by Jeff Wheeler
Father, can you hear me? I’m sorry for being so stubborn. I’m sorry I neglect my chores sometimes and you have to do them. I’ve seen you, scraping the scrap bucket for the pig. I’ve gotten angry with you for doing it for me. I should have been grateful. All your life you’ve tried to teach me to be responsible. She bit her lip, aching inside.
Father, can you hear me? Sometimes, sometimes I wished that you would have chosen to live in the Enclave. You were offered the chance and turned it away. I never understood why. It’s such a rare honor. But you don’t care about things like that. You don’t care that everyone thinks you are famous for defeating the Overlord. You’re just a Beesinger, and you try to help people. I’ve never realized how proud of you I am. Please, Father. If you are out there tonight. Go back to Camille. Go back to Brand. Go back to Adam and Ben. I can face whatever horror Mattson Kree will do as long as I know that you won’t die. Please, Father! Go back!
Yet even as she made her silent wish, even as the plea left her thoughts like a blossom on the wind, she still hoped her father would find a way to save her. She was all out of ideas herself.
* * *
The morning broke over Battle Mountain and the crumbling Ziggurat. It was Trea’s turn to keep hold of Rista’s rope, and the older woman gave her a scornful look as Rista sat on the dusty ground, eating from a broken crust of bread. The bread was hard and chewy, but it was something to fill her hollow stomach.
As she chewed, Rista stared at the majestic sight and could not believe her father’s stories had done it justice. Father was a good storyteller and had painted the scene in her mind so many times. Battle Mountain was a V-shaped pinnacle in the midst of the plains. It rose to a towering height, with jagged cliffs standing starkly, the upper heights dusted with snow year-round. But at the base of the mountain, amidst the rock and debris, had been hewn a majestic castle called the Ziggurat. It was carved into the rocky face of the mountain, a series of archways and designs that were centuries old. Two enormous sculptures had been chiseled and assembled outside the main gates. These were of giant kobolds, each holding shields in front of them. The snouts were fierce, with battle helms atop each. The Ziggurat was a monument to the industry of the kobolds and had been painstakingly shaped to symbolize the apex of their power. The Ziggurat was carved with symbols of skulls and horrid eyes. It looked like an unholy place, like a screaming skull made from stone where the bone had been carved with tattoos.
Rista stared at the desolate place, the ruins of a vast empire that had nearly overthrown the kingdom of Stanchion. The kobold hordes had once ruled the entire wasteland and claimed the Arvadin Mountains where they’d launch raiding parties into the valley. These were stories from her father’s youth. Rista had seen the remains of the battles fought decades before, a silent testament to the horrendous conditions. The Overlord had ruled the kobolds with an iron fist. He had made them mighty.
“Get up,” Trea said angrily, yanking on the lead rope. “Rest is over. We need to get inside before the heat of the day.”
Rista had expected to see the Ziggurat teeming with people, but it was nothing more than a graveyard. Her wrists were swollen and sore, and she stumbled as she tried to get up. Gabe took her elbow to help, and she shot him a threatening look and jerked her arm away from him.
He gave her a sardonic look, held up his hands, and backed away.
“Why are we here, Mattson Kree?” Rista asked, nodding toward the mighty Ziggurat. “There is nothing left but stone and bones.”
The proud man was staring at the fortress with a look of intense interest. His arms were folded, his boot resting on a small rock.
“It is a symbol,” he said, not looking at her. “This fortress will be glorious once again. There was a time when the plains were lush with rivers. The army of Stanchion made culverts to direct the water from the melting snows away. There used to be waterfalls down the face there,” he added, gesturing with his finger. He shook his head as if in a dream. “This place was a symbol of power for a thousand years. Slaves were brought here from realms far beyond the borders your puny imagination can fathom, Rista. It was the nest of power. It was the cradle of civilization. It will be reborn.”
Rista stared at the gloomy facade, Kree’s words conjuring images in her mind. “But it is nothing now. There is no one here. Where are the kobolds?”
