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

by David Gardner-Martin

  Hardknot covered her body with a plain silk cloth. Even from the depths of unconsciousness, Lasivia detected the relief, and curled into a foetal ball as she slept. He stroked her head, her wellbeing still precious to him, and then instructed several drollkeepers to wash and dress her when she woke. When she was ready she would be taken to the depths of the Last Descent, there to be safely secured over one hundred floors beneath the Grand Hive. A suite of rooms had been prepared for her, well-guarded and with every possible comfort. Here Lasivia would want for nothing, her fast-growing body now nothing more than a temple of life for the next Jazpah horde.

  Hardknot called for his carriage and left the Hivedom once more, the clatter of steel wheels over cobbled streets lost in the crash of thunder and the deluge of rain that was already clogging the City’s drains. He had never been inside the thick walls of the Imposium, and the opportunity to desecrate the heart of Cardinal Oblong’s empire was one he intended to enjoy to the full.

  When he arrived, the view from the high battlements in the eye of the storm was everything he had hoped it would be. How often, he wondered, had Cardinal Oblong stood in this very spot and stared across at the Hivedom, the Grand Hive now illuminated, as if by an omen, in a single shard of bright purple light.

  ‘Where are your Words now, Your Mostfull,’ he whispered, the smile that came to his lips quite impossible to resist.

  He descended into the heart of the Imposium where he was greeted by Lord Marshall Forgewell. As he had suspected, His Mostfull’s personal quarters were as lavish as they were tasteless. Gaudy purple velvets; richly textured reds; ornate gold and silver ornaments; large gems of every colour and cut; and huge statues with eyes staring down in anger or pain: such were the tools of the Holy Church of Afterwards.

  ‘Have everything taken away,’ he said to Forgewell. ‘Stone to be smashed into pieces. Fabric and wood to be burned. Metals to be melted and turned into weaponry. Precious stones to be bagged and brought to the Palace. And when this place is naught but an empty shell, have it deconstructed, brick by brick.’

  Forgewell bowed.

  ‘And send a detachment to the Hivedom to have Pater Bartolamy escorted to the Cathedral to await me.’

  ‘Yes, Your Oneness,’ Forgewell replied.

  When Hardknot arrived at the Cathedral, the Hivecarls that had been sent at dawn into the depths of the Sacred Hellholes had yet to return to the surface. Their comrades standing guard shuffled uneasily from foot to foot, such a tedious duty being an anathema to their warlike nature. He stared through the open doorway as it lay silent before him. Surely this last pleasure would not be denied him?

  He went to the newly consecrated Chapel of Depravity, cleared now of every trace of the Holy Church of Afterwards. The altar was ready and waiting. He closed his eyes to give thanks to She that looked over him.

  His wordless prayer was broken by the thud of footsteps; a palace guard that had accompanied the Hivecarls into the Hellholes had returned with the news he had been waiting for.

  ‘Where was he found’ Hardknot demanded, as the two men began the descent.

  ‘At the most extreme depth, Your Oneness. A rope cord will lead the way. Truly it is a hiding place that in all probability should never have been discovered. But for an Innocent that had become lost and howled like a gobshee, it could have remained hidden for all time.’

  ‘And you are sure it is His Mostfull?’ Hardknot asked.

  ‘It is the Cardinal,’ the guard answered. ‘But he is dead.’

  Hardknot spoke not a word, his anger rising at the thought that Oblong had escaped his destiny. But surely this could not be so, he reflected, his plans for the Primate of the Holy Church of Afterwards a piece of the blessed jigsaw that She herself had cut to his cause. And so he followed ever deeper into the stale air, fixed only on the expectation that all was not as it might seem to lesser minds.

