The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [27]
“All those poets, on all those worlds: the ones who spoke of battle being such an unsightly thing?” The Lord Marshal nodded at the view presented by the lensing port. “They never stood here, did they? Strange how, from a distance, war can actually be beautiful.”
Below, it was as if much of the planet was enveloped in a lightning storm, flashes of light erupting and fading at significant points, some clear and sharp, others muted by cloud. The latter would not slow the forces that had been dispatched to take control of their respective regions, he knew. A Necromonger was happy to fight in any kind of weather. The flashes had grown noticeably fewer since the last time the Lord Marshal had looked.
Next to him, the Purifier stood quietly as he considered the tiny flickering lights far below. None of it was new to him. He had observed the same on numerous worlds. The end here would be no different. It could not be otherwise.
“Perhaps this time,” he murmured, “converts will be easier to come by. It is discouraging when so many die without having known why they have lived. Without having been given the truth.” A hand gestured at the port. “Good fighters, these. Not their fault they cannot conceive of what they are up against. Those that survive will make good converts to the cause.” Turning away from the scene below, he eyed the Lord Marshal. “Care should be taken to preserve as many as possible.”
The Lord Marshal shrugged slightly. “The work must be finished first. And lessons delivered where necessary.”
“Very true,” agreed the Purifier. “However, it is a wise man who, when cold, seeks other means of warming himself besides setting his clothes on fire.”
It was not quite a grin that appeared on the Lord Marshal’s aquiline visage. But the Purifier could see that his observation had been duly noted.
“I see it all now,” the leader of the Necromonger movement murmured. “This world, this Helion Prime, first. Soon, the rest of this system, for with their primary world taken, the others will fall with nary a fight. Then, battling on through the dwindling outposts of man; world after world, system after system. And then—the Threshold. I can sense it. Rising on the foundation laid by all the previous lord marshals, I shall be the one to at last achieve that goal. Under this regime, we will all cross the Threshold.” He did not raise his voice. He was only stating what he believed to be self-evident.
The Purifier was more cautious. It was incumbent on him to be so. One of his tasks was to convey reality to the excessively enthusiastic. “Intending no disrespect, but you are not the first to believe thus. Others have had your vision.”
“But not with such clarity.” The Lord Marshal’s gaze rose ceilingward, toward the unseen reaches beyond the Basilica’s immense hull. “I tell you, I have seen it! There have been many lord marshals before me. Great men, all, who performed nobly for the cause. There will be none after. There will be one last lord marshal. And he is right here.”
The Purifier did not respond. There was no point in trying to apply reason to absolutes. Also, by questioning the Lord Marshal he had performed a useful service. Arguing further with him would gain nothing. Except, perhaps, consideration of a new senior purifier. This man might really be the last lord marshal. His vision might be true. If so, there would be no need for additional purifiers. As for himself, he had no intention of surrendering his office prematurely.
Imam slowed as he neared the plaza. Ziza was walking on her own once again, holding tight to Lajjun’s hand, her small fingers entwined tightly in the woman’s stronger ones. The delegate turned to them both.
“Ahead—just ahead.”
Exhausted and filthy, they slowed to a walk. The next corner brought the broad plaza clearly into view.
It was empty.
Buildings lay