Fate of the Jedi: Backlash (41 page)

The first Sith who had descended threw back her hood. A dark-haired woman, she carried a lightsaber at her belt like a Jedi. She, too, pitched her voice as a herald would. “I greet the Nightsisters in turn. Allow me to present our mission commander, Lord Gaalan.”

The second figure reached up to throw back a concealing hood.
This Sith was exotic—lean, taller than Dresdema and broader of shoulder, beautiful of feature, with a skin that, in the light pouring from the shuttle hatch and out of the cockpit viewports, seemed lavender in color.

And he was unmistakably male.

Dresdema froze. This was a joke in very bad taste … or betrayal.

Nightsisters never went wrong betting on betrayal. Dresdema glanced down her line of sisters and rancors and opened her mouth to cry out an order. Only then did she notice that there were figures a dozen paces behind her line. She spared them a quick look.

Six men and women, dark-robed like those by the shuttles, unlit lightsabers in their hands, stood waiting. They had placed themselves behind the Nightsisters with such finesse that no one had noticed their arrival.

Dresdema issued her command: “Attack! Enemies ahead and to the rear!”

Well trained and experienced, her Nightsisters brought up weapons and began weaving attack spells. About half of them turned to confront the enemies to the rear. A moment later the rancors they controlled began to turn, too.

Dresdema turned back toward the shuttles, dropping her spear, her hands weaving a spell of flame that she intended for the
man
who dared try to trick her.

But the woman beside the lavender-skinned leader pointed at Dresdema and snapped her fingers almost casually. A glowing, twisting, crackling arc of purple-blue erupted from her hand and slammed into Dresdema’s chest.

She felt her body convulse, felt and saw her hair stand on end. It was lightning, far more concentrated than that which the Nightsisters knew how to hurl.

Dresdema jerked and spasmed, her body racked with pain. It did not deprive her of her senses, but she could not weave her spell, could not pick up her spear. She stumbled, fell to one knee.

She saw the lavender-skinned man go airborne as if hurled by a giant. He flew toward the rancor to Dresdema’s right. The lightsaber now in his hand glowed into red light. The rancor reached for him but missed and the Sith man passed beside its head on the far side, bouncing
off its shoulder, flipping to a preternaturally graceful landing behind the rancor.

The rancor’s head lolled toward Dresdema … then separated completely from its neck and fell free. The rancor’s body collapsed backward, the cauterized stump of its neck coming to ground a mere meter behind the man who had slain it. Its head bounced from the turf, rolled, and came to rest against Dresdema’s body. The smell of scorched flesh rose to her nostrils.

“No …” Dresdema forced the word out. She managed to get her shaking hands on her spear, then looked up just in time to see her lightning-wielding attacker stand directly before her. The Sith woman struck without weapons, her kick sending Dresdema’s spear into the air. The woman caught it, twirled it. Its butt cracked against the side of Dresdema’s head. Dresdema toppled, the world spinning around her.

Even then she was not unconscious. She saw, the edges of her vision blurring, the dismantling of her tribe.

Wherever a Witch commenced a spell, Sith lightning or an unarmed blow from one of the dark-robed strangers interrupted its weaving. The Nightsisters who charged forward with weapons saw lightsabers brought to life, and those energy blades cleaved the ancient tribal weapons into useless junk. Blows of hands and feet, knees and elbows put the Nightsisters on the ground in a matter of moments.

And those were the merciful attacks. No mercy was shown to the rancors. Sith leapt past the beasts, glowing blades flashing, severing lower leg or hand or neck. Few of the rancors even had time to roar. Most made noise only as their huge, awkward bodies slammed into the ground, never to rise again.

In moments it was done. The Sith moved impassively among their more numerous foes, flicking smaller bolts of lightning into the Nightsisters to keep them pained, inert, and helpless, then began attaching metal shackles to their hands and feet.

The lavender-skinned leader stood over Dresdema. He studied her and offered her a gentle smile that was somehow not reassuring. “Welcome to school.”

