The Killing Dark

Arsinue felt the sun dying, even through the stone walls of her crypt. By day she slept here, shielded from all light, her limbs heavy with a languor she could not resist, but when the day waned she woke and lay here in silence and cold, waiting for the night, all but unable to move. Alone, she seethed with the anger in her, with the will that sustained her now, beyond the gate of death.

In the beginning she had denied that her brother’s traitor poison had done its work, and that she had survived, but now she knew she had not. Now she knew that her spirit had passed through the barrier into the Fields of the Dead, and yet she was not dead. She walked and breathed and spoke and hungered. Hers was a living death, and at first she had dwelled in terror of what she had become. Now she knew she had been given the power to revenge herself and to fight for her kingdom.

The sun vanished below the horizon, and it was as though she felt a coolness come over her stone tomb. She thrust her hands up, suddenly alive with purpose, and she pushed aside the great lid of the sarcophagus in which she slumbered during the daylight hours. She rose up naked in the torchlit dark of this deep place, and she heard the soft chanting of the priests of Anatu. This hidden temple was the only place she had found refuge, and from here she stretched forth her hand to take back the power that had been stolen from her.

Silent forms came to gather around her. The temple was home to the hidden ones of the city of Qahir – the crippled, the mute, the unwanted. Girls with scarred faces and twisted limbs came to attend her, to clothe her in white silks and deck her with the jewels of the dark goddess. On her narrow, bare feet Arsinue wended through the dark corridors, the stone walls cool and damp in this high flood season. She followed the flickering lights of oil lamps until she came to the shrine itself.

The idol of the goddess had been broken down long ago, so on the high wall was instead painted an image of Anatu in her ancient aspect. She held up four arms wielding weapons, and her head was the face of a lioness, jaws wide in fury. The pillars gleamed like ribs inside a long-dead body, lamplight flickering on the ancient, worn carvings. Priests shuffled from her path and bowed as she went before the image of the goddess and lifted up her hands. Bring me strength, great Anatu. Give me the power to strike down my enemies, let me burn the earth like a deadly sun, let me drink blood like a river.

Dekenius would be returning to her city tonight, and now would come the moment for her to strike. She beckoned, and the priests came to her. They held up their hands and she bit their fingers, lapped the blood that dripped from them. She had spent weeks gathering her strength, now she would work her will.

o0o

Dekenius rode at the head of his legion, all the men dirty, weary, and glad to reach the end of the road. The paths up from the south were muddy from the flood, and dragging the siege weapons through it all had not been easy. Leading men in a retreat was never easy, and he had struggled to keep the soldiers motivated and their morale up. He would need them when he reached the city, and now they had.

It would be easier if Qahir looked more welcoming, but it was a wide, low sprawl of buildings made from mud and clay, spread out beside the slack waters of the flooded Nahar. Only the center of the city, out closer to the sea, rose up in towers and palaces and temples, the walls washed white and painted with the images of gods. The last light of day was shining on the high walls and pinnacles, and for a moment, if he narrowed his eyes, it almost looked like a proper city.

Once inside the gates, his men had to force their way through the evening crowds, shouting and shoving to get the ever-present peddlers and gawkers out of the way. At least there were bridges over the many, many narrow waterways that threaded in among the streets and houses. Dekenius rode in the vanguard, and he was pleased when one of his messengers came galloping from within the city, the standard he bore flapping behind him. The man saluted from the saddle. “Greetings my lord General.”

“Greetings, what is the news?” He pointedly did not offer an account of his defeat at the hands of desert nomads. Retreating was bad enough, and he knew he would have another battle soon enough. He must have the rest of his legion for that, as well as every mercenary he could buy in this place.

“Commander Vias begs to report that Varonan ships have been sighted along the coast, and they may arrive here before dark, if that is their goal.” The boy looked nervous, and well he might.

