Riddick ploughed through the dead bodies that littered the battlefield, boots squelching slightly in the mud and the blood beneath his feet. He stepped over Necromongers and Castellans alike, curved blade dripping blood down upon those who were slain. He sighed, chest rising and falling and sending plumes of heated breath into the frigid air, clouds of moisture hanging in front of his face as a result.
His silvery eyes caught the rays of the sinking sun as they scanned the field, searching for survivors; he found that of those few still left standing, most were Necromongers, pale faces glimmering in the pale gloom whenever said Necro turned his way. He turned slightly, casting a ferocious glance over his shoulder as Vaako approached, scowl marring the Necromonger’s face in savage lines. Riddick didn’t speak; instead he waited until Vaako deigned to talk.
“I notice we number the greatest among the survivors,” Vaako said, finally, dark eyes scanning and locking against fellow pale brethren.
“That maybe so, but all wars are useless to the dead,” Riddick replied, turning back to scan the sea of bodies that littered the ground before him.
He took in every face, every twisted and torn body, every pool of blood that soaked into the ground to disappear forevermore.
“It was a trap, Riddick,” Vaako reminded him. “They said they wished for peace, yet all that was on their minds was revenge.”
“Now, I wonder why that would be?” Riddick asked, voice tinged with relaxed amusement, indicating that the war had not touched him.
Of course, battle and bloodshed meant little to the Furyan; after all, that was all his race had lived for previously, rage filling their veins as much as blood ever did, sending each Furyan warrior into blood-tinged battle-light. Furyans were the universe’s natural warriors, and Riddick was the angriest one of all, even before he knew he was the last one of his kind left.
Vaako, in response to Riddick’s earlier question, merely shrugged one shoulder, as though the reasoning behind the battle meant little to him either. Being a Necromonger meant that he’d touched death, and feared little from it. Pain meant little to him either; to him, pain was something to be enjoyed as much as endured, and he often threw himself into battle blindly at Riddick’s behest. He’d done the same for Zhylaw before Riddick, despite the fact that he trusted his current Lord Marshall more than he’d trusted his former one. In Riddick, he saw a like-minded individual, born of the same blood and temperament, like two sides of the same coin of life and death.
Vaako looked around, dark eyes catching the darkening sun as it dipped ever lower towards the horizon. The light flared in his eyes, turning them almost as silver as Riddick’s for the briefest of moments as he mused over the past few days. Riddick had been right to question Vaako’s prior comments; if not for the Necromongers previously laying waste to the largest of the planet Castella’s cities, leaving scant few straggling villages behind, then said villagers would not have laid the trap in the first place.
They’d talked of peace when Riddick and Vaako had initially landed to break up the monotony of space travel towards the Threshold, and had delivered anything but peace. Instead, they’d brought war upon the visitor’s heads, war that resulted in the majority of the Castellans’ deaths and fewer of the Necromongers. Vaako had initially advised Riddick to pass on by, knowing that there would be little left of the planet to see. Riddick, by dint of being the strong-headed Furyan that he was, had not listened and landed anyway at great cost to all.
Riddick, as ever, was unrepentant as he turned away, silver-edged gaze staring at Vaako beside him as he did so.
“Are you with me?” he asked, indicating to the Necromonger that they should leave. “There’s nothing for us here, not anymore. The fight’s over.”
Vaako inclined his head towards the other man in a conciliatory nod of acceptance before replying.
“I am with you. Always,” he said, as he followed his Lord Marshall back to the shuttle.
Riddick gestured to the remainder of the Necromongers to bring the Castellan survivors with them; he needed them to convert to the Necromonger faith to replenish his army. Much as he hated to follow in the former Lord Marshal’s footsteps, he saw that to do so was a necessary measure if he wanted to survive the transition into the darkened, death-like realms of the Threshold. Furyans were nothing more than harbingers of war looking out for their best interests at all times, after all.