The Complete Void Wraith Saga

by Chris Fox

  “Mmm, we are both products of our upbringing,” Aluki said. “The fact that you are willing to change your opinions bodes well for your future as a ruler.” She hopped down from the bench and waddled to Zakanna, patting her knee. “If we survive this, perhaps you will be the one to build your people into something greater than they are now.”

  22

  Spit in Death's Eye

  Fizgig stared upward through the top of the vessel, directly into space. It was a magnificent feat of technology, giving the appearance that they were floating through space with no ship. Above, a new star had appeared, and the vessel somehow polarized the light so she didn’t have to squint.

  A single world orbited that star, and it grew increasingly larger as they approached. Two rings of ice and rock floated around a purple world, painting a beautiful tapestry. She appreciated the beauty, even as she dreaded what would happen upon their arrival.

  “Do you think there was any way to avoid our sacrifice?” Takkar asked, raising his head listlessly. He’d planted his back against a pillar, and both hands were wrapped around the haft of the axe their captors had allowed him to keep.

  They’d left Fizgig’s stealth belt and plasma blade as well, almost as if daring them to escape. She’d considered doing exactly that, but with Aluki’s cruiser gone there’d be no easy way off the dreadnought.

  “You know there wasn’t,” she replied, tail slashing an angry arc behind her. “Do not sink into self-pity, Ganog. We did what we must to preserve our respective peoples. T’kon escaped. And, judging by the activity below, they’ve not caught Khar either. Goddess willing, he’s already left this vessel.”

  “Do not provoke me, little Tigris,” Takkar said, catching her gaze. His fur darkened, but only slightly. There wasn’t much heat to his words.

  “You’ve given up. You’ve accepted that you are already dead.” Fizgig said as she rose to her feet and stalked over to Takkar, ignoring the pain in her leg.

  “You do not understand the magnitude of what we face. Azatok has been the champion of the Royal Games six out of the last seven times.” Takkar rose to his feet as well, setting the blade of his axe atop a furry shoulder. “The only year he lost was to Krekon, and that was an upset. Krekon lost the very next year, and never fought in the games again.”

  “So you fear this warrior?” Fizgig asked. “Understandable, I suppose. You’ve no chance of besting him?”

  “None,” Takkar admitted. “During my youth I was a canny fighter, and gained admittance to the games seven times. I won once, but only by chance. I was skilled, but never the best. And that was a great many years ago.”

  “Then what will you do?” Fizgig asked. She knew her own answer, but Takkar must decide for himself. This was his battle, his final test, from the sound of it.

  “I will battle to the best of my ability. During the fight I will seek to wound him, as badly as I can. I want him to remember me every time he takes a step, or bends to don his armor.” Takkar’s fur darkened to a deep scarlet. “I want him to remember me with respect.”

  “Then do exactly that,” Fizgig offered. “No more talk of ‘could we have acted differently.’ We took the bold course, and now we pay a bold price. Pay it gladly. If I survive, I will carry the tale to your people. If I do not, then make your enemy do it for you. Make this Azatok respect you enough that he tells the tale of your death.”

  “I hate you, you know,” Takkar said, inspecting the blade of his axe. “Before you, I was the foremost fleet leader in the Imperium. My star never stopped rising. I won every battle.”

  “It made you complacent,” Fizgig said, grooming an errant patch of fur on her shoulder. “You believed yourself better than others. You rested on past victories, content that there was no one powerful enough to best you.”

  “Yes,” Takkar admitted. “I was arrogant, and you proved it. I thought your species weak, and your tactics foolish. I charged into your trap, and I paid the price.”

  “There is always someone better, Takkar,” Fizgig said, looking up at him. “Always. Khar was arrogant when I first met him. I taught him this critical lesson, making him a better warrior. Nolan, on the other hand, had received little combat training when we met. He had no such pride, or illusions that he was skilled. Even now he underestimates his own abilities, and that humility serves him well. He never stops learning.”

  “Nolan, the human who bested Krekon?” Takkar asked.