Dekenius cursed silently. Someone sent from the empire to collect him. He had hoped, with the factions at one another’s throats, that it would take them more time to appoint a general to come and capture him. It seemed those sleepy fools in the Senate were more afraid of him than he had expected.

He turned to his retinue. “I must ride on to the palace. Horsemen, with me. Commander Gaius, stay and see them men through the city. I want you encamped with the rest of the legion before dark. See to the men but keep watch, for there may be trouble.” He turned to the messenger. “You, ride ahead and have Vias ready to receive me. I will require a report as soon as I arrive.”

“Yes, General!” the man barked, and then he turned and rode away at speed. Dekenius sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a hot meal, followed by a long night in a real bed. But the work of empire, it seemed, was not yet finished today. He spurred his horse, and the twenty riders fell in around him as they hurried into the city.

o0o

The ships entered the harbor and made way for no one. Lesser boats fled as the war-galleys seized docks and quays and tied themselves up. Ramps were lowered, and men began to march forth. Dekenius approved of the tactics – the general in charge was getting his men ashore as quickly as possible, and he had a great number of them.

A legion put ashore, and then another. He watched them form up on the harborfront as he counted numbers, and he took a long breath and then let it out. Two legions meant they would outnumber him heavily, as he had only come with one, and he had lost men and had wounded. In addition, half his force had been on the march all day and was weary. He had his siege weapons, but that would not be enough. He could put just over fifteen hundred men in line, some of them wounded, half of them exhausted. This new force would be just over four thousand, all of them fresh and rested.

“Go back and tell the men to fortify the palace,” he said to his messenger. It would make sense to have a bastion to fall back to. But he would not fight them here in the streets; that would be costly and he likely could not win. Dekenius had acquired his reputation on the battlefield by never fighting an impossible contest. With a general sent from home, there would be other ways he could fight.

Tired as he was, dirty from the long march, he shrugged off his weariness and the press of his age and rode down to the water. It would help that he did not appear self-satisfied and perfumed, but rather as he had always been known – as a fighting soldier, no matter his high birth. The riders in his escort followed close, and he knew they would be nervous, but sometimes, to seize the moment, a man has to reach into the lion’s mouth.

He rode boldly to meet the troops advancing along the main street, and he saw them hesitate when they spotted him. Calls went up, and the column stalled. Dekenius waved his escort to stay back, and he rode alone to meet the advancing army. The soldiers filled the street from side to side, last light of day reflecting from the clouds to glitter on the harvest of spears, and the sight made him smile. A legion on the move was always a fine thing.

“Hold!” he said, lifting an open hand. “I am General Dekenius, and I seek who commands here!” He did not name himself Praetor, as these men would know that to be a lie. He had been stripped of his rank when he refused his orders and took his legion to sea.

A captain stepped forward. A massive man with a plumed helm and a bronze-gilded shield boss. “These are the legions of General Talus,” he said. “He has been sent here to seize you and bring you back to Varon. Do you come now to surrender?”

Dekenius looked at the man, eyes narrowed. “You are Aeus Sarutus. I knew your father when he commanded a legion, and I remember the day you were born. Do not think you treat with some servile fool, here. I am General Dekenius of House Jovianus, and I have fought more battles than you have bedded whores in your life. I do not come to beg forgiveness, I come to speak with your general as befits a meeting of commanders. You will take me to him with the proper respect, and will utter no more foolishness.”

The man Sarutus looked chagrined, and he bowed his head for a moment. “Very well, General. I shall show you to Talus, and perhaps he will agree to see you, but that shall be his decision, and not mine. I am but an officer who seeks to do his duty.”

“And you have done it well, Captain,” Dekenius said. “Now, lead on.”

o0o

Arsinue went out into the plaza before the temple, fires lit to cast crimson light on the walls. This shrine was old, a crumbling edifice in an old part of the city, long neglected. Anatu was not one of the bright gods worshiped here in the city of kings, but now her ancient sanctuary sheltered a queen – a queen who would not forget. For weeks Arsinue had labored to gather together those who had reason to hate the Varonans and who would follow her – criminals, outcasts, loyalists, escaped slaves, and old soldiers. Now they were gathered here, thronging the shadows in this secret place, awaiting the sight of her.

