Her mother came to her in her sleep again. This time, she appeared as who she was now in the present time, and not as a frightened four year old. Still, they met on the Field of Destiny on her home world; rows upon rows of graves that were not there before in her dreams littered her sight as she peered covertly around before turning to her mother. Shiira stared at her daughter with disgust and malice.
"I had hoped more of you, daughter." She spat on the ground, her microbraids swirling as she paced. "How could you pledge yourself to this man? You don't deserve the title of alpha Furyan!" The ring of her slap echoed through the imaginary air.
Her words pierced Lyka's heart, but she exhaled at the welcome pain. The burn of her mother's slap radiated calmness within her.
"Mother, I have carried these pains for all my life: the loss of you, the loss of my father, the loss of my planet, the death of the little brother that I will never know. I was ashamed of these weaknesses, just as you taught me to be. But you never realized that trying to follow your requests would lead me down a path that now I can't get out of, so deeply is it ingrained into my being. Because you took me off Furya, I had to hide who I am from my classmates; they don't understand Furyans or our ways at all. You were the one that alienated me, not my actions. Don't you dare judge me, woman, because I choose to follow my faith!"
Shiira looked shocked, turning away from the undeniable logic of her daughter's words. "Lyka, your brother lives."
Now it was her turn to be dumbfounded. "What?" Lyka tried to digest that thought. "No, he died… on that day when all of the Furyan boy-children were slaughtered. He can't be alive." All that she had based her suffering on began to crumble beneath her feet. She knelt to the ground as she wrestled with this new knowledge.
Shiira turned back towards her. "Your little brother lives, Lyka. I hid him away, just like I did you. He lives currently on a frozen planet, hiding from his crimes; he is the most wanted man in the universe, spending most of his time in and out of various maximum-security detention centres. You might have heard of him. I named him Richard, after your father. But he does not yet know he is Furyan, or that he has a family."
The dream version of her slipped into a vision within the astral plane. Her brother: tall and built like a bear, darkly tanned like the rest of his kind. A black muscle shirt covered the bricks of his torso; the loose cargo-pants covered the built legs. The eye-shine that was a part of all male alpha Furyans were covered behind welding goggles. His face was serious, looking around him as if scouting a room for exits; she could see years of abuse and cruelty labelled in his stealthy movements. The only thing missing from him was the hand print that labelled him as an alpha Furyan. Lyka's heart jumped: this was the same man that she had glimpses of before she was converted.
At the visions and those words, Lyka fell forward to lay down at her mother's feet. "Please forgive me! I'm been so lost without you, Mother!" Tears fell readily from her eyes, the pain of a torn heart welcoming to soothe her. Shiira gathered her grown daughter in her arms to comfort her, rubbing her back like she used to do when she was a child. "I'm so sorry, Mother! I'm so sorry!" All of the pain that she thought had been purged from her during her conversion came back with a vengeance, threatening to kill her if not for her mother to guide her out of the abyss of loneliness and betrayal
"You must guard him when you meet in the near future; that is for certain, my child. You will meet again; the stars have foretold it. Do not fail me, my wayward daughter." Patting her weeping daughter's shoulder, Shiira whispered into Lyka's ear. "Know that I have never abandoned you, no matter how difficult your path became. You were never lost, and you shall become worthy in your heart again to be called alpha Furyan."
With that, Shiira began to dissipate into grey fog. This time, Lyka bowed her head as she too transformed into the ethereal fog that always ended her dreams…
Lyka opened her eyes. A single tear fell down her face as she remembered the forgiveness of her mother, the sting of her anger. Her little brother was alive after all; a portion of her sorrow was for naught.
As she sat up slowly from her prone position, she realized something: there was no more sorrow in her heart. Everything that she once felt: regret, sorrow, fear… none of it resided in her heart anymore. It had happened after the conversion, but now her heart was filled with something else in the place of the catharsis' emptiness: purpose.
Her mother had assured that she was not lost off her path. Confidence filled her as she dressed for the Lord Marshal's request, making sure to tie off her hair with a piece of string from her pockets. She grinned as the black loose tunic and pants belied the strength of her frame. She would enjoy a good bout as she strapped her blade to her forearm. Out of a wish of some routine, she strapped her new hand-and-half sword to her side; she would require something to duel with.
