Bastion of Sun

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Black Hive

Odaren, the pudgy thief and right hand to the nefarious Shadow King, moved with haste. His stout legs chafed as he hurried with news certain to bring his own death. Turning, he entered an intersection swarming with thieves, opening up to hundreds of archways and canals—all of it coated in the famous turquoise glow of Narim. It was a hub of sneers, dirty bodies and tangible threats—where one cross look meant a swift dagger in the back. He tasted the tang of sweat on his upper lip and covered his nose from the stench of death that clung to the nefarious men and women who walked the pathways of Narim, the Great Kingdom of Moon.

Death...

Odaren gulped a sweaty, fearful breath.

He stopped amid the watery halls. What if I run? He had a quick jolt of hope and it made his pulse race. Dark thieves flowed around him like murky waters. He looked up to see a dirt ceiling looming hundreds of feet above—a barrier between the dark underworld and the land above. A land of air, of light, of life. Yes... I can head for the hills, then hide in the crevasses of the Narim Foothills... Smiling, Odaren grew emboldened by the idea. I can feed myself on the farms of the surface—those dim-witted peasants would never be the wiser. But most importantly, I would live... Abruptly, his smile wilted.

All around him the people moved en masse, heading toward a coliseum-like structure that rose from Narim's grand turquoise lake like a shattered black blade.

The Black Hive.

No. There was no running, not from him.

The Shadow King's orders were always obeyed. Odaren was servile to his core. If he had a shred of pride, it was only in that. In a life full of depravity and sin—a life clinging to life, like the threadbare clothes upon his heavyset frame—Odaren was at least loyal.

With a heavy breath, he made his way up the long rise. Sweaty and tired, he maneuvered through the maze of arches and ramps, reaching the last barrier of guards—thieves, really—between him and the Shadow King. They lounged beneath a wide archway in their black rags. Festooned upon their breasts was a poorly stitched half-gold half-black crown, the symbol of their master. Odaren approached. They made no move to stop him, but beneath their breath he faintly he heard the words, "King's Rat."

Odaren ignored them and entered the Shadow King's hall.

Perhaps at one time long, long ago, the hall was a place of grandeur, filled with rich rugs, tapestries, bloodstone murals and other symbols of the Moon Kingdom's wealth. Yet after the last rightful king of Narim was killed, everything was pilfered and wasted and those relics were now scattered across the lands. Now the hall was little more than a round hemisphere of worn stone. Broken chandeliers hung like giant paralyzed spiders far above his head. A fissure in the ceiling, not unlike a broken egg, showed the much nearer earthen roof of Narim.

Darkness was prevalent. It lingered in the air like cobwebs Odaren couldn't sweep aside. Luckily, on the far walls, turquoise light peeked through the slates of boarded-up grand windows. The light of Narim fought back against the dark aura of the Shadow King's throne room. It gave Odaren a strange sense of comfort to know that despite the corruption from a dozen years of defilement at the Shadow King's hands, the Great Kingdom still had a pulse.

Gaze fixed in deference to the stone, he made his way across the long, cold expanse of floor to stand before the Shadow King's throne. His heart thudding, the weight of hundreds of eyes bearing down upon him made Odaren twitch inside his skin. His peripheral vision glimpsed the crowded walls packed with an assortment of characters: sycophants mostly, and dirty little youths the oh-so-magnanimous king kept as errand boys to filch. But instead of keeping the little miscreants beneath the Black Hive, or in hovels like most cities, the grubby boys sat in the throne room of Narim, at his side. Odaren found it odd and often questioned the true reason for their presence.