Her white silken robes all but glowed in the lamplight, and she cast back her cowl and held up her arms, ancient jewels and rings gleaming against her pale skin. She was fed well on the blood of the priests, and her face was alight with an inner fire, her lips red and her limbs thrumming with strength. Some of them did not believe she was really Queen Arsinue, but they wanted to believe.

“Now is the hour,” she called out, and her voice resonated on the stone walls around her, winding among the columns. “The usurper has returned from the southland, and his army is weary and weak. For every soldier he commands, we can send a score against him. You are my army, all of you, and your strength is the strength of Ashem. We are the eldest race in the world, and we shall be the strongest!” She seized a torch and held it up, the fire blazing. “Carry fire through the streets! Shed the blood of the invaders! Bring me the head of Dekenius, and we shall make a sacrifice of him! Blood! Fire! Death!”

A shout went up around her, and then a greater one as the people surged through the courtyard, and a hundred torches kindled, and then a thousand. The people began to chant and stamp their feet. Knives and cudgels were taken to hand, and the city began to boil like a heart in a fire.

o0o

Dekenius was surrounded by the legions of his enemy, but he was utterly at ease. He recognized many of the men from other campaigns, and he called them out and greeted them. As he passed through the troops he gathered a trailing escort of men who knew him or had served with him, laughing and joking, reminding him and one another of old stories and battles. This was what he had done all his life – control men, bring them into his orbit and lead them. He could do it now as well.

They brought him to a ship drawn up at the quay, and at the top of the ramp stood old Talus himself. He was a wide-set man, older than Dekenius, with a balding head and a broad, scowling face. He had hard eyes that seemed to look through everything, and the men fell silent as they saw him. He flicked his glance across them and made a small, disapproving sound. “All you men get back to your places. Now.”

Dekenius watched to see how they obeyed, and there was some hesitation, but not much. The gathering melted away, leaving him alone with Captain Sarutus under the gaze of General Talus. Sarutus drew himself up. “General Dekenius has asked to see you, General.”

“Yes, I see. Dismissed, Captain.” Dekenius watched the man leave, and then he climbed the ramp and stood before the other general. They both glared at each other, staring unblinking with narrowed eyes. As always, it was Talus who cracked first and smiled. They embraced and pounded one another on the back.

“Look at you, you old bastard, two legions just to collect me.” Dekenius smiled now as well. “What did they offer to get you to go along with this?”

Talus shook his head. “Things have changed, old friend. Things change so quickly now. Though you have only been gone a few weeks, it is like a life-age of the earth has passed. I wish I had better news.” He beckoned. “Come, let us sit and I will tell you what has brought me here.”

They went to a canopy with chairs set under it, and Talus had his slaves bring wine and chilled fruits. Dekenius sat down, glad of the opportunity. He had ridden all the way from the battle at Hamun and had not had much rest since. “The senate has nerved itself to act against me sooner than I would have expected,” he said, taking some grapes.

“The senate has fallen into line. They have made Epirus a Consul, and he has promised he will make me one as well, so long as I bring you back.” Talus looked grim. “You have been made the scapegoat in your absence. The defeat at Urania, the treasury losses. The people are eager for someone to blame, and for someone to lead them out of it.”

Dekenius laughed. “And that’s to be Epirus? That old bastard can’t stay out of the bath house long enough to get anything done.”

“He’s paid up with the right people,” Talus said. “His estates in Argus are extremely lucrative, and he’s been cheating the revenues for years, so he has plenty to pay bribes with. They want him in charge and you on trial.”

“And you’re here to make sure they get it,” Dekenius said. “Really. You really mean to arrest me?”

