“Oh aye?” Tiarnach said. “And I’ll just sit up here freezing my arse off keeping watch over this big lump o’ orc, will I?”
“Not at all,” Lorimer replied. “She’s staying here to keep an eye on you.”
Amogg laughed. “Unnatural thing or not, I grow to like you, human with claws and fangs. Not as arrogant now your lands have been taken from you. Maybe now you understand orcs a little better. In past you made me want to kiss your skull with my axe.”
Lorimer scowled and stalked away, muttering vile obscenities he was too well-mannered to fully air.
Maeven checked the straps holding the pack on her back in place. “We need to go in quick and quiet. If we need help in a mass brawl, we will call for your aid.”
“How will we know?” Amogg growled. “Cannot see you in there.”
“Probably hear the screaming,” Tiarnach said, thumping his arse down on a flat rock.
Maeven ignored him. “Any sorcerer worth the name can cast whispers over a short distance. My voice will reach your ears as soon as we are out. Should anything go wrong, meet us at that barge. It is the quickest escape to the sea and Verena.”
Lorimer looked at her sharply. “And do any of us know how to sail a barge?”
Silence.
“I will sail,” Amogg stated. “Cannot be hard. River goes to sea. Barge is made of wood. Wood floats. Barge goes to sea.” She frowned and shook her head like the rest were all idiots.
“Maybe,” Tiarnach said, laughing. “But do orcs float? This big lump of a vampire swims like a rock.”
Lorimer’s fangs lengthened as he glared at Tiarnach, a look that suggested to all that the red-headed fool’s throat was looking increasingly inviting, and that he was just another hot meal.
“Hopefully it will not come to that,” Maeven snapped. With that she began descending to the streets of Hive and Lorimer happily went with her, glad not to suffer Tiarnach’s presence any longer.
They entered the ramshackle outskirts of the town, a maze of stone and wood where only the barred doors and shutters seemed to be in a good state of repair. Stone was crumbling and wood riddled with rot, roof slates cracked and covered in moss. A ditch ran down the middle of the street, meltwaters carrying off the scum of sewage. A human corpse floated downstream, a dozen knife wounds in the back.
Lorimer scowled at the crust of horse and human manure that now coated his boots. “Where exactly are we heading?”
“To the edge of the fortress,” Maeven said, picking her way through the filth that littered the street.
There were no old people in Hive, and the few grubby children stayed well clear of strangers. As they walked deeper into the town, outcast hivers became more frequent on the streets. They were the size of small humans, but with hard carapace, antennae, mandibles and compound eyes, and unlike their smaller kin, had sacrificed a pair of legs to gain arms and tool-using hands.
Some were chittering wrecks with missing eyes, legs or antennae, making them even more hideous to the human eye. Most appeared drunk on sweet-smelling mead, the dewy bladders of alcohol attached to their bodies with sticky balls of spit. Their antennae waved madly as they chirped away to themselves and tried to dig holes right in the middle of the street. Passing humans booted them off the road but the hardy ant-people barely noticed.
Maeven made her way to the empty doorway of one of the smaller conical buildings that circled the huge fortress. Instead of lime mortar, the stone blocks were stuck together with some sort of hardened glue, likely hiver-spit. She pulled a small vial of cloudy liquid from a pouch on her belt, dabbed it on her hand and then did the same to Lorimer.
His nostrils quivered. “What is that reek?”
Maeven sniffed but her human nose detected nothing. “Scent-marking,” she said. “This is how hivers communicate with each other. Best not to ask where it comes from.” With that she stepped through the doorway.
Lorimer was forced to stoop to pass through the low entrance. Inside was a single large chamber, the walls draped with human textiles in a variety of colours that were almost complementary. A dish of oil steamed over a lit candle, its too-pungent fragrance filling the room. A low table was set with dinner plates and fresh flowers arranged in a fine porcelain vase, all illuminated by an ornate silver candelabra in the centre. Cushions lay heaped either side of the table, unoccupied.
Lorimer nodded in appreciation. “Well, at least somebody in this town aspires to possess a measure of taste.”
