Star Wars: Path of Destruction: A Novel of the Old Republic (17 page)

“I must speak with you in private, Lord Kaan.”

“You may speak here,” Kaan assured him. “What we say will not leave this ship.” The bridge crew of Nightfall had been handpicked by Kaan himself. All had sworn an oath to serve with absolute loyalty; they knew the harsh consequences should they break that oath.

Kopecz glanced suspiciously around the bridge, but the crew were all focused on their stations. None of them seemed even to notice him. “We’ve lost Ruusan,” he said, whispering despite Kaan’s assurances. “The base set up on the surface, the orbiting fleet … all of it wiped out!”

For a moment Kaan didn’t speak. When he did his voice had dropped to the same level as Kopecz’s. “How did this happen? We have spies throughout the Republic military. All their fleets have fallen back to the Core. All of them! They couldn’t possibly have mustered enough strength to take back Ruusan. Not without us knowing!”

“It wasn’t the Republic,” Kopecz replied. “It was the Jedi. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Jedi Masters, Jedi Knights, Jedi Padawans: an entire army of Jedi.”

Kopecz cursed loudly. None of the crew so much as glanced in his direction, a testament to their training and their fear of their commander.

“Lord Hoth realized that the strength of the Jedi order was spread too thin trying to defend the Republic,” Kopecz continued. “He’s gathered them all into a single host with only one goal: destroy the users of the dark side. They don’t care about our soldiers and fleets anymore. All they want to do is wipe us out: the apprentices, the acolytes, the Sith Masters … and especially the Dark Lords. Lord Hoth himself is leading them,” the Twi’lek added, though Kaan had already guessed this for himself. “They call themselves the Army of Light.”

Kopecz paused to let the news sink in. Kaan took several deep breaths, silently reciting the Code of the Sith to bring his whirling thoughts back into focus.

And then he laughed. “An Army of Light to oppose the Brotherhood of Darkness.”

Kopecz stared at him with a bewildered expression.

“Hoth knows the Jedi aren’t capable of defeating our vast armies,” Kaan explained. “Not anymore. The Republic is doomed. So now he concentrates exclusively on us: the leaders of those armies. Cut off the head and the body will die.”

“We should send our fleet to Ruusan,” Kopecz suggested. “All of them. Crush the Jedi in one fell swoop and wipe them from the galaxy forever.”

Kaan shook his head. “That’s exactly what Hoth wants us to do. Divert our armies from the Republic, draw them away from Coruscant. Give up all the ground we have gained in a foolish and pointless attack on the Jedi.”

“Pointless?”

“You say he has an army of Jedi: thousands of them. What chance does a fleet of mere soldiers have against such an enemy? Ships and weapons are no match for the power of the Force. Hoth knows this.”

Finally Kopecz nodded in understanding. “You always said this war would not be decided by military might.”

“Precisely. In the end the Republic is merely an afterthought. Only through the complete annihilation of the Jedi order can we achieve true victory. And Hoth has been kind enough to gather them all in one place for us.”

“But the Brotherhood is no match for the massed strength of the entire Jedi order,” Kopecz protested. “There are too many of them and not enough of us.”

“Our numbers are greater than you think,” Kaan said. “We have academies scattered throughout the galaxy. We can swell our numbers with Marauders from Honoghr and Gentes. We can gather all the assassins trained at Umbara. We will command the students at Dathomir, Iridonia, and all the rest of the academies to join the ranks of the Brotherhood of Darkness. We will assemble our own army of Sith-one capable of destroying Hoth and his Army of Light!”

“And what of the Academy on Korriban?” Kopecz asked.

“They will join the Brotherhood, but only after they have completed their training under Qordis.”

“We could use them against the Jedi,” Kopecz pressed. “Korriban is home to the strongest of our apprentices.”

“That is precisely why it is too dangerous to bring them into this conflict,” Kaan explained. “With strength come ambition and rivalry. In the heat of battle their emotions will take over their minds; they will turn against each other. They will divide our ranks with infighting while the Jedi remain united.” He paused. “It has happened to the Sith too many times in the past; I will not allow it to happen again. They will stay with Qordis and complete their training. He will teach them discipline and loyalty to the Brotherhood. Only then will they join us on the field of battle.”

“Is that what you believe,” Kopecz asked, “or what Qordis has been telling you?”

