Star Wars, The Darth Bane Series: Path of Destruction, Rule of Two, Dynasty of Evil
Author: Drew Karpyshyn
Date: 2012-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Star Wars; Science Fiction; Fiction; Fantasy; Science Fiction Fantasy; Space Opera
Description: Set a thousand years before the events of Star Wars: A New Hope, Drew Karpyshyn’s electrifying Darth Bane novels take us deep into the dark side. This action-packed series follows the transformation of a lost young man who becomes a legendary Sith Lord, able to wield the awesome power of the Force as never before. Packed with nonstop thrills, the entire Darth Bane trilogy is now available as an eBook bundle featuring PATH OF DESTRUCTION RULE OF TWO DYNASTY OF EVIL After a high-stakes card game ends violently, Dessel, a lowly miner, vanishes into the ranks of the Sith army and ships out to join
Publisher: LucasBooks

Star Wars: Darth Bane: Path of Destruction, Star Wars: Darth Bane: Rule of Two, and Star Wars: Darth Bane: Dynasty of Evil are works of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Del Rey eBook Edition

Star Wars: Darth Bane: Path of Destruction copyright © 2006 by Lucasfilm Ltd.
Star Wars: Darth Bane: Rule of Two copyright © 2008 by Lucasfilm Ltd.
Star Wars: Darth Bane: Dynasty of Evil copyright © 2009 by Lucasfilm Ltd.

All Rights Reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Del Rey and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

The novels contained in this omnibus were each published separately by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 2006, 2008, and 2009.

Cover Design: Scott Biel
Cover Art: John Jude Palencar
eBook ISBN: 978-0-345-54119-2
www.starwars.com
www.delreybooks.com
www.facebook.com/starwarsbooks
v3.1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Darth Bane: Path of Destruction
Darth Bane: Rule of Two
Darth Bane: Dynasty of Evil

Star Wars: Darth Bane: Path of Destruction is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2006 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated. All Rights Reserved. Used Under Authorization.

Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 2006.

eISBN: 978-0-307-79582-3
www.starwars.com
www.delreybooks.com
v3.1

To Jen, who makes everything possible.

———

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This novel couldn’t have come together without the help of many people.

I’d like to thank my editors Shelly Shapiro and Sue Rostoni for giving me this chance and for sticking with me through all my rewrites and revisions. I shudder to think what I would have ended up with had it not been for their valuable comments and ideas.

Anyone who has read the Jedi vs. Sith series will see the creative debt I owe to Dark Horse Comics, but I’d also like to point out the contributions of my friends and coworkers at BioWare. Much of the groundwork and background material for this novel evolved out of our research and work together on KOTOR, especially Dave Gaider, Luke Kristjanson, Peter Thomas, and James Ohlen.

Thanks for everything, guys.

Drew

Contents

Master - Table of Contents

Darth Bane: Path of Destruction

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Part One - Three Years Later

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8

Part Two

Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20

Part Three

Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

In the last days of the Old Republic, the Sith—followers of the Force’s dark side and ancient enemies of the Jedi order—numbered only two: one Master and one apprentice. Yet it was not always so. A thousand years before the Republic’s collapse and Emperor Palpatine’s rise to power, the Sith were legion …

Lord Kaan, Sith Master and founder of the Brotherhood of Darkness, strode through the gore of the battlefield, a tall shadow in the night’s gloom. Thousands of Republic troops and nearly a hundred Jedi had given their lives trying to defend this world against his army—and they had lost. He relished their suffering and despair; even now he could sense it rising up like the stench from the broken corpses scattered about the valley.

In the distance a storm was brewing. As each flash of lightning illuminated the sky, Korriban’s great Sith temple was momentarily visible in the distance, a stark silhouette towering over the barren horizon.

A pair of figures waited in the center of the slaughter, one human and the other Twi’lek. He recognized them despite the darkness: Qordis and Kopecz, two of the more powerful Sith Lords. Once they had been bitter rivals, but now they served together in Kaan’s Brotherhood. He approached them quickly, smiling.

Qordis, tall and so lean as to appear almost skeletal, smiled back. “This is a great victory, Lord Kaan. It has been far too long since the Sith have had an academy on Korriban.”

“I sense you are eager to begin training the new apprentices here,” Kaan replied. “I expect you will provide me with many more powerful—and loyal—Sith adepts and Masters in the coming years.”

“Provide you?” Kopecz asked pointedly. “Don’t you mean provide us? Are we not all part of the Brotherhood of Darkness?”

His question was met with an easy laugh. “Of course, Kopecz. A mere slip of the tongue.”

“Kopecz refuses to celebrate in our triumph,” Qordis noted. “He has been like this all night.”

Kaan clasped a hand on the hefty Twi’lek’s shoulder. “This is a great victory for us,” he said. “Korriban is more than just another world: it is a symbol. The birthplace of the Sith. This victory sends a message to the Republic and the Jedi. Now they will truly know and fear the Brotherhood.”

