Lords of the Seventh Swarm

by David Farland

  Half a moment later, six or seven birds of light dived back into view, stooped toward Zeus’s black wriggling form, threatening.

  The creature that was Zeus darted and weaved, studying the birds above, dived toward a great root and sat, cowering.

  One green bird dived toward him, and Zeus emitted a keen wail and raised his hands to cover his face, folding great black wings behind protectively.

  Orick gaped in astonishment. He recognized those birds, had thought only hours ago that one of them was the Holy Spirit, descending in the form of a dove. And he recalled the green pool he’d drunk from when he licked the water from Tallea’s lips. And he remembered the feeling of something stirring within him, and the terrifying sense of doom he’d felt as the birds of light swooped over him, the sense that he was being judged.

  And the truth of what had happened struck him to the core.

  The pale birds now drew into a tight circle and wheeled above Zeus, flying faster and faster, like the lip of a whirlwind. Zeus could not take to the air, could not hope to escape them.

  One bird dived like a hawk, raked Zeus’s head with its claws, then rose again soundlessly, blazing fiercely bright.

  Renewed. The bird was renewed. Orick could only imagine that the bird of light had somehow fed upon Zeus, taken energy from him.

  More birds came, here and there, up near the ceiling, appearing to fly through the stone, dropping like some fiery and magnificent fruit from the great dew tree.

  Zeus huddled in fear, scurrying back from the bright beings above, and only now did Orick see that this dark being was but a shadow, as incorporeal as the birds that flew above.

  Zeus flew a short ways, tried to reach his own corpse, the body he had sloughed off a moment before.

  The mouth was wide-open, as if in a silent scream, and the black form sought to struggle back into it, as a hermit crab will take up an old shell.

  I can lay down my life, and take it up again, Orick thought. Zeus had laid his life aside, now he wanted it back. Yet it was not an easy fit. He writhed and twisted, struggling to reenter his body.

  But as Zeus worked to take up his life, a bright bolt of green shot down, raked its claws over his head, gouging deeply.

  Worms of purple light bled from Zeus, and a ragged wound formed.

  The emerald birds seemed to take courage from this attack.

  A second form swept down on flaming wings.

  It grasped Zeus with its talons and pulled at his dark soul, opening more wounds, so that the black skin of the creature seemed torn wide, spilling light.

  The bird clung to him, bit deeply.

  In pain and terror, the creature that was Zeus raised its hands, protecting its shadowy face, and tried to beat its attacker back.

  A third bird of light descended, blazing like a green furnace, grabbed Zeus’s wing in its beak, and tore.

  Purple flames of light erupted from the joint at Zeus’s back.

  He turned and pummeled vainly at his attackers, striking with all his might. The birds of light flapped their wings, retreated to the air.

  Zeus’s black form bled purple light that erupted from a dozen major wounds, yet Zeus struggled on. For half a moment, the black thing drooped, as if weary, as if it would simply die.

  Yet in that moment, the shadowy form surged back into Zeus’s body, flowing like something molten, sliding into Zeus’s throat.

  Zeus lay on his back, his mouth gaping wide, purple light shining from it as if he’d swallowed a glow globe. His eyes, too, glowed purple.

  He breathed raggedly, struggling, and gave a choking sob.

  The birds of light dived now, redoubling the attack, as if furious with Zeus.

  Zeus raised one hand, as if to hold them at bay, and a bolt of lightning cracked the air, splitting the sky.

  For half a second, the bird of light glowed brilliantly, caught in its arc, and then veered away. The others also swerved in their fight, suddenly wary.

  “Damn you!” Zeus shouted. And he began laughing, a throaty croak. He struggled up to one elbow. The green birds of light became frantic, one swooped near.

  Zeus threw another lightning bolt, cracking the sky, and for half a second, Orick was blinded.

  Then Zeus began to shriek. Orick blinked, struggled to see what was happening.

  Zeus was shrieking, rolling on the ground. All around him was a confusion of green light, emerald brilliance that baffled the eyes. Zeus held up his hand, as if to shoot off another lightning bolt, but none came. He was out of energy. The flock of birds seemed to be ripping him, dipping their beaks into his body, tearing away flesh. Yet Orick could see no physical damage, no bloody wounds, no gaping rents. Instead, the birds were dipping their faces down deep, below the level of flesh, tearing away something more essential.