Hurt and dizzy as she was, she still managed to find her voice. “I curse you and all your—”

Lightning flashed from the hand of the woman who’d emerged with Lord Gaalan. It crackled against Dresdema’s temple and she knew no more.

By the time Vestara Khai reached the edge of the meadow, only one shuttle remained—one shuttle, two Sith, and eighteen rancor bodies visible.

Vestara set Halliava down at the forest’s edge and, relieved of that burden, hurried forward. Even at this distance, even in the uncertain moonlight, she could recognize Lord Gaalan, whom she did not know well but at least knew by sight. She saw him note her arrival, though he did not nod or otherwise acknowledge her at first.

Of course he did not. He was a Sith Lord.

As she neared him, she was struck by his physical beauty, by the perfection of form and feature that was so common among high-ranking Sith, a perfection she would never share. She put that thought away. Perfection was not her goal this night; survival and profit were her objectives. She saluted the Sith Lord and awaited his pleasure.

“Vestara Khai. You have not told us the truth.”

His words chilled her. Any failure could cause punishment, even fatal punishment, from a Lord, and being caught in a lie was among the most dangerous forms of failure. But she tried to keep her voice calm. “My lord?”

“There is one fewer savage here than you indicated.”

“Ah. Yes. The last one is at the forest verge.”

“Very well, then. And you know you smell very bad.”

It took her a moment to realize that, though stone-faced, as severe of manner as Sith Lords and Ladies usually were with apprentices, Lord Gaalan was joking with her.

She hesitated, then offered a slight smile acknowledging his humor. “Yes, my lord. Protective coloration among the natives. I long for a good cleansing.”

“Shall I send someone to fetch the last captive?”

Another test. If she said yes, she would be showing weakness—not only that, but probably causing a Sith outranking her to perform her
chores, earning that individual’s enmity. “No, my lord. I will fetch her directly.”

“First, the data.” He extended his hand.

She placed her data tablet into it. “All the navigational records of the dilapidated conveyance that brought me here. It will guide you from one approach into the Maw to the station where the dark power waits.”

“Not I, sadly. I am to conduct this cargo of savages back home. But I will see to it that the data reaches the correct hands. Now fetch your captive.”

Much as Vestara wanted to know who those
correct hands
belonged to—who else was part of this Tribe expedition, if there were any friendly faces to be found here—she knew far better than to ask. One did not show weakness or vulnerability, not ever, unless it was to lull someone into a false sense of superiority. She would find out eventually. Even so, it was enough to be among her own kind again. She saluted once more and turned back toward Halliava.

“Oh, Apprentice?”

She froze, then spun back toward Lord Gaalan. “Sir?”

“Well done.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She nodded, then returned to her task.

She did not allow the elation she felt to show on her face. Praise from a Lord. It was rare and it was meaningful.

When she reached the edge of the forest, she found that Halliava, though still securely bound, had wriggled her way, worm-like, several dozen meters back into the forest. “No, no, you mustn’t do that. You’ll end up in the belly of a pack of lizards for sure.” Vestara hauled Halliava upright and picked her up rescuer-style once more. “And now you’ve got even more dirt and leaves on you.” Jauntily, she walked back toward the meadow.

As she reached the edge once more, she was surprised to see the two Sabers who had been inside the last shuttle, one man and one woman, both human, emerge through the hatch with their unlit lightsabers. Lord Gaalan and his female aide now stood side by side, weapons in hand, staring to the southwest, well to the left of Vestara’s position.

From a depression in the rolling ground of the meadow there leapt Luke, Ben, and Dyon.

Vestara froze. This was not good.

Should she return to the shuttle to help? The Sith might not need it—
would
not need it, certainly. And if any of the three newcomers escaped alive, her role in the capture of the Nightsisters, and the deception she had practiced on the Raining Leaves and Broken Columns, would be revealed. Yet that deception was at an end; her self-appointed task here was complete. Still, it was hard just to abandon the fabric of half-truths and relationships she had so painstakingly built.