A scuffing from above drew their eyes to the black eyes and antennae that had been watching them from the ceiling. “Welcome, friends,” it said in a clicking voice that somehow managed to imitate human tongue.
Lorimer resisted the urge to form his claws as a hiver twice the size of any other he’d seen scuttled down the wall to them. Its sharp mandibles were as long as Lorimer’s forearm and clearly capable of tearing a human in two. A single diaphanous wing was folded across its back, the other side bearing a ragged, chewed stump.
It tilted its head, studying them, antennae quivering. Lorimer realised that even giant ants could look disappointed. “Maeven,” it said. “This Queen in Waiting is not happy to see you. Please leave.”
“Not even the bloody ants like you,” Lorimer said, grinning.
Maeven glared at him and then took a deep breath, “Your Highness, I have not come to exchange pointless pleasantries; I am here for Jerak Hyden.”
The hiver stilled. “You agree to my terms?”
She grimaced. “Is there nothing else you will accept?”
The hiver said nothing.
Maeven admitted defeat. “I accept your terms. We will kill the current queen of Hive for you.”
Lorimer threw his hands up. “Oh, superb! I knew accompanying you would bring me only woe. Is this madness really the only solution?”
The tattoo writhed across her cheek. “What are a few bugs to the likes of the great Lorimer Felle? Besides, we won’t stand any chance of finding him without her help.”
He snarled and resisted ripping her heart out, as she had done to his all those years ago. “The sooner we return to retake Fade’s Reach the better. Where is this bug queen? And do we require the aid of Amogg and Tiarnach?”
The necromancer shook her head. “Amogg won’t fit in hiver tunnels, and as for Tiarnach… I think we can do without him messing it up.”
The hiver chirped, almost like a laugh. “Come. Come. Follow. The way has been prepared. Slay the tainted queen and I will rule. Then the human designated Jerak Hyden will be yours.” She shoved the table to one side and began to dig, legs spraying earth carelessly over fine cloth and cushions set out on show.
Eventually she uncovered a huge stone slab below the dwelling. Lorimer shoved it open with his foot – or at least he tried to. It shifted only slightly. He grunted and tried harder, grimacing as the stone slowly ground back to reveal a dark pit.
The Queen in Waiting hissed in annoyance, set her head down and flipped the huge stone slab upright with ease, and held it between her antennae. “Enter, enter.”
Lorimer blinked, then nodded in admiration. Maeven removed a ring from a pouch and muttered over it until it glowed an eerie shade of emerald, then slipped it over a finger. She pulled the obsidian knife from her pack and steeled herself for a fight. They dropped into the crude tunnel beneath, the warm air stale and musty. The hiver dropped in after them and eased the slab back into place, cutting off any light from outside.
“I am impressed by your strength,” Lorimer said. “It becomes obvious why the local humans were not successful in exterminating you.”
The hiver squirted a sweet scent against the wall, then began leading them down the tunnel.
“I think she likes you,” Maeven said.
“What is not to like?” he replied.
They clambered right, up, and then back down through a maze of featureless black chambers and identical narrow tunnels, already completely lost.
“You see now why I didn’
t fancy blindly wandering these tunnels alone,” Maeven whispered. “Imagine fighting off an army of hivers without a guide through this place.”
He nodded in agreement. “Were I mortal, I would be most worried.”
Landgrave Daryn and the Allstane levy were encamped an hour’s hike around the mountain from Hive, hundreds of tents sprawling across a rocky plateau hidden from prying eyes by sheer cliffs on three sides. Men sparred and drilled to hone their skills.
His estate gamekeeper approached the command tent where Daryn sat at a folding table, silver goblet of red wine in hand. The leather-faced outdoorsman and his subordinates made for fine scouts, though now they stalked human prey rather than deer. Many of his levy had been far less competent: armed farmers and bakers wanting to shiver around their fires, grumbling, cloaks pulled tight to keep out the wind. Their previous training amounted to only two weeks a year mandatory service, as stipulated in Empire law for all men over the age of thirteen. At least he had been able to procure them decent armour and weapons, and the Falcon Prince’s personal interest in this mission had lit fires of faith and fear under them. The two hundred veterans, provided by his lord, kept to themselves and did not complain, and the acolytes were too absorbed in prayer to cause any trouble.
