Tenocht was the first of the Eastern Colonies, the first place considered safe by refugees from Pan Americana. There, the people who had lifted the world and broken it chose to circle their wagons and lie low. The meager remnants of their tek were turned to protection and to survival.
—Diego Thompson, A Broken World
Mosk swung his claw through the door, shattering the fine wood and sending splinters through the air in an explosion of mahogany. The man stumbled backward, barely catching himself against the balcony rail. He shook a piece of wood from his shoulder and returned to the semprelisto stance. A drop of blood fell from his right hand.
Mosk circled to that side, pressing the attack. The man parried a lunge with his derech, then followed through with a downward slash from his curved iskeyar. The sword cut through the Hiveking’s left pri-arm spurs, severing two of them. With a rattling hiss, Mosk took a step backward.
The Nahuat, encouraged by the feint, drove forward with his straight blade. Against any other man, this thrust would have gone straight through the chest. Against a creature who had slain more blademasters than were alive today, it was a tiredly predictable move. Mosk snapped his barbed sub-arms up to catch the blade, then spun and pulled the man to his left. The man exhaled sharply and released the sword. Too late.
The Hiveking brought both of his heavy upper arms down on the man’s unprotected back. Thick spurs pierced the skin and muscle, and the blademaster hit the ground with a groan. Mosk was surprised to see the man roll to the side and then stagger to his feet. This was a strong one!
Before the man could raise his remaining blade, Mosk was on top of him. Pri-arms pushing the Nahuat’s head back, the Hiveking drove him to the floor. With a roar, he spread his toothed mandibles wide and then bit into the man’s chest, snapping through the sternum. Mosk felt hot red air burst from ruptured lungs.
He ate as the man shuddered his last.
Proximate Keq arrived several minutes later, his spurs also wet. They glittered darkly in the moonlight.
The coldman waited until his Swarmlord finished, and then bowed.
“My blood to your tongue, sire. Command me.”
Mosk waved the Clot Primal to his feet.
“Report, Keq. How many more in this building?”
“We found three others trying to escape through the sublevels. One was a blademaster, and our losses were commensurate. We lost seven of the battle caste and fifteen arakids. The remaining Clot is still searching the top floors, but I suspect we will find no more.”
Keq leaned forward, and Mosk noticed that the bluecaste markings on his shoulders were still florid with excitement. The Proximate had missed the clean taste of swordsmen’s blood too, it seemed.
“The Rift Queen knew we were coming—I found signs indicating that this was a major meeting place for the rebels. My arakids are trying to follow a dozen different scent trails. We only caught the last few, probably those left as a rearguard while the rest escaped.”
Mosk regarded the jagged stubs of his left pri-arm spurs. They would grow back in his next molt, but the loss angered him nonetheless. The cost of growing soft in between Hunts.
“How could they have known we were coming? We only arrived in Tenocht this morning, and our camp is hidden behind the generator sector.”
“I suspect,” said Keq, “that we were betrayed by the Tenocht Council. The queen must have a spy in the governing dome.”
Mosk didn’t like having to rely on humans.
“Kill all of them. I don’t have time for these soft people and their complexities. I want your Clot to take the cannon batteries at the front gate, Keq, and I want them back online and fully charged by morning. Tell Proximates Toq and Gelt to hold the remaining gates. This city will be locked tight until I am personally satisfied that it is clean—we left too soon after the last Hunt, and our sloppiness has festered.”
“Yes, sire. Do you expect the Pensanden to make a frontal assault? If he gets close enough to take the cannons before we—”
Keq was suddenly silent. Mosk looked up from his damaged spurs with surprise. A slender kra-wyrm had flown up to the balcony, hovering over the Hiveking’s head.
Mosk dismissed Proximate Keq and turned to face the creature.
It resembled a small, paler version of the draconfly. Only as long as one of Mosk’s arms, the kra-wyrm struggled to hover in one place with its two pairs of transparent wings. The winds were strong up here, ninety floors above the ground.
Mosk raised the arm he had been inspecting, and the creature came to a rest on his spur nubs. The kra-wyrm was still wet from hatching. This must have been an urgent message.
Mosk pulled it close and whispered the key word. “Yohl Ik’nal.”
The kra-wyrm shivered and turned its back to Mosk, tilting its wings together to form a flat panel. Trembling light flowed across the wings, and a face appeared in the brightness. It was the Arkángel Rendel Desgarrar.
“We grow tired of waiting for your Hunt, Hiveking. Our Lord has found the Pensanden Himself.”
Mosk took a surprised step back. His throat clicked warily.
“Hzzk. Where, sire?”
“In the city you claimed to have cleared. And left in the hands of a traitor. The Pensanden is in Babel, Hiveking. And the only reason you still have your head is because I need someone to surround the city until I arrive.”
“You, sire? But . . . but my Swarm isn’t large enough to hold Tenocht and surround Babel until—”
“You will leave Tenocht immediately and take your entire Swarm to Babel. You have wasted far too much time in a city that we already control. The Pensanden is in the tower, obviously using the king and any remnant tek to build up an army. I have sent Kai to prime the chambers, and we will need your forces there. Now.”
Mosk was stunned. He felt a cold thorn pierce his heart.
The face in the light raised an eyebrow.
“You are silent, Hiveking? Have your years hunting these humans infected you with their fears?”
Am I infected? My ability to defeat the Nahuat alone, unique among my kind—it has required some understanding of their minds. The Arkángel himself told me that my brood was pushed as far into the human range of intellect as the Vestigarchy had ever gone.
Too far?
Mosk shook his ebon head. The cold thorn went deeper.
Is this fear?
“No, sire. The wind up here is strong—I can barely hear you. I will take my swarm to Babel and hold it until you arrive.
“Upon your arrival, I will offer you my head. I recommend Proximate Keq as the new Hiveking. Cleanse my weakness from the coldmen, sire.”
The Arkángel was silent, wrinkled lips in a grim line.
He knows that I fear.
“I will arrive at Babel in two days. I will be accompanied by five battalions. Have your Proximate familiarized with the proper command pheromones.”
“Yes, sire. My blood to your tongue.”
The light fuzzed into static and then disappeared. The kra-wyrm shuddered one last time and then fell to the ground, lifeless. Its purpose had been served.
As has mine.
But . . . I don’t want to die.