She needed no directions to the training room; she needed only to follow the sound of men grunting and the clashing of swords. Her bare feet made no sound as she padded her way at a gentle jog through the darkness to her destination.
Ten men were practicing today. Four of them were sitting on the benches bordering the circumference of the room, watching the other six fight each other with blades and with fists. Bared swords laid in their laps, polishing cloths were forgotten in their hands as they observed their comrades. There were no cheering, no boisterous encouragement between friends and brothers-in-arm.
Lyka stopped at the doorway as she watched the bout. One man in the midst of the group was fighting the other five; all of them were shirtless as the sweat dripped from their brows. Impressive odds; she slid over to an unoccupied bench. Using only a dulled hand-and-half sword, the man in the middle disarmed four of his combatants with only his hands and dealt a blow to consider them dead. The last man rushed him in a final charge, but the lone combatant simply stuck his foot out and slammed the flat of his blade into the shoulders of the fallen man.
At last, the duel was over. The lone combatant walked to the side to get a drink. He was an odd specimen of a Necromonger. The paleness of his skin was contrasted with the muscled frame of someone who would have spent his life outdoors as a labourer. Sweat dribbled down the length of his bare back only to be absorbed by the black pants that were loosely tied to his waist. His midnight hair was growing in an unusual roach style: unshaven and messily divided into small braids in the middle, roughly shaved on the sides to shorten them. However, it was his eyes that drew her; a deep brown, they took in everything that someone else might have missed. Warrior's eyes.
Taking a breath, she launched herself off the bench and over to the lone combatant. Moving silently, none of the others even noticed her.
"What is it?" Without even turning around, the man took a swig of water and stared at the wall in front of him. At this point, the others noticed her; some of them began to chortle at the thought of a girl in their training room. One of them looked at her intently, before speaking to the others; whatever he said, the eight others lost their ability to speak, so great was their shock.
"The Lord Marshal told me to come down here, to train with his captain Vaako." At the mention of the Lord Marshal, the lone combatant turned around to meet her. Not afraid, she kept her eyes on his, never looking away.
"Aye. So you're the one?" Placing the water bottle back down on the bench, he peered up and down the length of her, taking in her abilities with a single glance. "Vaako. So, the Lord Marshal told me to train you. Well, convert, let's see what you got."
Amidst the muffled conversations of the soldiers, Lyka unsheathed her sword and stood in the centre of the ring. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the men on the benches making bets between them on the outcome of the fight; it was obvious that they favoured the seasoned captain over the two day old convert. Vaako, now refreshed from his previous fight, rolled his shoulder and tossed his own sword- not the dulled practice sword he was just using, but a full arm-length sword with a wicked edge- from hand to hand.
Without a word, the fight began when Vaako swung his sword above his head with the obvious intent to cleave her skull in two. Lyka ducked and slid aside, aiming a sliding kick for his kneecaps with the heel of her foot. Vaako deflected her leg with a swing of his own legs, jumping out of the way. He was at an advantage with her on the ground and him with his sword at the ready. Lyka thanked Master Feng for his endless lessons and the thousands of bruises that she received by his hand, pounding into her the need for quick movement and to never drop her weapon or her guard. Getting to her feet with a simple jump, she made a swipe at his jawbone with the very tip of her blade. It was a foolish move, but it showed Vaako that she was worthy of his fullest.
A small scratch appeared on Vaako's cheek, a minute river of bright crimson on a pale skin. He never noticed it, but his concentration increased. This girl was a challenge; never before had he seen such skill in a new convert. His grip on his sword shifted; for a moment, they just circled one another, trying to sense for a potential weakness in the other.
Lyka made the offensive this time, swinging her sword in her two-handed grip and using the force of her arms and the pommel of the sword to injure him further. Vaako seemed shocked as he stumbled to defend her blows; never before had he seen a hand-to-hand combat style like this. As a blow of luck, she levied her weight into a jump to increase the potential of her final blow, making it seem like she was falling forward as well; forcing him onto his back, the soldiers around them gasped and stood to their feet.
Lyka's blade rested against the side of his throat, its edge barely kissing the thin layer of skin that covered the visibly beating vessels underneath it. In the midst of the scuffle, she withdrew the dagger which now rested in the hollow of his throat with its tip aimed directly for the centre of his voice box. Lyka herself straddled him around his waist, her knees pinning his arms on the ground.
