DEMON-CORE - part 2
The ship lurched and twisted like a bull Gulakir in a mating frenzy. Demon-Core put out a massive hand to brace himself and snarled in irritation. Hyperweb transit could get turbulent, and he hated trusting his survival to other, lesser breeds such as the Steers who piloted the Horde's starships. But in the end patience was a predator's virtue, urrh, yes. He would remain calm. He had traveled the threads between the stars many times. This journey was no different. Soon they would be in real space again, and the killing of these 'Starwolf' could begin.
"You are not afraid of star travel! You, the great Demon-Core? For a moment, I thought I saw you tremble!" A young Goliath named Rakhlog laughed, baring yellowed tusks. "Surely I was mistaken!"
Demon-Core wheeled and advanced on the speaker, the rage he felt in the face of such a blatant insult like lava in his blood. Rakhlog hesitated for a heartbeat, then exposed his throat in apology. "It was only a joke, mighty -awwk!" His words choked off as Demon-Core's grip clamped down on his windpipe like a parasteel vice.
"I do not like this joke, brother," Demon-Core snarled. "When you have won many glory plates and can show me the scars that prove you are Strong, then I will laugh with you when you speak of fear among the greater feroxi. Until then, shut your meat hole! The next time I hear you whisper such a thing, I will tear your arms and legs off and feed them to my sluagh!"
Nearby feroxi shifted away from them. No one wanted to risk the rage of a Goliath as worthy as Demon-Core. Others watched in anticipation, wondering at the fate of this foolish specimen called Rakhlog.
Eyes bulging, Rakhlog struggled to nod. He stank of fear, but also of rage, which Demon-Core found encouraging. The young one had enough wisdom not to resist. Had he done so, Demon-Core would have ripped his throat out. But Rakhlog did not lose control, though his body trembled with the desire to fight before suffocation brought unconsciousness and death. After several minutes, Demon-Core released his grip, deciding the young one should have the chance to kill humans after all.
"I am the Kill-Leader of the grigatim, urrha? Do not forget I have spared you!"
Rakhlog slumped back against the bulkhead and tried unsuccessfully to keep his dignity while regaining his breath. "I ap- apologize… Mighty One." He coughed and massaged his throat. "I will not… make… such a mistake again." Though he kept his tone apologetic, his eyes burned at his humiliation.
Demon-Core almost smiled. Rakhlog made no secret of his desire to make a name for himself among the Hordes. Such ambition showed proper strength for a reaver, urrh, yes, but wisdom was also important, at least the wisdom of knowing who was stronger. This upstart had been rash today, but he would live. This time.
Demon-Core was pleased at keeping his patience after such an insult. His mood lightened greatly.
"A problem, O Mighty One?" The Flaymaster's Inquisitor peered down from the catwalk, a structure designed so it could observe the grigatim from above without the risk of a careless reaver crushing its frail form. Metal and metaplas gleamed darkly from the host of sniffers, injectors, and probes bristling from its skinny body. Three dark-lensed artificial eyes protruded from its face, reminding Demon-Core of an insect. For a creature whose task was to guard the health and strength of the Hordes, it looked sickly. Pale skin stretched thin across long, blue-veined limbs, and it gave off an antiseptic reek rather than a healthy musk. Demon-Core shifted at the creature's proximity and suppressed the desire to wrinkle his nose. He had to remind himself that this… thing… fulfilled a holy purpose.
"No," he replied. "Resume your watch, Guardian."
The Inquisitor bobbed its head rapidly. "Very well, O Mighty One. You are the Kill-Leader." It clicked needle-tipped fingers together in an intricate salute, and scuttled back to its nest. Demon-Core stifled a sigh. Life would be simpler when the Horde arrived at Ymir and could simply kill humans. The grigatim grew restless from lengthy confinement in the guts of the dropship. There had been more fighting, tempers flaring, a few deaths. Venting rage on the enemy would be good. The desire to kill burned hot. He resisted the impulse to clean and reassemble his weapons again.
Patience! he told himself.
The Flaymaster signaled to him from the entrance to her berth at the end of the hold. Her hand clawed the air in Horde Maul combat code: Approach me.