“I have little choice,” Talus said. “If I refused I would be as outlawed as you, or as poor Decius.”

“What happened to him?” Dekenius said, chewing grapes.

“He fell on his own sword. Twice.” Talus took a long drink. “If I fail to bring you back, it would be better I never returned at all.”

“Then don’t,” Dekenius said. “This is a kingdom ripe for plucking. High Ashem and Meru have fallen to barbarian invasions, and King Menkha is dead. With our combined forces we could carve ourselves an empire here, in the most ancient land in the world.”

“What about the queen?” Talus said. “Or did you seduce her to your side?”

“Not exactly,” Dekenius said, and then a runner came gasping onto the ship. “General Talus! General, there are riots in the streets. Mobs are gathering to attack our positions!”

Talus and Dekenius were both on their feet at once. “Speaking of Arsinue,” Dekenius said darkly. “I believe that will be her coming to greet you.” He turned to Talus. “My men have fortified the palace. Bring your men there and we can hold them off, if we move quickly.”

“No,” Talus said. “We have a good position here, I’ll not risk my men on a march through narrow, unknown streets.”

“The front will be too wide here at the harbor, and there are no fortifications. It won’t be easy to hold,” Dekenius said.

Talus rounded on him. “I command here, not you. If you would stand with me, then stand. Otherwise I will simply call you a prisoner and have you put out of my way. I would rather take you back without shedding the blood of good legionaries.”

“If there is a mob, you may be outmatched,” Dekenius said. “Weight will tell in the battle line.”

“Discipline will tell,” Talus said. “A mob is a mob. If we kill enough of them, then they will break and scatter. I have put down enough revolts to know how it is done.” He strode for the rail. “Now come, we have a battle to fight.”

o0o

The legions had not been given time or orders to build barricades, so they built walls of men. Captains shouted orders as the soldiers formed themselves into their ranks with the smoothness of long practice. They had come prepared for a battle, and so they were already dressed in their armor and their spears and shields ready to hand. They formed a wall of hard-fronted shields, locked edge to edge, men in rows to support each other with their helms pulled down over their faces.

The streets of the city swam with fire, and as it came closer they saw it was masses of people with torches and lanterns – anything that would burn. They saw the firelight glitter on knives and farm implements, and they heard the sound of the mob. A sound like the sea, a wordless rushing that rose and rose until it was a roar.

Two streets converged at the angle of the harbor, and they braced themselves there, shoulder to shoulder. The men in the rear ranks looked behind them at the slack, dark waters of the harbor and felt uneasy, knowing they were in a position where their only choices were to conquer or die. If the line broke, they had nowhere to go.

The wave of people rushed the front line, and a volley of javelins slashed out and brought dozens of them down to the earth, screaming and writhing. The wave barely slowed, and the legionaries drew swords and braced themselves as the mob came raging on and smashed into the line like the crush of the sea.

In an instant battle raged, and soldiers battered at the enemy with their shields hacked and stabbed in with their swords. Their attackers were unarmored and untrained, and they died by the hundreds, carpeting the streets with the dead and wounded. Blood poured over the tops of shields and ran across the ground, flowing over the feet of the men behind the front line, staining the waters of the harbor.

But the crush of bodies was too strong, and not even iron discipline could save the men of the legion. They were forced back by the sheer weight of the assault. They braced their feet on the ground and pushed as one, but the pressure never relented. Men and women all came ravening for them, stabbing with daggers and hay-forks, battering with wooden clubs and shovels. Lamps spilled and soon there were pools of fire underfoot, and in the press men could not escape them and were set aflame, howling as they were burned alive.

But the ships behind the legions at the stone quays were not empty, and archers rushed to the gunwales. A cloud of arrows rose up and fell like rain on the attacking horde, and then another. There were ballistae mounted on the rails, and they launched their heavier bolts into the mass. In the dark it was hard to aim, but the men loosed as quickly as they could, as though their very lives depended on it, which they likely did.

