Chapter 6
My pride.
Grayris looked around the Skiff at a half-dozen terrified faces.
My ARROGANCE.
Terrified. And why? Because of the nightmare she dragged them into. A Ketch full of Hive. How had she thought it would go any different? Even with her old crew, her faithful, her loyal, the result would have been the same - retreat or death. And for what? A broken ship full of the Maw's hated agents? No, no, that wasn't worth it. Not worth a single Eliksni life. They were too few, too sparse, too scarce, too endangered now. The King had tracked them down, finally. How many would survive His vengeful wrath?
Would anyone survive?
Could anyone survive?
No, she thought. Not if they tried to stand in the way of the Maw like noble Chelchis, but-
She'd survived, hadn't she? Because she'd ran. Ran away with her brother and her mate and her hatchlings, preserved them all boarding in a northerly-docked Ketch and flew, flew, flew from Riis - flew from the howling Whirlwind nipping at their heels. She'd survived. But they hadn't. Not for as long, no. But still longer than those left behind. Where would that leave everyone else, what with the Whirlwind-come-again?
Grayris clenched her hands, all four, and winced as her injured arm shifted. The pain was-
"You need to get that looked at," the human said.
Grayris cracked her eyes opened and glared down at the accursed thing. Anzani was staring pointedly at where she cradled her injured arm.
"That's Void burn," the Crow said softly. "Leave that too long and you'll lose the whole limb."
Grayris bristled. "Still your tongue. Keep your concerns to yourself."
Anzani's eyes flicked up. "Short-tempered much?" she quipped, curling her lip. A sign of irritation if ever Grayris had seen one.
It would have been so easy to reach over and snap the little creature's neck. So, so easy. The human had no room to move and no friends to fall back on - not in the Skiff's hold. And Grayris, even wounded in body and pride, would have found little issue in holding Anzani's arms back, in holding the star-touched mammal down as she strangled it.
So easy...
Grayris turned her head, barking a single deep-throated huff. What was easy in the present, she mused, would only litter her future with more obstacles - and a dead human agent would have been difficult to explain indeed. The human had to live, then. In the effort to keep even an uneasy rapport with Judgement and the Reef, it was almost certainly necessary that Anzani remain unharmed. Unspoiled. Her un-shelled flesh still packed over bone, still clad over in the dark material of her Awoken uniform. Untouched.
So long as she wizened up and kept her silence, Grayris was content to grant her that lone mercy.
The Awoken station welcomed them with a hazy bustle. Exhaustion and aching pain left her sight swimming; Grayris swayed to the motion of invisible waves as she disembarked, waving aside the chittering concerns of little Winterlings. "Enough," she snarled, bordering on out of breath. "Enough! Leave me be!"
Azilis said something. Kraneks followed it up with a question. Grayris didn't hear them. She wasn't listening. No, she was trudging past, keeping them behind her; she cut through the traffic of tiny twin-soulled apes rushing to slim-hulled fighters with a giant's disregard. Little Anzani followed by her side, hurrying to match her strides. She was saying something too. Something sharp and bitter and oh, oh Grayris wanted to strangle that tone away, to pull it apart by the tendons and toss it behind her for her underlings to sort.
She marched through the station, following the route through memory alone. Guards watched her pass, staring out from beneath dark visors, but they made no move to stop her. Soon enough she all but stumbled on the Frame-stationed doorway to Judgement's perch - and they waved her on, citing permissions in their creators' bumbling speech. She hated it. Hated the humanity of it all. She was fast growing sick of them, their ways, their talk and their scents.
Beyond the automated airlock stood Variks. He clutched his precious staff so tightly Grayris was certain it would snap. His lower hands kneaded at one another anxiously; he stared up at her with a look of surprise, concern, fear.
"Baron-" he started to say, but Grayris cut him off with a growl.
"Hive," she coughed. "Hive and more accursed Hive. The Ketch is infested. The crew are dead."
To his credit the scribe winced. He uttered in reverent Low Speech - a shifting prayer for souls lost and devoured. A ward against the Maw's bloody tithes.
"You have your information," Grayris continued gruffly. The pain left her ill-tempered. "Now it is your turn to provide."