“Scattered,” Mattson Kree said. “Driven far and wide. But they will come back. They will return and serve the master of the Ziggurat. They will serve me. And they will see that I am more terrible than the Overlord ever was. They will be restored to their birthright, and we will raze Stanchion to the ground.” He turned and looked at her, his eyes livid with ambition. “And when I am the new overlord, we will trap the Enclave inside its mists for all time, never to molest or cause trouble again. My reign begins today.”
Rista stared at him, saw the determination in his eyes. He was a handsome man, but the swelling pride made him look frightening and enraged.
She heard a familiar sound, the drone of a carpenter bee. It was a heavy, shivering sound that never ceased to make Rista’s skin crawl. Carpenter bees were enormous, all black with huge leathery wings.
A look of fear shot into Mattson Kree’s eyes. He snatched the rope from Trea and pulled Rista close to him, drawing a curved dagger shaped like a fang from his tunic. He held the dagger near her neck.
“Use your magic, Rista,” he said, a small quiver in his voice. “Make it go.”
The blade was close; its edge was as polished as silver. There was unmistakable fear in the Serpentarium’s eyes.
She nearly provoked him to kill her, to save her father. But she reached out with her magic to the bee as it came closer to the camp.
Did Father send you? she wondered. Its presence could have been random. She read its mind and learned that its hive was based in the Ziggurat. There were hundreds there. An idea began to sharpen in her mind.
“It’s just a scout,” Rista said.
“Send it away,” Mattson Kree hissed.
Rista reached out to the insect in her mind and bid it return to the hive. She bid it to warn the others that danger was coming. She swallowed.
The drone of the bee faded as it turned and zigzagged away. There was a bead of sweat on Mattson Kree’s brow that hadn’t been there before. He licked his upper lip, then tugged at the lead rope, slowly lowering his fang-shaped dagger.
“You keep them away from us,” Mattson Kree warned, tugging her until his face met hers. He held the knife close to her cheek. “For every sting of a bee, I will start carving my vengeance into your skin. In the Ziggurat, they used to offer sacrifices of human blood. There are things worse than death, my dear. You defy me, and your father will grieve at how I get my revenge on you. Stay close to me, Rista. And remember—keep the bees away from us!”
Rista swallowed, but she felt a growing confidence. The Ziggurat was the hive of carpenter bees. She hadn’t known that. Her father had never told her. She did not think it a coincidence that the enemy’s lair was guarded.
* * *
There were barrow mounds leading up to the Ziggurat steps, full of the bleached skeletons of man and beast. The war against the Overlord had brought together many with enmitical magic, and Rista’s father had told her of lions and cougars and bears that had mauled through the ranks of kobolds. The final battle had been fought on the steps of the Ziggurat, and as she approached them, it was as if the ghost of the battle rang out in her mind. She imagined seeing the swarms of arrows coming down from the battlement walls, of catapults and trebuchets that had hurled death down on Stanchion’s army. So many had died, her father said, to crack the Overlord’s power at last.
They climbed the massive steps, and she noticed that many segments had been shattered and turned to rubble. Scorch marks could be seen descending from the arched windows, where flaming oil had been poured down on the attacking army. The shouts were gone but there were still echoes of violence all around. Rista picked her w
ay up the broken steps, her leash held fast by Mattson Kree. He had a cunning look on his face, as if he were visiting hallowed grounds. The fierce look in his eyes showed a perverse pleasure.
Trea led the way, an arrow nocked in her bow as she scouted ahead. Gabe trailed behind, looking backward constantly to the flat plain where there was no sign of her father or anyone else. There was no army marching to stop them. Nothing but the eerie quiet of the wind and the silent maw of Battle Mountain.
When Trea reached the top of the steps, she released the tension of the bow. “No one is here,” she said, her voice ricocheting off the stone.
“He will come,” Mattson Kree said solemnly. “Do not doubt it.”
Rista and Kree reached the top next. The platform level was pockmarked with crumbled stone. Huge boulders interspersed the area where they had been flung down from the heights above. Rista craned her neck to see the black gaps, imagining the ramparts crawling with hordes of kobolds. The thought made her heart throb for Twig.
