Queen of Fire

Lyrna closed her eyes. A breeze played over her skin in a gentle caress, carrying the scent of cherry blossoms, the perfume delicate but rich enough to mask the stink of gore and bowels voided at the point of death. She tried to recall another odour, one she knew so well, one that choked the throat and stirred bile from the gut, the stench of her own flesh burning. But she couldn’t find it, not today.

“No,” she told the girl, reopening her eyes and pausing to cup her cheek with a smile. “I’m just a queen.”

She rose, touching a hand to Murel’s shoulder. “Take her to Brother Kehlan.” She turned and strode back to her horse. “Brother Sollis, take your company and hunt down any remaining Arisai. Volarian citizenry found alive are to be conveyed to safety if possible. I’ll send word to the Battle Lord to allocate forces to assist you.”

He bowed in the saddle, his face betraying a sense of gratitude she hadn’t seen before, nodded again to the Aspect, and wheeled about, his rasping voice calling out orders to his brothers as he galloped off.

“Don’t like it, Lerhnah,” Davoka said as she climbed into the saddle, casting a critical eye over the surviving Queen’s Daggers. “We are too few.”

Lyrna turned at the sound of a multitude of voices at their rear, causing Iltis to wheel about with sword drawn. He calmed as the first Cumbraelin came into view. A well-built man, as many archers were, running with his bow across his back and hatchet in hand, pausing to offer her the briefest bow before running on, making for the unmistakable bulk of the arena, now only a half mile distant. He was quickly followed by hundreds more, the surrounding avenues filled with their panting prayers, the words “Blessed Lady” most frequent among them. Al Hestian couldn’t hold them, she surmised. I hope he was wise enough not to try.

“I think we’ll have enough, sister,” she told Davoka, spurring Jet to a gallop.

• • •

The head stared down at her with sightless eyes, mouth slack and tongue lolling from between its teeth. It had been fixed on to the stump of the statue’s neck with iron nails, hammered through bronze and flesh alike, streaks of dried blood covering the metal down to the plinth where the original head lay.

“These people are never short of horrors, it seems,” Iltis observed in a disgusted tone.

Lyrna guided Jet past the statue and on to the arena, the Cumbraelins now streaming through its arches. She had caught a glimpse of Lord Antesh urging them on before disappearing inside, but had no opportunity to impart any orders to him, not that she expected him to follow them now with the Blessed Lady so close.

She dismounted before the tallest arch and proceeded into the gloomy interior, shouts of combat echoing through the vaulted stairs and corridors as the Cumbraelins overcame any opposition. The Queen’s Daggers spread out around her in a protective arc, Aspect Arlyn and Iltis both close on either side with swords drawn.

“If I may, Highness,” the Aspect said, pointing to a stairway nearby, leading down into the depths of this structure. Lyrna raised a questioning eyebrow and he went on, “The cages where the Garisai are kept. They may be of use.”

She nodded and gestured for him to proceed, following as he led the Daggers into the stairwell. The tumult of battle greeted her as she descended, emerging into a long rectangular chamber, lined on each side with cages. The Daggers and the Aspect were engaged in a struggle with a dozen Kuritai. The Aspect moved with the typical fluid grace of the Sixth Order, belying his years as he parried and spun in the melee, cutting down a Kuritai and blocking the blade of another who lunged at one of the Daggers. But the Kuritai were also fearsomely skilled and Lyrna forced down a surge of rage at the sight of yet more of her people falling to the blades of the slave-elite. I am just a queen.

She sent Iltis to join the struggle with a flick of her hand and looked around, her eyes alighting on a corpse lying nearby, a man of considerable girth with a stab wound to the chest, a gaoler judging by the keys dangling from his belt. She bent and tugged them free, going to the nearest cage and drawing up short at the sight of the occupant.

There was no smile on his lips now, no mischief in his eyes, his hair hung limp and greasy over a face devoid of all humour, or admiration. “So you see,” the Shield said, voice barely above a grunt, “you managed to put me in a cage after all.”

She said nothing, turning the key in the lock and hauling the cage open, standing aside with an impatient gesture as he lingered. He emerged slowly, casting a brief glance at the continuing struggle in the corridor, the Kuritai now reduced to three, backed up against the bars of the cages as hands reached from within to claw at them in desperate fury.

“This is the last war I fight for you,” the Shield said.