Abattoir/Part 16

The woman went to all fours like a beast, and Azeroth kicked her hard enough to send her rolling across the floor with a scream. There was blood on her lower back where her tunic had been torn away, and she looked terrible—even worse than those who emerged from the Abattoir usually did. For half a second she had the same sort of mad epiphany in her eyes that Vandak had when he had come through that final door—the door Azeroth had only seen from this side—and that wide-eyed revelation gave Azeroth pause. Then she blinked and was only the Mirialan woman again.

"It's done," she rasped. "I made it through."

Azeroth contained his anger; soon there would be no need for it. "A secret that, like you, will die here."

Her eyes widened as she got to a crouch. "The Brotherhood—"

"—will never serve an alien," Azeroth told her. "And we will no more serve the Sith. It is time we make our own destiny, in service to no one.  In a galaxy of Forcefuls bent on destroying one another, Darth Alecto, no one will miss those who go astray.  You shall be the first course in our grand galactic feast."

He started toward her. She got up and ran, but she had evidently injured herself even worse than Rassan had thought; her limp was pronounced, and she was almost dragging her left leg along with her. There could be no doubt of Rassan's death now, of course, though perhaps he had given her enough of a time of it to hamper her in this last struggle.

Azeroth took a cortosis sword from its mount on the wall as he followed, unhurried. The rest of the Brotherhood—those who would permit themselves to be enslaved to this alien and her foreign war—were not so close that he could not enjoy this meal, so long as he didn't dawdle needlessly. He trailed after her, dragging the sword on the ground so it sent up sparks and its grate echoed down the sandstone passageways. She reeked after so long in the Abattoir, and Azeroth followed her without difficulty; past the stink, her sweet soup was even more intoxicating, spiced by her brush with the Abattoir.

"I must congratulate you, empty though it may be," he said. "To do what Vandak did is no mean feat, but to fail now…"

He clicked his tongue in disapproval, turning a corner in time to see an axe flying toward him. Twisting aside agilely, he caught it and swung it into a door hard enough to embed it. "Pitiful. Surely you can do better."

He considered Rassan's analysis. She was dangerous and violent, and a capable Force user, but she had been down there long enough that hunger had to have weakened her, and she was obviously injured. Moreover, she was not inventive; when she found a trap or trick that worked, she kept using it. Waiting for that, Azeroth was not surprised when he came upon a hallway with two open doors. Advancing slowly, sword at the ready, he drew a deep breath and smelled her odor coming from both doors…but her soup only from one.

Vandak had told him of this, her gift for hiding the scent of her soup—Force camouflage, Vandak had called it. Yet another sign of his corruption by the offworlders and their Sith ideals, Azeroth reflected, but the truth of it was real enough. Rassan had said the same thing all the times he had spied the ferals roaring in rage over a piece of fabric that somehow smelled of Alecto's soup. She could only have misled them by veiling herself; where her odor was alone, there she would be.

Azeroth smiled to himself, then ripped open the door and plunged his sword in, impaling both of Darth Alecto's empty boots.

He whirled as the door behind him blew open, but then she was on his back, grabbing his hair with one hand and laying her vibroblade across his throat. He had no arteries for her to cut to bleed him out, but it would hardly be pleasant; he had to distract her and take her down before she did any damage. He tensed, every muscle coiled. "Clever."

"I learn."

"So I see."

"No," she whispered in his ear, "Not anymore."

And she raised the knife to his face.

Azeroth screamed as the metal bit through his eyes, releasing the sword in agony and reaching up to cup his face. Blood and a substance like jelly ran through his fingers. He flailed at Alecto, but she released him and hobbled back out of range; he heard her unbalanced steps and lunged at her, but an invisible blow struck him to the ground. He shrieked, pawing the air, sucking in deep breaths as he tried to find her, blundering through the darkness.

The scent of her luck filled his nose, taunting him, tormenting him as he lurched blindly after her. It was rich and powerful, a heady rush of soup so intense that a moan escaped him amidst his wails. He walked into a corner, and her cold laughter mocked him; he lunged at her to punish her for it, and he crashed against a stone she had put in his path.

He had dropped to his hands and knees like an animal, crawling after her and shouting curses, when he heard other steps, likely too quiet for her to perceive…called by his screams to bear witness to this catastrophe. There were gasps and hisses, and Azeroth tried to stand, refusing to be shamed before them, but that invisible Force drove him back down.

"Azeroth…" Katrijan breathed.

