David Farland: Lords of the Seventh Swarm

When Thomas Flynn deserted his niece in her hour of need, he did it with the best intentions. Oh, he knew Maggie would damn him for the deed and curse him till the day he died-and beyond. But he’d won the contempt of better people. So he deserted her.

The truth was that, though Gallen and Maggie determined to run off to Tremonthin to fight the Inhuman, Thomas knew he shouldn’t go. He felt a deep warning in his heart-“It’s a hero they want, someone to brandish a sword, not a minstrel with an overlarge gut and gaudy attire.” Some folks might ascribe such misgivings to cowardice, but Thomas held with certain sects of priests who would call it “inspiration.” You should always listen to that inner voice, they’d say, and this time Thomas agreed.

He’d never been one to face danger. A good pair of legs and a keen eye for the nearest thicket could extricate a man from most situations. So when Gallen told Thomas that he had to come to Tremonthin with him and Maggie, Thomas’s first inclination, and last, was to run.

As he packed his bags, he wondered if he was doing right. He didn’t understand life here on Fale. He’d seen wondrous things-men flying on mechanical wings, doors that let you walk from one world to another. But this world held dangers as great as its wonders.

So far, Thomas hadn’t met the dronon monsters. His kin on Tihrglas thought them to be demons. But Thomas knew better. He understood why the dronon sought to conquer mankind. Folks here had more food than they could eat, comfortable homes, the promise of lives extended for thousands of years. Thomas understood why the dronon would want to seize these things.

But he couldn’t understand why some humans sympathized with the dronon. As he slipped from his room, Thomas considered the rose they’d found outside Maggie’s room a few hours ago-a delicate thing, lustrous as pearl until the petals on it began spinning like a pinwheel, slicing open the Lord Mayor of Toohkansay. An odd trap that Maggie’s enemies had left for her.

’Tis a strange and dangerous world , Thomas told himself as he slipped down the city’s darkened corridors. I don’t know what dangers to watch for, much less how to fight them. If I go with Gallen to Tremonthin, I’ll be a burden. I can’t hobble so far and fast as I used to.

He imagined how Maggie would curse him when she found that he’d run out. She’d say he only thought of himself, that he was a mercenary. Well, damn her for her judgments. At fifty years of age, Thomas knew that “Few vices will destroy a man quicker than the craving to own all virtues.”

I’m doing what’s best-not just best for me, best for Maggie and Gallen , Thomas told himself. He met some guards in the corridor who had been posted to protect him.

One tall, wiry man who cradled a rifle, asked Thomas, “Would you like an escort?”

Thomas said, “No, I’m just after a stroll in the moonlight, and a little fooling about on the mandolin.” Thomas patted his instrument cases as if they were lovers, then passed down the corridor, dimly lit with fixtures that shone from the ceiling like jewels. He’d left his mandolin in his room and filled the case with spare clothes. He’d kept his lute for sentimental reasons, but neither instrument was valuable. His mantle-the headpiece he wore that held knowledge of all things musical-told him that far better instruments could easily be purchased.

On his way out of Toohkansay, Thomas stopped at the cantina, which had emptied at this time of night of everyone but the golden serving droids who scampered about, preparing the morning meal. Since the food was both free and excellent, Thomas took enough for several days-bread and cheese, wine, ham, chicken, and fruit. Then Thomas ambled outside and stood in the open, staring over the river.

The night was warm; the stars in the sky burned with unnatural brightness. Maggie had said it was because they were so close here. Thomas didn’t quite understand such talk. Something about the galactic center. Out on the edge of the river, bullfrogs croaked from the rushes, competing with soft music that played from speakers beside him.

It truly was a lovely night, a great night for travel, but Thomas would not walk. Gallen and Orick were excellent trackers, so Thomas cast his eyes about, searching for a vehicle of some sort, or an animal to ride.

At the docks, just beneath the cantina, lay some small boats shaped like white swans, with wings spread wide.

Thomas carried his bags to the docks, stepped into the nearest boat, then looked for the ties that held it to the dock. He couldn’t see any, and he attributed that failing to the poor light. The shadows made it painfully dark.

By accident, Thomas pushed his hand against the dock; the boat drifted a few feet into the depths.

He cast his eyes about for oars; found none.

So he sat in the boat, fuming. No oars, he thought. No damned oars. Nothing to row with but his mandolin case. True, I could use my lute, it would make a better oar, but I dare not ruin it .

He considered just drifting the river, but as the boat drew away from the dock, it just sat, as stationary as if it wallowed on the beach.

“Damn,” he cursed, “how am I supposed to go anywhere?” The head of the swan boat turned; its dark eyes blinked, startling Thomas. He leapt back, tripping over his seat.

“Where would you like to go?” the swan asked. “I’ll take you.”

Thomas didn’t know what to answer. He stammered, “Downstream.” The swan boat moved. Thomas felt its legs kick, paddling, as if it were a living creature.

Thomas rested on the cushioned seats and watched the stars burn overhead. The boat moved slowly. It was a pleasure craft. Thomas found himself fighting tiredness as the boat carried him away.

He roused a little when distant sirens wailed back at the city; he’d gone far downriver. He’d never before heard a siren, did not know that it warned of a dronon invasion. He simply wondered why someone played such loud squawking horns at night; he closed his eyes and slept.

When he woke, the boat was still heading downstream. Thomas judged he’d gone far enough. He planned to wait three days until Gallen had left the planet, hide in some thicket.

Strange trees with long drooping stems and dark trunks lined the river. Thomas watched till a wide tributary opened between trees, then told the swan to go in. The swan swam up a small river for a mile, then Thomas set camp and ate a heavy breakfast, drank half a bottle of wine.

The next two days came warm and sunny, the nights pleasant; Thomas felt at peace. After the first day, when Gallen didn’t catch him, Thomas suspected his nephew and niece had left Fale. By the third day he felt certain of it.

On that day he’d have taken the swan back to Toohkansay, but instead, while exploring the shoreline, he found a trail by the river, a graveled walk. There, he sat on the banks and played his lute. There he met the Lady Wimisonne, a woman past her prime who enjoyed Thomas’s company so much that he found himself sharing her bed for the next month.

From her he learned of the invasion, of the dronon’s search for Gallen and Maggie. During days “The Lady” worked in town. To keep Thomas entertained, she showed him how to run the holo.

From it, Thomas learned more about the dronon than he’d ever wanted to know: On the first night of the invasion, while Thomas floated lazily down the river, a human Lord Protector had challenged the to a ceremony called “Right of Charn,” in which the man fought the dronon in an effort to turn them back from the planet.

It was then that mankind got its first glimpse of the-the Golden Queen Cintkin and her Lord Escort Kintiniklintit.