The sudden hail of missiles caused the press of the mob to slacken, and the legionaries caught their breath and pushed forward, chanting so their shoves came in focused waves. They hammered their shields against the crowd and began to push them back. Captains shouted orders and the second ranks moved forward to take the front, allowing the front line men to rest. Arrows fell from the sky and the dead began to pile up in heaps. Smoke from burning bodies blackened the night and stank like a slaughterhouse.

On the deck of the command ship, Dekenius breathed in the welcome smells of battle. He had long ago become accustomed to it, and the heady mix of blood and sweat and shit and scorched flesh was as comfortable as a warm bed to him. He saw the mob was recoiling, but he could not be certain if they would be broken so easily. The commanders were keeping the men in hand, and he was here alone with Talus.

“Your men are doing well,” he said to his old friend. He remembered the campaign in Varna, when the two of them had crushed the revolt like a hammer against an anvil, and had argued laughingly for years over which one was which. It was a good memory. The summer sun over the grassy hills, the storm on the horizon, and this, the stench of battle.

Talus laughed without turning. “My men can handle any mob. I told you. No army is ever outnumbered by a mob.”

“I remember you told me that many years ago,” Dekenius said. He drew the thin, sharp knife he kept hidden in his sleeve and moved quickly. He clamped his hand over Talus’ mouth and cut across his throat swift and deep. One hard push and the older man went over the rail without a sound and struck the water with a splash no one heard in amongst the din of battle. In the dark, no one would ever see him.

He turned and almost collided with Talus’ body slave, and as the man stared wide-eyed, Dekenius stabbed him in the lungs and then threw him after his master. He let the knife go with him, wiped blood from his hands and drew his sword. The battle went on, the men did their duty, and he could command any legion that marched. When they found Talus gone they would turn to him, and he would be the commander they needed. If he could simply force this rabble back, he would have tripled his forces in a single night and done away with one of the only commanders he had to fear.

He glanced down at the waters and shook off remorse. Talus would have dragged him back to Varon for trial and execution, friend or no. There could be no room for sentiment in this kind of game. A man had to be hard to win an empire, and he would win this one.

o0o

Arsinue led the attack on her palace, the towers shining white in the rising moon. At the head of her followers, clad in white silks and carrying a bronze sword like a golden hook, she strode to the front steps of the gate and there she saw the portal shut and barred against her. The tops of the walls bristled with spears, and as she led her army close, arrows began to sheet downward from the battlements. She felt them glance from her skin and she laughed. She had been given power out of night’s ages, and she would use it.

With a cry of fury she ran for the wall and then sprang up the whitewashed stone as swift as a spider. She vaulted over the top and landed among the startled enemy, and she laughed. She struck around her with the heavy brazen blade, denting helms and shearing off arms and heads. They gave back from her, crying out in terror. Those who struck back at her saw their swords glance from her pale skin, and they fled before she could reap them down.

This palace had been her home, and she knew its ways. Swift as a ghost she leaped into the gatehouse and butchered the two men who guarded the mechanism. With her hands she loosed the gates and broke the lever so they could not be closed again, and then she heard her followers cry aloud as they rushed in to take the opening portal.

She burst forth into the dark to stand atop the gate, and from there she watched as the mob crushed through the opening gates and swarmed over the defenders who tried to stand against them. Formations of legionaries were in full retreat, moving like clusters of beetles back toward the high towers of the palace. Arsinue laughed, for she knew that once the outer wall was breached, there would be no way to defend the open, sprawling palace. She knew every way in and every secret passage.

