.
“I’m sure you did,” he replied.
Godfrey looked up, watching it all unfold in astonishment, as Merek came over to him and held out a hand and helped him up.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Godfrey asked.
“Not the King’s Legion,” Merek said, smirking, “and not in some fancy knight’s barracks. I fight dirty. I fight to hurt, to maim or to kill. I fight to win, not for honor. And I learned what I learned in the back alleys of King’s Court.”
“I owe you one,” Godfrey said. He turned and looked at the big fat cretin, unconscious, unmoving, face-first in the dirt. “I hate to think what would have happened if he’d got me.”
“You’d be a mud sandwich,” Akorth chimed in, coming over with Fulton.
“Get us out of this city and back to our camp,” Merek said, “and that’s payment enough.”
“Wishful thinking,” Fulton said ominously.
Godfrey turned and saw the formidable Empire guards lined up outside the cell, saw the thick iron bars, and he knew they were right. They weren’t going anywhere.
“Looks like your plan’s going from bad to worse,” Merek said. “Not that it was that great to begin with.”
“I, for one, don’t plan on ending my life in this cell,” Ario said.
“Who said anything about ending your life?” Godfrey asked.
“I was watching them while you were passed out,” Ario said. “They’ve taken three of them already. They open the cells every hour, take another one. They don’t come back. And they’re not taking them for tea.”
Suddenly, a horn sounded and three Empire men strutted forward, keys rattling, unlocked the door, walked into the cell, and looked all around menacingly, as if trying to decide who to take. They wore imposing armor, visors down over their faces, and looked like messengers of death.
They settled on a prisoner slumped against the wall, yanked him to his feet, and dragged him out of the cell.
“No!” the man screamed, resisting. “All I did was steal a cabbage. I had nothing to eat. I don’t deserve this!”
“Tell that to her goddess Volusia,” the guard muttered darkly. “I’m sure she would love to hear that.”
“No!” he yelled, his voice fading as the cell door slammed behind him and they dragged him away.
Godfrey and his men exchanged a nervous look.
“We haven’t much time,” Merek said.
“What’s your plan now?” he asked Godfrey. “You got us into this mess—now you get us out of it.”
Godfrey stood there, pulling his hair, trying to collect his thoughts. It was all too much at once, had all been too fast for him to process. Even he, who always had found a way out of everything, was stumped. He looked at the iron bars, at the solid stone walls, and he did not see any way out. He decided to try what he knew he was best at: talking his way out of it.
Godfrey walked up to the cell bars and motioned for a guard, standing close by, to come close. He whispered loud enough to be heard.
“You want to be rich?” Godfrey asked, heart pounding, praying that he would go for it.
But the guard continued to stand there with his back to him, ignoring him.
“Not just rich,” Godfrey added, “but rich beyond your wildest dreams. I have gold—more than you can dream. Get myself and my friends out of here, and you’ll be rich enough to be King yourself.”
The guard sneered back at him through his visor.
“And why would a criminal like you have so much gold?”
Godfrey reached into his waist pocket, and from deep inside, where it was hidden, he pulled out a small gold coin. It glistened in the light. It was the last coin he had on him, one he’d kept for emergency purposes. If this was not an emergency, he did not know what was.
Godfrey placed the coin in the guard’s yellow, meaty palm.
The guard held it up and examined it, looking impressed.
“I’m not your typical prisoner,” Godfrey said. “I am the son of a King. I have enough gold to make you a rich man. All you have to do is let me and my friends out of here.”
The guard suddenly lifted his visor, turned and smiled at Godfrey.
“So you have more gold?” he asked, his greedy smile more like a sneer on his grotesque face.
Godfrey nodded enthusiastically.
“Will you lead me to it?” the guard asked.
Godfrey nodded.
“Yes! Just let us out of here.”
The guard nodded, satisfied.
“Okay, turn around.”
Godfrey turned around, heart pounding with excitement, expecting the guard to release him from the cell.
Suddenly, Godfrey felt a hand on the back of his shirt, felt the guard grabbing him roughly, then, in one quick motion, yanking him back with all his might.
Godfrey felt the back of his head slam into the iron bars, heard a loud thud, and suddenly, his whole world went spinning. He felt light-headed and dropped to his knees.
