Lords of the Seventh Swarm (37 page)

Chapter 45

Gallen held Maggie tightly, never wanting to let go. Kintiniklintit swept overhead, finishing his great circle over the dronon Swarms, having built up his wingspeed. Gallen had seen dronon do this before, and he didn’t fear attack in these first few seconds.

Maggie was shaking. He’d never seen her show such fear. She trembled like a child who has had a nightmare. She stared into his face.

Everywhere all around them, the swarms of dronon Vanquishers drummed their mouthfingers over their voicedrums, till the sound was a rumbling storm. Six Swarm Lords had gathered to the killing field, each with nearly half a million Vanquishers, workers, and technicians, so that now literally millions of dronon raised their voices in unison, cheering the Lords of the Seventh Swarm.

Gallen knew such meetings must be impossibly rare on dronon. Battles for succession would attract only two pairs of Swarm Lords. But there had never been a battle like this, a battle where the fate of two species hung in the balance.

Above them, Lord Kintiniklintit finished his great circle, veered to attack from far away. Gallen pushed Maggie aside. His head felt clearer. Perhaps it was the nanodocs from Orick’s precious blood, but he felt less dizziness; his wounds were less swollen. Still, his leg was broken, despite Maggie’s binding. Even with a full course of nanodocs, it would have taken days or weeks to heal. Gallen could hardly stand on his one good leg.

“I have to fight,” he told Maggie.

“You can’t win,” Maggie said. “Not with your leg.”

Gallen closed his eyes, as if the very thought of fighting pained him. “I can’t win, but I can fight. That’s what I do.” He needed this. He needed to know he’d done all he could.

“Then I’ll fight with you,” she said.

Maggie wore his mantle. She began to remove it, place the net of black rings on his head. But he knew it would be no use. He couldn’t leap about. Couldn’t kick. The mantle could do nothing for him.

“No,” Gallen said. “You keep it. You’re in better physical shape than I.”

Lord Kintiniklintit’s wings rumbled, a slight shift in tone that indicated he was picking up speed, Gallen looked up. The sun was just rising, and in the northeast, a line of thunderheads loomed. Ruin’s dark sun did not give much light, as red and distant as it was. With the clouds obscuring it, it gave even less. Still, Kintiniklintit made his first run from that direction, choosing to fly in out of the sun, blinding his opponents.

Gallen hobbled to Maggie’s right, held her shoulder lightly, balancing on one foot. The grass here was part of an open field, somewhat barren. Gallen knelt and pried up a large rock from the ground, held it in his right hand.

“When Kintiniklintit comes in, he’ll expect you to split left, me to split right,” Gallen whispered. “Don’t do it. Fall right. I’ll be in front of you.”

“What if he spits acid?” Maggie asked. She’d once told him that in all her dreams, it was not dying from wounds inflicted that worried her, it was the painful burning from acid first.

“I’ll feint right,” Gallen said. “I won’t really move. If he spits, I’m hoping he’ll miss.”
And if he doesn’t miss
, he thought,
I’ll be shielding you with my body. You’ve done so much for me, so much to help me, that this is the last service I can offer.

Maggie nodded. She shivered, terrified. Perhaps she wanted to turn and run, or to curl into a ball and hide, but Gallen needed her to stand beside him, to prop him up. He wasn’t sure she could do it. Gallen feared that when Kintiniklintit attacked, she’d simply remain standing, too frozen to move.

Gallen squeezed her shoulder and squinted up into the light as Lord Kintiniklintit completed his great circle and veered at them, full speed. He raised his serrated battle claws over his head as if to attack.

At one time that battle stance would have struck terror in Gallen, but he’d heard how Kintiniklintit fared in other battles. His great arms could chop a person in half like a cleaver. Death would be instantaneous.

Kintiniklintit rushed toward them, wings humming, carapace sullen in the dawn light. Gallen recalled how he’d fought the dronon before, his incredible leaps, his diving and weaves.

He wished Maggie could move like that. Perhaps she could have, months ago. But not now, not with a child in her.

When Kintiniklintit was a hundred meters out, Maggie tensed as if to run, but Gallen held her shoulder stiffly. Everything seemed to slow. Kintiniklintit was coming in low, too low. It was a killing run. He didn’t plan to spit his acid on them, as other dronon would have. He planned to split them in halves, give them a quick and merciful death.

