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

by David Gardner-Martin

  Unable to grasp what was happening, Allessia suddenly felt light-headed, and despite a determination not to show any weakness, the room began to spin around her. She sensed several hands lift her body into the air and lay it gently upon a soft fur-covered bed.

  ‘We have found our lady,’ she heard Camellia whisper, as she fell asleep, and the honeybees buzzed with joy as they came to her, honoring her once again with their strength and their love.

  Chapter 23

  The Red Sun fell slowly towards the Hivedom’s high wall. Protective smoke dispensers, freshly placed around the edge of the hives, covered the scene in a pale red mist. Despite his swift action in having the errant hives burnt, the strange Reformation was still spreading, with over thirty hives now consigned to ash. Fresh pillars of thick grey smoke could be seen rising from several more. Lord Hardknot, alone on his high balcony, stared at the strange scene in silence until darkness fell and he could see no more.

  Was it the work of the rogue scent, he thought, as he lay upon his bed, or some other concoction of strange circumstances? Maybe the burning of the hives had ignited a deeper emotion in the unfathomable depths of the spirit beings that touched the lives of the Royal Honeybees. Could there be more to their behaviour than he was able to understand, his own certainty the rock upon which all his ambitions had been piled?

  Such thoughts of doubt were rare for the Keeper of the Royal Honeybees, and when he finally found a moment of sleep, the dreams that came to him were strange and dark. He awoke in the depths of the night and went to his balcony to stare into the pitch-black sky, reaching out for the sound of millions of wings that would tell him his fears were groundless. Then when the first rays of the Green Sun revealed yet more pillars of smoke, his patience finally snapped, his anger filling the Hivedom as he struggled to comprehend the one piece of his beautiful jigsaw refusing to fall into place.

  Why had his Jazpahs still been unable to locate the source of the rogue scent? Was it possible it had moved outside the City? If that were so, the danger could gather strength to move against him. He closed his eyes to commune with his creatures, sensing their anger and frustration at thus far failing their master. He spoke to them without the need for words. They were free of any constraints and could move beyond the City walls in search of their prey.

  A messenger arrived with word from General Forgewell. Lord Chillhide and the leaders of the Noble conspiracy had fled the City. Those nobles that had been captured had been taken to the Turret, there to await their fate.

  When he arrived at the cells, Lady Rumball was first to see the tall figure approach.

  ‘Hardknot,’ she whispered, scornfully.

  Highgate, former Lord Marshall of the King’s Army, glared at their visitor, his fists clenching and unclenching with visible rage, but a tight gag that had been placed across his mouth to silence his frequent outbursts, prevented any curses from filling the air.

  The remaining nobles meanwhile, lowered their faces to the ground and stared at their feet, the expression on their faces betraying resignation to a fate over which they now had no control.

  Whilst it was true that they were powerless, Hardknot thought, he knew that any weakness now would be used against him later; it was the way of it. Only an immediate and final resolution was perfect.

  When he finally arrived back at the Hivedom, the sound of their protests as they were dragged to their execution, still rang in his head. In their final moments, some had found the strength within them to meet their end well, their last words messages for their loved ones to be carried by any that would spare them this mercy. Only Lady Rumball had shouted defiance to the last, the curses she spat in Hardknot’s direction silenced when a burly Turret Guard had thrust her face deep into the embers. This final act had not been done well, reflected Hardknot, but it was over, and now they were gone.

  As for Chillhide and his close companions, news had already reached him that the Vulfkings had left the Far Mountains and entered the Kingdom, breaking a truce that had ended generations of conflict. Only greed would have driven them to do so, for they were mercenary race by nature. The nobility had access to great stores of gold and gemstones, and he smiled at their foolish belief that great power could be safely gained from great riches. They would soon learn their mistake.

  ‘Maarstur!’ cried Morthern Yule, suddenly at his side. ‘A large swarm has left the Hivedom!’

  Though surprising, this news did not concern Hardknot. He knew well from studies of ancient times that honeybees would often leave the Hivedom to rescue the souls of those that had fallen in mortal combat. There was blood on the City streets once more, and even Cardinal Oblong’s Holy Guards deserved a chance of redemption.

