Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Now it was time, Terril thought to himself, sickened by the thought. The stench of a thousand clawsp castles—the prospect made him want to retch. But as he soared upward to survey the world’s most beautiful city, he decided it was worth it. Already he could smell the battle scent of his own purple shell.

He plummeted toward the first large concentration of clawsp castles, even as the army wound their way across the bridge and onto the northern road.

Once started, he worked quickly, circling the outer edge of the city first, then spiraling toward its center.

The insect army mustered—and it was terrible to behold.

They numbered in the millions, and the sinister drone of their wings drew Chaon eyes to the sky in terror.

They moved in a single, gigantic mass, their shining shells glistening in the sunlight as if a storm cloud had donned a garment bespangled with violet sequins. The swarm’s shadow raced across the map of the city of Chaomonous, blotting out the sun. It held the shape of an enormous spear point, aimed at the city’s heart.

It was Maliff, the falconer, who first spotted the attacking horde. He knew immediately what it was.

Maliff was bored by people and he had a speech problem, but he did stay in touch with current events.

“Crawsps!” he screamed in horror. “There’s sugar-crawsps upon us!” The young falcon he’d been carrying suddenly found itself clutched to Maliff’s protective bosom, as the falconer dove through the door of the mews and slammed it shut behind him. He was too late. Already the clawsps were streaming in the windows.

They poured down the central spiral stairway of the castle like purple wine whirling down a funnel. They gushed out and down every branching hallway, filling the roomy palace completely in a matter of moments. Slammed doors slowed them momentarily, but couldn’t stop them. They wiggled through keyholes and cracks under the doors, and raced fanatically onward. They searched for bodies to swarm.

They found many huddled together in a corner of the servants quarters. Quickly they applied themselves to coating the outer layer of people with their flesh-eating chemical wastes. It was slow going, however, for the bodies of those on the outside protected those huddled deeper in the pile. It was small comfort, perhaps, to smother to death, rather than to bum, but there was a chance a few might survive.

Those caught in the hallways stood little chance at all. A few. however, made a valiant effort. One of these was the short, portly figure of Yona Parmi. He was on his way up the great spiral to the upper levels when the assault began. He threw his head back and stared upward as the huge hole in the palace roof closed with a rush of wings. Instinctively he ducked his head and ran, but not toward his own rooms.

He ran instead toward the royal suite—and Danyilyn.

They had been unable to dissuade Gerrig from donning the golden armor—although the huge actor had found it difficult to find any that would fit him. They were bidding him good-bye when the strange summons had come for Danyilyn to report to the queen. Things had moved quickly after that—the army had nearly marched without Gerrig, but he had caught up. Yona had watched the queen depart, but Danyilyn had not yet returned. Now he raced to her side. He had no illusions about the next few minutes. Danyilyn was all the family he had. He would face death beside her.

He got to the door, but not inside it. They were around him, a stinking, burning tide. Parmi fought back.

He batted the air and stomped his feet, and screamed more in rage than in pain. He saw a hundred tiny insects struggling to squirm under the door, and made the last decision of his life. He dropped to the floor on top of them, crushing these and preventing others from reaching the crack. Then with his last effort he raised his clawsp-coated right hand and plugged the keyhole with his little finger. It was a victory, of sorts. Yona Parmi died a victor.

Bronwynn was in conference with Kherda and the House when it started. She was the first to know, for the Imperial House was in the midst of a sentence when it broke off in a horrible scream.

“What is it?” Bronwynn demanded, and Kherda, who couldn’t understand a thing the castle said, nevertheless turned white at the look on her face.

—Magic attack! the Imperial House wailed. Must go! Must return to the Power! Use your gift!

After a long shuddery wail, the castle was quiet once more. Only then could they hear the human screams and the droning that had been growing insidiously louder. There was much shouting and thumping outside the door, and through all this the queen and her Prime Minister gazed at one another in shock. Then a half dozen clawsps not wholly crushed by Yona’s self-sacrifice wiggled under the door and shot up toward them.

Everything came together in an instant—the clawsps, the killing of Jagd, the warnings, and the castle’s last speech. She remembered a quiet campfire in the Great North Fir with Rosha and Pelmen. The two men had traded stories about people she’d thought then were mythical, but knew, now, were real. This was Terril the twin-killer—the clawsp. Yona Parmi had been right.

“No!” she shouted at the incoming clawsps and she threw up her hand to stop them. From her palm issued a golden globe of flame.

Kherda fainted. The clawsps fried. And Bronwynn knew, now, she was a shaper. Any minute she expected to discover her altershape and she looked forward to that revelation with a fierce excitement.

That didn’t deflect her from her task, however. She raced to the door, threw it open—and burned a hundred-thousand insects from the hallway. The second ball of flame was much larger than the first.

Terril felt it. Although he wasn’t in the hallway, nor even in that section of the castle, he felt it—another shaper. The moment he did, he fled for the hole in the roof and just missed being cremated by the third ball of fire, which was the largest of all. This exploded in the midst of the castle’s garden, scorching every leaf and withering each blade of grass. But it also crushed the clawsp attack. A million burned insects covered the garden floor like violet snow. The rest were gone.

“We’d better go,” Mar-Yilot interrupted, more harshly than necessary.

Kam and Rosha stopped laughing and looked at the woman in surprise. Then Kam gave his young friend a wry smile and shrugged. “She’s right, of course.” He twisted around to face the sorceress in order to explain, “It’s just that I’ve not seen the lad since this time last year, and we still have some catching up to do. Ah, Rosha. There’s never enough time.”

“There’s a remedy for that,” Mar-Yilot snorted. “And you know what it is.”

Kam grinned, and ran his fingers through his tight yellow curls. “Can’t do it, dear lady. Much as I’d like to visit that fabled island of yours and pocket a few diamonds for myself, I need to stay here.” He shoved an empty breakfast platter away and called toward the kitchen for someone to come and get it.

Mar-Yilot frowned. “It’s only a matter of time before Flayh sends his thugs down the road to crush you—”

“Crush me!” Kam barked. “Mar-Yilot, you are a dear friend and a marvelous shaper, but you certainly do exaggerate. The House of Kam has sat here at the foot of the High Plateau for centuries and witnessed a score of armies descending the cliff to make war against it. Why, to ease their boredom in times of peace, the kings of Ngandib used to lay siege to this castle just for practice! But never has it fallen. Not once have they even breached a single wall! No, my Lady, you hurry on, if you feel you must.

But don’t fret about us. Kam can care for itself.”