"Well, well, well." Lyka let him up, but she still held her weapons at the ready. This man was good; why else would the Lord Marshal make him a captain of the Legion? Yet she had beaten him in a single bout. Was he just tired? Still, she just did not want to let her guard down.
Vaako remained on the ground, just observing her before getting up himself. Shallow pants lifted his torso in a way that was not unattractive. "The Lord Marshal was right. You do have skills." He shook his head, waving his hand at her. "You can put your weapons down, child. Our duel is over."
Still overtly cautious, Lyka relaxed her grip ever so slightly. Her heart was continuing to race at breakneck speed, but she kept her breathing at a normal pace. Keeping her eyes on Vaako, she watched him drink from the same bottle as before.
"Relax, child." Vaako stared at her intently. "Well, there's not much that I can teach you. I'll report to the Lord Marshal to consider you for a captaincy next time there's need." He sat down on the bench heavily. "Where'd you learn to fight like that, convert?"
"On Aquila Major, at the university, Captain. I learned martial arts since I was six until I achieved the highest master rank at twenty, and then practicing every day for ten years now. I began forging my own blades and learning to use them at six as well." Lyka, feeling more at ease, sheathed her weapons. Her dagger continued to pulsate with fight-fury against the heated skin of her back.
"You're from the recently purged one, aren't you?" He cocked his head to one side as he continued to inspect her from the corner of his eye. A little stream of sweat dribbled down from his temple.
"Purged one, Captain?" At this, Lyka was confused. She was from Aquila Major, which was still a thriving planet the last time she checked. Maybe something happened while she locked in the painful throes of the gauntlet, aware of nothing but her anguish. A shiver crept around her neck where her newly-made marks were displayed, but she ignored the sudden urge to rub her hand on them.
"After any planet that we conquer has supplied us with as many converts as it can, we cleanse it of all life. Afterwards, it can become a new home for the residents of UnderVerse. It is a reward for a life of service: obedience without question, loyalty 'til UnderVerse come. That is the mantra of service for all Necromongers, soldier or not."
Lyka nodded her head, but her mind began to race. That was why Sulakma was still so angry at her, thinking that she might have been the catalyst that had destroyed her home! Her planet was cleansed after the Necropolis flew into the galaxy once again. No one was left in the planet that housed her since her exile from Furya. What had happened to Darien, to Willai? She could feel her heart ache once more at the loss of more people dear to her heart, people who had taught her since her coming to this world.
A question stirred in the back of her consciousness. What if this was the fate of Furya? Furya was purged of all of its young males, but its women were left unharmed to mourn…
Lyka's thoughts were interrupted as the wall began to move. A small panel was coming down, but it was what was on it was the disturbing part. A human- at least, it looked like a human- writhed under a sheer grey sheet. Its face was so deformed, so aged. Its eyes were hollow, but it had no voice. A small golden bowl stood by its head, a black substance filled to its brim.
Vaako walked towards it, as if it was the most normal thing to happen. Leaning over it, he began a conversation with it. Barely hearing it, she thought it- whatever it was- sounded rather metallic and raspy in nature, as though it was one entity with the thoughts of many. The other soldiers began to disperse back to their quarters, their practice for the day completed. Only Lyka stuck around; rooted to the spot, she was so curious about the thing in the wall, but she had never seen anything like that ever before.
Nodding, Vaako pressed a button in the stone wall; the creature receded back into its place. Lyka held back her thoughts of disgust at the sight of this creature.
"Captain, what was that thing?" Lyka was partly curious, but her voice still held its disgusted tinge from her reaction at the new creature. Vaako seemed unperturbed.
"It's a Quasi-Dead, a lesser one anyway. They were once converts long ago, but they swore off all food and drink in order to truly experience the faith. It's the way we communicate between ships and between people in the Necropolis. Lyka, the Purifier wishes to see you later, back in the atrium."
Nodding, Lyka returned to her room. Toweling off the sweat from the match, Lyka noticed something on her bed that was not there before. Changing into a new set of clothes, she inspected it. It was a simple silver chain, bearing a pendant in the form of one of the four faces that decorated the war helmet of the Lord Marshal. Not knowing what quite to do with it, she placed it in the pocket of her pants. Securing the hooded robe around her neck and feeling the comfort of its weight, she walked outside once more.
