David Farland - Lords of the Seventh Swarm

“Gladly,” Karthenor said, and he fumbled to switch on the translator pinned to his robe.

“Tell them,” Maggie said, recalling the words to the ancient dronon ritual, and she shouted, “You are my food, nothing more! This land is mine. All land is mine! A Great Queen comes among you. Prostrate yourselves in adoration. Prepare to do battle!”

She yelled the words so Karthenor would not say them. The translator on his lapel shouted the words in dronon, so their clicking tones carried over the field.

To her astonishment, Lord Kintiniklintit halted and bowed to her, crossing his battle arms before him in proper obeisance.

It was an unnecessary gesture, a gallant gesture. She didn’t deserve it. By dronon custom, Maggie had dishonored her entire swarm. No Golden Queen ever refused a challenge. None dared run from battle. The dronon were uncertain how to handle such behavior, thinking it madness. And on dronon, the mad were destroyed without remorse.

Maggie smiled at this Lord Escort, the greatest of all Vanquishers. Ah, I like this one , Maggie found herself thinking.

She stepped forward, shouting the ritual, “I am Maggie O’Day, Golden Queen of the Sixth Swarm. For five months I’ve ruled my swarm. Our children shall eat your corpses! Our Vanquishers shall claim your domain. Your royal children shall fertilize our fields! Your hive shall submit to us!”

Maggie shook with rage. In her nightmares, in her dreams about this confrontation, she’d never imagined being angry. But they were going to kill her, damn them!

“Your Golden Queen will submit to inspection!” she shouted.

Cintkin, Queen of the Seventh Swarm, crossed her front arms in obeisance and bowed. Maggie made a great show of walking to her so the white workers, like fat lice huddling in her shadow, scurried away.

Maggie searched the queen’s carapace, looking for scars or wounds, anything to give her an excuse to back out of this fight.

Though she played the bold one, her eyes kept straying to the dronon surrounding the fields, searching for Orickor, or anyone who might save her. Maggie looked behind her to Gallen, and involuntarily she gasped. Gallen had recognized their predicament and pushed himself to a crouching posture: He tried to stand on his good leg, precariously balancing.

Maggie turned and ran back to him, held him so he wouldn’t topple. The wind blew through his long blond hair, and Gallen balanced himself by leaning against her. It took all his strength. He grunted in pain, and his lower lip trembled.

Maggie’s heart pounded, her mouth felt dry. She looked at Gallen, at his lips purpled and bruised, and wanted to kiss him one last time, but dared not. Somehow it would be demeaning to share that one last intimacy with the dronon.

“Are you ready?” she asked Gallen.

“Yesh,” he said through swollen lips.

Maggie nodded, mind numb, and called to the dronon.

“I find your Golden Queen worthy. Let the battle begin!”

She paused as Karthenor’s translators relayed her message. She expected Lord Kintiniklintit to attack immediately.

But Karthenor’s eyes gleamed, and he shouted, “Wait! Lord Kintiniklintit must first inspect Maggie O’Day, to find if she is worthy.” Karthenor did not even try to hide the gloating tone of his voice. He stared at Maggie. Her heart pounded.

Don’t make me do this , she whined within herself. Don’t do this to me.

But Lord Kintiniklintit parroted Karthenor’ s sentiment.

“I demand right of inspection on this Golden Queen.” She did not blame the Lord Escort. He had no way to know what he asked. He didn’t understand human modesty, didn’t know the humiliation his “inspection” would cause.

The Lord Vanquisher stepped forward to remove her clothes, to inspect Maggie’s flesh for signs of scars, for any impurity that would make her unworthy to participate in combat. It was the one last rite, the way for her to prove she was truly the Golden Queen of her hive and had not lost her title.

But as the Lord Kintiniklintit approached, Karthenor stepped forward and smirked. “I’ll help you disrobe her, My Lord.”

Lord Kintiniklintit really had no gentle means of disrobing Maggie. She’d have been forced to do it herself, but as Karthenor stepped forward and grabbed her tunic, ripping it off so he exposed her breasts, Gallen came alive at Maggie’s side.

With blinding speed Gallen slammed a fist into Karthenor’s throat. Gallen’s black battle gloves, with hardened selenium chips at the knuckle of each finger, made the blow deadly.

The Lord of Aberlains staggered back, eyes flying open wide, gasping, and clutched his throat. The blow had landed squarely on his esophagus; the instant swelling of his trachea began the slow work of strangling Karthenor.

He dropped to one knee, gagging and retching, lips turning blue as his life ebbed, then recognized his dilemma.

He fumbled inside his robe, tried to pull a pistol.

Lord Kintiniklintit saw the move, slapped the human with the back of one great battle arm, dashing him backward on the ground some five meters off.

There, Karthenor lay choking until his miserable life ended.

Rage seemed to rouse Gallen. He pulled off his own pack, pulled out his translator, put it on his own lapel, then glared up at Lord Kintiniklintit.

“You object to the examination?” Lord Kintiniklintit asked Gallen. “This is your right, but in doing so, you relinquish your swarm.”

Maggie drew a breath in surprise. She wanted nothing more than to relinquish her right to control of the Sixth Swarm. She’d sought to escape her role as its leader ever since she’d won the position. But if she relinquished leadership, Kintiniklintit could simply kill her without a fight. That’s what dronon did to human leaders who succumbed. They threw them away.

But perhaps Kintiniklintit was different. Perhaps he would merely mark her, give her back her life. He seemed a noble sort.

And yet, and yet, even if he offered that boon, Maggie could not accept it. To do so would be to betray mankind.

She could not admit defeat. She needed to let the dronon know, to make them understand, that mankind would never suffer their domination.

Gallen said it for her. “No, you have the right of inspection, but I won’t let men like Karthenor touch Maggie. He was not worthy to touch the Golden. It was not his place.”

“Agreed,” Lord Kintiniklintit clicked.

The great Vanquisher stepped forward, and Gallen unfastened the back of Maggie’s dress, pulled it away for the dronon to see. Maggie wished she had some scar, some recent cut. A blemish, even the smallest one, might save her life. But her skin was flawless.

Gallen worked his way around, struggling to keep his balance on one leg, revealing her bit by bit to the Lord Escort, until Lord Kintiniklintit had verified her worthiness.

“I find this Golden Queen to be without blemish,” Lord Kintiniklintit said at last. “I find her worthy.”

It was done. There was nothing to do now but fight. Maggie still wore Gallen’s mantle, wondered if she should give it back, if he could put up any fight; he made no move to take it.

Lord Kintiniklintit backed away. He held his arms in the air, in sign of the temporary truce that would end only seconds from now, when the battle began.

Gallen didn’t move, stood leaning against Maggie, looking into her face, holding her right hand with his left. In his right hand he held up a scrap of her torn dress. She felt the warmth of his breath on her neck. He bowed his head; some of the long hairs of his head tickled her shoulders.

She looked into his blue eyes; he stared through a mask of bruises; she imagined from his eyes he would not fight, and she’d not fight. Instead, they’d die like this, holding each other.