  For nearly a minute the birds took him, ripping at him, and Zeus’s cries diminished. He stopped rolling, stopped trying to fight them at all.

  Until one by one, the birds of light rose, ascended back up through the stone roof, back up past the odd stone pipes and hoary machinery.

  Orick ran to Zeus, more from curiosity than from any desire to help the man.

  Zeus took labored breaths. The light in his mouth and eyes was dimming, fading so that Orick almost wondered if he imagined that he saw the purples. Tears slid down his cheeks. Orick knew he would die, that he could not last much longer.

  Nearby, Thomas was climbing down a root to see if Lord Felph, by some miracle, remained alive.

  Zeus gasped. “Help me! Help!” Orick could not help him.

  Zeus looked up, imploringly. “They … stopped me. Almost, almost I was one of them, but they fought me.”

  Zeus acted as if he wanted Orick to pity him.

  But Orick felt no pity. Zeus had taken the Waters of Strength, and would have withheld them from Gallen. Having entered the gates of heaven, he would bar the way from all who would follow.

  “Water!” Zeus begged, desperate. “Give … more.”

  Orick dared not. Perhaps the Water would heal Zeus. To let such a monster live just didn’t seem right.

  Orick backed away, as Zeus sagged, his last breath coming out with a rattle.

  Down by the water’s edge, Thomas checked Fetph’s corpse, found it dead.

  “Go and protect Lord Felph,” Thomas said aloud, “then return.”

  He got up woodenly, and began climbing through the tangled roots of the great tree, heading out of Teeawah.

  Orick would have argued with Thomas, told him to stay. It would be dangerous for one old man to wander off alone, with the sfuz waking.

  But Thomas wore a Guide, and right now, there was nothing Orick could do to stop the old fellow from leaving, short of biting his pants and hanging on.

  Tallea whispered urgently in Orick’s ear, “Orick, we have to get the Waters for Gallen and go—if you still want it. If you think it will do any good.” The hour was growing late.

  Orick didn’t know how long ago Gallen and Maggie had reached Felph’s palace, did not know if they had battled.

  Yet, somehow, he imagined that the hour was past. He was too late.

  Orick wondered. The Qualeewoohs claimed to have conquered time, space, nature, self. What would that entail?

  Do I have such powers? Can I reach Gallen?

  More importantly, what good would the Waters be, if Gallen met a fate like that of Zeus?

  And yet, and yet—not everyone met Zeus’s fate, Orick knew. The Qualeewoohs had judged Zeus, found him lacking.

  Orick looked down at the pool, shimmering velvet in the darkness. His heart pounded. From distant reaches of the caverns came a frantic whistling.

  Chapter 47

  Gallen woke to the sound of rain battering the tall windows of Felph’s palace, and so fierce and incessant was the pattering that for a moment he thought it was an anxious neighbor rapping at the windows.

  He opened his eyes slowly, recalling the night he’d first met Veriasse and the Lady Everynne back on Ti
hrglas, a night when it rained madly, as it did now.

  He lay in an unfamiliar bedroom, decorated with rich teak paneling and a central hearth all made of white marble with a brass grill to hold the logs. A cheery fire burned therin—the smell of blazing cedar filling the room with its spicy aroma.

  He felt cold, terribly cold despite the fire.

  Along the wall, service droids awaited his commands. Gallen could not recall how he’d got here. His last memories came from the tangle, of running back through the dark tunnel from Teeawah, where he’d come so close to the gates of the city. He’d seen the cloo holes, like dark eyes, and the golden sandstone, and he heard an enormous firefight within the city, the dronon discharging weapons, the whistling hunting cries of the sfuz. He’d run out of time to hunt any longer, so he’d been hurrying back to Maggie, to bring Maggie and the others, when the dronon suddenly ambushed him.

  He recalled discharging his weapons, a great battle of sword upon chitin there in the tunnels. Whirling like madness, kicking, punching, till the blows of the dronon beat him down. He remembered his mantle sliding off.

  Nothing more. Nothing thereafter.

