David Farland - Lords of the Seventh Swarm

Karthenor stared down at Cintkin and Kintiniklintit, Lords of the Seventh Swarm. In the center of the dome, the Golden Queen lay in a huge pit, her bloated body filling a remarkable portion of the room. Hundreds of small, white worker dronon scurried around her, constantly feeding her some obnoxious milk, or grooming her body by cleansing it with their mandibles, or hauling off the sickly yellow eggs that dropped from her egg sac every two minutes.

The sheer number of dronon in the room invited a sense of claustrophobia. Yet more intimidating than all this was Kintiniklintit himself, the Lord Escort who stood at the queen’s side, receiving his own ministrations from fawning attendants. Dozens of Vanquishers surrounded him, enormous, deadly creatures with their black carapaces. Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies.

Lord Kintiniklintit dwarfed all his counterparts.

Karthenor nodded toward Kintiniklintit, considering Felph’s treasonous attitude. “Marvelous specimen, isn’t he? He’s one of the first dronon Lords who has been modified through genetic manipulation. He outweighs his rivals by sixty percent. Most of his exoskeleton has been reinforced, so he can withstand greater damage in the arena. I believe if he wanted to, he could seize control of the whole dronon empire. But he’s biding his time, wisely I might add. He’s a young Vanquisher, and is studying the battle techniques of his enemies.”

That was all Karthenor said, but the implied message was this: we can’t conquer the dronon unless a human can survive in the arena with this monster. I’m backing Kintiniklintit.

Felph.did not answer. He just eyed Kintiniklintit with an amused twinkle in his eye. “We share an unhealthy fondness for eugenics, I see.” Felph glanced at Karthenor.

“You’ve met my beautiful daughters. When you find Gallen and Maggie, you’ll meet my son, Zeus. I hope you find him admirable. Sometimes, there is more to a man than meets the eye.”

Thomas heard the threat under those words: don’t back Kintiniklintit until you know the competition.

Lord Karthenor smiled affably. “A son? You have a son?” he waved expansively at Kintiniklintit. “Then we both have sons, for though he was born to the Lords of the Sixth Swarm, Kintiniklintit is as much my son as his father’s.” Thomas was stunned by the admission. “So, our sons will do battle. How amusing.”

“Fortuitous,” Felph said, “I hope.”

“Amusing, whatever the outcome,” Karthenor said. As if to change to a safer topic, he added, “It’s odd, don’t you think, that a species as advanced as the dronon never considered the benefits of genetics till they met man? You’d think any self-aware species would instantly recognize the benefits of genetic manipulation-to cure disease, improve intelligence. But the dronon never saw it as anything more than a curiosity.

“You see, they knew what to do with those who were deformed or sickly. They killed them. Threw them away.”

“The result is that for millions of years, the dronon have been almost free from genetically transmitted ailments. So they never considered the possibility of improving themselves …”

Karthenor waited for Felph to respond. Clearly he wanted to know what “improvements” Lord Felph had made to Zeus. There was a dangerous glimmer in Karthenor’s eyes, a stern tightness about his mouth. If Thomas weren’t wearing a Guide, he’d have warned Felph of the dangers of revealing too much.

Perhaps Lord Felph was smarter than Thomas credited. With a grin, he simply said, “Hmmm … interesting.”

Around the room, a rhythmic, pounding hum reverberated as dronon technicians kept up constant chatter. But suddenly Kintinrklintit began loudly clacking his mouthfingers over his voicedrum; the other dronon quieted.

Karthenor seemed to have no difficulty understanding the dronon’s words. “Ah, it looks as if you have steered us correctly, Felph. For that, I thank you. The dronon located the ship precisely where you said it would be.”

The central screen, which took up nearly a third of one wall, displayed a three-dimensional image of a glowing blue spaceship buried deep beneath the tangle.

“I suspected he’d be there,” Felph said. “I had some work for Gallen in this region.”

“Work?” Karthenor asked.

“Searching for ancient ruins. The natives on this world once stood or, the verge of creating technology. It’s rumored that an ancient city lies there somewhere, but it’s the devil to get to-local predators, you know.”

“Hmmm.” Karthenor shrugged, uninterested in the matter.

Dronon technicians in one sector of the dome suddenly began humming loudly, and Karthenor spun on his heels, watching the monitors they tended. The dronon cleared away from several screens. Klaxons began screaming a warning in the distance, while brilliant blue lights flashed along the floor of the dome.

In space, all around the planet, dronon battleships suddenly began to dive landward. Felph wrung his hands nervously and shouted, “What’s happening? Where are they all going?”

Karthenor studied the ships, his dark eyes darting from monitor to monitor. “The other Swarm Lords know we’ve found Maggie’s ship, and they’re trying to get to her first. They’re sending in Vanquishers-their own search parties.”

Thomas almost grinned. So his niece was a treasure, and all the dronon were going to fight for her, fight for the chance to challenge Gallen O’Day.

Karthenor waved to a screen at the far right. “See, the Lords of the Fourth Swarm are sending down six full Flights-over forty-six thousand Vanquishers. I should have. anticipated this!” he grumbled. “With thousands of worlds at stake, the opportunity to loot mankind’s technology, I should have known!”

As the Lords of the Fourth Swarm launched six battleships toward the planet, the others were forced to deploy their own troops in ever-greater numbers. Sixty thousand Vanquishers from first swarm, ninety from second.

Within minutes, over half a million Vanquishers departed for Ruin. Thomas wished he could talk, at least enough to hurl a curse at the dronon. He hoped the Vanquishers would do more than merely race toward Gallen and Maggie. He hoped they would fight over their prey. At least that way, if Gallen and Maggie died, some dronon would be lost, too.

Thomas could think of nothing to do-no way to help his niece, but to pray silently. “Hide, Maggie. Hide!”

Maggie hurried to keep up, terrified beyond her ability to tell. Distantly, the earth rumbled from the sound of the mistwife flailing in her anger.

Gallen ran ahead of Maggie, following crazy trails, trying to go upward when possible. Time and again as she climbed, Maggie found herself grabbing wildly at ancient roots in the ground, all of them cold as ice and hard as iron.

The landscape had no color. Everything was washed in shades of gray, covered with the same dark molds and slimes.

Dully, almost constantly, she heard wild thrashing, the terrible cries of the mistwife. They were getting closer to it as they climbed.

They came to a cavern filled with iron gray molds, standing like inverted trumpets, which felt like foam rubber beneath her feet. Nothing lived here except for the odd blind insect that skittered off when it felt the ground tremble at their steps. Beyond the occasional trickle of water, she could no longer hear any sounds. The air smelled fetid, full of rot and mold. The stillness, the heavy, oppressive air weighed her down, made her feel as if she would suffocate.

For nearly two kilometers, they found no sign of sfuz but for a pair of prints in the humus, crossing their path. “A young sfuz,” he said. Maggie was no expert tracker, but even she could see detritus filling the prints; the edges around the tracks had crumbled. The sfuz that made them could not have passed this way within weeks or months. Still, it was a good sign. A juvenile had passed this way, exploring the tangle, hunting.