  As they descended, they passed lines of Innocents being taken to the surface. They were tied together in long chains, hand to hand, and accompanied by guards charged with the grim task of clearing the Hellholes. Their empty eye sockets and stitched mouths gave them a clown-like appearance, but the gruesome injuries that lacerated their bodies, oozing blood and pus that ran in rivulets over their darkened bruised limbs, dispelled any notion of comedy. Hardknot had instructed that all Innocents be taken to deconsecrated monasteries and healed as best as their wounds would allow; tended for by those that had first raised them for a life of suffering. They were each a canvass upon which the evils of the Holy Church of Afterwards could long be remembered.

  Though he did not see them, he heard the shouts of rage from Redhoods being sealed in a deep chasm of the Hellholes. There they would remain in darkness, hidden from sight, governed by isolation and despair, until their time of life was done. It was a fate befitting of the part they had played in such a heinous crime.

  At length, they left even their anger far behind, their footsteps echoing in the increasingly cold air as they continued ever deeper.

  After what seemed an age they finally reached the entrance to a chamber guarded by Hivecarls. Hardknot followed the guard through a small opening, his heart beat rising as the moment he had waited for at last came upon him.

  The intense cold inside the small chamber almost took his breath away; the glowick spluttered as it gasped for life. Then as the light slowly swept the darkness away, Hardknot saw thick white mist swirling lazily over a monstrous snow-white body upon a huge block of ice.

  He stared transfixed by the sight before him. Even through the mist and ice, he recognised the detestable shape of his nemesis, larger to him now that at any time before. For a moment, he felt as if he were standing before a marble tomb, marveling at the workmanship of an ancient craftsman. He walked around the slab, the image of Oblong’s face clearing before him as the glowick suddenly regained its vigour. He stretched out a finger and touched a frozen cheek, and as he did so he felt the evil fastened within the body before him, hungry for life and with appetites still to be satiated.

  ‘So, Your Mostfull,’ he whispered, into a frozen ear, ‘we meet again.’ He began to smile with the sweetest relief. ‘He is still with us,’ he said, turning to the guard, and the man stared at the body with astonishment. ‘His body must be packed in ice,’ continued Hardknot, ‘and then brought to the Hivedom under a close guard of Hivecarls. Act not in haste. Under no circumstances can His Mostfull be allowed to thaw.’

  The guard bowed and left the chamber to organise the task.

  Hardknot remained alone with his prize. He closed his eyes to give thanks for the gift that had been delivered to his care. But as he waited for Her presence, he sensed something dark enter the atmosphere around him. Could it be that at such depths of malevolence, Her Kingdom held no sway? As the awful idea grew, so did a tiny shard of fear prick his soul. He left the chamber quickly and headed back to the light once more.

  Bartolamy was waiting for him when he arrived in the Cathedral.

  ‘He is alive?’ Bartolamy asked.

  ‘Even death would not welcome one such as he,’ said Hardknot. ‘But let us not talk about His Mostfull on such a glorious day. Now is a time for prayers of thanksgiving to She that has delivered us to this moment. Prayers that must be pure, wordless, and singular in purpose. I would have them made by you, as head of the new Honeyist Church.’

  ‘Me?’ asked Bartolamy, his eyes wide with shock.

  ‘Henceforward, you shall be the Pontifect. You shall be known as Pontinal Bartolamy the First. You shall be the fountainhead, the bedrock, and the spring that flows eternal. You shall lead our blessed Reformation.’

  ‘But, Your Oneness, I am unprepared. I am…I was, but a relical practiced in the Mesharist Arts. The thought of such an undertaking, such a responsibility…overwhelms me.’

  ‘Simply find Her within you, Bartolamy,’ said Hardknot gently, ‘and She will guide you. Then you will come to know all that must be undone, and all that must be done.’


  Chapter 30

  From a densely-wooded hillside that commanded a clear view of the narrowing valley, Mr Punsworth Pooter watched the troop of riders, their black capes streaming behind them and their sturdy shaggy-haired mounts fighting their way through the deep snow.

  ‘They look to be Moscatoans,’ a Holy Guard said, shielding his face from the biting wind.

  ‘More likely Zenjos,’ said another, ‘and a long way from home. Should we lessen their number?’