  I’ve died, he decided. I’ve died, and Felph brought me back.

  Beside the bed on a chair lay his cothes—a new white tunic, with the black robes of a Lord Protector folded neatly beneath and under them all, his battle gloves. To the back of the chair were strapped his weapons—the vibro-blade in its sheath, his incendiary rifle in its holster. At the foot of the chair lay his boots, black and polished.

  All the clothes seemed too clean, too fresh.

  Gallen got up, examined himself. He felt … odd. He pulled on the white tunic, wondering what kind of world he’d awakened to. What now, now that the dronon had won? Which worlds would resist the dronon rule; which would succomb? Worst of all, who would embrace the dronon?

  Obviously, the dronon had begun building their own world gates, sending ships through. Otherwise, they could not have reached him here on Ruin, not so fast. It had only been a matter of time before the dronon developed such technology. Now all the human-occupied worlds would be within the dronon’s grasp.

  But what of Maggie?

  If I died, Gallen feared, then she must be dead too. He’d been so close to her hiding place when the dronon took him. They’d have found her.

  It takes six weeks to grow a clone, Gallen realized. She’s been dead for six weeks. And Maggie had never had her memories recorded. She was dead, and would remain so forever.

  Gallen did not want to live under dronon rule, in a world without Maggie.

  Though he could not bear the thought of living without her, Gallen knew he would go on. He would fight. He’d continue fighting, and fighting. A hundred lifetimes, a thousand.

  So the struggle continues. He felt heartsick. Perhaps already, a new Lord Protector from the human worlds had defeated Kintiniklintit. Someone would have to step into the role. Gallen did not envy that person.

  Gallen stood a moment, slipped on his new tunic. A new tunic they give me, he realized, because the other is torn and bloody. He gazed down at the chair. Beneath the tunic lay his mantle—the black rings polished and free of rust, the memory crystals gleaming wildly. A small thing, so beautiful—yet so powerful.

  He picked it up, turned it over and over in his hand. Should I put it on?

  He did not want to. Orick had criticized him for his hardness, for his willingness to take on every battle, for his desire to right all wrongs.

  Balance and perspective. He’d lost that once. Perhaps because he’d lost it, he’d lost Maggie in the bargain.

  Though the mantle brought him power, it did so at too high a price.

  Gallen sat back on the bed, hung his head, and wept.

  It was a long hour later when he felt well enough to put on the rest of his clothes, slipping the mantle into the pocket of his robe.

  He wondered where Orick might be, if at least the bear had come out of the tangle alive. He doubted it. Crick would have fought the dronon when they came for Maggie, Gallen thought.

  So Orick would be dead, too.

  Did Lord Felph revive Gallen simply to finish his quest, to go back in search of the Waters of Strength? Possibly so. A job left undone.

  A meaningless job.

  It seemed unfair.

  Gallen got up, stretched, and looked out his window. He recognized this wing of the palace. The north wing. The rose gardens lay beneath him, the great peacock fountain glistening black on a small hill among the throng of rosessapphire and peach, flame and saffron.

  Though rain pummeled the windows, he considered going out for a walk. No, for a rose. A blood-red rose. Something beautiful, that you can touch and smell and hold.

  He stood watching the gray clouds sweep over the valley in waves. The roses seemed to beckon him, the golden ones a remainder of sunshine among the deep gray.

  As he stood gazing out the window, they came to him.

  The great wooden doors behind him swung open, and Maggie swept in, ran across the room, and as he turned, she leapt into his arms, hugging him, kissing his eyelids, his forehead, his lips.

  She tasted the same as ever, her lips so sweet. She smiled hugely, weeping for joy. “You’re awake. You’re awake. It’s been days!”

  Nothing had changed about her. Her eyes sparkled when she looked at him; her womb seemed a little larger, a little more full. Gallen stared at her face in wonder, holding her head in the palm of his hand, wanting to kiss her, wanting to just hold her in his sight.

  Orick and Tallea bounded in behind Maggie, and the bears kindly kept their distance, staring up at Gallen shyly.

  Like a floodgate, the questions poured from Gallen. Maggie and Orick told a story that was remarkable—as joyous as it was improbable.

  “How did I die?” Gallen asked, hoping he had died well.