Before he collapsed on the mud floor, he saw the guard, looking down, laughing a cruel, guttural laugh.
“Thanks for the gold,” he said. “Now piss off.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Volusia walked slowly through the city of Dansk against the backdrop of a magnificent scarlet red sunset, fires still roaring on all sides of her as she canvassed the city, lighting up the early night. She felt victorious. She passed all her boulders which she had catapulted into the city, still ablaze, passed piles of rubble, of ruin, city walls which had held for centuries now nothing but remnants. She passed piles corpses, people still stuck in their death throes, others still clinging to life, moaning, still burning alive. She passed scores of soldiers, nothing but charred corpses, their weapons melted to their hands.
And she smiled wide.
Volusia’s sack of this city had been merciless, cruel even by her standards. She had sent the flaming boulders over its walls endlessly, indiscriminately killing soldier and citizen, man and woman, knight and child. After killing their leadership, she had unleashed a sudden and intense barrage on them, too fast for them to prepare, to do anything but suffer. The city had been foolish to try to resist her, to think that their immense walls could keep her out, could stop her from getting what she wanted. How foolish the city had been to think that she would not use every means at her disposal to kill every man, woman, and child—anyone and everything in her way. Then again, she mused, even if they hadn’t resisted, she probably would have slaughtered them all anyway. It was more helpful, she realized, to instill her reputation for cruelty than to have a city of prisoners.
All around her, lining up perfectly along the city walls, standing at attention, stood her hundreds of thousands of soldiers, in perfect formations, all of them awaiting her slightest command, her signal for what to do next. Here it was, her first city, her first test, razed to its knees in but a few hours. Here it was, the first proof of her power unleashed.
“Here they are, my Goddess,” came the voice.
Soku walked beside her, amidst her huge entourage of soldiers and advisors, gesturing before her.
Volusia stopped and looked ahead, her entourage stopping behind her, and she saw rows of prisoners, alive, wounded, faces black with soot, coughing and chained to each other.
“What’s left of their army,” Soku said. “Five thousand men. They have surrendered the city and wish to join our ranks.”
Volusia looked them over carefully, an endless sea of faces, extending all the way back to the city walls, and saw them all staring back at her hopefully.
“And did these men try to resist?” she asked.
Soku shook his head.
“No, Goddess,” he replied. “These are the soldiers who surrendered without killing any of our men. There is no blood of ours on their hands.”
Volusia looked over the rows and rows of fine soldiers, honorable men, who had only made the one mistake of getting in her path.
“A pity,” she said, and turned to Soku.
“Kill them all.”
Soku stared back at her, shocked.
“Goddess?” he asked.
“I will not keep anyone who did not try to kill me first.”
Soku stared at her, trying to understand, and opened his mouth as if to object—but then closed it, clearly seeing the look in her eye. He, like the others, knew better than to question her command.
He turned to his commanders.
“You heard the Goddess,” he said. “Kill them all.”
Volusia watched with satisfaction as her thousands of men marched forward, spears held high, and charged into the fray of the city’s captives—all of whom, shackled, defenseless, raised hands to their shocked faces.
“NO!” they shrieked.
But it was too late. One man at a time, Volusia’s men hacked them down, slaughtering them left and right.
Volusia stood there and watched the butchery, her smile growing wider. Blood sprayed on her as the sun began to sink below the horizon, and she relished every drop, thinking:
What a perfect day this has turned out to be.
*
As night began to fall, Volusia marched farther and farther from the outskirts of Dansk, flanked by her entourage, and with her army marching a bit behind them. Beneath the two moons rising, the twinkling red starts emerging in the sky, she made her way along the desert floor towards the Path of the Circles. It was a moment she had been looking forward to for as long as she could remember.
The Path of the Circles was, indeed, the very reason she had decided to sack Dansk first. Despite their numbers and their fortifications, Volusia did not in fact care so much for the army, or its people, or even its city. The real jewel, the real conquest, was what lay just beyond it: this sacred site of power, a vast circle carved into the hard desert floor. No one knew for sure of its origin, or the source of its power, yet Volusia had heard all her life of the living gods and goddesses who had been anointed here. It was a rite of passage. If she wanted her people to view her as a true God, she knew, there would be no greater stamp of legitimacy than her initiation into the circle.