“What folly is this?” Ignixis asks with disbelief, irritating me. He should be full of contrite submission, begging forforgiveness. I hear him slithering behind me like avipertail, checking the navigational console alongside Keth. “Argon Six,” he spits.
“Keth, direct this ship back to Klendathor at—”
“Cease your poisonous tongue!” I round on Ignixis like an erupting volcano. My eyes flash molten crimson. He recoils like the coward he is. No witty words, no insults—just raw terror. Keth’s hands move with unquestioning loyalty, adjusting the ship’s course. “Keth, delay that order,” I command, sweeping my mighty arm wide.
A silence lingers and I can almost hear the wheels turning in Ignixis’ head, gathering his venomous rants, scheming for a soft spot to puncture. But I’m as hard as Scarn, all softness long evaporated—Krogoth made sure of that.
“I understand your frustration, Dracoth. I too am disappointed with the female’s lack of... quality. But you are a youth, unfamiliar with females; they are fickle, fearful things, especially the young pretty ones.” He barks a short laugh. “Gods! Combine that with their inferior human stock, it’s amazing they haven’t all succumbed to heart attacks.”
Today his poison comes in the form of sweet-tasting fruit.
The words land uselessly, like rainfall on burning lava. I turn my attention out of the viewport, folding my broad arms. Ignixis’s words ring true; I’m unfamiliar with females, but what concern is it of mine if they are weak by nature—it merely confirms my conclusions.
“Listen, young Dracoth. I may not look it—old and marked with the sacred words as I am—but in my younger years, I was known to enjoy the company of females. My ceaseless desires carried me across the galaxies... Gods, those were the days.” He emits a cackling laugh before sighing, “I know how they think, what motivates them. These females are frightened after beingtaken from their homes. It will take time, but they will adapt, as all life does to survive.”
“Time is a luxury we can’t afford, you old letch,” I snap, growing impatient with his words, with the delay, with everything.
“Time, time, time! You sing the same tiresome song,boy,” Ignixis sneers, his sweet words now giving way to the boiling poison beneath. “What use is time when you’re dead? You foolish child!”
I hear him pacing behind me, slithering softly like avipertail. “How many times must we rehash the same trodden ground? When will sense permeate that gigantic skull of yours? I thought you were smarter than this, but it seems I was wrong. You only seek a glorious death—not victory, not TRUE power.”
I retort, calm as bubbling magma. “You offer no power—only lies and wasted effort.”
“You’re right, I don’t offer power. It is the Gods who grant such gifts. I merely guide you, Dracoth, as our patron God wishes. Arawnoth visits me in my dreams, showing me the way. His fury burns hotter than the molten core of Klendathor. He scribes your victory, written in blood and death, if you but have the sense and the humility to heed his sacred words.”
I turn to Ignixis, disbelief etched across my face, wondering if the oldgas-cloudhas finally succumbed to space madness. But what I see isn’t mania. No. There is anarcweave-like resolve in his stern, glowing emerald eyes. For a fleeting nanosecond, I could swear I see the deepest ruby-red flames roaring in the depths of his gaze.
A chill runs down my spine, compelling me to avert my gaze. Surely the old fool is half-mad? But why do I feel this unsettling doubt gnawing deep in my mind? The older warriors speak of the Gods in such reverent ways. With the traitor Krogoth’s victory, many now believe they walk among us. Somefew that witnessed Krogoth’s power firsthand now consider him Dagdorix reborn—Krogoth Star Eyes. Could they be right? Is this how my noble father fell, in a battle no mortal could ever win?
“How do I defeat an avatar of a God?” I whisper, thinking aloud.
“By becoming one,” Ignixis answers, his words hanging heavy in the air.
My mind swirls as I pace, struggling to comprehend a universe where such supernatural entities exist. I always scoffed at religious cults, be they from weak aliens or even my Klendathian kin, judging them tools of control and a balm for the puny.
I stop in front of the viewport. The void of space looms large, the myriad stars and anomalies blurring past in a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors. Yet for the first time in my life, I feel as small as a faint ember against the immensity of unknown entities that may lurk in the infinite darkness.
“Return to Klendathor, complete theMortakin-Tokas ordained, my troublesome young Dracoth,” Ignixis says, with a hint of amusement.
Doubt still clings to me. I hungered for this supposedpower, even though I scarcely believe in it. But it seems the Gods have other plans, despite my wishes. “Your visions lie. There is no bond for the Gods to bless.”
“Do they indeed?” Ignixis retorts with a confidence I do not possess. “Where young females are fickle, young males are impatient. But I am curious. Do you feel anything? A stirring, a calling, an urge to protect, flutters in your heart, whispers in your dreams?” He approaches, scrutinizing me as if he might see the answer to his questions.
I frown down at him, recalling none of these things—quite the opposite. “Mild curiosity, fleeting desire, nothing more.”
“Oh, I forget your heart is as inhospitable as the crags of Scarn,” Ignixis titters, looking far too sure of himself. “Well, even the dullest ember can be stoked to become a blazing inferno.”
My mind churns with questions and uncertainty. Ignixis, the oldgas-cloud, has a vexing ability to twist my thoughts. Is he speaking the truth, guided by Arawnoth as he claims, or is he merely a master of cunning manipulation?
What would my father, the War Chieftain, do in my position?
My teeth grind together as I glare unyielding at Ignixis. No. My noble father, the greatest Klendathian, would never allow himself to be swayed by such schemes. He would seek glorious battle, not waste time placating weak females. The very idea is laughable. Rage surges through me again like molten lava.
Ignixis senses my fury and instinctively recoils, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Easy, young Dracoth. Anger is a powerful tool, not a master. You must learn to channel it. Use it.”
My fists tighten, knuckles turning a pale, angry red. “Use it, as you use me?” I snarl, my voice a harsh whisper of scorching coals. “My father would never be swayed by such petty manipulations.”
Ignixis steps back, but his eyes narrow, glinting with a predatory glint. “You never knew your father, did you?”