Demon-Core made his way over, striding through the crouching feroxi directly and without hesitation, except that he stepped carefully around the raucous Shikahl circles. Shikahl was a game wherein one player placed his hand on the floor and opponents struck rapidly around it with talons and knives. One gained points for keeping the hand motionless or for forcing the hand to move without touching it. Demon-Core had a great fondness for this activity, and was known to be one of the best players in the Horde, so he did not disturb the circles. Everyone else drew aside for him, his lessers making their throats respectfully vulnerable, his equals - of whom there were few - merely saluting with a curt tap of talon to horn.
The Flaymaster motioned him into her meeting-berth. He pushed past her and she followed, sealing the hatch behind them. The space within was large enough for almost a dozen Goliaths. His friend Rog Gedharhk Blood-Drinker waited there, sitting in a heavily-braced seat-sling and grinning like a freshling at his first raw meal.
The Flaymaster took her seat behind a slab-like desk in the corner and regarded them with an appraising stare.
"How may I serve the Bloodsoul?" Demon-Core asked. No Slonn ever asked how he or she might serve anything else. They would never be slaves again, would never serve another master.
She stroked one of her facial horns thoughtfully. "We have been honored with a great task, O Demon-Core, O Blood-Drinker. Our grigatim will truly be the Horde's spearhead against these tribal humans."
Blood-Drinker pounded a fist on his thigh. "We are first among the Horde! What greater honor is there?"
Her lips curled, showing long, sharp tusks. "Computer, display the image of the Starwolf leader."
The image of a human female appeared in the space between them. Demon-Core studied it with the eye of one experienced in taking human prey. The holo showed long black hair pulled tightly back, gaunt features, a fit body beneath dark blue fatigues. The shoulders and sleeve glittered gold with the stars that showed high rank among the Starwolf. He did not remember seeing so much on any uniform displayed in his briefings. Gold also framed the woman's face in the shape of a band-mask that wrapped across her forehead, down her cheeks, and under her chin. The woman's eyes were what drew his attention. They were pools of rage. Demon-Core felt a sudden kinship with her, human as she was. Rage was holy.
The Flaymaster watched their reactions but kept her face neutral. "Ursula DiVaragas, this one is called, supreme military leader of the Starwolf."
"I thought that was Fury," complained Blood-Drinker. "All these humans look alike to me."
"This one is a warrior," Demon-Core observed. "See the eyes. She will never yield. Her spirit will enrich the Bloodsoul when we feed her body to the Core Plasm."
"She is not to be killed," the Flaymaster said.
"Not killed?" He stared at his commander is disbelief. "Horde Maul does not spare its enemies, especially humans!"
"Not this time," the Flaymaster said. "This time, we spare some. We are to capture this woman and many other Starwolf. Horde Gaunt wishes to make an example of them to crush the spirit of the tribes."
Demon-Core spat. "Gaunt and their plots! Better to kill the humans cleanly!" He scratched the dense bone ridge over his right eye and reminded himself to be patient.
"Urrh, very well, Flaymaster," he said at last. "How do we find this female? There are many Starwolf at Ymir."
"Our vatsatz informs us she lairs on a ship called Retribution. He sent identification codes and the orbital location of the vessel."
"The spy does well," said Blood-Drinker. "Its strain must be superior."
Surprisingly so, Demon-Core thought, given how unstable vatsatz were. To be decanted as Slonn, to glimpse the glory and yet live out one's days in a toothless, talonless human form! Demon-Core thanked the Bloodsoul it was not his fate to be so pathetic.
"Yes. He has won us the honor of attacking the ship of this female and seizing her." The Flaymaster smiled, displaying serrated rows of sharp teeth. "The Great Traitor fears her. The Starwolf guard her with their best warriors. It is very good. There will be much glory."
Blood-Drinker roared his approval. Demon-Core felt his own pulse pick up. "Rrrrh! Yes! We will wash in their blood! We will teach them fear!"
She smiled toothily. "Yes! Gather a small force of the best Goliaths and Plunderers in the grigatim. Prepare yourselves. Be ready. When we enter the Ymir system, we will speed ahead of the other Horde ships. You will board the Retribution and capture the female. Do not let other killing delay you! There will be much glory if you succeed, my Kill-Leader. Much glory! But remember: Ursula DiVaragas must live."
"Urrh, I understand. We will have to move quickly to take her alive." Demon-Core looked again at the glowing image of the human and thought of the glory she represented. His massive hands flexed in anticipation. Thank the Bloodsoul for such a challenge! The Chainless are the strong who shall grasp the future…. Rrrh, yes. Yes!
He bared his tusks in a huge grin. "Consider her ours already, Flaymaster!"[1]
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