The Lords of Blood and Honey (The Kingdom of Honey)

by David Gardner-Martin

  Bartolamy stared at Allessia in silence, trying to make sense of this latest development. Up until that moment his belief had been that Oblong’s fate was the one contradiction in his master; the only flaw in an otherwise flawless servant of love, beauty and desire. Now he knew that this was not so, dark thoughts started to spring into the light from the shadows of his mind.

  ‘I too, have seen great evil,’ he whispered. ‘And this also orchestrated by the hand of His Oneness.’

  ‘Please, tell me no more,’ said Allessia, holding up a hand. ‘Not now, at least. For I have had quite enough for one day.’

  ‘Words could not do justice to what I have seen.’

  But,’ added Allessia urgently, sitting forwards to stare into his eyes, ‘what are we to do? When white light falls upon the City, I am to become his Queen. Having no notion of these things, I believed myself willing to stand beside him. But Bartolamy, now I cannot. But…if I resist…’

  Bartolamy put a finger to her lips to stop her words, took her hands in his, and kissed her palms one by one.

  ‘I give you this promise, Allessia. Whilst there is breath in my body, no harm will ever come to you.’

  Bartolamy rode back to the Cathedral in the company of several men of the Queen’s Own Guards. There was not a moment to lose; what had to be done, was best done now. The safety of Allessia, the Reformation of the Honeyist faith, and the future of all who lived and breathed in the Kingdom, depended upon it.

  ‘Wait for me here,’ he said, dismounting at the steps to the Cathedral, a place he knew would soon be swarming with the pomp and majesty of a religious and state spectacle combined.

  As he walked into the Nave, only his soft footsteps could be heard, the air thick with a cold sweetness that clogged the tension in his throat. Approaching the Choir, he heard a voice, a firm clear voice, and he lay back against a cold pillar to try and calm his racing heart. Destroy the evil, that was all he had to do, but such a paradoxical evil as to defy comprehension.

  He reached for the short sword one of the guards had provided, now concealed within his vestments. His fingers connected with a tough leather hilt; below it, cold hard steel. But what if he should fail, he thought? A single chance was all that would be given to him; somehow he seemed sure of that. But what was it about the thought of confrontation with Lord Hardknot, that so stalled his resolve? Riding to the Cathedral he had brimmed with unstoppable confidence, sure of what he must do, but now he felt powerless and alone.

  He had to act!

  He drew a breath deep into his body and stood free of the wall.

  ‘This needs but one weapon,’ he whispered, under his breath, ‘and one bold heart.’

  He walked on, the world around him strangely dreamlike and abandoned.

  ‘…..and they that show temperance with Her Nature, shall be the weakest Creatures in Her Realm. For She that has given all things, has given Honey for the glory of Her name. And so for every seed that can be sown and is denied, so shall account be taken. But they that have righteousness and fulfil Her desires, so shall they see the bountiful harvest of Her Love.’

  Bartolamy craned his neck to peer around an archway and into the Chapel of Depravity. In the foreground a dark figure sat upon a large chair with their back to him. He was reading out loud, as if from a book, but none was balanced across his knees. His ice-cold voice cut the air like a knife. A dark aura of power, visible at last, surrounded his being.

  Beyond Hardknot on the altar, bathed in a deep amber glow, lay a vast tank filled with a clear golden liquid, and in that liquid the huge naked body of Cardinal Oblong continued to twist and turn like a fish fresh-pulled from the water. Beyond the tank Bartolamy could see the line of attendants pushing dials and twisting knobs to orchestrate the dreadful symphony of agonies.

  ‘Look not for mercy where mercy cannot be found, for every denial is known and counted. And they that have despised Her Gifts, shall not be born again. For it is written that Love will conquer all, but they that are not conquered, shall be cast away for eternity.’

  Bartolamy felt the sweat on his fingers loosening his grip on the hilt of his blade. Such fear as this was a new sensation and he struggled for courage. Every ounce of his being cried out for strength, but still he could not move.