“Don’t let your mistrust of Qordis blind you to what we are trying to accomplish,” Kaan chided. “His pupils are the future of the Brotherhood. The future of the Sith. I will not expose them to this war until they are ready.” His tone clearly brooked no further argument. “The apprentices at Korriban will join the Brotherhood in due time. But that time is not now.”

“Well, it better be soon,” Kopecz muttered, only partially mollified. “I don’t think we can beat Hoth without them.”

Kaan reached out and grasped the Twi’lek’s meaty shoulder in a firm grip. “Never fear, my friend,” he said with a smile. “The Jedi will be no match for us. We will slaughter them at Ruusan and wipe them from the face of the galaxy. The apprentices may be the future of the Brotherhood, but the present belongs to us!”

Much to Kaan’s relief, Kopecz returned his smile. The leader of the Brotherhood would have been less pleased if he had known that much of the Twi’lek’s satisfaction came from the knowledge that Qordis would miss out on the glory of the coming victory.

Lord Kas’im entered the opulently decorated chamber and gave a nod in the direction of his fellow Master. “You wanted to see me?”

“News from the front,” Qordis said, rising slowly from his meditation mat. “The Jedi have massed together under a single banner on Ruusan. General Hoth is leading them. Lord Kaan has gathered his own army. Even now they are headed there to engage the Jedi.”

“Are we going to join them?” Kas’im asked, his voice eager, his lekku twitching at the thought of pitting his skills against the greatest warriors of the Jedi order.

Qordis shook his head. “Not us. None of the Masters. And none of the students, unless you feel one of the apprentices is ready.”

“No,” Kas’im replied after a moment’s consideration. “Sirak, perhaps. He is strong enough. But his pride is too great, and he still has much to learn.”

“What about Bane? He showed great promise in disposing of Fohargh.”

Kas’im shrugged. “That was a month ago. Since then he has made almost no progress. Something is holding him back. Fear, I think.”

“Fear? Of the other students? Of Sirak?”

“No. Nothing like that. He’s finally seen what he is truly capable of; he’s seen the full power of the dark side. I think he’s afraid to face it.”

“Then he is of no further use to us,” Qordis stated flatly. “Focus on the other students. Don’t waste your time on him.”

The Blademaster was momentarily taken aback. He was surprised that Qordis would be so quick to give up on a student with such undeniable potential.

“I think he just needs more time,” he suggested. “Most of our apprentices have been studying the ways of the Sith for many years. Ever since they were children. Bane didn’t begin his training with us until he was a full-grown adult.”

“I’m well aware of the circumstances surrounding his arrival at this Academy!” Qordis snapped, and Kas’im suddenly realized what was really going on. Bane had been brought to Korriban by Lord Kopecz, and there was precious little love lost between Kopecz and the leader of the Academy. Bane’s failure would ultimately become a poor reflection on Qordis’s most bitter rival.

“The next time Bane approaches you, turn him away,” the Dark Lord told him, his tone leaving no doubt that his words were a command and not a request. “Make sure all the Masters understand that he is no longer worthy of our teachings.”

Kas’im nodded his understanding. He would do as ordered. It wasn’t fair to Bane, of course. But nobody ever claimed the Sith were fair.

Bane knew he had to do something. His situation was becoming desperate. He was still floundering, unable to call upon the power he had used to destroy Fohargh. But now his weakness had become public.

Yesterday during the evening training session he had approached Kas’im to arrange a time for more one-on-one practice, hoping to break free of the lethargy that gripped him. But the Blademaster had refused him, shaking his head and turning his attention to one of the other students. The message was clear to everyone: Bane was vulnerable.

As the students gathered in a circle on the top of the temple after the morning drills, Bane knew what had to be done. His reputation had protected him from the challenges of the other students. Now that reputation was gone. But he couldn’t sit back passively, waiting for one of the other students to challenge him and take him down. He had to seize the initiative; he had to go on the attack. Today he had to be the first one to step into the ring.

Of course, if he challenged one of the lesser students, everyone would see it as confirmation of the weakness he was trying to hide. There was only one way he could redeem himself in the eyes of the school and the Masters; there was only one opponent he could call out.

Several of the apprentices were still milling about, trying to find a place where they would be able to clearly observe the morning’s action. It was customary to wait until everyone was in place before issuing a challenge, but Bane knew that the longer he waited, the harder his task would be. He stepped boldly into the center of the circle, drawing curious stares from the other students. Kas’im fixed him with a disapproving gaze, but he tried to put it out of his mind.