"Crow?" he croaked, citing that brutish alien tongue.
Anzani stepped up. "Hive. We investigated the Endriks-Fel's interior. Encountered a sect, fell back before they could inflict casualties."
"What colours did they fly?"
"Purple cloth, grey shell with spots of blue."
"The Blood?"
"Possibly. More likely a related group. Personal guess: specialized sub-sect."
Variks hissed with displeasure. He briefly glanced at Grayris one last time before turning back to the array of monitors and holodisplays. "I will raise a bounty for Craask's location," he said, already moving on. "Your crews will be provided with alms and supplies. Rejoin them. Partake of Judgement's hospitality and be glad for the respite."
Grayris' anger flashed. "Are you ordering me?"
"Eia." Variks didn't turn around.
"I am above you. I will always be above you." She raised herself up, towering over the pair of them. "You have levied insult after insult against my being. I have been more patient than you deserve. Watch your tone, scribe, lest I tear the mandibles from your jaw."
"Do not threaten me, Winter-Loyal." Variks' shoulders bunched up. "It is my aid your survival hinges upon. My generosity that will preserve your House, your name."
"Preserve?" Grayris scoffed - tinged with that loathing she bore against weakness. Even her own. "You have not the Ether to spare. You entreat me with the promise of provisions but my soul draws empty. My shell cracks. My throat is dry. You have nothing to sate me. You have no power left over me. So do not think me in your debt, Judgement, when my life is yet ill-fated. Gratitude stems from stability; I yet have nothing to be thankful for."
"You have your life."
"I seek the means to keep it. To this you offer nothing of promise. You charge me to suffer dishonour in your presence for the sake of continuation, but you have presented me with naught but empty promises. So take care your tone, scribe. I do not care for it."
Variks slowly turned about. His staff cracked off the floor once, twice, three times. "You are sick," he said slowly, as if to a child. "You are agony-addled. You think you speak pain-truths, but the pain only guides you to petty grudge. Even a fool can see the fang-mark of the Maw on your flesh, Baroness. You carry it with you like a trophy, all the whilst it drags you down. Are you so determined to fall into that which we cannot rise from?"
"We are Fallen already," Grayris muttered bitterly. Her words were beginning to slur. It... irritated her. She paused to wrangle her speech back under control. "There is only so much farther we can descend. And only so many slights I can stomach from you. You test me. I warn you this once. This is my honour-mercy."
"'Your honour-mercy'. Will you say nothing of mine?" When he looked upon her he glared tiredly, no timid Drekh but with the somber regard of a Whirlwind-marked - one to another. The fleeting moment of kinship did little for her. "Your crew may stay. You may stay. The Awoken will provide aid. They are fair. More, perhaps, than we deserve."
"Is that why you sold them the Rabid? Is that why you gave them Skolas?" she bit out. Grayris wanted to draw blood, verbally if by no other means. Her pride couldn't stomach leaving the issue as it was. "Because they are fair?!"
"I gave them Skolas because he defied my Judgement," Variks fired back with fierce vehemence. "And they were willing to see it through."
"... You are adrift," Grayris whispered to him. She grimaced and curled over herself; her arm was dragging her down. It was too much to fight already. "You have forgotten where you came from."
"No, Time Bane." Variks straightened up, the facade he'd erected around himself fading for a fleeting moment. "I always carry the Whirlwind in my heart. Always. But your mistake was to let it into your soul where Ether drew lacking. You fan its flames with every loss. You wield its gales with every strike of your blade. You project its cruelty and call it honour. Say it is not so."
For a moment, a brief one, Grayris considered killing him. Even in her state it could have easily been done. He was better fed than most of his stature, but no warrior. And certainly not strong enough to keep her talons at bay.
But Anzani was watching, and she was too close to the airlock. Too close to bringing in the Frames, to finish off that which the Taken had started.
"The Maw is the Whirlwind," Grayris exhaled. "More than waxed words. I am trying to keep it from us."
"As am I, Baroness. As am I. This is not a weight you alone can bear."
"I do not intend to bear it. I intend to escape it."
"Not in your state. You are wounded."
