The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [106]
“Then if you will not do it for yourself, and you will not do it for me, do it for the faith.”
That brought a reaction. The intended one. Having struck the right nerve, she continued without pause.
“He fears this Riddick. If he shows fear, he demonstrates weakness. Weakness can be treated and cured within the junior ranks, and tolerated among the senior staff, but a lord marshal who exhibits weakness proves himself unworthy of that office. That is not the Necromonger way.” Sidling close, she placed a hand on his chest, ran it slowly up and down.
“You know that what I speak is the truth. Sending you all the way to a distant system, in the midst of war, to find and kill one man. Does that demonstrate the kind of nerve that is needed to lead our people? At the time, you questioned the decision. Why can you not now see the need to question the man behind the decision? How can someone so fearful of one individual be deemed fit to continue defending the cause?” She stepped back.
“You must act. There is no one else. No one with your ability to seize the moment. No one with your skill to carry out the sentence. What we do now, we do not for ourselves, but for all who subscribe to the Necromonger way of life. And of death. Besides,” she added, “you will only be sending him onward to the place where we all wish to go. That should be considered a boon, not a punishment.”
“What,” he wondered, slowly warming to the idea in spite of himself, “if it is not his due time?”
“The Lord Marshal? It is always his due time. He only needs someone to give him a helping hand to the Threshold. You will be doing him, as well as our people, a great favor.”
He was coming around, she saw. He always did. It was only a matter of time, of placing the right words in his ear and sometimes hands in the right places. The best blade, she knew, was a sword that was malleable in the hands of the one who wielded it.
“To protect the Faith . . . ,” he was murmuring, his eyes now focused on something distant.
“To protect the Faith,” she echoed impatiently. Get on with it, man! But she saw that he still needed further reassurance. “This can still be a day of days, as the Lord Marshal declared. But the timing must be flawless.” Without a hint of cynicism she added, “The Lord Marshal may not entirely approve of the generous gesture you are going to make on his behalf.”
One more time, he met her eyes. Were they really going to do this? Once committed, he knew, he would have no chance to back out. There would be no turning back. Explanations after the fact were unlikely to be accepted.
Unaware of the complex machinations being plotted by others, Riddick strode purposefully down the corridor. Having traded battle armor for the stolen lightweight dress cloak and attire of an off-duty officer, he advanced without being questioned by the occasional guard or preoccupied passerby. Everyone was too intent on discussing the preeminent issue of the moment to notice him anyway, as soldiers and support personnel alike tried to come up with a reason why the armada should be ordered off the surface of Helion Prime before that stubbornly resistant world had been fully subdued. Such an action was unprecedented. Some even, in carefully guarded whispers and dark corners, were bold enough to voice concern about the current Lord Marshal’s resolve.
Though he made his way forward with care for the position of his cloak, Riddick could not prevent it from billowing slightly open as he mechanically saluted representatives of the lower ranks. At such times, anyone with a sharp eye and an inclination to peer beneath might have noticed that underneath his cloak of rank the big man’s vest was decorated not with symbols of accomplishment or medals of valor, but with blades. Lots of blades, among which was the unusual dagger that had once adorned the right deltoid muscle of a now dead soldier named Irgun. Primitive weapons, knives. But they wouldn