  She nodded. “Krekon, like you, probably assumed Nolan was no threat. And, had he fought intelligently, perhaps Nolan wouldn’t have been. I reviewed the combat footage. There were two moments where Krekon could have ended the fight, but chose not to. That allowed Nolan to surprise him—a fatal mistake.”

  “One I hope Azatok makes,” Takkar said, sighing. “We have arrived at Imperalis. He will send for us tonight.”

  “Let him,” Fizgig said, hackles raising. “So long as we draw breath, we are a threat. Make him underestimate you, and then go for the throat.”

  23

  Defiant

  Takkar rolled his shoulder, wincing at the stiffness. Azatok had allowed them a single night to rest, then summoned him to the arena. Takkar had come willingly, ready for an end to this.

  He stooped to pick up a handful of dirt from the arena floor, rubbing it across both palms. It would firm his grip on the axe—and besides, the ritual calmed him.

  He’d settled firmly into the haak. He knew he was going to die facing Azatok, but he didn’t care about that. His nervous tension came from wondering about the manner of his death. Would he be able to injure the mighty champion, to capitalize on Azatok’s arrogance as Fizgig had capitalized on his own?

  A smattering of jeers came from the pleasure platforms above. Takkar had expected that, from the Kthul at least. He’d even have expected it from the Azi, as they had reason enough to hate him. But the Yog were normally too proper, and the Vkash had lauded him as a hero their whole lives. To see those two clans adding to the derision? It was maddening, as if the fabric that held the Imperium together was at last unravelling.

  Much to his surprise, Takkar spotted Fizgig sitting like an Adept atop a simple transport disk. Azatok must want her to witness Takkar’s death. The brute enjoyed all forms of torment, so perhaps Takkar should not be surprised.

  After Takkar fell, Fizgig would likely die soon after—as soon as Azatok bored of tormenting her.

  “Azatok!” Takkar roared, spinning slowly in place as he hefted his axe. His voice echoed, stilling the whispers above. “Great champion of the arena. Come and face me.”

  A single disk whirred into view, pausing next to the edge of the arena. Azatok hopped off, armed with nothing but a pair of daggers. Takkar’s eyes narrowed at the insult. It stoked the fires within him, and he allowed a deep, smug orange to enter his fur.

  Azatok blinked at that, clearly surprised. He’d no doubt sought to infuriate Takkar, which was an expected tactic. Takkar was known for his temper. Yet Fizgig’s words still rang in Takkar’s ears. Death would claim him this day; nothing could change that. But at the end, could he rise above himself and become greater?

  “You forgot your axe.” Takkar spat in the dirt at Azatok’s feet. “I will let you go back and fetch it.”

  Azatok’s fur reddened, and his eyes narrowed. He rested his hands on the hilts of his daggers. “We both know I don’t need an axe to kill you, Takkar. When you are dead I will leave your body here to rot, and I will claim your axe—but not to use. No. I will have it melted down, and all mention of your name stricken from the whispers. It will be as if you never existed.”

  “Will it?” Takkar asked calmly, as if such a thing were of no concern. He slowly twirled his axe. “Perhaps you’ll kill me today. Perhaps not. Either way, you cannot erase my victories, Azatok. You cannot erase the fact that my clan bested yours, under my command. You cannot change the fact that I have captured more worlds than any in a generation, and that even after my losses to the Coalition my battle record stil
l rings truer than your own.”

  Azatok growled, exposing his teeth as he stalked closer. His fur changed to midnight—the blackest rage. He twirled his daggers, beginning the breathing. Takkar began his breathing as well, slowly circling opposite Azatok.

  Each combatant grew in size, every breath adding to their height. They continued for many heartbeats, until both topped ten meters. They maintained their relative heights, with Azatok being a meter shorter. Takkar had a slightly longer reach, normally. Using daggers added to that, increasing Takkar’s advantage.

  Takkar used that advantage, striking at Azatok the instant he’d finished his breathing. Takkar sprinted toward his opponent, his axe humming through the air as he lashed out at Azatok’s knee. As expected, Azatok vaulted the weapon. Takkar released the haft with his right hand, completing the swing with his left. He balled his right hand into a fist, using the momentum of the swing to slam it into Azatok’s face.

