The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [113]
“Now what would be the odds of that . . . ,” she murmured, though none were present to overhear.
On the scarred surface of the planet below, the citizens of Helion Prime stared up at their tormented sky. It was as if a strange calm had suddenly settled over the world. The vast, intimidating torus of energy that had appeared above their capital city had begun to evaporate, as if it held bound within it nothing more threatening than water vapor. The mouth of the conquest icon was closing, and the ships that had assembled around it breaking formation, rising toward outer atmosphere, and dispersing.
Ziza looked up at her mother, who glanced down and smiled reassuringly before looking skyward one more time. One last time, perhaps. As for the little girl she held tightly to her, Ziza was thinking of a man. Gone now, her father. Or just possibly, she was thinking of someone else.
Within the throne room of Necropolis, no one moved. Time itself seemed suspended. Never one to stand still for Time or anything else, Riddick pivoted away from the Full-Dead body of the Lord Marshal and stalked over to where Kyra lay fallen, eyes wide and open, staring at a place where, hopefully, there was no pain.
Exhausted, disgusted, empty, he ignored the hundreds of intent eyes that were fastened on him and following his every move. Nearby, Vaako, realizing what had happened, realizing what it meant, let the ancient poleax he still held fall to the ground. In the silence, its metallic clattering was the only noise.
Moving to distance himself from Kyra’s body, Riddick slumped into the first seat that presented itself, which happened to be the throne. Of Necropolis.
Gradually he became aware of more than eyes upon him. In seconds, his drawn expression changed from one of bitter anguish and resignation to utter astonishment at the sight before him.
Everyone in the Necropolis—every man and woman, young and old, experienced and new—was kneeling. Kneeling before the new Lord Marshal. Which was when it struck him. Something he had heard several times before. Something he had believed, had known, would only apply to others. Fate, it seemed, had one more surprise in store. One more great, cosmic joke.
“You keep what you kill . . . ,” he murmured under his breath.
APPENDIX
Historians’ Note on Pre-Necroism
Let it be noted that our grasp of pre-Necroism history is still incomplete, some of the early firsthand accounts of this epoch having been lost in the course of the conflicts of the Fourth Regime. Blessedly, other accounts remain in our possession. Yet ever since pyro-encoding became the accepted norm for documentation, our ability to interpret such writings has been compromised. We are hard at work on these documents. When deciphered, doubtless they will yield more information about the glorious and ever-expanding Necromonger Empire.
Truly it is important work. The sixth Lord Marshal has ordained that, when our work here is done and the known ’verse is properly cleansed, a great monument will be erected at the shoals of the Threshold. This monument will be inscribed with all our known history. It will serve as a dire warning for any other race that may cross over from some as-yet undiscovered ’verse, to turn them back forever.
—Cevris, Historian Principal 212 A.D.C.
Austeres and the Outcasting of Covu
Genetically at least, we can chart our beginnings to a modest group known as the Brotherhood of Austeres. Devout themselves, they believed that all other known religions were too iconic, their histories too soaked in blood, their teachings too dogmatic and without room for personal expression. The Austeres were monotheistic and isolationist. They sought distance from the other worlds of man that they found so corrupting. Though they numbered only in the thousands, the Austeres were strong in their belief that theirs would prove to be the one true faith.
Traveling long in ships with conventional drives, they lost many of their numbers to the rigors of the journey.