"—saw that I had succeeded and tried to kill me for it," the woman said. "Is that the Brotherhood's honor?"

"We knew nothing of this," Nevya insisted.

"Kill her!" Azeroth ordered. "Kill the witch!"

He did not hear them moving to obey, and Alecto spoke. "You laid a challenge before me and I accepted it. I've passed through the Abattoir and seen its Heart."

Azeroth's gut twisted as he knew she had; there was that same rigid, oddly fractured tone in her voice with which Vandak had spoken when he passed through that door so many years before.

"The Heart of the Abattoir let me pass, but that wasn't good enough for Azeroth," Alecto said. "He saw fit to give me another trial; look on him and see what becomes of those who test me too far. What of the rest of you?  Will you be led by a blind shepherd, or will you serve me?"

"Kill her!" Azeroth commanded again, turning his mutilated eyes toward the Anzati. "She's weak and wounded, she's no match for you all! Kill the alien and preserve the Brotherhood!"

Azeroth listened for the scuffle of running feet, the whisper of steel on sheath, the hiss of an Anzat's attack. Alecto did not answer his command, but the silence weighed more heavily on him. Then he heard a sound, and hissed himself.

Fabric rustling as it bent, boots scraping as they repositioned. The gentle impact of fabric on stone—of beings on their knees.

"I will serve you, Darth Alecto," old Qritzel pledged.

"And I, master," Nevya added.

Others called their endorsements.

"And you?" Alecto asked of someone. "I remain an alien, but I've seen the Heart."

"So you have," Katrijan conceded. "I…the Abattoir chooses as it chooses, and it will not be I who defies it."

"The feast, Katrijan!" Azeroth begged. "The whole galaxy a banquet for us!"

"A feast I fear you will not see, old friend."

The shuffle of those knees touching the stone would torment Azeroth the rest of his days.

"Then rise and serve, my brethren," Alecto commanded; the word was a slap in Azeroth's face. "Oh, and bring that along."

Hands seized him; Azeroth struggled against their grip, but there were too many, too strong, and he could not see to strike them. "Unhand me! She's bewitched you, all of you!  We should be masters of our own destiny!  The Sith will enslave us to make puppets of us!"

"Oh, I think your use to the Sith has run out," Alecto cooed.

He felt them dragging him up, up, up through the temple as he reeled blindly and tried to determine where they were taking him, tried to cajole or threaten the others out of their madness. They did not respond, and eventually Azeroth smelled new soup faintly through armor. "Hello Zeff."

"Lady Alecto! You survived!"

"Your confidence flatters me."

"What's…what about him?"

"He was just as surprised, but more disappointed. I think we're ready to be rid of Azeroth." Azeroth heard the boy unclip a lightsaber from his belt, heard it whistle through the air. "Thank you, but I have a better tool for this."

At some gesture Azeroth couldn't see, his comrades forced him to his knees, holding his arms out. He smelled Alecto coming closer and bared his teeth. "Kill me then, witch."

"We've both delved deep in the Abattoir, Azeroth—though you not as deep as me," she taunted. "We both know that death is a mercy, but you know what? I'm not feeling merciful."

She caressed his cheek; he tried to bite her until one of the despicable traitors got him in a headlock to hold him still. She leaned down so she could whisper gently, "What was it you called Vandak after you abandoned him, Azeroth—'disgraced and ruined'?"

And then he knew what she intended.

"NO!" He struggled, but he could not move. Her hands brushed his cheeks with a lover's tenderness as he screamed, her fingers gently brushing the flaps of skin aside, her fingertip coiling around one of his proboscises and drawing it out like a worm from the ground. Azeroth screamed in horror, begged his brethren for help, but felt nothing but the proboscis snugging tight and the first twinge of her vibroblade flat to his cheek.

And she cut the best parts of him away, one and then the other.

The rest was a blur as they stripped off his fine clothes; he hardly felt his bare feet dragging across the floor. He would never taste soup again. He would never hold his prey in his arms, unable to escape, and take them as he desired. Disgraced and ruined…the words descended on his mind, vultures circling as his sanity took its last staggering steps.

A door opened and Azeroth was flung free from the restraining arms at last, too late. He rolled down a slope, sharp rocks lancing his flesh, muck and slime coating him to hide his deformity from the sight of whole beings. He came to a rest at the base of the hill and wept tears of blood. When he heard a scree-krawk, he froze, then laughed. And he laughed. And he laughed and laughed and rose to his feet in the Abattoir, for he knew It was coming for him.