  ‘For the Kingdom of Honey lies within us all, waiting only for recognition, and it is a place sweeter by far than any imaginations. And so She has blessed this world with Honey, so that we that are lost, might find Her, and those that find Her, shall reach Her Kingdom.’

  Then at last, Bartolamy began to move slowly forwards, a prisoner within his own body, his steps distant and his breath frozen within his chest. It felt to him in that moment as if he was merely an impotent spectator, a voyeur simply observing events in another world. But when at last he reached the darkness and lifted his arm to strike, Hardknot stopped speaking, and he crashed into reality once more, his sword now frozen in the air.

  ‘Know you this work by the Blessed Parthanter?’

  It took Bartolamy a moment to realise that the question had been asked of him, and then he saw his image in the glass of the tank, his blade glowing in the light as it waited to fall. He saw the reflection of Hardknot’s face, his grey eyes glinting like polished steel within deep black sockets. He wanted to act, to have done with it, to end the confusion, but Hardknot’s eyes bored a hole into his mind and he could not strike.

  ‘They are but words,’ he found himself able to reply, ‘and have no meaning here.’

  ‘Words can have meaning,’ said Hardknot. ‘But only words that are filled with the Light of Her Love. And She has shown me Love.’

  Bartolamy could see Hardknot watching him like a hawk, but still the seated figure did not move away from the blade raised above him, the two men locked together in a moment of stillness.

  ‘There can be but one true belief, Bartolamy,’ added Hardknot at last. ‘All else is merely lies, falsehood, and corruption.’

  ‘And is this not corruption?’ cried Bartolamy, looking now at the tank.

  And Hardknot began to laugh, the sight of Oblong bobbing in endless hell and the look of shock on the face he could see reflected behind him, clearly providing a moment of rare amusement.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said at last, standing and turning to face Bartolamy, ‘this is indeed corruption. And though She has prepared a place even for one such as this man, I shall deny him. For I have the power to protect Her even from Her own mercy. Who could love her more than that?’

  Then as Bartolamy went to speak once more, to cast the hateful words back into the face of damnation itself, Hardknot suddenly lunged towards him, the glint of a near invisible blade darting for his heart seen too late for him to react.

  Chapter 43

  To Mr Punsworth Pooter it seemed as if this had always been reality. He looked around him in wonder, the definition of every single detail of the world now as clear as the purest crystal. All he could do was stare as the fabric of a universe, frozen in time, revealed itself to him.

  He tried to move, and felt his body gliding into the air and the ground falling away beneath him.

  The City streets were deserted, but he was not alone, for the sky was filled with beings that drifted in all directions like ghosts. Instinctively he climbed to be amongst them, but they moved away, the bonds of his temporal dimension keeping them at bay.

  A beautiful scent came to him, the glow of its golden aura surrounding him as he gently drew its richness into his body. Just as a honeybee will follow a trail of nectar, he began to fly towards the source.

  He flew over open braziers on battlements, their red flames piercing the air like glasswork daggers. Motionless figures sat huddled around them, their sparkling breath stilled in the air before them. They moved not a muscle as he passed them by.

  He saw hooded shadows hiding in the dark City streets and sensed the evil that lay behind their bright green eyes. He flew higher into the sky to distance himself from the guardian spirits cli
nging fast to their mortal flesh. They were hungry, but had no appetite for love.

  As he moved higher he saw a honeybee flying up towards him, a single point of motion against a backdrop of utter stillness. For of all things, only the honeybees still moved. The insect was quite unlike any he had seen before, its translucent body wrapped in gold and its wings shimmering with the colours of the rainbow. The honeybee was leading a shadow into the sky, and as it passed him by he felt a wave of sadness. For there before him was the soul of a man that in that single moment had departed the realm of life. The despair of a painful death was wrapped so tightly around him that he could not open his eyes, and so the honeybee had gathered him under its wings to carry him to safety. Then came another honeybee, and then another, one guiding a child that still lay sleeping, another an old lady that smiled at him as she swept by.

  Pooter watched until the pinpricks of light disappeared into the enormity of the heavens, and then moved on once more.