Lyka travelled back into the dimmed light of the atrium. Only a few Necromongers walked through this place at this time of day; otherwise this entire area would have been full of people discussing and debating, as this served as the Necromonger version of a common area. The Purifier was waiting by one of the statues. His hands were clasped behind his back, just craning his head to stare up at the form of the scourged man.
"Do you know who this is, convert?" The Purifier's voice was distant, but Lyka sensed that he was tired. Even though he knew her name from the conclusion of the gauntlet, he still chose to call her 'convert', and she wondered why, although she would never ask him that to his face.
"No, my lord." Lyka did not know his name even now, so she simply called him that out of an ingrained behaviour of respect.
"Dispense with the titles, Lyka. I am only a Purifier." For a moment, his gaze shot a glare at her that ordered her into her already state of silence. "This is Baylock, the fourth Lord Marshal. He was the leader of our forces at the time of the battle between Necromonger and Carthadox. He was the first to utilize the Quasi-Dead; through them, we were able to win the war and gain many new converts to the cause."
The Purifier stood away from the statue. "Lyka, you were on of the few converts who understood both the pains of this 'verse and the quintessential way of the Necromonger. I have spoken to Lord Marshal Zhylaw and he has agreed to allow me to train you as a Purifier."
At this, Lyka spoke nothing. This was a great honour given to her, sensing that it was not one granted for many newly-formed converts. However, she had an ulterior mission from her mother: to keep watch over her brother. Her thoughts churned: what better place for her to find any specific person in this 'verse then in the upper echelons of the Necromongers?
She took her time in answering, even thought her mind was already made up, simply to build the suspense of the moment. As if she finally came to a conclusion and not when she decided that minutes ago, she nodded her head slowly. "I wish not to contravene the wishes of the Lord Marshal. Obedience without question, loyalty 'til UnderVerse come," she echoed the words of Vaako. "What is needed?"
The Purifier turned away, staring instead back at the statue. "You will fast in silence for the next week, before returning to the gauntlet for two days in their entirety. Afterwards, if you survive, you may don the pendant that was given to you earlier today. In essence, you will be my second-in-command; when I reach my due time, then you will lead the conversions that join our forces on every planet until in turn it is your due time."
With no more words lefty for him to say, the Purifier led her back to her room. His pale eyes watched her as she removed the cloak and the pendant from her pocket and lay down on her bed; always attentive to details, he watched as she stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes.
He had been leader of the Purifiers for over forty years now and he was tired. He had earned his epaulets and his status from the numbers that he had converted successfully: for every ten individual successful conversions, fifteen at the least would die rather then to accept this faith. Although he was proud to be a Necromonger, he was tired of the constant loss of life in the current Lord Marshal's reign. He could not compare it to other formerly reigning Lord Marshals, but somehow he could intuit that the reign of Zhylaw was going to end in a way that was even more blood-stained then that of Baylock the Brutal.
He pressed his hand against the heat of his heart as he observed his newest convert enter a seemingly deep trance, her breathing slow and deep; it seemed almost too easy for her, as if this was a simple practice for her, when other Purifiers before her had to take almost an hour to completely enter the trance and stay there, to clear their minds of all distractions around them. His eyes watched the length of her body release the tension that it unknowingly held and relax into the recesses of the blankets underneath her.
When she was so deep into the trance that he was sure she would not awaken, he approached her side quietly. Something bothered him about this particular convert. When he saw a glimpse of her fighting against Vaako in the duelling arena, an old emotion that he kept tamped down flared up in new fervour: the want to pick up a blade and fight in the duel himself. His hand moved closer to her heart.
Her eyes snapped open with the simple presence of his hand. "Is something wrong, Purifier?" Her gaze was so innocent, so trusting, that he shook his head, shaking away the clinging cobwebs of doubts from his mind.
"Nothing, Lyka Divakar. Nothing's wrong." Her name sounded foreign on his thick tongue as he slid outside of her door. He panted from the adrenaline pumping in his system from the jolt. His suspicions were disproved: no Furyan could get out of a trance that quickly and be coherent.
When he returned to his personal quarters, he stood before the mirror. Stripping off the jacket and tunic of his office, he stared at the handprint glowing on his heart. He had failed and accepted it a long time ago. He never wanted to be an alpha Furyan, so he chose not to act like one. Time would only tell if his actions were true…