  ‘They will return,’ he said, ‘when their work is done.’

  Yule bowed, the worries of recent events tugging the lines on his face ever deeper into his skin.

  ‘But burn no more hives,’ added Hardknot.

  ‘Oh maarstur!’ cried Yule, unable to control his joy. ‘Oh, thank you, master! It shall be so!’ And he hurried away, the bearer of excellent news.

  Hardknot watched the activity within the hives for more than an hour as several fires were doused, and then made his way to the Infusion Chamber beneath the Grand Hive. As he entered the room, the curved glass of the large container filled with Royal Honey acted as a magnifying glass; the features of Relical Bartolamy and the remarkable restoration were clear to see.

  ‘And his internal organs?’ Hardknot asked, as he stared at the naked body.

  ‘All as those of a newborn, Your Oneness,’ replied Darrius Slate, Master of the Infusion Chamber. ‘There be not one single trace of a life lived upon him, or within him.’

  ‘Whatever shall befall him?’

  ‘If he is not removed, then not even time can prevent the infusion of life. It is eternal.’

  Hardknot’s eyes followed the smooth metal pipes that penetrated Bartolamy’s navel and rectum. ‘You may wake him.’

  ‘As Your Oneness wishes,’ said Slate, before adding, ‘but duty compels me to request a gradual return to consciousness. The realisation of total immersion can bring upon a seizure if procedures are too rapidly enjoined.’

  ‘For subjects whose minds are not capable of understanding, that may be so,’ said Hardknot. ‘There will be no such occurrence in this individual. You may rouse him.’

  Slate bowed again, and then snapped his fingers at one of the attendants monitoring a complex of taps and dials on a series of large cylinders beside the tank.

  ‘Administer three measures of Deyenalum B Plus,’ he barked, and the man nodded and turned one of the taps, watching the dial intently as it began to move. When the correct dosage had been infused, the attendant sealed the tap once more.

  No immediate reaction could be seen as the liquid travelled through the tubes and into the floating body, but then signs of life began to appear, the merest tremble of an eyelid the first to catch Hardknot’s attention.

  ‘The danger comes when they first try to breathe,’ whispered Slate. ‘The mind can find it impossible to cope with the seeming lack of air.’

  Bartolamy’s eyelids began to open, the viscous liquid surrounding them preventing anything but their gradual slide over two white eyes. The eyeballs revolved in their sockets and two bright green pupils swept into view, the irises contracting in the light of the Infusion Chamber. Instinctively, the young relical gasped, but no air burst into his lungs, each filled with the same rich golden liquid that surrounded every pore of his body. Panic filled his face as his mouth began to open again and again, as if a fish that is left in a net to die. His hands clawed through the thick liquid in search of some purchase that could raise him into the life-giving air, but none could be found. The minutes passed, and then at last a look of puzzlement appeared on Bartolamy’s face.

  ‘The worst is over,’ said Slate, with clear relief. ‘There will be no seizure now.’

  ‘Can he hear us?’ asked Hardknot, as he continue
d to stare at the body in the tank.

  ‘No, Your Oneness,’ said Slate, ‘the words we are saying will not be detected. But you may speak to him through this.’ And he moved to the side of the tank and pulled a leather tube from a hook, a large funnel being fixed at the end.

  Within the container, Bartolamy stared amazed at two golden figures as they swirled in and out of focus like ghosts. Was he now dead, he thought, and within the Blessed Afterwards? And if that were so, who were the spirits that now stood before him.

  He breathed in and a warm liquid filled his lungs. He exhaled, and a beguiling sensation of being utterly alive filled his being. Truly, I must be dead, he thought, and he closed his eyes to beg for mercy.

  ‘Relical Bartolamy,’ a voice said. He opened his eyes. ‘For the moment speech is beyond your capability,’ the voice continued. ‘But you are safe now, and need only listen to what I have to say. If you understand my words, close and open your eyes.’

  Bartolamy paused, and then closed and opened his eyes as he was bid.

