David Farland - Lords of the Seventh Swarm

Maggie’s heart pounded. So Gallen had met the dronon at last, down here in the tangle.

The bears held back, but Maggie had to enter, had to know how Gallen had fared.

Maggie held her light aloft. She could not see the roof of this chamber, it was so high, but ahead-encircled by dozens of dead Vanquishers, she could see a human figure lying facedown in the dirt. Even as she held the light up, the man raised up feebly, head lolling, and she saw a pale face, bruised and bloody, the golden hair.

“Gallen!” Orick shouted, and the bear bounded forward, leapt over the corpses of Vanquishers.

Gallen looked up, his long golden hair falling down around his face. With a start, Maggie saw that his mantle was missing. His eyes were black, his nose and chin covered with dried blood. He struggled to raise his head, to push himself off the ground. His mouth was swollen, teeth knocked out.

Unsteadily, he gasped, “Or-Or-Go back!”

Gallen collapsed, and Maggie rushed to him, choking back her horror. Tears streamed from her eyes. As she neared, she looked down at his right leg. It was mangled, covered in blood, and a stout chain held it pegged to the ground.

Suddenly light blared around her, and Maggie raised her pistol, tried to aim, but the lights blinded her. On the far side of the cavern, a dronon voice clicked, a translator buzzed.

“Welcome, Maggie Flynn, O great and honored Golden Queen. We bring you greetings and a challenge from Cintkin and Kintiniklintit, Lords of the Seventh Swarm.”

High up, all around, wings buzzed, and with the movement Maggie saw dronon Vanquishers by the score, clinging to the ceiling, ready to drop. But where was Zeus?

Then she knew. Then she knew death had come. With her husband and protector broken at her feet, the Lords of Seventh Swarm threatening. She raised her gun, tempted to shoot the dronon, but there were so many, so many, and she knew if she opened fire on them, she wouldn’t just be committing suicide, she’d be killing her friends, Orick and Tallea.

Silently, she screamed, No!

Thomas Flynn stalked behind Lord Felph, following a trail of corpses through the tangle. Between the boles of vast trees, smoke hung in the air in iridescent wisps, reflecting the light of Thomas’s glow globe.

The air was remarkably cool despite the smoke. The fighting had died down two hours ago, yet Felph and Thomas often passed roving patrols of Vanquishers who still hunted for Maggie and Gallen.

Though Felph hurried, his journey through Teeawah took longer than anticipated. He’d pinpointed the course he wanted to follow, using a map provided by the dronon, but following the precise route proved impossible. The Vanquishers simply flew when they wanted to travel up or down, so Felph ended up traveling twice the distance as the Vanquishers to reach the ancient city.

On the trail in, they passed the corpses of fantastic monsters-the purple-black sfuz with their thin legs, the long pale corpse of a mistwife, some previously undiscovered creature Thomas called a troll -for it had greenish skin and hair that looked like roots, all with a nose at least two feet long. Dronon dead littered the path in places, primarily asphyxiated by the flames thrown by their own incendiary rifles. Felph robbed their corpses of pulp guns, gave a spare to Thomas.

Only once did they spot a sfuz-a frantic creature so busy dragging a Vanquisher’s corpse it did not notice Felph till he shot it. Thomas felt surprised at how the sfuz had not seen them, for they had not hidden their light. Perhaps in this battle, with its massive carnage on both sides, the mind of this poor wretched beast had snapped.

In its death throes, the sfuz protectively wrapped four legs around its head. Thomas gazed deep into its indigo eyes. Fires had burned here. Three spots in the turf still smoldered from incendiary fires, trailing thin white plumes of smoke.

Felph halted, watching the sfuz, his leg propped up on the thorax of a dead Vanquisher. He sniffed.

“How long have you been working for Karthenor?” Felph asked.

Thomas could not answer. Karthenor had ordered Thomas to be silent earlier in the morning. Thomas’s Guide would not recognize Felph’s request.

“Are you a slave, fresh captured?” Felph asked.

Thomas nodded.

Felph considered. “Do you think a man should work for what he gets, or just take it? Receive reward without sweat?”

Thomas shook his head no.

Felph watched Thomas thoughtfully. “Me neither.”

Thomas wondered if Felph planned to free him. Perhaps so, but if he did, he wasn’t saying. Rather forcefully Felph said, “I don’t think it should happen. In fact, I don’t believe it ever does. Remember, Thomas, everything has its price. Everything. Even you. Karthenor believes he has captured a prize. But you will cost him. It is a law of nature, and nature will not be violated.”

Aye, everything has a cost , Thomas silently agreed , but my ignorance cost me more than it’s worth. Give me a hand, man. If you removed this Guide, I’d write a song to immortalize the deed!

Felph studied Thomas’s eyes. Go on, man, save me! You can read everything I want to say from my eyes.

“Indeed,” Felph said, “everything has a price. Even compassion. I would free you if I could. I have the tools in my palace. But I cannot do so now. Perhaps I will never be in a position to do so. But remember, my friend, you are free if you so desire to be. Karthenor may force you to do his will-his Guide might control your actions even past the moment when your brain ceases to function-but so long as you do not let his will supplant yours, you are always free.

Lord Felph stroked his thin beard, a gesture that somehow made him look much older, then he turned away and headed down the trail, as if he’d decided to let Thomas be.

Thomas despaired. Freedom of thought was not much at all. Freedom of thought was an itch, begging to be scratched. And Thomas wondered if the moment would come when Karthenor’s will would supplant his own.

We two are too much alike , Thomas realized. With very little difficulty, he and I could be the same man.

Felph led the way deeper into the tangle. Their path led past several dozen dead sfuz, up a steep incline where rainwater washed down, making a thin stream that ran with green and purple blood.

The time of day or night did not matter, though Thomas felt weary. The interminable darkness told his body to rest despite the fact Thomas had been awake for only ten hours that day.

All around, the hoary shadows of the tangle assaulted him, the tatters of roots hanging from above, the musky mineral scent of mold and rot, the constant dripping. The scenery seemed appropriate for a nightmare, and every two hundred meters they chanced on some new horror, some new site of a slaughter, until at long last they trudged up a path and came to the golden cliffs of Teeawah.

There holes opened in the rock like giant eyes. Smoke curled out from them, and from the openings hung the bodies of sfuz, chopped in half by gunfire.

Lord Felph jogged up to the holes, raising his glow globe over his head, peering into the dark recesses of the lair. At one point, he held up the light, then pointed his gun into the shadows and fired-an almost nonchalant gesture. From inside the cave, a shrill whistle erupted, the death cry of a sfuz.

“Here is a passage!” Felph shouted. “Back behind these bodies.” He jumped up into the oval opening, climbed in. For one second Thomas saw the opening lit from inside. Felph seemed to be the pupil of a great burning eye, then the image faded as Felph hurried inside.

Thomas came up, surveyed the inside of the fortress. The bodies of a dozen sfuz sprawled on the floor, wrapped in their own arms and legs. These did not ooze blood. They’d been asphyxiated.