Abattoir/Part 11

Azeroth sat in his second's chair at the Table of Brotherhood, one leg hanging over the arm closer to Vandak's forfeited throne, the opposite hand brushing the hilt of one of his long knives, laid on the table with points toward the heart. He had dimmed the lighting not to put his brethren off guard—an Anzat would never be disquieted by so paltry an inconvenience—but merely because he found it pleasant himself. He heard their faint steps before they entered side-by-side: Katrijan, upon whom he thought he could rely, and Qritzel, whose fidelity was…more suspect.

"Don't trouble yourselves," he said as they bowed and made for their chairs; instead, Azeroth got to his own feet. He led the Brotherhood now, but he did not need to degrade them with constant reminders of it. "I don't intend to detain you long."

"Have we had news of the alien?" Katrijan asked.

"She has not yet returned to us," Azeroth remarked, his tone giving away nothing while the words themselves seemed to register. "Undoubtedly you will need a moment to compose yourselves after the intensity of such a shock."

Katrijan smirked, but Qritzel didn't. "Even for those who succeed, the process isn't always swift," he cautioned. "Without confirmation of her death, I'd hesitate to discredit her."

Azeroth shrugged. "You've seen more years than any of us, elder brother. Have you ever known an Anzat but Vandak to be found worthy before the Heart of the Abattoir?"

"No," Qritzel admitted, rubbing the white goatee on his chin. "But Darth Alecto is not an Anzat, and she is a Sith Lord, as Vandak was."

"Not an Anzat, and yet roaming the Abattoir as if she deserves to be there…" Katrijan muttered.

"If the Sith are ever to respect us—to see us as more than mere tools for their own schemes—they must be made to understand what we're capable of," Azeroth replied. "Vandak told me of Darth Alecto—a mere child, yes, and arrogant, but she is not without some competence, and she has merited the notice of Darth Saleej and his Human general. When she falls here, the Sith will know that we can be 'taken in hand' as much as fire."

"And if she doesn't fall?" Qritzel asked with a frown.

Azeroth smiled for him, clapping the older Anzat on the shoulder. "You worry too much, elder brother. Whatever gifts the witch may have, she isn't Vandak."

"I don't worry at all," Qritzel corrected. In raising a hand to rub his goatee again, he shifted just enough that Azeroth's hand slipped off his arm. "Do you?"

"I?" Azeroth kept his pleasant smile, but his eyes hardened.

"You know our customs, Azeroth. Should she pass through the Heart of the Abattoir, then the Brotherhood will be hers to command, not yours.  And you have given her no choice but total victory or death.  Given the choice, we know which a Sith Lord will choose."

"I am not ignorant of the Brotherhood's tradition."

"Knowledge and acceptance are not the same. Can you truly kneel to an alien?"

"Can you?" Katrijan interjected.

Qritzel shrugged. "As Azeroth says, no being but Vandak has done this thing as long as I've lived—and I have lived much longer than you, brother. If Darth Alecto can…"

"She isn't an Anzat."

"And she never will be. That does not mean she isn't a predator—that she doesn't share our spirit.  The Abattoir will never accept anything less.  And besides, imagine it—a master of the Brotherhood who does not claim the most select of prizes as her own, for she has no need for their soup as we do, only their lives."

Was there a rebuke in there? Azeroth had moved carefully since Vandak's death, claiming his due but not a lord's portion of their prey. Tensions were high with so many of their brethren returned to the Temple at once; even with their surreptitious trips to the spaceport, hunger was sharpening tempers.

"Speaking of soup," he said before Katrijan could argue further, "I think I'll visit the pantry. Will you join me, brothers?"

"Gladly," Katrijan answered, but Qritzel shook his head.

"Thank you, but no. I'm not so old yet that I can't hunt my own prey."

Azeroth played it off with a laugh. "As if such prey are worth the effort."

Qritzel nodded in agreement, but bowed and departed without further word. Azeroth sheathed his long knives and set off with Katrijan.

When they were deep within the fortress, Katrijan asked, "Is there word of Rassan?"

"There isn't," Azeroth said. "I suspect Alecto has killed him."

"And moved on through the Abattoir?"

"Perhaps. He intended to wait until she was weakened, but desperation and haste make ruin of good plans.  She may be wandering through the second level still.  Our degenerate cousins may have seen to her already."

"And if they haven't? An alien, Azeroth…"

"Disgrace, yes, I know. But the Sith must be sent a message."

"But the risk if she prevails…it would shame me to serve such a creature, Azeroth."

Azeroth took his time in replying, keeping his voice carefully uninterested. "And our brethren? Do they share your…reservations?"

"Some," Katrijan said, then grimaced. "Others…they profited from service to the Sith under Vandak. They imagine they can replace one lord with another and the feast will continue uninterrupted."

"Feast," Azeroth scoffed. "A handful of vagrants and imbeciles with soup as thin as broth. Perhaps a Padawan or an adept when our lamented lord was feeling generous.  Meanwhile, we killed at his command and became little more than adepts ourselves, and just as protected under Sith law."

"Vandak's protection was not meaningless," Katrijan noted, holding the door into the pantry for him.

"Nor was it what we deserved. We are Anzati, the Brotherhood of Shadows, who swam the Sea of Memory when the Republic was young and the Sith just a backward races of primitives on Korriban.  We should be feared, Katrijan.  The Sith should desire protection from us."

Azeroth walked past the rows of humanoids, hung by their ankles and nourished with nutrient feeds. Selecting a hale Bothan, he pulled the man up to his own face by the air and extended his proboscises.

"No…" the Bothan whispered, jerking ineffectually against his restraints. "Just kill me!"

"Waste not," Azeroth replied. The Bothan jerked and twitched, moaning and coughing as Azeroth inserted himself through the nose, but the Anzat paid him no mind. Snot had pooled in the Bothan's nose as he hung upside-down, and Azeroth had to force his proboscises through before they could tap that sweet, succulent river and drink of the future, all the Bothan's possible futures, triumphs and tragedies, joys and sorrows, all his many days dwindling down to one day, one moment, just now. And then he was gone.

Azeroth sighed, letting the corpse go and retracting his tendrils; sated without being satisfied, as ever. But soon it would change.

Katrijan, pulling down the Omwati he had consumed one-handed, shook his head and commiserated, "Bland. An insignificant morsel with an insignificant future."

"When Darth Alecto dies, you may have her lackey," Azeroth offered, and Katrijan bowed gratefully. It was a paltry gift, but well spent. "He behaves since our conversation?"

"Nevya and some of the others are keeping him distracted." Katrijan made a face. "I hope their interest is merely hunger…"

"Let them toy with the Ubese as they wish. When we seek our own fate among the stars—when Sith and Jedi alike are on the menu—then you may have your fill, old friend."

"I should like to taste that banquet."

"And you will. As soon as Darth Alecto dies."