Page 3 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
“Well, you can hardly blame him,” Princesa interjects, frowning. “You look as sus as a hobo selling knockoff purses in Times Square.”
“Times Square?” Ignixis repeats, his voice sharp, a flicker of confusion wrinkling his scorched face.
“Bah!” He snaps, waving a withered hand at Princesa before fixing his searing glare on me.
“I serve the great Arawnoth, as I always have and always will. How many times must I hammer the truth into that stubborn boulder you call a head?” His tone carries a rare hint of pleading, as if grasping for understanding.
“I see Arawnoth too,” Princesa murmurs, her voice distant. Her gaze drifts to the black metal wall. “In the dreams of liquid fire,” she adds, her tone low. But then her eyes snap to Ignixis, sharp and challenging. “But he never speaks.”
Ignixis trembles, his entire body taut with suppressed rage.
“He speaks to me alone!” he roars, emerald Rush billowing from his glowing eyes.
“ I am his herald. The only one capable of interpreting his visions. The only one who can withstand the fires of his creation.” His head whips toward Princesa, his fervor a blazing inferno.
“Arawnoth watches over you, blessed daughter, as a loving father shields his child. But I—I am far more. I am his singular voice on this mortal plane.”
Princesa recoils, retreating slightly into her seat under the force of his intensity. Though her face remains stern, I feel the ripples of her fear and shock through our sacred bond.
“Enough, Ignixis,” I grumble, my frown deepening.
“No, Dracoth,” Ignixis sneers, his scorched face twisting with contempt.
“It seems I must make myself explicitly clear.” He leans forward, his voice venomous.
“I loathe the Scythians. They sicken me to my core. Those abominations—machines! Twisted profanities! They are an affront to the sacred words, an anathema to all that Arawnoth stands for.” He spits out the words, his neck veins straining with the force of his conviction.
He pauses, drawing a long breath, the fiery fervor in his voice ebbing slightly.
“But...” He exhales heavily, the weight of his words sinking into the silence.
“Arawnoth compels us to walk this bitter path. The Scythians are a poison—a necessary one. We use them as one ingests venom to build immunity. This sacrifice, this gamble, is for you . The price of your glorious destiny—our people’s salvation.
” His voice softens. “I pray you are worthy,” he adds, slumping into his chair, his outburst leaving the war room heavy with tension.
I study Ignixis in the lingering silence, the ship’s engines rumbling faintly in the background. Finding a newfound respect for my old mentor. That he bears such burdens for my sake, showing the inner strength hidden within his frail form—the unwavering commitment to our people.
The fires of my ambition glow brighter, reigniting like the molten rivers that flow beneath the volcanic rocks of Scarn.
“Arawnoth’s will flows through my veins,” I growl, my fists trembling with barely restrained passion. “I am worthy.”
“Good, Dracoth,” Ignixis nods, the shadows of his hood deepening around his face.
“Though I wonder if you possess the strength to do what’s necessary,” he mutters, his voice dragging with exhaustion as he slumps further into his chair like a creeping shadow.
“Your pathetic junkers are an anchor around our necks. We don’t have the credits to supply their ships—let alone this vessel.
” He gestures lazily, his skeletal hands sweeping over the war room.
My gaze falters. The problem is known to me—the solution remains elusive.
“Junkers?” Jazreal scoffs, his ruined face twisting with disdain. “What good could such a rabble serve us? ” His piercing eyes lock onto mine, disbelief cutting through the room. “We should strip the weaklings of their Elerium and demand their thanks for sparing their wretched lives.”
“No,” I growl without hesitation, an unknown instinct pulling the word from my lips. I’ve considered Jazreal’s idea myself, but refuse to betray the junker’s loyalty. Deep down, I know their usefulness is yet to come. “I will find another way.”
“Seriously?” Princesa interjects, her tone sharp, her lips curling into a wicked smirk. “I’m with Jazzy and Iggy on this one. They’re a bunch of creeps. Let’s take what we need—wait, screw that. Let’s take everything and leave them here to rot.”