“I have a challenge,” he proclaimed. “I call out Sirak.”

There was an excited buzz among the students, but Bane could barely hear it above the pounding of his own heart. Sirak rarely fought in actual combat; Bane had never even seen him in action. But he’d heard other students talk of Sirak’s prowess in the dueling ring, telling wild tales of his unbeatable skills. Ever since the Zabrak had approached him on the stairs, Bane had watched his opponent during training sessions in preparation for this confrontation. And from what he’d seen, the seemingly exaggerated accounts of his prowess were all too accurate.

Unlike most of the students, Sirak preferred the double-bladed training saber to the more traditional single blade. Apart from Kas’im himself, Sirak was the only one Bane had ever seen wield the exotic weapon with any signs of skill. His technique seemed almost perfect to Bane’s inexpert eye. He always seemed in complete control; he was always on the attack. Even in simple drills his superiority over his opponents was obvious. Where most students took two to three weeks to learn a new sequence, Sirak was able to master one in a matter of days. And now Bane was about to face him in the dueling ring.

The Zabrak stepped out from the crowd, moving slowly but gracefully as he responded to the challenge. Even walking to the center of the ring he exuded an air of menace. He casually flourished his weapon as he approached, the twin durasteel blades carving long, languid arcs through the air.

Bane watched him come, feeling his heart and breathing quicken as his body released adrenaline into his system, instinctively readying itself for the coming battle. In contrast with his physical body, however, Bane felt no significant change in his emotional state. He had expected to feel a surge of fear and anger as Sirak approached, emotions he could feed off to rip through the lifeless veil and unleash the dark side. But the lethargic stupor still enveloped him like a dull, gray shroud.

“I wish you had challenged me earlier,” Sirak whispered, his voice just loud enough for Bane to hear. “In the first week after Fohargh’s death many thought you were my equal. I would have gained great prestige in defeating you. That is no longer the case.”

Sirak had stopped his advance and was standing several meters away. His double-bladed training saber still danced slowly through the air. It moved as if it were alive, a creature anticipating the hunt, too excited to remain motionless.

“There will be little glory in defeating you now,” he repeated. “But I will take great pleasure in your suffering.”

Behind Sirak, Bane saw Llokay and Yevra, the other Zabrak apprentices, push their way to the front of the crowd to get a better view of their champion. The brother wore a cruel grin; the sister, an expression of hungry anticipation. Bane did his best to tune out the eagerness on their red faces, letting them blend into the unimportant background scenery of the spectators.

All his concentration was focused on the fluid movements of the unfamiliar weapon in Sirak’s hands. He had tried to memorize the sequences Sirak worked on during the drills. Now he was looking for clues that would tip his opponent’s hand-that might reveal which sequence he planned to use to begin the battle. If Bane guessed right, he could counterattack and possibly end the battle in the first pass. It was his best chance at victory, but without being able to draw on the Force, his odds of correctly guessing which sequence his foe would choose were very, very slim.

Sirak raised the double-bladed saber up above his head, spinning it so fast it was nothing but a blur, then lunged forward. One end came down in a savage overhead strike that Bane easily parried. But the move was only a feint, setting up a slashing attack at the waist from the opposite blade. Recognizing the maneuver at the last second, Bane could do nothing more than throw himself into a backward roll, narrowly escaping injury.

His foe was on him even before he got to his feet, the twin blades slicing down in an alternating rhythm of attacks: left-right-left-right. Bane blocked, rolled, twisted, and blocked again, turning back the flurry. He tried a leg-sweep, but Sirak anticipated the move and nimbly leapt clear, giving Bane just enough time to scramble to his feet.

The next round of attacks kept Bane in full retreat, but he was able to prevent Sirak from gaining an advantage by giving ground and reverting to basic defensive sequences. He was still desperately trying to gain some advantage by watching his opponent’s moves. At one moment Sirak seemed to be using the jabs and thrusts of Vaapad, the most aggressive and direct of the seven traditional forms. But in the middle of a sequence he would suddenly shift to the power attacks of Djem So, generating such force that even a blocked strike caused Bane to stagger back. A quick turn or rotation of the weapon and one of the twin blades was suddenly swinging in again at an awkward angle, causing Bane to reel off balance as he knocked it aside.