Page 11 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
Dracoth
Preparation
J azreal flows through the air, narrowly evading my wooden practice claws. Sweat beads on his brow, but his sharp green gaze never falters. Despite hours of my relentless pursuit, his resolve remains unbroken, his speed undiminished.
His feet touch the coarse sand with grace, barely disturbing the grains, and his wooden spear snaps toward me like a vipertail’s strike. The blow whistles past my left ear, precise but futile, as I pivot just enough to avoid it.
I grunt, more annoyed than impressed. His tactics are predictable now—baiting attacks, relying on superior speed to counter when his opponent overcommits. Clever and effective—if I were anyone else.
I execute a brutal sweeping kick, watching as he blurs to my right, skimming the edge of the sparring ring.
A smirk tugs at my lips. If this were a true fight, I’d already have him pinned to the ground, his throat torn open. But for now, I throw a deliberately slow strike toward his heaving chest, testing him.
“I must admit, young Dracoth, the attack on Pulsar’s moon proved valuable,” Ignixis chimes in, almost breaking my concentration.
“Yes, most fruitful indeed. Seems Captain Balsar and his rabble weren’t entirely useless after all.
” His blackened, weathered hand flickers across the wrist console display.
Jazreal intercepts my thrust with his spear, turning it aside easily because I let him.
He spins in a black-silver whirlwind, hoping his parry has unbalanced me—it has not.
His predictable follow-up whips around from his other side in a brown blur of pain, but I catch his spear between my claw prongs.
With a savage twist of my wrist, the shaft shatters, the splintered end raining down in jagged shards.
“Oh-ho, you’ve broken another one! Very good, young Dracoth,” the old gas-cloud voice drips with mock amusement. “Gods, I swear we’ll run out of wood if you keep this up.”
I resist the urge to glare at the tiresome Ignixis, focusing instead on the few beads of sweat clinging to my forehead. Across from me, Jazreal runs his fingers over the jagged edge of his broken spear, a flicker of amusement glinting in his eyes.
“Nevermind wood,” I growl, flicking a dismissive hand over the barrels of training weapons lined against the black metal walls. “Tell me what my victory has won.”
“More battles. More death. That is victory’s gift,” Ignixis whispers, his green eyes flashing from beneath the shadows of his black hood. His cryptic tone, as ever, grates on my nerves. Unfortunately, Princesa is not here. She could absorb his time-wasting riddles.
“It was a great victory, War Chieftain,” Jazreal interjects, his voice carrying a rough, earnest edge. He gulps greedily from a canteen, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “For a moment, I thought I was back aboard the Ravager’s Ruin , watching your father commanding once again.”
The unmarred side of his face twists with distaste as his gaze flicks to the rust-speckled corner of the training room. “Except, of course, for the junkers and this less-than-impressive Battlebarge.”
Pride surges in my chest, yet I do not allow it to show. To emulate my great father has always been my life’s ambition. Yet the thought of his mechanical corruption—his inevitable downfall—stirs unease where unshakable certainty once resided.
“Can this victory carry us to the next battle?” I ask, forcing myself to feed into Ignixis’s twisted logic, even as irritation threatens to sharpen my tone.
“Yes,” Ignixis mutters, his gaze distant, as though seeing something far beyond the room. Then, struck by a sudden revelation, he snaps upright. “Oh, yes,” he blurts, his voice reverberating with a manic edge.
“Fifty pounds of Elerium and three million credits,” Ignixis murmurs, his voice tinged with reverence.
“Enough to fuel this ragtag fleet for many campaigns. Yet a little puffrio tells me you’ve been giving away our precious Elerium to the junkers.
Such generosity. Do you think funding their scoomer addictions and pathetic whoring outweighs your own need?
You weaken them by allowing them to wallow in their—”
“Silence!” I snap, my glare cutting through his rambling. Even my flawless victory begets more criticism.
Unfazed, the old gas-cloud smirks, his yellowed fangs gleaming in the dim purple light.
“So sensitive. So quick to anger, boy, ” he drawls, spitting the word like venom. “Jazreal, do you remember War Chieftain Gorexius stooping to such childish tantrums?” His black hood swivels toward the Ravagers Berserker veteran.
“Never,” Jazreal replies, selecting a wooden spear from the rack with deliberate slowness. “Not over trivial matters. But when provoked? His fury was... legendary.”
“Seems even your father was flawed.” Ignixis barks a laugh, sharp and humorless, though his gaze shifts back to me, piercing like a pouncing venefex. “But we already knew that, didn’t we?” he sneers, tilting his head to study my reaction.
