The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [100]
Focused as always on the problem at hand,
Riddick started for the mercenary ship that beckoned from its nearby parking slot. While his mind was nearly up to speed, his body wasn’t. Still reeling from the aftereffects of lying exposed to Crematoria’s sun for just a few minutes, he staggered.
Recover, he told himself. Balance, surroundings, direction. Then move.
Immersed in thoughts of the absent Kyra, he had nearly forgotten about the man who had saved him. As he stood gathering himself, he saw that the Purifier was busy at a task that made no sense. Wordlessly, efficiently, the man was removing all the trappings of his high office; rings, insignia, helmet, and more. Standing there regaining his strength, Riddick could only speculate on the reasons behind the enigmatic divestiture.
Seeing the big man gazing intently at him, the Purifier spoke while continuing to shed the elegant accouterments that defined his status. “You’re not just a Furyan, Riddick. You’re an alpha Furyan.” He nodded in the direction of the steaming bodies outside. “In the event anyone doubted it, there lies the tangible proof, laid out for all to see.” Clad now only in simple underlying clothing devoid of any evidence of his eminence, he came toward the staring big man.
“I’m supposed to deliver a message to you if Vaako failed to kill you,” he said, in the manner of one relaying something of solemn importance. “It is a message from Lord Marshal himself. If you live, you are warned to stay away from Helion—and to stay away from him.” Dangling from the fingers of his right hand as he drew nearer was the spectral dagger that had once protruded trophy-like from the back of the slayer Irgun, and which Riddick had drawn and used to kill its former owner. Its presence in the Purifier’s hand did not escape the big man’s notice.
“But Vaako will most likely report you dead. Certainly you appeared to be so. Unable to explain what happened on the runway, he will neglect to expound upon it. I do not think the Lord Marshal will press him on the details, so grateful will he be to hear of your passing. And Vaako will be convincing, since he will be speaking the truth as he saw it.” He was very close now to the man he had saved, the dagger glinting in the shadow of his side.
Two more steps, and Riddick had him by the throat. It was a restraining grip, not a killing one. But with a slight tensing of muscles, it could easily be transformed from one into the other.
Reaching down slowly, making no sudden moves, his eyes on the lenses of those black goggles, the Purifier used his free hand to pull his shirt wide and expose his bare chest. On it was a mark; unmistakable in its design, unyielding in its import. A hand-print. The mark of Furya, on the chest of a Necromonger. Riddick could only stare.
“We all began as something else,” the Purifier was saying gently. “All Necromongers begin as something else. Given the choice to live anew or die as we were, most accepted the offer and opportunity. I was confused, unsure, and translated that into eagerness to adapt myself. I’ve done unbelievable things in the name of a faith that wasn’t my own. The ability of the individual human being to adjust morality and beliefs to changing circumstances is depressingly common.”
Riddick nodded tersely. He still maintained his grip, but loosely. “I’ve seen it. Too often.”
“My alternative was to bend to the Necromonger way, or to die,” the Purifier continued. “Not much of a choice. If Vaako reports you dead, you have a better choice—and that’s a powerful thing.”
His fingers opened, and the unearthly blade dropped to the ground. As Riddick’s clutching fingers relaxed, the Purifier stepped out of the big man’s grasp and around him, heading for the open hangar portal. Riddick watched him go, saying nothing, making no move either physically