"I will survive," she retorted. "I need not your care. Nor that-"
"If your life is all you think to preserve, then keep to your solace. I have grander ambitions. Leave me to them." He waved her away, as if he were a Kell and she a common Drekh. Her pride couldn't stomach it, but her sense prevailed. With a low growl Grayris turned on her heel and stalked back out.
Anzani trailed after her, picking at her with a human's dogged focus. "You really need to do something about that arm. Voidburn-"
Grayris roared and swung, narrowly missing the Crow. Her fist crunched against the wall of the corridor, leaving a sizable dent in its wake. "ENOUGH!" she snarled, teeth bared beneath her battlemask. "Enough prattle! You are primitive, a soft-fleshed frail thing; your consideration is insult. Silence!"
Anzani stepped back, her hands held up as if to keep Grayris at bay. "You need help," she said, though her expression twisted. "But that's your own prerogative. Have it your way." She left without another word, leaving Grayris to her own devices.
At last.
The silence was yaviirsi-sweet. Grayris sank into it with a sigh. The weariness weighed down her limbs, filled them with lead; she loped down through the halls at a painstaking pace, re-threading the halls back to the hangar. Those few Reefborn who stumbled into her path were quick to make way. She didn't bother stopping. Not for them. Her Winterlings neither, when she stumbled back upon them. They were caught up in a frenzied feast, pulling stale feed from crinkling wrappers and sterilized capsules. Judgement may have been a fiend, but she'd never known him to be a liar. They filled their bellies with alien provisions, supplementing it with meagre Ether morsels.
Krenak rose up from the press at the sight of her, an offering in hand - a pale nutrient block with two whole canisters of Ether fresh from the Servitor. Scarcely enough to curb her hunger and still twice his own allocated portions on a good day. "Baroness," he intoned reverently, smiling behind his mask.
She swept the tribute from his claws and retreated into the closest Skiff, kicking the hatches shut after herself. Grayris settled in the corner of the hold and gathered her cloak about herself, wincing as white-hot flashes of agony lanced up from her arm. For a moment she could almost hear it - the sick sizzle of Void biting through her biosuit and into her shell, quicker than acid and many times as insatiable. It was almost enough to banish the appetite from her mind.
Almost.
Gingerly, Grayris undid the clasps clutching her helm over her head and tugged it off. The stale Skiff-air brushed against her face, through her plume of setae and along her flared mandibles. She set it down beside her and regarded it briefly, looking over the optics, the horns, the pinched rebreather. A battlehelm of Winter, scarred and painted with the viscera of skirmish - long hunts and brief firefights, most of them already forgotten to her. She couldn't even remember when she'd received it. Some time during the Long Drift, perhaps. When it came time to take up the sword against one's neighbour. The favours of the Servitors hard won and jealously guarded. Better her, Grayris had reasoned, than another.
But she hadn't done it for herself. Not in the beginning. And now...
Grayris angrily opened the first Ether capsule and consumed it all in a single draught, filling her lungs with icy life. It suffused in her a gentle strength, lulling her into state of heightened awareness. Her arm throbbed by her side, pulsing waves of splintered torment rippling through her body. She curled in on herself, almost crushing the nutrient block in her haste. Grayris plucked it up and bit into it deeply, sinking her fangs into the packed powdery mass so violently it cracked it half - and then she tasted blood, tongue caught in the crossfire. She closed her eyes, exhaled softly, and nibbled away at what remained. The dry paper flavour of it imprinted on her tastebuds. It was the food of the commoner, the beggar, the starveling Drekh - all the Awoken had seen fit to provide her and hers with.
Insult. Always insult. That was Judgement's way. Always, in its honesty, to bring the spite, the endless needling.
But she could wait. In loathsome silence she could wait. She was Grayris, Time Bane, and she'd hunted the shrieking constructs of the Hezen Corrective through the jungles of Venus. Venus was the Maw's domain now, but the Reef was a bastion yet - and there was time left for her to find the way forward. To Craask, or to oblivion. So yes, she could wait.
She had to.
AN: This was in the works for years, so I'm glad to finally break through that writer's block. Every bit of thanks to Intrepid Dream for her patience and feedback!