  “You didn’t,” Maggie said. “You were wounded by the dronon, wounded so badly, we carried you to the battlefield here before the palace. We fought Kintiniklintit, and just when we thought all was lost, the Qualeewoohs came and saved us—Cooharah and Aaw.”

  “The Qualeewoohs?” Gallen asked. “Saved us. How?”

  Orick said, “The Qualeewoohs you freed, they came back to pay for Herm’s life—to give their lives for the one they took. They challenged Cintkin and Kintiniklintit for Right of Charn.”

  Gallen listened to him, incredulous. He could recall nothing—no battle, no ride to the palace.

  “Don’t you remember anything?” Maggie asked. Gallen shook his head.

  Maggie said, “The battles were magnificent. The Qualeewoohs fly twice as fast as dronon, and they fight in pairs, while the Lord Escorts must stand up to them alone.

  The thunderstorms swept in just as the battle began, bringing in a heavy mist and fog. Kintiniklintit never knew what hit him. The Qualeewoohs attacked from behind, like starlings harrying a crow, and drove him into the sky. He spit acid, but the Qualeewoohs wheeled and spun at such dizzying speeds, he never fazed them. When he got high enough, they ripped his wings so he tumbled to earth. His head split under the impact of the fall. Then they went after the Golden Queen, marked her with their talons.”

  “I saw this?” Gallen asked.

  Maggie nodded, so calm, so self-assured. Of course it had happened. Gallen recalled the Qualeewoohs from the wild, so beautiful, regal, faintly ridiculous in their spirit masks.

  Lord Felph had discounted them, thinking them nothing, impotent. But the predators on this world moved so swiftly, had evolved so differently from antthing on Earth—or on dronon—that in aerial combat, the Qualeewoohs had distinct advantages. No, Gallen didn’t doubt that the Qualeewoohs could have won. He only doubted that he could have seen any such thing and forgotten so completely.

  “I-don’t remember anything like it,” Gallen said.

  Maggie smiled at him gently. “You were delirious. The dronon beat you so badly. Perhaps the memories will come back in time.” She reached up, stroked his
face. “And Gallen, there’s more.

  “The Qualeewoohs challenged the lords of the other five swarms, defeated each in turn, humiliated them.”

  Gallen could not believe it. It seemed a dream come true, too good to be real. He looked to Orick for confirmation.

  “It’s true, lad. The dronon have fallen and shall never rise again. The Qualeewoohs won control, and Aaw has commanded the dronon to return to their home world, and never leave again. She’s destroying their world gates, removing all records of the technology, Yet she’s done more.

  “The Qualeewoohs are painting spirit masks on all the dronon. They don’t believe that the dronon have a total lack of compassion. The Qualeewoohs hope someday to train them, to prepare them to join the rest of the galaxy in peace. They’ll never trouble us again.”

  Gallen looked at them all, suspicious. He found the whole story so implausible, he didn’t know how to respond.

  “‘Never’ is a long time, Orick.”

  “Never, Gallen,” Maggie said firmly. “Never! We have the Qualeewoohs’ promise.”

  Gallen felt startled, uneasy. “How can they keep that promise?”

  “Cooharah and Aaw have drunk from the Waters of Strength,” Orick said. “I found it, but too late to do you any good. The dronon will never beat them in combat.”

  Gallen considered. Qualeewoohs that would never die. Conquerors of time and space, nature and self. He wondered at what it all meant.

  Glancing from face to face, he settled upon Orick. “You found the Waters?”

  Orick nodded slightly.

  “And you, drank from them?”

  Orick shook his head, looked down at the floor. “I didn’t dare. They weren’t made for the likes of us. Zeus tried to drink from them. What happened to him was too terrible to tell. The Qualeewoohs’ ancestors came to judge him, and they killed him.”

  “But what of the sfuz? They drink the Waters, and derive some benefit.”

  Orick shook his head. “That’s debatable. Lord Felph has a theory. He believes that the Waters create a construct based upon your consciousness. And while the sfuz show some signs of intelligence, they don’t seem to be fully self aware. So they don’t get the full benefits from the Waters of Strength, and the ancestors don’t feel the need to put them in judgment.”