  ‘No,’ High Commander Sideswipe replied, turning his horse away. ‘We leave them be.’ He led the troop back into the cover of the woods to make camp for the night.

  At dawn, whilst unobserved under his cloak, Pooter removed the jar from his pocket to study the King Bee. The bitter cold had penetrated the glass and the insect was listless. Despite revolving the jar several times, it barely moved a step in any direction. But Pooter was confident that Sideswipe and his Holy Guards knew the way to the Winter Castell, and after wrapping the jar in a double-folded cloth and placing it deep into his pocket, he lay down to try and find just a little more sleep.

  The next day’s journey presented nothing to see through an onslaught of more fresh snow. Once more riding behind a burly guard, Pooter pulled his cloak tight over his head and tried to imagine the simple joy of a cup of hot nettle tea. He wondered how the guards could navigate through such an unforgiving and featureless landscape. Maybe the horses knew instinctively the way, he thought, and the men simply put their trust in them? It was impossible to know, for no one spoke a word. It was also impossible to judge the passage of time. With the wind screaming in his ears, the icy snow tearing into any eyes that dared to open, and the need to use every ounce of his strength to hang on to the figure riding before him, each minute seemed an age. It was a huge relief when High Commander Sideswipe finally led the troop into a small gulley protected by tall evergreen trees above a thicket of tough gorse bushes.

  ‘Light a fire,’ he commanded. ‘We travel no more this terrible day.’

  The men hacked branches from the trees and in no time at all the crackle of a raging fire did all it could to keep the cold at bay. Pooter watched as metal jugs were filled with snow. Two guards had earlier killed a deerpig, and some while later the smell of roasting meat and a mug of steaming pine needle tea created quite the most pleasant sense of anticipation he could ever remember. And when a hunk of crackling-topped meat was finally handed to him, it tasted so impossibly good that he groaned with pleasure.

  ‘My pardon,’ he said, after he had belched, but the guards around him bathed in a deep orange glow ignored his apology, so fixed were they too on the delights of the meal.

  At length, the sky darkened into night and a thunderous blizzard screamed above them, as if in anger at their protected hideaway.

  ‘Pray that tomorrow the storm will abate,’ said Sideswipe, and with that he stared into the flames as if already far away in his mind.

  When Pooter had finished eating, even turning down one final piece of crackling that was offered to him, he followed suit. The flames danced before him as if they too were hiding from the freezing night. As he stared deep into the embers, images of a world he knew began to form. He saw Glarious and the children, the family seated together at the table and sharing a meal. He saw his office, and Abather stood proud before it. Inside the disorientation surrounding him, he could even have sworn he heard her bark. ‘Good girl,’ he whispered. He watched Cabble as he laid on his desk the books for the day. He saw Lord Rootsby, his eyes ablaze and staring so deeply into him that he almost spoke to tell him what was happening.

  Pooter’s contemplations were shattered by a nearby howl that chilled his blood. He watched as all the Holy Guards instinctively loosed their broadswords and stared into the raging blizzard and the dark shadows beyond.

  ‘A vulfbear,’ said Sideswipe to Pooter. ‘We have seen several these last few days. But it will not come close to the fire.’ And with that he threw more logs onto the blaze and returned to staring into the flames once more.

  Despite the roar of snow-filled wind, the distant howls of a beast that too was far from home, and a darkness deep within him that would not relax its grip, Pooter eventually fell into a dreamless sleep.

  When daylight broke, the grim discovery that one of the guards posted as a watch had been taken in the night, became quickly apparent. Why the man had not had time to call out was beyond comprehension, but the trail of trampled snow and blood that led to his mostly devoured remains, betrayed the large footprints of a solitary vulfbear.

  ‘Like those that have raised them, they are cursed creatures,’ said Sideswipe.

  Pooter stared at the grisly remains, amazed at his detachment to so dreadful a discovery. It would be some years before the vision would return to haunt his dreams.