  ‘Your master abandoned you. It is I, Lord Hardknot, who have rescued you. Look at your body; it has been restored to you.’

  Bartolamy lowered his head to stare down the length of his being, the ravages of Cardinal Oblong’s hexrack now washed away by a strange perfection.

  ‘His Mostfull sought to destroy you entirely, body and soul,’ continued Hardknot. ‘But for you, I have prepared a different destiny. A destiny that is soon to be revealed to you.’ There was a pause. ‘Let him rest within the chamber for one hour,’ the voice continued at length, as if issuing an order. ‘After that time, restore air to his lungs and independent life to his being. Bring him to me at white light.’

  ‘Yes, Your Oneness,’ said the second figure with a bow.

  Bartolamy observed the golden figures move away. He was alone now, his world silent, still, and yet filled with an overpowering sense of well-being. He breathed in deeply the rich liquid once more; the joy of life coursed through his body as an unstoppable tide.

  Gradually he felt his eyesight fade and his vision turn within. Images began to appear as the patterns of his life were spread before him; the joys and heartaches rising and falling as each memory was found and recognised. His infancy, his childhood, his adolescence, his youthfulness, and always his hunger and searching for truth. As if in a single moment he saw his life in the Holy Church of Afterwards. The cruel initiations, the endless words, the self-loathing; all doctrines of suffering.

  Then he saw nursekeeper Annie Rubetter, beautiful Annie, and he felt the warmth of her body once again. He wrapped his arms around her as she lay back to receive him, her brow damp with salty perspiration, her golden hair warm with scent, her mouth open and inviting. He felt her hands upon his back, the warmth of union, and then they were as one, moving together in harmony as the world fell far behind them. He did not want to leave her, but still his mind moved on to the depths of the Sacred Hellholes, the agony of the hexrack, the words of the dreadful ceremony pronouncing death upon his soul. His screams filled his head again and again.

  Then came a blur, the city streets rushing past him to disappear finally into a soft damp world. Voices in the dark, cries of alarm, the sound of fighting and the sweet smell of blood, then hurried away once more. And then at last, safety, and his body floating silently in a honeyed sea of peace. He felt soft caresses begin to cover his entire body and sweet voices singing a wordless melody in his ears. He let go to surrender entirely to the overwhelming pleasure. And then in a sudden blinding flash of revelation, he saw what Lord Hardknot had wanted him to see. A single point of pure white light that grew before him, and that he moved towards without fear or hesitation. And when he was wrapped as tightly within Her love as it was possible to be, he found deep within him a core that was perfect and eternal.

  Chapter 24

  Even in the darkness, Cardinal Oblong could still see evil before him. He moved his arms, seeking comfort against the hard-stone bed, for there was no doubt now that he was awake. Such nightmares would not have been accompanied by the cramps of reality. He blinked, and the shadows disappeared.

  He turned his face to the doorway; a faint glint of red light squeezed through the cracks in its frame. Slowly he turned his body until he was sitting upright. He spent a moment squeezing the pins and needles building in his left arm, cursing under his breath the inconvenience of that which held his being.

  Recent events came racing back into his consciousness. The attack of the Hivecarls was as ferocious as it was unexpected; his Holy Guards taken by surprise. High Commander Sideswipe was gone, maybe even dead. He was powerless. For a brief moment, a pang of self-pity stabbed his heart, but as with any weakness within the Primate of the Holy Church of Afterwards, such negative emotions were quickly swamped. He had secured his future by moving swiftly down a hidden tunnel that led directly into the depths of the Sacred Hellholes. He was still alive, and time was now on his side.

  He withdrew the bolt on the heavy iron door of his temporary refuge and pulled it open, the well-oiled hinges turning silently to admit the dim red light beyond. A familiar presence grew in the air and he took a moment to drink in its nature; the sounds of distant torment broke over him like waves upon a shore. He walked forward, his feet scraping on the rough stone floor and one hand touching the warm walls for support.

  The tunnels of the Sacred Hellholes were a deathtrap to any that did not understand them. The seemingly blank walls and empty floors were marked with Signways; an ancient language of navigation known to very few. To Oblong, they were as easy to read as a printed book, but to an unwary explorer, the likelihood of escape once lost was extremely remote.

