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Hot white bolts of radiant plasma pelted the Nephilim ship. Hundreds of automated gun batteries honed in on the arrival of the enemy vessel and spat streaming hot javelins of energy at the mammoth cruiser that lingered in low orbit.
The flagship of the Nephilim armada was unlike anything Dakroth had ever seen. Its architecture was organic, its design didn’t seem functional, but somehow it operated capably, and it shared more in common with the CSEs than any battleship he’d ever seen. He couldn’t even make out where its cannons were, as the entire ship seemed to glow with a coating of the same skin as the space squids.
Perhaps more daunting, however, was that this glowing armor seemed to absorb the blasts from the plasma canons they’d set up around the basecamp. The skin of the enemy vessel briefly flared to hot white wherever a plasma bolt hit it, then it absorbed the energy and cooled back to its usual, soft yellow glow.
Unable to damage the massive cruiser that lurked over them like a domineering golden Kraken, Grendok turned to Dakroth, a grim look stamped upon his face. “We might as well be throwing pebbles and wooden spears at it,” he groused in his usual gruff voice, “for all the good it would do.”
“How do you want to play this?” Callestra asked, throwing her hands up on her hips. She shifted her posture, tilting her hips in the other direction and tossed her hair across her shoulder as she waited for his reply.
Dakroth rubbed his chin as he mulled over their options. Then he turned to Grendok and Callestra, who watched him with anticipation as he cleared his throat.
“Order a ceasefire. It’s best if I meet with H’aaztre myself. While I’m keeping him distracted, you have your team get those explosives ready.”
“Sounds like a plan,” the satyr said. He turned to Callestra and taking her blue hand in his he kissed it. “It’s been a pleasure my dear. You keep him safe.”
“Always,” she answered.
The satyr bowed and then turned and skipped off toward the rows of batteries calling out orders to cease fire. Groups of mystified faces stared back at him as he went. Even though the orders didn’t make sense, they obeyed the satyr’s commands and the thousands of plasma needles lighting up the evening sky fell silent.
Callestra turned back to face Dakroth and squinted at him long and hard. When he was deep in thought like this it was hard to read him. “What are you planning?”
“Just follow my lead,” he replied. She nodded and then took his side. Tapping his wrist the emergency teleport signal was sent to the ship hovering high above them. He then grabbed Callestra by the waist and drew her into him. She chirped from the unexpected surprise and looked up into his red eyes with her magenta ones, a subtle smile hovering playfully about her lips.
As they held one another, the red teleportation beam came down to collect them. The lines of light seemed to divide their bodies up into thin strips and then, piece by piece, and in no discernible order, the strips whisked them away up to the ship.
When they manifested on the enemy cruiser, they found themselves standing on what appeared to be the command center, surrounded by a dozen guards all wearing glossy black and gold lined, laser resistant body armor.
Many of the Nephilim soldiers had what looked like rocket packs, which Callestra recognized as their wing sheaths. Metal wings could unfold from the backs of the soldiers, sending them gliding on the air. This allowed wave after wave of the soldiers to deploy from drop ships onto alien worlds without ever having to set the ships down. The Nephilim rained down from the skies like a plague of locusts. It’s what made their military so terrifying—they were legion.
Dakroth and Callestra turned to find The Voice of H’aaztre herself, Azra’il Nun, standing opposite them with a thrilled smile on her face.
“You!” Callestra growled, coming face to face with her sworn enemy. Realizing that if the woman so much as opened her mouth it could seal their doom, she didn’t take any chances and quickly lunged forward, both hands reaching out to choke Azra’il Nun’s throat before she had the chance to speak.
Blue electricity crackled and before she could wrap her hands around the woman’s neck, one of The Voice’s personal guards intercepted her with his stun rod and she crashed to the ground, her body tensing up from the tendrils of blue electricity.
When the charge had stopped, Callestra slowly uncoiled, groaning from the intense pain of the jolt. Muttering some obscenity or another under her breath, she looked up at the guard with a fearsome glare.
He didn’t seem much intimidated by it, however, seeing as he merely reached down and jabbed the sparking and crackling end of the rod into her tender side once more as a warning not to get any bright ideas.
“Azra’il Nun, as I live and breathe,” Dakroth said with a diplomatic grin. “It’s been a long time.”
“Azra’il Nun is dead,” the woman said in a vexed tone. “I am The Voice of the almighty H’aaztre.”
“The Voice?” Dakroth echoed, rubbing his chin contemplatively.
“His Word is his Will and his Will is my calling.”
“How quaint.”
“Oh, yes, I nearly forgot,” The Voice replied in a less than flattering tone. “You’re the king who doesn’t believe in anything but himself.”
“And what’s wrong with having a little bit of faith in oneself?” he asked.
She smiled but did not offer any reply as that would merely stroke his ego. Nodding at Callestra, who lay curled up at her feet, she insisted, “Why don’t you help your girlfriend up and maybe we can have a civil conversation?”
“I’ll show you civil,” Callestra growled, staggering to her feet and taking a step toward Azra’il Nun.
The stun rod came at her again, but this time she was prepared for it. Reaching out, she clutched the guard’s wrist, stopping the tip of the rod mere centimeters from electrocuting her whole face.
Little blue arcs of electricity crawled along the shaft and convened at its rounded tip. Drawing it near, Callestra opened her mouth and licked the tip. The sound of saliva sizzling could be heard and then she quickly pulled back, little tendrils of electricity stretching out from the rod and dancing across her teeth and lips.