  Fortunately, the storm had moved away to a far horizon, the sky now the purest emerald green and the air fresh and inviting. But the deep snowdrifts left behind in its wake were clearly going to make progress difficult.

  The troop broke camp and mounted once more, Pooter’s body so stiff and his backside so sore, that he had to stop himself from crying out as he was lifted onto the back of the saddle once more.

  ‘We head down into the valley to seek firmer ground,’ shouted Sideswipe. ‘With luck we will find a river to follow.’

  All heads nodded with agreement, and one by one the horses stepped free of the ground swept clear by the heat of the fire and into the frozen wasteland once more.

  Chapter 31

  From her bedroom, high in the Southern Tower of the Winter Castell, trees of so many different varieties and shapes could be seen stretching away into the snow-covered mountainside, that Allessia lost count of the variety. But it was the giant oak tree standing proud in a nearby clearing, its leaves rich with autumn reds, oranges and yellows, and acorns the size of chickens’ eggs hanging like bells from every branch, that captivated her senses. The Blue Sun had risen over the horizon to join the Red and Green in a fresh clear sky, a pure white light illuminating an array of such colours and shades against the bleached white backdrop, that Allessia felt trapped in wonderment. It was as if an imagination that had been suffocated, had at last taken a deep breath of intoxicating air.

  She heard the door open and saw Lady Camellia enter her room accompanied by three of her femones carrying refreshments. When they were seated together and alone, Camellia spoke.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, My Lady,’ replied Allessia.

  ‘And did you dream?’

  Allessia paused for a moment to cast her mind back to the mystery that was sleep, and then recalled for Camellia the dream that she could always remember.

  ‘It sounds a beautiful place,’ said Camellia, when she had finished. ‘Islands are magical places, and all as far away from this landed Kingdom as it is possible to imagine. Indeed, I have only ever met one person who has stood upon one. He was with a group of travelers that wintered in the Palace some years ago, their clothing and manner marking them out to His Lightness, King Samel, as nobles of their own time and place. He was a tall man with a strong voice and hands as rough as leather. I spoke to him often about what he had seen on his travels. For many years, he had sailed the far oceans in search of new life, and on one of these voyages had spent some time exploring a small island, a place he could walk around in a single day. Its magical spell had stayed forever in his memory. And though he tried to describe the plants and animals that inhabited its shoreline, I could tell from his eyes that his words did scant justice to what he had seen. But the centre of the island was a swamp infested place, and when the season changed he was driven to his ship by plagues of insects.’

  ‘What an adventure it would be,’ said Allessia, ‘to see such a place.’

  Camellia’s eyes opened wide with surprise. ‘Why, those were the very words His Lightness used!’ she said.

  Allessia looked at Camellia and smiled, her trust in the lady before her g
rowing with every second.

  ‘Do you miss the King?’ she asked.

  Camellia reached out and touched Allessia’s arm, a simple gesture that caused Allessia’s spirit to soar within her.

  ‘In truth, I do not think that miss is the right word,’ answered Camellia. ‘The duties of a King are so time consuming, that spending time without His Lightness was a common condition. But King Samel was a kind man, and I know that he loved me. And when he was young, oh, he was so handsome, Allessia. I could not believe it when he chose me from amongst such a wonderful gathering of femones that has ever been seen. “You have kind eyes,” were the first words he said to me. It was something he said often.’ A single tear formed in Camellia’s left eye and began to roll down her cheek. She let it fall, and then continued. ‘But he is gone, and I feel happy for him. He was beginning to suffer, and did not take kindly to that. He will be far happier where he is now, for the Blessed Afterwards is sure to be a beautiful place, and I shall join him there one day.’

  There was silence for a moment, the warm colours of autumn falling through the open windows casting a golden glow into the room.

  ‘You too, shall be found by a King one day, Allessia,’ said Camellia at length, her face fully engaged with the present once more.

  An expression of glumness fell over Allessia’s features and Camellia laughed out loud. ‘Do not fear!’ she cried. ‘He will be handsome and bold, I am sure! None other could find a one such as you!’