The wind stirred her loose hair, and she held up her blood-painted arms and cried aloud to the night. She heard horns, and then she turned and looked toward the harbor, and there she saw rising pillars of fire.

o0o

The harborfront was heaped with corpses as Dekenius oversaw the final unloading of the horses onto the shore. Talus had only brought fifty cavalrymen, but Dekenius knew the effect of a mounted charge on untrained troops, and he took to the saddle as soon as he could. The legions had forced the mob back to the edge of the plaza, and then Dekenius drew his sword and led the mounted men in a head-on charge. The sound of the hooves was deafening, and then the attack struck home.

They split the mass of the mob like an axe-blade, and the crowd began to melt away with such speed it was hard to believe it. One moment the streets seethed with angry citizens, and the next they were fleeing into the side streets and alleyways, leaving behind their makeshift weapons and a scattering of wounded.

He drew rein, but he knew better than to waste the opportunity. A glance toward the palace showed the arcs of burning signal arrows, and he knew it was under attack as well. He would not abandon his men to whatever the cursed queen had planned for them.

He brandished his sword. “Footmen form up on me, we march for the palace! Fire the street as we go, to smoke out the vermin, and then we will end this revolt once and for all!” Some of the men looked confused to see him, but he knew they would not disobey in the absence of other orders. In battle they would follow, and he would lead them. The war-horns sounded, and the legions began to march.

o0o

Arsinue had the garrison at the palace bottled up, but now the new force was coming and she knew her people would be trapped in between them if she allowed it to happen. Instead she gave commands, and those were obeyed. She flicked blood from her bronze sword and climbed to the top of the gatehouse tower even as he followers scrambled to lie in wait in shadows and behind corners, leaving the street and the courtyard of the palace seemingly empty.

She licked her lips, feeling her teeth growing longer, as though they hungered for blood as she did. The wind brought the smell of smoke, and she saw the city was burning near the harbor. The scent of searing wood and flesh thickened on the air, and she hissed and spat. She would make them all pay for the lives they took and for what they destroyed.

The legion came down the wide street like an iron snake, the tramp of heavy feet and the clangor of shields and armor rising above the clatter of hooves as fifty riders led the vanguard. She saw the figure out in front and felt the rush of bile in her mouth like venom. She knew Dekenius by his bearing, by his arrogance, by the ease with which he led, without fear. She would make him pay a price for that.

He led his men closer, and she almost believed she saw him hesitate, as though he wondered what had become of his enemy. But it was not easy to stop such a force once they were on the move, and he rode onward, sword in hand, until he was beneath where she perched in readiness, like a hawk out of the old kingdom. Arsinue gathered herself like a lioness, and sprang.

o0o

Dekenius felt uneasy, seeing the clear signs of battle from the scattered arrows to the dead bodies and the broken gate. He sniffed, but there was only the smell of death, nothing else. He sensed something waiting, like a beast stalking from the darkness. He rode through the gate, and then a screaming devil struck his horse like a thunderbolt, tearing its head off with a single blow. Blood fountained into the air and the decapitated beast crashed to the ground, legs shivering and twitching. He rolled free and came up, snatching his sword up from the stones, and then he saw Arsinue rise up bloodied with eyes like flame.

All along the length of the marching column, cries went up, and the desperate fighters of the mob boiled out of doorways and narrow alleys to hurl themselves against the legions. Arsinue held up her hooked sword and screamed, showing her long teeth. “I said I would come for you,” she hissed. “I said I would tear out your heart!”

Dekenius felt fear flicker inside him at the sight of her. The place where she had bitten his hand on her deathbed ached at her nearness, and he clenched it into a fist as though it were newly wounded. Here was a woman who no ordinary sword would kill, who would not bleed and die. She had more than mortal strength, and her rage was unquenched.

She lunged at him and he parried her stroke, feeling the force of it shiver his hand and arm. Sparks flew and he fell back, fending her off as her blade chewed notches in his own. The whole plaza before the palace, in between the looming statues and the burning braziers, was consumed by battle. The legions held their lines and reaped down their enemies with sword and spear, while the mob rushed upon them with seemingly endless fury, dragging men down with brute force and tearing them limb from limb.