  Glarious had been unable to find sleep; the doubts and fears coursing through her mind, now as visible as the lines upon her face. She was sitting at the table in the kitchen pouring a cup of nettle tea, her face fixed upon the frozen brown liquid as if her whole life depended upon it. Pooter looked at his companion in life and saw the love she held deep within her. She was a good person, her heart wrapped in a glorious green glow. But she was also a being frustrated by the vagaries of a life that often seemed senseless and unkind. He moved closer to her until he could touch her thoughts, and then he kissed her gently.

  ‘All will be well, my dear,’ he whispered. ‘All will be well.’

  He wanted to see his children, but before he could move to them he felt himself pulled onwards by the wonderful scent once more.

  He saw the Palace, and surrounding a high open window a huge gathering of honeybees, their bodies glowing so brightly that they filled the scene with light. Through the window the light became so intense that at first he could not see, but then within the mass of honeybees he saw a young girl. The bees were depositing golden gifts upon her body, their spirits tireless as they sought to honour a being they clearly loved above all others. Pooter stared in wonder, for her nature was more perfect than he could ever have imagined possible. Then he saw a momentary flash of darkness deep within her body, a pinprick of nothingness so fleeting that it was gone as soon as it had appeared. But the honeybees sensed it too, and buzzed with anger as they sought a way to defend the lady in their care. A feeling of terrible danger fell over Pooter as the girl quickly disappeared into the mass of honeybees once more.

  He left the Palace, pulled as if by an invisible cord towards the shadow of St. Parthanter’s Cathedral. Above it a trail of darkness span down from the sky like a tornado; even light itself seemed to be drawn into the vortex. Despite his nature, he knew it was a place that he too must go, and so turning away from safety, he fell through the Dome and into the vast space below.

  A young clergyman stood before him, his hand gripping a blade and his arm raised into the air as if to strike. Pooter saw fear and uncertainty writ large within his bold green eyes; within his heart he saw a store of courage dragged low by a weight of responsibility.

  He turned, and there before him stood a second figure, and one so tall and powerful that he almost flew away in fear. Two vibrant grey eyes looked straight through him at Bartolamy. Behind them he saw a mind of such capabilities, that its very thoughts had turned upon themselves like rats in a pit, each consuming its neighbour as it sought to grow. He stared through the evil, knowing there was more to see, and as the darkness finally cracked like an egg, he saw a shard of beauty. But the mind before him reacted instantly, its nature as that of a honeybee as it moved within that single moment to mend the intrusion. The light quickly faded once more.

  Pooter knew that this figure was Lord Hardknot, Keeper of the Royal Honeybees, and in his hand he held a jazpah blade, his arm outstretched as it lunged through space. He turned and saw that the tip of the blade had already grazed a single thread on the young man’s vestments. Beyond it, he saw a violet heart but a split second from eternity.

  This was the one chance of which Rootsby had spoken; a single moment in a single place and time where only he, Mr. Punsworth Pooter, could make a difference. And as this realisation came to him, he felt something change in the atmosphere, and when he turned again, Lord Hardknot’s eyes had moved to fix upon him.

  Now the monster appeared, its shape formless as it grew to surround a being that served its purpose. It sucked the light from the space around it and made from it darkness. It moved towards him, and when at last he felt its shadow fall over him, Pooter was powerless to resist. He felt a pressure push his head in on itself, his thoughts being robbed from his brain, dragged away, abused. He felt his mind invaded by a malevolence that was greedy for the very essence of his being. It wanted ownership of his soul. Pooter felt himself losing control, the fear now so intense as to be beyond bearing. But then behind the fear, he felt a core that could not be touched; something central to his own nature that could withstand anything, if he willed it so.

  He felt a breath of time.

  Pooter reached for the crossbow bolt in his pocket, gripping it so tightly that he felt the warm flow of blood, and then bringing it in a single motion towards Lord Hardknot’s victim, he pushed it deep into a pocket that lay before the blade.

  As the heavens began to move once more, his world fell away into the nothingness of oblivion.