  The Kthul’s nose split; blood spurted into the air. The crack of his head snapping back echoed through the arena, triggering a deep oooh from the crowd.

  Takkar danced backward, keeping his weapon between them, and grinned at his opponent. His fur remained a smug, infuriating orange.

  “You’re faster than I expected, old man,” Azatok spit out. His eyes narrowed, and swirls of red swept through the black. “I’d planned to toy with you, but I think you need to learn humility before I end your life.”

  He leapt at Takkar, his arms windmilling. The first dagger struck, and Takkar knocked it aside with his axe. The second dagger flashed down, slipping into Takkar’s thick neck just over the armor.

  Takkar roared in agony as the blade pierced his flesh. He dropped his axe and seized Azatok by the shoulders. Then he lunged, slamming his forehead into Azatok’s face. Once, twice, a third time.

  Azatok bellowed in pain, then delivered a head butt of his own. The blow sent Takkar staggering back; he released Azatok and raised a hand briefly to the wound at his neck. Thick, black blood rushed out. The fight would be over soon.

  Takkar studied Azatok. His nose had been shattered, and his left eye was already beginning to swell. Neither was a critical wound, but that could work to Takkar’s favor. Azatok might think the fight was already over. Takkar sprinted forward, roaring as he leapt into the air over Azatok.

  Azatok couldn’t ignore the obvious opportunity; he rammed a dagger into Takkar’s gut. His other dagger flashed out, aimed at Takkar’s eye. Takkar ducked to the side, and the blade traced a path of pain along his cheek.

  Takkar seized Azatok’s wrist, wrenching with all his might. Bone cracked as they landed, and Azatok bellowed a second time. He ripped the dagger from Takkar’s gut with a sickening pop. Takkar sucked in a pained breath, but twisted the already broken wrist further out of alignment.

  Azatok roared, then rammed his dagger into Takkar’s eye. Takkar went limp, and he was dimly aware of toppling onto his back. He stared up at the sky with his one good eye. Pieces were missing from his mind. Everything was disjointed.

  Azatok glared down, cradling his hideously broken wrist. Takkar saw the bone jutting through the skin, and was pleased. His gaze slid away from Azatok, to the crowd above. He found Fizgig, met her gaze.

  She nodded respectfully.

  Takkar nodded back, then sighed his final breath.

  24

  Called to Account

  Utfa stepped from the shadows shrouding the docking port and nodded at the approaching cloaked figure. Vessels hummed all around them, disgorging important fleet leaders and their retinues. No one else was allowed this high on the spire—technically, not even a seeker.

  Utfa went where he pleased. He ruled this world, in the name of his masters.

  “I do not appreciate being summoned like a ka’tok,” Azatok snarled, clenching a massive fist as he stalked up to Utfa. The other was wrapped in a dark, black medicast. “I am reigning champion of the Royal Games, and the fleet leader who delivered both the Yog and the Vkash into your hands.”

  “You delivered some of them,” Utfa said, shaking his head, schooling his expression to disappointment. “As I understand, T’kon seized back his vessel and led three other dreadnoughts to safety. Fully a third of the enemy fleet lives—out there, somewhere. They’ve purged our spies, or we’d have their location by now.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about? The tattered remains of a broken fleet? Sooner or later, one of our spies will reveal their location, and we will destroy them. They are no threat.” Azatok’s laugh boomed around them. “You have the heart of an old woman, Utfa. Are you so far removed from your days as a warrior?

  Utfa reached up, slowly removing his cowl.

  Azatok flinched at the sight of Utfa’s furless head. This was a common reaction; the Nameless Ones were slowly remaking his body in their image. It didn’t bother Utfa—in fact, he reveled in the horror he saw on Azatok’s face.

  “Yes, you see now. Don’t you? I have been touched directly by the Nameless Ones, Azatok. I am their instrument, the emissary of their will. I believe that you sometimes forget about our masters, that you dismiss our faith as some sort of empty religion, like the ka’tok believe. A story we tell ourselves, but not one that we will witness in our lifetimes. Tell me, Azatok—is your faith in need of…ministration?”