And all of her considerations meant nothing if the Skywalkers had seen her walking from Lord Gaalan’s presence to the forest.

Absently, she shrugged Halliava off her shoulders. The woman fell to the ground, hitting hard and grunting in pain.

In her moments of indecision, the Jedi and Sith moved.

The Sith leader’s voice was cultured, surprisingly pleasant. “You are Grand Master Luke Skywalker.”

Luke nodded. “My son, Ben. Our friend Dyon Stadd.”

“I am Lord Viun Gaalan, the last man you will ever meet. Much admiration will be accorded me for killing Luke Skywalker. Especially by the family of Lady Rhea, whom you slew.”

Luke shook his head. “No, you aren’t, and no, it won’t.” Lord Gaalan ignited his lightsaber; the clover-like growth on the meadow glowed red in its light. The other three Sith and the Jedi ignited theirs a split second afterward. Dyon drew his twin blaster pistols.

Luke and Gaalan hurtled together, green lightsaber blade crashing on red, a blow that would have thrown any two lesser Force-users back half a dozen meters, but the two of them were unmoved. The female Sith beside Gaalan struck at Luke, but he merely adjusted the angle of his blade against Gaalan’s to catch her attack. Luke kicked, forcing the woman back; she fell, rolling into a backward somersault and coming up on her feet.

Ben hurtled toward the other Sith male. Luke, in his peripheral vision, saw his son stop short and reverse direction. The Sith man, lunging
toward him, slipped off-balance, and his lightsaber flew from his hand.

Blasterfire flashed from Dyon at the disarmed Sith. The Sith man caught the first bolt with his open hand, but, still off-balance, could not catch the second. It seared into his knee. The third took him in the shoulder; the fourth, in the throat.

The second Sith female leapt toward Dyon. He retreated, an expert dodge that caused her to miss his left arm with her lightsaber; the blow cleaved through his left-hand blaster instead.

The woman who’d supported Gaalan now ran at Ben.

Gaalan struck at Luke, high, low, a series of subtle and sophisticated blows that would have bewildered any lesser duelist. He was good; Luke gave him that. He might have been a match for an expert swordsmaster such as Kyp or Kyle Katarn. He would have been too much for a comparatively diffident duelist such as Cilghal, or even Luke as he had been back at Sinkhole Station, at low ebb in physical and mental strength.

But Luke, despite recent exertions, had had time to recover. He parried each of Gaalan’s blows, and his ripostes—his blade skittering off Gaalan’s and thrusting now at the Sith Lord’s face, now at shoulder or knee or torso—came increasingly close to touching flesh.

Luke smiled at the man.

V
ESTARA TOOK HER LIGHTSABER IN HAND AND RAN, HER SPEED BOOSTED
by the Force.

One Sith Saber was down, dead. This still should have been a lopsided match, Gaalan matching Luke, the first female Saber matching Ben, the second Saber overmatching Dyon and almost killing the Jedi washout instantly.

But Dyon was proving hard to kill. He bobbed and weaved, back-flipped and somersaulted, keeping just above or below the Saber’s blows, firing at his foe in the midst of his acrobatic maneuvers. His blaster shots went wild or were caught on the woman’s lightsaber blade, but they had to be reckoned with, countered.

He dived for the dead Saber’s lightsaber, the hand that had held his now severed blaster empty, reaching for the weapon. He hit the ground, rolled—and came up with nothing in his clenched fist, having missed the lightsaber hilt.

He looked stricken. The female Saber advancing on him smiled.

Dyon backflipped away from her, his free arm flailing in the air—

No, his clenched fist was
not
empty. It opened as he flailed and the handful of clover and dirt he held flew, spattering into the face of Ben’s opponent. She staggered back, taken momentarily by surprise.

Ben cut her in half at the waist. Dyon landed, no longer looking stricken.

Vestara grimaced. That was Firen’s ploy, used only semi-successfully in her last bout with Luke. Now it had changed the odds as intended, tilting them against the Sith.