Daryn felt the cold not at all. He was a blessed being in his Goddess’ sight and was now above such mortal weakness. Perhaps one day she would see fit to bestow the full power of a holy knight upon him.
“My lord,” a grizzled scout said, dropping to one knee before the landgrave. “Two of the enemy you asked us to keep an eye out for have entered a hiver hut and, uh, they didn’t come back out. I went in myself an’ found it deserted, ’cept for what looks like an entrance to a secret tunnel beneath. I couldn’t shift the huge slab of stone though.”
Daryn’s hand dropped to the hilt of his arming sword. “Never mind the details, man, who did you see enter?” Sir Orwin and Sir Arral moved up to flank him, both already clad in full harness and helms, armoured in steel and faith. Their unblinking stares through lowered visors made the scout’s forehead bead with sweat.
“The scarred sorceress and the vampire,” he replied. “They was acting all stealthy like, with hoods up and such. Had a few of my lads loiter outside the taverns in town and one sent word they spotted the scum.”
Daryn turned to his inquisitors. “Options?”
“It may be that they are in league with the monstrous denizens of this cesspit,” Sir Orwin advised.
“Hmm, then do we wait? Or do we attack? With two holy knights at my side who could possibly resist us?” Daryn burned to eliminate the enemies of his faith.
Faith? You had none until recently, Laurant. He shuddered in horror at this inner voice. Filled with rage and self-recrimination he clenched his fist, crushing the metal goblet to a shapeless mass. Red stained his hand and dripped like blood to the muddied field. He savoured the enormous strength the Goddess had granted him.
The two inquisitors exchanged glances. “I would urge caution,” Sir Arral said. “No human force has ever entered the hiver fortress and emerged intact. We have no personal experience of these creatures, but they are rumoured to be deadly foes.”
“Then we surround the town,” Daryn snarled. “Rouse the men. We unleash righteous fury on the vile practitioners of heathen sorcery the very moment they emerge from that den of monsters. Now, where are the rest of our scouts? They are late in returning.”
CHAPTER 13
“So, the last time me an’ a orc walked into a tavern this bad –” Tiarnach said as he sauntered into The Perky Pintle, apparently the finest drinking den in all of Hive, which really wasn’t saying much, “– flies were everywhere, right, an’ one lands in the orc’s drink. He curses, fishes it out and squashes it.”
Human heads turned, horns of ale frozen mid-tilt to hairy lips as they goggled at the largest orc any of them had ever seen squeezing through the doorway. A pair of hivers supping on mead immediately picked up their wooden bowls in mandibles and scurried out the back door.
“One o’ those flies lands itself in mine too,” Tiarnach continued, “but me, I grab the fly, gives it a shake and start yelling ‘Spit it back out, ye wee bastard!’” He laughed at his own joke while Amogg frowned and scratched her chin.
A bushy-bearded old man in grey robes and peaked hat sat in the corner by the fireplace, watching them while calmly puffing on a long-stemmed clay pipe. The two warriors glanced a warning to each other – they had both been around long enough to recognise the stink of wizard. Taverns were their favourite recruiting grounds when they had a scheme that required naive youngsters with bellies full of ale and heads filled with dreams of adventure and gold.
“Is this story of fly another attempt at joke?” Amogg replied. “Your humour is weak and manly.” She bared her tusks at the grimy locals, most of whom quickly found somewhere else to look; the old wizard in the corner didn’t, and neither did two young moustachioed men loitering by the doorway – beneath their old cloaks both wore finer clothes than any inhabitant of Hive could ever afford.
Tiarnach pouted. “You are no fun at all.” He sauntered up to the table nearest the ale barrels and tossed some coins to the tavernkeep. “Give us your best. The strong stuff.”
The man quickly filled two of the largest drinking horns for them.
Amogg held the horn in two fingers, frowning at the dark and foamy liquid. “Why we wait here?”