  In the darkness, it was impossible to judge the passing of time, and as he moved ever deeper, Oblong began to feel the hours drifting into each other. At length, he came across a Retreat Cell, a lost place where those who needed to bolster their faith were sent to pray in lengthy isolation. He knew that it would contain dried meat and biscuits and a spring of clear water, and despite his loathing for such simple fare, he took refreshment. He fell into a deep sleep and the dreams came quickly once more. He was a child, his knees trembling as a dark-robed Spout stood before him. He stared up into the grey face, the eyes lost in shadows and the mouth as thin as pencil lead.

  ‘And what hath They prepared?’ it said.

  ‘The Mystery of the Blessed Union, Forst’, came his distant reply.

  ‘And what are the Six Ways that we may serve Them?’

  Oblong felt the blood pumping through his veins as the fear began to grow within him.

  ‘Prayer, Piety, Patience, Fortitude, Sacrifice…and…and…’

  He saw the shadow bend towards him, a stale smell of neglect surrounding its nature.

  ‘And Suffering, boy,’ he heard a dry voice cry in his ear.

  He awoke as the blows began to fall, his heart pounding as he remembered his tiny body filling with pleasure as each shaft of pain had delivered its blessed fruit. And once such joy had been discovered, the harsh world had become sweet, the days of his youth carrying him ever onwards towards the Doctrine of Suffering.

  He stood, washed his face in the ice-cold stream that fed this dark underground world, and then continued his journey once more.

  As he descended the air became intensely cold, until at length Oblong found that even the exertion of walking brought him no comfort. As his mind began to wander he imagined what might now be happening above the ground. There was no doubt in his mind that Lord Hardknot’s Hivecarls would have secured the Imposium. Without High Commander Sideswipe to lead them, or his own presence to bolster their nerve, surely that would be inevitable. But the thought of His Oneness raging as news of his own capture was not delivered to him, filled him with joy.

  ‘He will never find me,’ he grunted to himself as he negotiated a particularly steep passageway, the glowick in his hand spluttering in the thick frozen air. He began to laugh, the solitary sound echoing a thousand times a
s it circled the maze of empty tunnels, for even the sounds of torment had now been left far behind.

  At last he came to his destination, a small low chamber caked in thick ice and bathed in a white frozen mist. He entered it at once and lay upon the hard ice slab, his body shattered from his journey. Sleep would be swift, but with no one on hand to wake him, he was unsure as to how long he would be gone. But there was no doubt in his mind that faith would ensure his return. He had taken the time to hide the means to his own salvation, and now his foresight was about to repay him a million-fold.

  The glowick died and blackness fell upon him. His consciousness began to drift, images of his life appearing before him as if in a picture book. He saw the bloodied figure of Pater Bartolamy upon the hexrack and a single certainty forced him back into the moment.

  ‘Vengeance is mine,’ he whispered, the frozen skin on his lips cracking like ice on a pond as they were forced to move one last time.

  The intense cold crept ever deeper into his body, and as he drifted into oblivion, Cardinal Oblong opened his mind to one last thought of hatred to be waiting to comfort him when he awoke. He brought before him the face of Lord Hardknot, shouting words he could not hear.

  Then there was nothing.

  Chapter 25

  Pooter closed the front door behind him and entered the darkness of night. He waited for a moment to let his eyes accustom themselves to the dim light. At length, he observed black rain-heavy clouds against the canopy of stars. He watched them in silence as they drifted towards him. It started to rain. He took the jar from his pocket and observed the direction of the King Bee. There was no doubt that his journey led first towards the Eastern Gates. He wrapped his cloak tight around him and stepped onto the damp cobblestones.

  The note he had left Glarious on the kitchen table had stressed once again the urgency of State Accountering. It grieved him to be so untruthful, but the truth would serve no purpose. If Glarious had known his intentions she would be distraught, the children upset, and the whole household gripped by gloom. Only Cabble knew that he was leaving the City, and what steps to take should he never return.