Mezmerized by her sensuous display, the guard never even saw it coming. In the blink of an eye, Callestra twisted the guard’s wrist inward, drew him into her body while at the same time wrenching his baton wielding hand, hard.
She dropped her shoulder, rolled him onto her back, and then, still holding his arm, used both the strength of her legs and the momentum of his fall to flip him over her shoulders and fling him into the air.
He went up and over and then crashed down onto the ground with a harsh thud. A bit rattled by the speed and strength of such a slender woman, he gazed up at her with bewildered eyes. Standing over her conquest, Callestra looked down at him with a disappointed smirk as she held the stun rod in her hand that she’d stripped from him. She clicked the switch and let it crackle menacingly, feigning to zap him with his own weapon.
Unimpressed by the guard, she tossed the stun rod to the ground and then looked back up at Azra’il Nun with a hard glare that dared her to come at her again.
Instead of playing her little game, however, Azra’il just grinned and said, “Stay put, my pet.” She then turned to Dakroth and gestured for him to step out onto the main bridge with her. “Please,” she insisted, her gaze settling upon Dakroth, “This way.”
“Let’s dispense with the formalities, Azra’il,” Dakroth said, not budging. “You need something from me, otherwise we wouldn’t be talking right now.”
The Voice raised a fascinated eyebrow when he didn’t heed her command. “Impressive,” she said. “Not many can resist my powers of persuasion.”
A debonair grin formed on Dakroth’s lips. “My dear, silly woman. I’m not just anyone. I’m the Emperor of the Dagon Empire, Sovereign Lord of Seven Sectors, and the rightful heir to my father’s legacy! And what are you but a glorified megaphone for an over-inflated ego that thinks itself a god?”
She struck him across his face with the palm of her hand. The forceful smack resounded throughout the whole bridge and caused him to drop to one knee. Her strength was impressive, but nothing he couldn’t handle.
“How dare you speak to me like that!” she snarled. “I am no mere messenger. I am the Authority of the Gilded Master Himself. I am His Will, his Voice, and you will know your place, little man.”
Callestra moaned through her clenched jaw as she tried to fight against the Voice’s influence, but her command to stay put was resolute. Still, seeing Dakroth bitch-slapped like that only pissed her off even more, so instead of giving up, she merely tried harder, the veins in her neck bulging as she attempted to will her muscles to respond and her limbs to move.
Slowly, Dakroth rose back up to his feet and stood his ground. He glared menacingly back at Azra’il, who stared at him with the same disdainful intensity. Then, without provocation and quite unexpectedly, Dakroth threw his head back and let out a loud, belly-clenching bellow of laughter.
“My how I’ve missed your beautiful, stubbornness, Azzie.”
Azra’il drew back, confused by his unexpected change of character. “If you’re trying to trick me into letting my guard down, I can assure you, it won’t work.”
“No. No, tricks,” replied Dakroth with a casual sigh. He looked around at the guards, scanning each of their faces and doing a quick check to see if any of them posed any kind of threat to him. None did. Confident he wasn’t in any immediate danger, he turned his attention back to Azra’il. “So, as much as I love to beat around a good bush, the real question is, what do you want, Azzie?”
She ignored his infantile pet name for her and cut to the chase. “Keeping you here for a full year was no accident. The only reason you escaped at all was because He willed it to be so.”
“Is that right?” Dakroth asked in a skeptical tone.
“It is,” she answered. “And what’s more, the only reason you’re standing here before me now is because I need you to do something for me.”
“I’m listening,” Dakroth replied.
“H’aaztre is worried that with Jegra out of her coma, she’ll inspire a rebellion. Many of the worlds see her as a driving force of peace in the galaxy. Now, you of all people should realize that we cannot allow such disloyalty to be sown. As such, I need you to lure her here so she can be dealt with properly.”
“Ah, so you want me to be the bait?”
A thin, narrow smile formed on her mouth in silent acknowledgement.
“And what, may I ask, is in it for me?”
“You get to have your precious empire back.”
“Your master is willing to return to me the entire Dagon Empire simply to lure Jegra into a trap for you?”
“Is it so hard to believe? His Holiness is not without generosity. His Magnificence is loyal to those who are loyal to him. The only question is, Lord Emperor of the Galaxy, are you with him or against him?”
“Even if your words could be trusted, why should I help a master who held me captive for a year, starved and tortured me, and messed with my mind to the point of losing myself to utter and complete madness?”
“That’s just it, though. You didn’t lose yourself to the madness. You persevered. And here you stand...stronger than ever. You see, even the strongest steel blades can snap without first being tempered. But you have been through H’aaztre’s forge, you have been tempered to near imperviousness, and you have gained a strength you never knew you possessed.”
Dakroth smiled. Regardless of whether or not Azra’il Nun was telling him the truth, he had only one thing on his mind. Revenge. But knowing that he couldn’t take on her and half the Nephilim military all on his own, he acquiesced to her demands. It was about time he introduced The Voice to his lovely, royal pain-in-the-ass wife, Jegra.
“Fine,” he said, pretending to be disappointed in himself for giving up the empress so easily, “I’ll do it. But under one condition.”
“Name it,” Azra’il said.
“You let me be there to watch when you ruin her and her merry band of rebels.”
Azra’il Nun smiled and, in an icy tone, said, “As you wish, Lord Emperor Dakroth.”