“Dracoth,” Ignixis exhales heavily, his sigh laden with disappointment. “You are not ready yet. Your heart, while strong, still beats with the soft naivety of youth—not the ruthless cunning leadership demands.”
A tense silence grips the room as I meet their expectant eyes, my resolve as unyielding as volcanic stone. Before anyone can press further, the war room door hisses open, drawing our attention to the trembling form of a Tuskarian male.
“Oh!” Balsar exclaims, his beady eyes widening in alarm as they sweep across the room. “You... you summoned me, great War Chieftain?”
The scent of his sweaty fear—sharp and acrid—wrinkles my nose as I study him.
It amuses me to see his flaxen hair remain shaved bald, a lingering mark of shame I bestowed upon him.
His long polymer coat now bears a new badge: an emblem of a ferocious red beast surrounded by flames.
The crown of its head is shaved in some poor imitation of honor.
“Sit,” I command, flicking a clawed finger toward an empty seat farthest from Princesa.
“At... at once, great War Chieftain,” Balsar stammers, forcing a smile that doesn’t touch his darting eyes. He plods forward like a lost puffrio, stumbling into a den of hungry hydraliths.
Ignixis chuckles darkly from beneath his hood. “Speak of the netherworld,” he murmurs, his voice coiled like a vipertail ready to strike. “We were just discussing your future , Captain,” he hisses, each word dripping venom.
“Full of riches, I hope,” Balsar croaks, his nervous laughter ringing alone and dying in the tense air. “Well... um,” he swallows the lump in his throat as he awkwardly collapses into his chair. “Of course, I live to serve—nothing more.” He flashes me a trembling smile, as fleeting as his courage.
“I’m sure pleasing us is at the forefront of your mind, Captain,” Ignixis drawls, meshing his scorched fingers together.
Jazreal shifts his chair away from Balsar, his expression contorted in disdain, as if cowardice were a contagion he might catch from the trembling Tuskarian.
“Tell me,” Ignixis continues, his molten emerald eyes flashing under the shadow of his hood, “do you have any more gifts for us?”
“G-gifts?” Balsar stammers, his cream-colored skin blotching darker under the weight of our scrutiny.
“Yes, gifts,” Ignixis sighs, his voice soft with mockery, as though savoring a memory. “Like that sweet treat you brought last time.” He leans back as if reliving a beautiful kill or a luxurious feast. “Fifty thousand credits, was it? Something like that would be... delicious.”
“How... how would I acquire such an amount?” Balsar’s tusks quiver, his snout twitching as though sniffing the danger in the air. “We’ve been loyally following you!”
Disappointment gnaws at me, twitching my fingers. “What of crew and supplies?” I grumble, my crimson gaze piercing into his wide, desperate eyes.
“Begging your pardon, great War Chieftain, there weren’t many willing to join. You Klendathians keep an... orderly planet.” His voice falters as he glances at the others, finding no ally. “As for supplies, we picked up what we could afford, which wasn’t much.”
Disappointing.
“Shame, Captain,” Ignixis clicks his tongue, his yellowed fangs glinting faintly as he sneers.
“Some of us had high hopes for you and your... people .” His hooded gaze flicks toward me.
“Not me, of course. I knew your anemic blood would disappoint. The problem now is that we’ve no need for suckling babes at the teat, draining precious resources.
Isn’t that right... great War Chieftain?
” His mocking tone twists the title, demanding I prove I’m strong enough to bear it.
Hesitantly, I rise from my chair. The eyes of the others call for action—demanding strength, to prove I’m worthy to do what is necessary. Even Princesa’s silver eyes glint with predatory glee, urging me forward.
I sigh, a weary sound laden with resignation, and turn toward Balsar. My claws extend with a sharp, deliberate snap.
“Don’t, great War Chieftain! We are loyal!
” Balsar shrieks, stumbling from his seat, retreating into the dark metal corner.
His trembling hand tugs at the badge on his lapel—a flaming red beast encircled by fire.