I should have known
, Gallen thought.
He’s a gallant one. Kintiniklintit plans to kill us. I shouldn’t have told Maggie to
fail right. He’ll come straight through us!

There was no time to warn her now. He could only hope she’d see the danger.

Suddenly he felt her shift, spin away as if to dodge left. Gallen feinted right, and Lord Kintiniklintit spit, his stomach acids exploding out, frothing white, hurtling over Gallen’s right shoulder.

But instead of dodging, Gallen hurled his stone with all his might, catching the dronon Lord in the right front eye cluster. In surprise Kintiniklintit turned his head defensively. Gallen dropped and rolled right.

Kintiniklintit’s battle arms swatted the ground as the great Lord passed, hitting the precise spot where Gallen had stood. Fortunately, Maggie had ignored Gallen’s advice and dived left. The maneuver saved her life.

The dronon hosts suddenly quieted, surprised.

And yet Gallen did not feel relief to see Maggie alive and unharmed. Instead he felt only dismay, for as the Lord Escort had passed him, Gallen had seen Kintiniklintit’s left sensor whip sail by, within easy grasp.

Gallen had bulldogged a dronon that way, jerking the sensor whip down so hard that the dronon flew headfirst into the ground. It might not be enough to kill Lord Kintiniklintit, but Gallen realized, to his dismay, he could have struck a blow against the Lord.

As Gallen struggled to rise on his broken leg, he heard Maggie grumble. “If I’m going to be in this fight, I’m in all the way. I’ll not be just a lamppost for you to lean on!”

Maggie fumbled on the ground, pulled up a rock as Gallen had done before. Then she came to Gallen.

Kintiniklintit hurtled through the air, redoubling his speed. Maggie helped Gallen to stand. He groaned in pain as he tried to put weight on his leg. He had retrieved a rock.

“I don’t think it’s legal to use these,” Maggie said.

“I don’t care about the rules anymore,” Gallen said.

Lord Kintiniklintit had reached the apex of his climb. He veered and streaked toward them. The thunderheads behind him were moving fast, so that even as the sun rose, the darkness deepened. He flew now not in sunlight, but in shadow.

“Same tactic as before,” Gallen whispered.

Maggie glanced at him fretfully. “Are you sure?”

“I never used exactly the same tactic twice in my other fights,’’ Gallen said. “He’ll know that. He won’t expect this.”

Gallen considered dropping his stone. If this was to be a replay, he knew what he had to do. He had to grab that sensor whip and yank down with all his might, though the force of it would rip his arms from their sockets.

But this would not be a replay. Lord Kintiniklintit came in lower, and from the left. The front edge of a dronon’s hard wing could slice a man like a saber, and by aiming his attack at Maggie, Lord Kintiniklintit showed that his gallant overtures had reached an end.

If Maggie could not dodge him, Gallen would have to leap between the two. The dronon expected him to do so.

Maggie remained steadfast as Kintiniklintit attacked.

“Go right,” she shouted, and at that moment she threw her rock.

Perhaps she’d imagined Kintiniklintit had enough eyes left in his right eye cluster that he would see the rock coming, try to dodge. She’d imagined wrong.

The Vanquisher flew straight on, taking a hit to the head, the rock bouncing harmlessly off his exoskeleton. Maggie tried to drop beneath his wings, too slow.

Gallen threw himself in front of her, blocking the attack with a fierce blow to Lord Kintinikiintit’s wing. The sturdy wing cracked under the impact, but the edge of the wing caught Gallen in the temple on its upstroke, slamming his forehead.

Gallen felt himself falling, saw nothing but bright flashes of light in the darkness.

The next Gallen knew, he lay on his back, not knowing how long he’d been down. He opened his eyes, felt blood in them, saw red. Blood gushed from his brow, had pooled in his eye sockets.

“Gallen, get up! Save me!” Maggie screamed. She slapped his face, tried to rouse him.

Gallen vainly tried to recall where he was, could not remember. But he rolled to his knees, in tremendous pain.

Only Maggie’s screams seemed to penetrate the fog in his mind.

He stared at the ground for a moment, tried to focus. All around a great din arose—the clacking cries of dronon. He stared dumbly at his gloved hands, saw hot blood spattering on the ground, his blood. Maggie screamed and grabbed his shoulder, tried to pull him up.

He grasped her arm, tried to struggle to his feet.