  Instinctively Bartolamy fell back, a cry flying from his lips as the blade stuck home. But though he felt the stab of pain upon his chest, he was still alive. He saw King Hardknot’s face, his lips twisted with anger and his eyes as cold as those of a snake. He let fly his own arm, his sword at last free and singing though the air like the wind. There was a flash of shock on Hardknot’s face, a torrent of blood, and then his head rolled slowly from his shoulders and fell to the floor. Bartolamy gasped as the blow to his chest hit home, the headless body before him pumping blood from a severed neck, but refusing to fall.

  ‘Go!’ he cried, and with all his strength he plunged his blade deep into Hardknot’s still beating heart, the body finally buckling at the knees and crashing to the ground.

  He looked up at the figure in the tank as it continued its grotesque dance, Oblong’s face still filled with abject terror, but his mouth now forced into a gruesome grin. Beyond the tank he saw a line of shocked faces. A figure moved towards him from the shadows, looked briefly at the blood-soaked corpse on the floor, and then bowed.

  ‘I am Darrius Slate,’ he said. ‘Master of the Infusion Chamber.’

  Bartolamy steadied himself, the deep throbbing in his chest biting into his senses.

  ‘Turn this off!’ he commanded through clenched teeth as he felt with his hand for the flow of blood he knew must accompany such a savage blow; but there was none.

  ‘That would be, dangerous,’ said Slate. ‘It takes time to….’

  ‘Now!’ he spat in fury, raising his bloodied blade until it was but an inch from Slate’s nose.

  Slate stared in shock for a moment and then turned and barked an order. Immediately all hands fell away from the dials, the imperceptible hum that filled the chapel falling away to reveal a deathly silence. Oblong’s body ceased moving and began to drift slowly to the bottom of the tank, his quivering mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. As he neared the bottom of the tank, Oblong simply fell apart, blood bursting through his skin as muted death throes rippled through his flesh. At last, after one final spasm, his body became still; a sea of blood settled over him like a cloud.

  Bartolamy heard the rush of feet as the Queen’s Own Guards ran into the chapel. As his head begin to swim, he hurled his blade at the tank, the glass shattering and a torrent of blood and honey gushing to the floor. He saw Cardinal Oblong’s remains carried, as if on a river, towards the severed head of King Hardknot. For a single moment, the two men come face to face once more, their vacant eyes still f
illed with a hatred that seemed to have survived even death itself.

  As the floor fell away beneath him and he slipped into unconsciousness, Bartolamy saw a single translucent honeybee appear through the wall; Cardinal Oblong’s immortal soul struggled free of his body and moved towards it.

  But no honeybee came for Lord Hardknot.

  Chapter 44

  ‘Punny!’

  The voice was close, for a moment unreal, but then it came again.

  ‘Oh Punny! Wake up dear!’

  Pooter opened his eyes, and there beside him on the edge of the bed was Glarious, her face drawn with concern in the yellow light of morning.

  ‘You were having a terrible nightmare. I had to wake you lest you upset the children.’

  ‘A nightmare?’ said Pooter, slowly coming too.

  ‘You were crying out. Go! Go! Again and again. But dear me, what could have possessed you to do so in such a manner. Truly, I have never heard your voice sound the like.’

  ‘Then…I am safe at home?’ asked Pooter, beginning to raise himself from the pool of sweat that fixed his nightgown to his skin like wallpaper.

  ‘And where else would you be, my dear,’ said Glarious. ‘Of course you are at home.’

  ‘Have I been here…all night?’

  ‘You were found by the Night Watch. Do you not remember? As if left for dead in the City, and in a fearful mess too. Your clothes ruined, a deep cut on your hand. Oh, how lucky you were, my dear, that the Shufflers no longer roam our streets. May we bless Lord Hardknot for this, and many other wonderful changes he is bringing to our lives. But really, Punny. Do you remember nothing?’

  ‘Well,’ said Pooter, sitting upright, ‘I remember a great deal. But…I do not remember that. But as I am clearly here, and as you are not a dream…’