“You see this?” he pleads, voice cracking.
“We are Dracoth’s Shorthairs now. Your Shorthairs!
” He runs a shaky hand over his shaved scalp, as if the sight of it might save him.
His desperate display halts my thudding approach, a flicker of dark amusement igniting the embers of my heart. But from the corner of my eye, I catch Ignixis scowling beneath his hood, his claws drumming impatiently on the metal table.
“Loyalty,” I grumble, resuming my murderous advance, “is not enough for life.”
Balsar’s snuffling grows frantic as my shadow looms over him, my claws mere inches from his quivering throat.
He’s little more than a pile of quivering meat awaiting the slaughter.
The scent of his terror hangs thick in the air, and I pause briefly, hoping he offers something worthwhile to stay my hand.
“Wait! Wait!” His snout snuffles wildly, his voice a high-pitched whine as his back presses hard against the cold metal wall. “The Orphanage’s base! I know its location!”
Praise Arawnoth.
“Show me,” I command, retracting my claws and gesturing toward the glowing blue star chart.
Balsar scrambles upright, brushing dust from his long black polymer coat. “I should have mentioned it sooner,” he blurts, scurrying toward the console. He hesitates, glancing nervously at Ignixis’ shrouded face. “May I?”
“If you’re lying,” Ignixis sneers, shifting aside with a deliberate slowness, “I will personally peel the skin from your pathetic hide, Captain.”
“There’ll be no need for that,” Balsar replies hastily, his stubby fingers flying over the controls with surprising dexterity.
“You seek the Sirius system? Well, en route with a slight detour, you’ll find the moon of Pulsar—also known as the Crib to the captains of Whores’ Orphans.
” He straightens, his snout twitching with pride.
“There,” he announces proudly, gesturing at the holographic projection.
“Interesting,” Ignixis murmurs, his molten emerald eyes narrowing as they study the azure star map. “This moon... Crib, as you call it. Does it contain Elerium and the like?” He points a gnarled finger, distorting the glowing sphere that represents Pulsar—our hope.
“It’ll be a grand raid,” Balsar answers eagerly, nodding like a fool. “This is where the Orphans store all our hauls from all the...uh, mercenary work we do... Did.” He swallows hard, correcting himself with a nervous grunt.
“Adds half a day’s travel, not far from Klendathor,” Jazreal muses, leaning forward to scrutinize the coordinates. His words are like sweet nectar to my ears.
“If we can trust him,” Princesa scoffs, her silver eyes scanning Balsar with a curled, full lip of disdain. “He looks like that ugly alien cow that attacked me before.”
I place a reassuring hand on her supple shoulder, my fingers brushing her skin just long enough to feel her lean into my warm touch. A soft sound escapes her, almost a purr.
But there’s one question no one else has asked. “What of its defenses?” I inquire, fixing Balsar with a piercing glare.
“Well... um,” he stumbles, avoiding my eyes, scratching at his snouted face. “Depends. Ships come and go, but usually a lot, perhaps a hundred.” He nods, his confidence wavering.
A hundred ships, maybe more—pathetic transports, like the ones in my service now. But less than half of my own ships are crewed. We’ll be outnumbered, but we have this Scythian Battlebarge to even the odds.
Still, something in Balsar’s fidgeting betrays him. His stubby fingers twitch like Todd scuttling for food.
“And?” I growl, the low rumble of my voice filling the chamber.
“And... the moon’s defenses.” His beady brown eyes flick to mine, trembling. “Pulsar cannons. All over its surface.” His nervous chuckle is brief, hollow. “Kind of ironic, given the moon’s name, right?”
“A battle moon,” Jazreal mutters, the working side of his hard face shadowed by a grimace.
It makes sense—the Orphans would guard their stolen treasures with everything they had. Still, there’s no choice. Only glorious victory will pave the way to my destiny.
“Set course for the moon of Pulsar,” I command, sweeping my hand over the glowing star chart.
“Arawnoth demands sacrifice.”