  Azatok dropped his gaze. “No, emissary. What is their dark will?”

  Another cruiser hummed by overhead, disgorging passengers onto the ring so they could enter the spire. There weren’t nearly as many as they’d find below, but it was still too many for Utfa’s liking. He didn’t want his words overheard, but sometimes a loud, crowded place was the best place to convey secrets.

  “The empress lives,” Utfa growled, narrowing his eyes. He leaned closer to Azatok. “I suspect she has gone to ground somewhere on this world, attempting to take back her spire. You will find her, Azatok, or you will find that your past glories offer little protection from the gaze of our shared masters.”

  “What you ask…I am not certain it can be accomplished,” Azatok said, still avoiding Utfa’s gaze. He licked his lips. “This world is massive. Unless she does something to reveal her presence, she could live out her entire life and we might never find her. I do not wish to disappoint the Nameless Ones, but I do not know how to do what you are asking.”

  “You will begin by taking your face out of a tak horn, and focusing on the war. I hear many reports that all you do is feast and watch spire fights—stories that have elements of truth, if your injury is any indication. You allowed Takkar to wound you.” Utfa’s tone carried his displeasure, and Azatok winced. “You may seek your pleasures, but only after tending to the needs of our masters. Be vigilant, Azatok. I warn you—the Nameless Ones are not forgiving.”

  Azatok nodded, his fur ashen. Utfa waved the champion away and, smiling, watched as he scurried back into the spire.

  25

  No Legend

  Nolan walked his mech down the Demetrius’s ramp, pausing to survey his surroundings. Ruined buildings lined what had once been a broad thoroughfare. Most had been spires, but judging from the debris, Nolan assumed that they’d toppled over time. The place reminded him a good deal of Ganog 7, though it lacked the ever-present rust storms.

  Instead, large trees grew among the remains of the buildings, turning them into a sort of forest. Many of the trees rose hundreds of feet into the air, easily obscuring the squad’s position from anything short of full orbital scanning.

  Not that such a scan would turn up anything, either. Nolan’s mech was running the new stealth drive he’d picked up during the refit. It worked exactly the same way his stealth belt did, bending light around the mech. It wasn’t perfect, but it would fool most enemy sensors, and almost all visual.

  Sound, however, was another matter. Each lumbering step thudded down the ramp, until Nolan finally stood on the cracked stones that marked where the road had once been. He pivoted, facing his mech toward the ramp.

  “Move, p
eople,” Hannan barked over the comm.

  Annie started down in her linebacker class, with Nuchik following up in the new scout class they’d been given. It was considerably lighter than a linebacker, and lacked the boosters of a full aerial mech. It was small, sleek, and much faster than a larger mech.

  “I can’t wait to test this thing out,” Nuchik purred. It was unsettling, coming from the usually stoic sniper. “Permission to range ahead, sir?”

  Nolan glanced up the ramp again. Both Kokar and Hruk had shifted to great form, and were following Hannan down the ramp. “Go ahead, Nuchik. Get up high and let us know if you spot movement. Remember, they might be friendlies.”

  “I can tell the difference between friend and foe,” Nuchik chided.

  “No, you can’t,” Hannan snapped over the comm. “Don’t think we’ve forgotten Sissus. Keep it in your damned pants until the Captain gives the word, Private.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nuchik said, with an edge of laughter in her voice.

  “Ya’ll best shut up and pay attention,” Annie groused. “Maybe you ain’t been keeping score but right now it’s crazy, bad guys one, us zip.” Her mech fanned out to the left, while Hannan took the right.

  Nolan waited for them to proceed up the road a bit, then urged his mech into a trot, kicking up puffs of dust with every step as he followed them. “Kokar,” he asked, “why was this city abandoned? Looks like it could be prime real estate.”

  Kokar trotted a few meters behind Nolan, with Hruk just behind him. The trees swayed around them, purple leaves wriggling like fingers.

  “It is a holy place,” Kokar said. “Hruk could tell you more. He practices the old ways, and knows our oldest tales.”