The Chronicles of Riddick by Alan Dean Foster Page A

bounties and personal revenge.”
    “I make my own definition of what’s trivial, thanks. And I’ll take the blade off when the bounty comes off.”
    “I see that additional explanation is in order,” she told him.
    “I’d say long overdue,” he growled softly.
    She smiled—just before pirouetting away from him, and vanishing. The knife moved, but too late.
    “There are very few of us who have met a Necromonger noble and lived unconverted to speak of it. So when I choose to speak of it, you should choose to listen.”
    “‘Necromonger,’” he murmured thoughtfully. He listened—but he did not put away the knife.
    “Be familiar with it,” she told him forcefully. “It is the name that will convert or kill every last human life—unless the universe can rebalance itself.” In response to his questioning stare she added, “Balance is everything to Elementals. Water to fire, earth to air. We have thirty-three different words for this balance, but today, here, now, we have time to speak only of the Balance of Opposites.”
    Riddick was one of those rare individuals who was smart enough to know and recognize the extent of his ignorance. “Maybe you should pretend like you’re talkin’ to someone who’s been educated in the general penal system. Places where notions like ‘rehabilitation’ have too many syllables for the guards to pronounce. Fact, don’t pretend. I hear what you’re saying, but I ain’t following where you’re going with it.”
    “There is a story . . . ,” she began. Blade at the ready, arm extended, Riddick whirled repeatedly as he tried to track the voice. The three clerics had withdrawn to the comparative safety of a wall. Imam held his ground, watching Riddick as closely as the Elemental.
    She seemed to be everywhere on the veranda without alighting anywhere in particular. Wherever and whenever she materialized, it was well clear of the big man’s blade.
    Imam took up the tale. “A story, about young male Furyans who, feared for whatever reason, were strangled at birth. Strangled with their own umbilical cords. When Aereon told this story to the leaders of Helion—I told her of you.” The way he said it made it sound as if that was intended to explain everything.
    The big man’s brow furrowed. “Furyans?”
    Aereon felt confident enough to move a little closer. The clerics watched her movements in awe. Not Riddick. Always calculating, always thinking ahead of his opponent, he had little time to spare on awe.
    “The one race, we calculate, that may be able to slow the spread of the Necromongers.” She was eyeing him intently.
    It dawned on Riddick why he had been drawn to Helion. Out of touch and glad of it, he had clearly missed hearing about some kind of ominous ongoing conflict. They believed him to be some player in their local drama, some kind of hoodoo hero. He chuckled grimly. He had been called many things in his life, but never a hero. Yet there was no mistaking the intensity with which everyone on the veranda regarded him: clerics, host, and dodgy female visitor alike. Well, whatever. Far be it from him to disabuse the misguided of their consoling delusions.
    Sensing his indifference, Imam tried to shore up the Elemental’s somewhat distanced commentary. “What do you know of your early years, Riddick? Of your upbringing, your childhood? Of parents and playtimes? What else was told you besides—”
    Aereon interrupted impatiently. There was no time to waste, and she sensed that any attempt at nurturing this man would be just that. “Do you remember your home world? Its name, appearance, climate? Where it was?”
    “Have you met any others?” Imam pressed him with particular urgency.
    “Others like yourself?” the Elemental added.
    Many questions, meaningless in the context of his present existence. Why ask such things of him? He had always focused on tomorrow, with little thought for yesterday. What was past was done, dead as he would one day be. His sole