Once, I would’ve torn out his heart for speaking these words. But now they ring with the cold, hard truth.
“Yes,” I growl, unclenching my fists.
“Good, Dracoth. Very good. You learn quickly,” Ignixis purrs, stroking his runic chin. “Unrestrained anger makes you stupid—easy to manipulate, easy to break. No, it must be wielded like a, like a,” His hooded gaze sweeps the training room, searching for inspiration.
I lift my wooden claws.
“Ah, yes! Like claws,” he declares, his voice taking on an exaggerated grandiosity. “A fine metaphor! If our claws extended of their own accord, we’d never dare wipe our backsides!”
He doubles over, cackling at his own absurdity. Jazreal snorts, chuckling despite himself, while I remain still, my patience thinning.
“Could you imagine?” Ignixis finally straightens, wiping a tear from his eye. “Now, where was I?” he mutters, his gaze drifting to the sand at his feet.
“How many ships and crew have I won?” I prompt, hoping to bypass his incessant gas-cloud rants and ravings.
“That wasn’t it,” he tuts, feigning injury as he presses a hand to his chest. “How cruel of you to take advantage of a doting elder.”
I scoff at the vipertail’s irony—it is he who takes advantage. I throw sharp jabs into the air with my practice claws to keep from throttling him.
“Thanks to your clever ploy,” Ignixis begins again, “nearly three hundred ships lie abandoned inside Pulsar’s moon. Although, calling them ships might be overly generous, considering their—”
“And the crew to operate them?” I interject sharply, refusing to let him meander off course.
“The crew?” Ignixis scoffs, his voice dripping with amusement.
“Oh, I’m afraid they won’t be operating much, young Dracoth.
You see, we’ve been sweeping their charred remains into bins all morning.
” His lips curl into a venefex-like grin as his predatory gaze locks onto mine.
“Perhaps we could mix their ashes with borack milk for you? I know you’ve developed quite a taste for devouring the weak. ”
He throws his head back, cackling—a sound sharp and unhinged.
My blow falters, and an involuntary twitch ripples through my eye.
So many Whores’ Orphans burned in my flames. It was glorious, yes—but it was butchery. A flicker of regret, sharp and shameful, threatens to dampen my triumph.
Even junkers, pathetic as they were, deserved a chance to fight, to prove their worth in honorable battle. Princesa had ensured their slaughter by sealing their escape, a goddess of death descending upon the battlefield. Beautiful and merciless, my Mortakin-Kis demanded sacrifice.
“You feel sorrow for them?” Ignixis coos, and I curse myself for revealing any emotion. “Even now? After they spat on your offer of surrender?” he prods, slithering closer, studying me as though I were a wounded wyrm.
“There is no honor in slaughtering those who cannot fight back!” I roar, rounding on him. My fangs bared, my eyes misting crimson. “Where is the glory in that? When even the greatest warrior would be helpless?”
“By Arawnoth, you are an enigma, young Dracoth,” Ignixis chuckles, his withered hand resting lightly on my wrist. “But tell me—if you hadn’t called upon Arawnoth’s gift, would the result have been any different?”
“I might’ve worked up a sweat,” Jazreal interjects with a smirk, casually twirling his wooden spear.
“Would they not have died all the same?” Ignixis presses, his grip tightening.
“If not burned, then torn apart or crushed? Their bones shattered, their guts spilled, their dying gasps filling the air as they watched their brothers fall to a living titan of war. Is that the glorious end you’d have preferred for them? ”
“They still would have died fighting,” I growl, though my gaze drifts downward to the coarse sand beneath my feet.
“You show modesty for once,” Ignixis cackles, waving his free hand dismissively. “You’d have butchered them like livestock. Better they burned in Arawnoth’s embrace—it was their destiny to fuel his rage. And if the Gods are kind, perhaps they will be reborn in strength. No?”
Perhaps he speaks the truth? Yet his words swirl in my mind, like oil on water, it does not dissolve my angst.
The low rumble of the Battlebarge’s engines reverberates through the stale, heavy air. Jazreal’s whistling spear cuts through the silence as Ignixis sighs and releases his grip.
“Some junkers remained aboard their ships,” Ignixis says at last, his tone almost casual.
“Those ones escaped death—cowards who deserved it most. Perhaps a hundred or so. They tripped over themselves to pledge allegiance once they saw the smoky husks of their brothers.” His laughter is a soft, sinister hiss as he glides away, a shadow slipping into the dim light.
Relief floods through me. Survivors. They can pilot the ships—though many will require automation. My power grows, even now.