“Where-what’s happening?” he asked. “Where’s Orick?” He didn’t know why that question came to mind. He had a sense that if Orick were here, Orick would fix everything. But as Gallen glanced around, he could see no bear—only the red pavilions, only the millions of dark bodies.

The air around him smelled acrid—the scent of dronon stomach acids. “Oh, Gallen!” Maggie cried, and she was holding his face up, trying to look into his face, but blood spilled down onto her hands. The shock on her face, the fear in her brown eyes, told him he did not look well.

“What? What?” Gallen asked.

And suddenly amid the clamor and the tumult, the million voices crying out in a furor for blood, suddenly in the slow wind, Gallen looked out toward the sun, saw Kintiniklintit winging toward him, flying out of the sun, low to the ground, battle arms raised.

“Got to go,” Gallen said thickly, tried to push Maggie away. The dronon Lord was flying toward her unprotected back. But Gallen’s muscles had all gone rubbery, his movements felt disjointed.

He tried to push her away, and felt as feeble as a child. She held him, tried to hold him upright. She glanced over her shoulder at the Vanquisher.

Gallen tried to push her, tried to get in front of her, but realized numbly that she held him tight, that she shielded him with her body.

“I love you, Gallen,” she said.

The Vanquisher was coming, and Gallen struggled with Maggie in a clumsy dance. With one great heave, he shoved her back, just as Kintiniklintit struck.

Gallen only had time to half turn to the monster thundering toward him when he heard battle arms whistle downward. One of them struck him on the right shoulder, cleaving through the collarbone, ripping down through his right lung and the rib bones, exiting from his belly.

The blow totally undid Gallen, ripping him nearly in half. He dropped backward to a sitting position from the force of the blow, was thrown sideways so that his face hit the dirt.

He lay there, unmoving, unable to move—yet still strangely conscious. He felt no pain, sound was but a dim rushing in his ears, the delighted cries of dronon Vanquishers sounding like nothing so much as the sea.

Maggie got up from the ground, stared at him in dismay. Her lip was bleeding, and though Gallen struggled to breathe, he found himself choking and knew that in seconds his life would bleed from him. He felt no sorrow for himself, only for her. He so wanted to reach out, to comfort her.

Gallen saw Kintiniklintit turn sharply, double back, and the roaring of the sea grew, filled his ears. When a Lord Escort came to kill a queen, it did not move so swiftly as when it killed her protector. The dronon considered the combat to be over. Golden Queens, with their bloated bellies and feeble arms, could not protect themselves.

Maggie touched Gallen’s cheek, stroked it, and glanced over her shoulder as Kintiniklintit made his final assault.

To her credit, Maggie raised her fists and assumed a combat stance. The mantle she wore must have shown her this stance.

But Maggie was no Lord Protector.

Kintiniklintit dived toward her, and by now, Gallen’s hearing had gone dim. He coughed uncontrollably, his life hacking from him as he struggled for breath. Distantly, he saw the dronon Vanquisher stoop, battle arms raised high overhead, mouth opened so that its terrible teeth, like the yellow teeth of a horse, gaped at her.

Orick, where are you?
Gallen wondered. He remembered now that Orick was seeking the Waters of Strength, that Orick would drink from them, was supposed to come save him. If the Qualeewoohs had conquered time, then Orick should have been here by now. But Orick was nowhere to be seen.

As Kintiniklintit neared, Maggie leapt in the air and kicked.

But Maggie was no Lord Protector. She did not leap high or fast enough. While carrying a child in her womb, she could have done neither.

Kintiniklintit’s battle arms swung down with alarming speed, slashing Maggie at the midriff, slicing her nearly in two.

Blood sprayed in the air—dark droplets that seemed to fall in slow motion, and Maggie’s head and torso dropped backward, thudded next to Gallen.

Her head was toward him, face upraised, as if in her last moment she’d tried to turn to him. Her eyes, her deep brown eyes with their flecks of gold, stared at him vacantly, unmoving.

Gallen’s mantle lay in a pile beside her red hair, the gems in it shining. It had slipped off.

She did not breathe, did not cry out. Gallen felt—nothing. So empty. Why did I bring her to this? he wondered. He could feel nothing, no pain or despair, no love or hope.

Instead, he simply stared out over the crowds of dronon in their millions, saw them raising their arms, crying out in triumph. In the distance, across the field, Hera and Athena rushed toward him.

Go back
, he wanted to say.
They could do nothing now
.