“How long do you think before he catches up?” Trea asked, nodding back to the plains.
Mattson Kree chuckled. “He’ll come at night, of course. That is the only way to approach the Ziggurat unseen. There is a cleft of rock on that side where the sewage used to flow. That’s how Ilias and the others snuck into the Ziggurat before. Lots of spiders, they say.” He gave Rista a knowing look. “I’ve heard the tales, lass. I’ve heard all your father’s stories. They grow more elaborate with each telling as the crowds passed it on, I’m sure, and it’s hard to know whether you can believe a drunk. But I have paid coins to hear the tales, especially the ones told at Stanchion palace when the king traveled here with your father. It was a desperate gambit. But all the tales agree that your father was the most clever man in the valley. That he figured out that the Overlord kept his soul trapped in a bone. It is necromancer magic. The bone could have been hidden anywhere, yet your father found it. By destroying the bone, he destroyed the man.”
Mattson Kree gazed up at the face of the fortress, a gleeful smile crossing his lips. “My soul is not tied to a bone, Rista. Not yet.” He gave her a meaningful look. “But it will be. Come, we must perform the incantation before he arrives.”
Rista heard the drone of carpenter bees as they approached the shattered doors of the Ziggurat. Huge battering rams had been used to smash open the doors, and the remnants were still there amidst the rubble. The rain and snow had made the rams decay, but Rista sensed that they were the source of the carpenter bee colony. She saw the black-stained wood and heard the rumble and buzz.
“Looks like only the bees survived,” Mattson Kree said. He brought Rista close to him, almost like a shield, and brought the dagger to her neck. “Keep them calm, girl. Settle down the hive.”
“Why are you so afraid of bees?” Rista asked him, reaching out with her magic to engage with the hive. She started to sow thoughts of agitation and wariness. The noise of the hive began to grow louder.
“I said calm it,” Mattson Kree warned.
A soothing feeling came over the hive and the buzzing sound calmed. Rista was surprised because she sent in provoking signals. Then she sensed her father’s magic.
“Someone’s in there!” Trea said, swinging the bow around toward the black gap of the ancient doorway. “I just saw him move in the shadows!”
“Wait,” Mattson Kree said curtly. There was the sudden clomp of boots, and Rista’s father appeared in the doorway holding his favorite wood-cutting axe in his grip. He looked haggard and serious, his gray hair unkempt and wild. She had never seen him so stern and angry before, and even though he was older and softer around the middle, he still looked dangerous. Her heart thrilled at seeing him, unbelieving that he had made it to the Ziggurat ahead of them, but by the ashen look on his face, she saw he had barely slept and had pressed harder than they had.
“Father!” Rista gasped.
“Silence!” Mattson Kree hissed, bringing the edge of the dagger to her throat. The Serpentarium was rattled, clearly surprised to see the famous Beesinger waiting for them.
Rista stared at her father and she knew he was going to sacrifice himself to save her. She saw the desperate look in his eyes, the worry, the fear. He would die to save her. She couldn’t let that happen. In her mind, she tried to summon the bee swarm to attack her and their enemies, but her father’s will was like iron, and the bees obeyed him. She pressed her own magic against his and felt it start to budge.
“I’m surprised, Beesinger,” Mattson Kree said challengingly. “Not often can someone do that to me. Put down the axe.”
“I don’t think so,” the Beesinger said, stepping forward. Trea’s bow was quivering. She waited for an order to loose the arrow. Her father was wearing dust-stained travel garb, not a chain hauberk, and he did not have a shield, just the stocky axe.
“It is three against one,” Mattson Kree said. “The odds are stacked in my favor, and I have your daughter’s life in my hands. Don’t be a fool to risk it unnecessarily.”
Her father walked forward still. “Yes, it is three against one,” he agreed. “But I thought we may as well try talking first. I’ll be quick and simple. You came here prepared to kill my daughter. I know that. I just want you to understand what will happen if you do. I will kill you.” He hadn’t shaved in days, and a wild, terrible look was in his hazel eyes. “The only way you live through this, as far as I can see, is if you let Rista go and take me captive instead. I’m the one you wanted. That’s what this is about. Let her go.”