Dekenius backed away from Arsinue, holding her off with skill alone. The unliving queen had matchless strength, but she was no swordswoman, and she hacked at him with terrible power but little grace. He parried her wild strokes and evaded others, until his breath came fast and ragged, and his sword was toothed like a saw-blade.

He leaped to the pedestal before a great statue of a lioness with a woman’s face, and before it burned a great bowl of oil with a rope-wick hanging over the side. He caught the edge of the bowl with his aching hand and upended it, spilling the thick stuff across the stones. For a moment he thought the oil would not ignite, but then blue flames raced across the surface and the fire blazed up. Dekenius danced back from the spreading pool, and Arsinue screamed as her silks caught fire.

She ripped away her white gown and stood naked before him, the fire reflecting in her eyes as though she were a lioness herself. Dekenius swept his blade through the pool of fire and splashed it toward her, but she leaped aside like a dancer, coiled with unseen power. Flaming oil dripped from his sword as he attacked her, and their blades rang together like bells.

He moved left, trying to force her into the fire, but she was too quick and too strong, and he was struggling for breath. He was not a young man any longer, and he had not fought a duel like this for many years. She was too much for him, and he knew she would have him very soon. The fire was dying, and his sword would not take such punishment much longer.

Even as he thought it, his blade, black with soot and gouged by the battle, snapped in two, and then Arsinue flung aside her own twisted, ruined sword and leaped onto him. Her hands clutched at his armor and her legs locked around his middle. He saw her face before him, pale and beautiful and awful to look on, and then her long teeth were coming for his throat.

Without stopping to think, he caught her by the hair and hurled them both into the pool of burning oil. He heard her scream, and then the heat was all around him, flames blinding him. He rolled on top of her and pressed her down into the fire, and she writhed like a snake, threw him off, and then she was gone. He rolled over again and crawled out of the fire, slapping at himself, tearing off his burning cloak and flinging it away. His armor and clothing had protected him from the flames, but the smoke and fumes were in him, and he staggered, coughing and retching.

Hands caught him and he tried to fight them off before he saw they were his own men. “General! General, they have fallen back!”

He looked and saw it was true – the mob was fading away, leaving only corpses heaped on the clean stone. He spat and shook the men off. “Get inside the palace, quickly. I want the gates barricaded and fortifications manned.” He gasped and spat again, held up an arm. “Help me,” he said. “I have fought hard tonight.”

The men took him and helped him, and he coughed and gasped as the legion streamed through the open gates into the palace. His palace. He had planted his standard here, and he would conquer, or he would die.

o0o

Arsinue was carried to her tomb by the hands of desperate worshipers. They left behind the stench of blood and killing, and all she smelled was her own seared flesh. Pain rippled through her body with every movement, and she moaned in an agony of wrath, knowing she had failed, her rebellion had failed, and now uncounted numbers of her people lay butchered in the night. She had steeled herself for one single uprising, one inferno of blood, and then they would be free. Now she saw that was foolish, and it made her curse herself for not seeing that this would be a long war.

They brought her to her sarcophagus, but the touch of the cool stone brought her no peace. The priests chanted invocations to the dark goddess around her, and she wanted to curse them and tear out their throats, but she knew she was as much to blame for this. She had underestimated Dekenius, and he had escaped her again.

She heard cries, and they dragged in a legionary, his armor stripped away and his face bruised. She rose up, eager, and he fought when he saw her. Arsinue wondered how she must look, if she was blackened by the fire, if she was as much a monster without as she was within. She reached out her arms and they brought the boy to her. She caught him and dragged him down, and though he fought her, she put her fangs against his flesh and bit deep.

The blood gushed out over her, spilling over her hands and her face, over her body. It was so hot it seemed to burn, and at the same time to wash away pain and anger. She glutted herself, feeling strength flow back into her. She would heal, and be renewed, and then she would set her hands to war again, until she was queen once again.