Tiarnach went to clap a hand on her shoulder, then decided against it since he’d have to stretch way up to do it. “Why wait up there freezing our arses off when we can sit in the warmth with fine ale to wet our lips?” He glanced at his horn. “Well, some sort o’ ale. Besides, we can see anybody making for the cargo barge from here, and we are closer to hand when those arrogant pricks need saving.”
“Makes sense,” she admitted. “I watch you here or there. No difference.” Then she tossed the ale back in a single swallow, scowled at the empty horn and carefully placed it back on the counter. “Foul water, but better than sweet mead. Warm feels in my belly.”
Tiarnach took a gulp and the bitterness at the back of his throat forced him to agree. If this was their best then he pitied anybody suffering their worst. At least it was strong, and that had a magic all of its own. Then he glanced at the two men by the doorway and rolled his eyes. Subtle they were not: the idiots thought themselves so fucking brave and were working up enough nerve to start a fight. The two of them wore near-identical rugged clothing – screaming military uniforms – and the steel hilts of the knives hanging from their belts didn’t have a spot of rust. He had no patience to wait for these soldier-boys to get down to business, so he turned to face them instead. “Well? Are you two cunts going to have a go or not?”
They drew knives and advanced to stabbing range. “You are under arrest,” one said. “Come quietly or we will kill you.”
Amogg’s arm snapped out, large green fingers enveloping the man’s hand and hilt. Human finger bones cracked and popped as she yanked him howling off his feet and into the air. Her other hand grabbed his groin and she flung him head-first into the wall. He crumpled in a boneless heap while his friend gaped in mute horror.
She chuckled. “Kill Amogg with little knife? Now that is good joke.”
The other man panicked and flailed his blade at Tiarnach’s face, who ducked and rammed a fist into the man’s belly. The soldier doubled over, and his face met Tiarnach’s knee on its way up. He flew backwards, a stream of blood arcing into the air from his mashed nose. The next thing the poor fool knew, he was on his back and a wild-eyed savage was holding his own knife to his throat.
“Who do you work for?” Tiarnach snarled. Blood seeped from soft flesh as the keen edge of the knife pressed harder. “How many o’ you are there?”
“Do your worst, heathen,” the man snarled. “You cannot kill us all. My soul goes to the Bright One!”
“That so,” Tiarnach said, a little disappointed. “Cheers, m’ dears. I rec
koned it would be harder to get you to spill your guts. Good to know more o’ you Lucent fuckers are here.” He plunged the knife into the man’s neck and left it there, dragging the dying man out into the muddy street like a sack of mouldy grain.
Tiarnach dusted his hands off and scanned the silent folk in the tavern. “What? I didnae want to stain the floor o’ the tavern. Makes a right mess when you cut a throat proper.” He avoided the intensely interested gaze of the mad old wizard in the corner. He wasn’t up for a second insane quest, and wizards were notoriously stingy bastards when it came to getting in the ales after you’d signed on – even more so if they were dredging the likes of Hive.
Amogg nodded. “Mush washing and scouring wish sand.” She knocked back another horn of ale. Her green cheeks were flushed red and she swayed on her feet, leaning on a table to stabilise herself. It creaked alarmingly.
Tiarnach stared. “Surely you can’t be drunk after only two ales? You’re the size of a horse!”
“Amogg not had ale in forty yearsh.” She growled at a local who came too close to the table on her way to the ale barrels. The poor man backpedalled, sat back down at his table and sighed at the empty horn he’d been hoping to get refilled.
“Wait… are you saying that orcs don’t brew ale? You poor bastards.”
“What of it?” she spat, glaring at him. “Want fight? Orcs prefer eat grain and boil leaves for tea. Mead is orcish drunk-maker.”
Tiarnach grinned. The big orc was a bad drunk and things were about to get messy. This tavern brawl was going to be fucking legendary.
The warren of hiver tunnels was pitch black, save for the meagre circle of light shed by Maeven’s ring. As they descended into the earth the air grew hot and moist and the walls glistened with hiver secretions. The silvery smears formed a map of scents to rival human language in complexity. Lorimer’s head sprouted barbed horns as it turned this way and that, nostrils quivering at each new intersection as he tried to make sense of it all. To Maeven, it all smelled like a mix of sour milk and mouldy cheese.
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