Mattson Kree’s face hardened. Rista’s hands were bound. There was a knife at her throat. One cut and she would be dead. She forced her thoughts on summoning the swarm of black carpenter bees. She didn’t care if she got stung now. The hive began to groan with her efforts. She pushed her magic against her father’s.
“Rista, don’t,” her father said softly, gesturing with one hand calmingly.
“No, Father,” she said. “I won’t let you do this.”
“You will both do as I say!” Mattson Kree hissed. “Calm the bees.”
“I’m trying to,” her father said with a nervous tone. “She’s riling them. Rista, don’t.”
Rista ignored her father and used her magic to provoke the bees further. Several fat ones appeared from the rotten husks of the battering rams and began hovering. Then others began to join.
“Stop it,” Mattson Kree warned in her ear.
Rista continued to feed the bees with the signal of danger. The drone was growing louder and louder, taking on an agitated, dangerous air.
“Rista,” her father pleaded. There were tears in his eyes.
I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me, she thought, staring at him. I love you too much.
“Mattson?” Trea asked with growing dread.
In a moment the bees would attack them. Her father’s grip on them was slipping away as Rista’s power surged.
“I love you, Father,” Rista said, staring at him, blinking back her tears. She felt courage unlike anything she’d ever felt before. Courage and resolve. It was like stepping off a cliff, knowing she’d fall to her death.
“No!” Mattson Kree roared in panic as the bees lifted like a cloud from the stumps.
“Gabe, now!” her father shouted.
Everything happened at once.
Rista blinked with surprise as she saw Twig land on Trea’s arm with a tiny little blade. The kobold used it to sever the taut bowstring, and the longbow nearly exploded in the girl’s hands as the pent-up force bucked her backward. The kobold skittered around her, stabbing viciously with its puny weapon as the girl shrieked with terror and pain. The Serpentarium was startled, but only for a moment. He swung the dagger around and sliced at Gabe across the face as the young man was severing the lead rope. Rista saw a nick of blood on his cheek, but the rope went limp and she realized she was free. She dived forward, hands still tied, and rolled.
Gabe was helping them? Rista couldn’t comprehend it, but she saw Mat
tson Kree’s face wilt with rage at the betrayal. He raised the knife high over his head and lunged after her to plunge it down into Rista’s heart.
And that’s when the swarm of bees reached them.
Rista was stung once, twice, three times and thought it was Kree’s dagger, but he was flailing his arms as the swarm reached them. A heavy weight landed on her, crushing her to the broken floor, and she realized it was Gabe, covering her body with his own. Beneath him, she could see as the cloud of bees attacked Mattson Kree, and then she stared in shock at the look on his face. He was clawing at his throat, gasping for breath. There were huge welts on his cheeks and temple from the multiple bee stings. His face turned purple as he choked, and she recognized what she was seeing. Her father had explained to her that some people couldn’t endure bee stings—that it made them choke to death. Her father had been called on a few times over the years to treat them, and his magic was powerful enough to draw out the bee’s venom and save the child’s life if he got there fast enough. She watched in horror as the Serpentarium dropped to his knees, strangling to death, as the black bees swarmed and stung him. Gabe was limp atop her and she watched the bees attack him still. From her position, none of the rest could reach her.
Then Rista reached out her will and she calmed the violent swarm. She had never done that before with black bees because of how terrified she’d always been of them. But she felt no fear now. And the bees, sensing her change in mood, began to quiet instantly and return to the hive.
Mattson Kree’s purplish face was terrible to see, his eyes clouding over. His quivering fingers reached and opened the satchel he still had around his shoulders. Lifting the flap, he heaved out the massive atrox, and it began to rattle and hiss threateningly as its master fell flat against the stone, catching himself momentarily on one arm before slumping to the stones.
A moment later, her father’s axe severed the atrox’s head. He grabbed the convulsing end and the atrox’s body wound around his arm, coiling tightly as if even in death it were trying to kill him.