The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [111]
Truly, the resources of the Half Dead are astounding to see. Turning slowly, as if from a punch that could not put him down, the Lord Marshal once again faced his assailant. Blood trickled down his cheek. He had deflected the blade just in time, and it had only grazed his face.
One hand dabbing at the cut, he contemplated the red stain quietly. “A long time since I’ve seen my own blood. Maybe too long. One can become too comfortable. Success breeds confidence. Too much success breeds overconfidence. I should thank you for reawakening that within me that made me what I am.”
With one sweeping gesture he motioned everyone back; Elites, regular guards, onlookers—everyone. He would confront his own demons now. Both of him.
His astral self exploded forward, raging across the hall at the one who had dared to deny the offer of conversion, and who had drawn the Lord Marshal’s blood. When his physical body caught up, the two combined to strike.
The blow went right through Riddick’s defenses, slamming him backward into a pillar hard enough to dent it. As he slid to the deck, dazed, a new figure materialized high above. Unnoticed and unobserved, but intensely interested in the proceedings, Aereon watched from her hiding place.
Unaffected by the impact, the Lord Marshal gathered himself for another assault. This would be as profound a lesson as the coming destruction of the capital below, he had decided. Let everyone see and understand what it meant to be the Lord Marshal, who could command forces not only of this world but of the other. Let them see, and remember.
Unsteadily, Riddick struggled back to his feet. Pulling another blade, he made a sudden and unexpectedly forceful lunge straight at his adversary.
Or rather, where his adversary had been. As his physical self stayed clear of the fighting, almost a contemptuous observer, the Lord Marshal’s astral self blurred around Riddick, hammering on him from behind, below, above. Riddick fought back, as he’d always fought back, but every time he struck, his blade cleaved only empty air.
The beating went on until even the big man could no longer stand. Unable to absorb one more unblockable blow, he finally went down. Only then did the physical lord marshal move forward, astral hands exposed and extended, reaching for the man now prone on the ground. The ethereal claws reached down, digging into the thick body, until they found the soul they were hunting for and started to pull, to extract . . .
Howling in pain and outrage, Riddick somehow found the strength to kick free, jump back, and stand once more on his feet: battered, wounded, but still defiant. As he did so, his essence snapped back into place. This was one soul that would not be so easily extracted from its owner.
Muttering at his failure, the Lord Marshal saw that, lesson or no lesson, this was one foe he was going to have to full-kill first. Projecting, his astral self flew into one of the two giant statues that guarded the entrance to Necropolis and cracked off an oversized spike. Clutching now a weapon that was not only deadly but was rich with mythological import, the wraithlike shape again launched itself at Riddick.
Who dodged at the last possible instant. Striking the floor, the spike shattered in half, only for the broken end to be picked up by the Lord Marshal’s physical self and thrust toward Riddick. Preoccupied with his adversary’s constantly harrying astral counterpart, the big man found himself driven back all the way to the throne area. A blow to the head finally dropped him. He lay there, stunned.
It was time. Stepping over to an Elite guard, the Lord Marshal took possession of the man’s staff. Returning to his fallen adversary, he slipped the staff beneath him and seemingly with little effort flipped him into a standing position. With a simple twist of both hands, and before Riddick could fall back to the floor, the Lord Marshal positioned the staff firmly against the big man’s neck and began to apply pressure.