Kopecz shrugged free of Kaan’s hand and turned away with a flick of the tips of the long lekku wound around his neck. “Celebrate if you wish,” he called over his shoulder as he walked away. “But the real war has only just begun.”

PART ONE
Three Years Later

1

Dessel was lost in the suffering of his job, barely even aware of his surroundings. His arms ached from the endless pounding of the hydraulic jack. Small bits of rock skipped off the cavern wall as he bored through, ricocheting off his protective goggles and stinging his exposed face and hands. Clouds of atomized dust filled the air, obscuring his vision, and the screeching whine of the jack filled the cavern, drowning out all other sounds as it burrowed centimeter by agonizing centimeter into the thick vein of cortosis woven into the rock before him.

Impervious to both heat and energy, cortosis was prized in the construction of armor and shielding by both commercial and military interests, especially with the galaxy at war. Highly resistant to blaster bolts, cortosis alloys supposedly could withstand even the blade of a lightsaber. Unfortunately, the very properties that made it so valuable also made it extremely difficult to mine. Plasma torches were virtually useless; it would take days to burn away even a small section of cortosis-laced rock. The only effective way to mine it was through the brute force of hydraulic jacks pounding relentlessly away at a vein, chipping the cortosis free bit by bit.

Cortosis was one of the hardest materials in the galaxy. The force of the pounding quickly wore down the head of a jack, blunting it until it became almost useless. The dust clogged the hydraulic pistons, making them jam. Mining cortosis was hard on the equipment … and even harder on the miners.

Des had been hammering away for nearly six standard hours. The jack weighed more than thirty kilos, and the strain of keeping it raised and pressed against the rock face was taking its toll. His arms were trembling from the exertion. His lungs were gasping for air and choking on the clouds of fine mineral dust thrown up from the jack’s head. Even his teeth hurt: the rattling vibration felt as if it were shaking them loose from his gums.

But the miners on Apatros were paid based on how much cortosis they brought back. If he quit now, another miner would jump in and start working the vein, taking a share of the profits. Des didn’t like to share.

The whine of the jack’s motor took on a higher pitch, becoming a keening wail Des was all too familiar with. At twenty thousand rpm, the motor sucked in dust like a thirsty bantha sucking up water after a long desert crossing. The only way to combat it was by regular cleaning and servicing, and the Outer Rim Oreworks Company preferred to buy cheap equipment and replace it, rather than sinking credits into maintenance. Des knew exactly what was going to happen next—and a second later, it did. The motor blew.

The hydraulics seized with a horrible crunch, and a cloud of black smoke spit out the rear of the jack. Cursing ORO and its corporate policies, Des released his cramped finger from the trigger and tossed the spent piece of equipment to the floor.

“Move aside, kid,” a voice said.

Gerd, one of the other miners, stepped up and tried to shoulder Des out of the way so he could work the vein with his own jack. Gerd had been working the mines for nearly twenty standard years, and it had turned his body into a mass of hard, knotted muscle. But Des had been working the mines for ten years himself, ever since he was a teenager, and he was just as solid as the older man—and a little bigger. He didn’t budge.

“I’m not done here,” he said. “Jack died, that’s all. Hand me yours and I’ll keep at it for a while.”

“You know the rules, kid. You stop working and someone else is allowed to move in.”

Technically, Gerd was right. But nobody ever jumped another miner’s claim over an equipment malfunction. Not unless he was trying to pick a fight.

Des took a quick look around. The chamber was empty except for the two of them, standing less than half a meter apart. Not a surprise; Des usually chose caverns far off the main tunnel network. It had to be more than mere coincidence that Gerd was here.

Des had known Gerd for as long as he could remember. The middle-aged man had been friends with Hurst, Des’s father. Back when Des first started working the mines at thirteen, he had taken a lot of abuse from the bigger miners. His father had been the worst tormentor, but Gerd had been one of the main instigators, dishing out more than his fair share of teasing, insults, and the occasional cuff on the ear.

Their harassments had ended shortly after Des’s father died of a massive heart attack. It wasn’t because the miners felt sorry for the orphaned young man, though. By the time Hurst died, the tall, skinny teenager they loved to bully had become a mountain of muscle with heavy hands and a fierce temper. Mining was a tough job; it was the closest thing to hard labor outside a Republic prison colony. Whoever worked the mines on Apatros got big—and Des just happened to become the biggest of them all. Half a dozen black eyes, countless bloody noses, and one broken jaw in the space of a month was all it took for Hurst’s old friends to decide they’d be happier if they left Des alone.

Yet it was almost as if they blamed him for Hurst’s death, and every few months one of them tried again. Gerd had always been smart enough to keep his distance—until now.

“I don’t see any of your friends here with you, old man,” Des said. “So back off my claim, and nobody gets hurt.”

Gerd spat on the ground at Des’s feet. “You don’t even know what day it is, do you, boy? Kriffing disgrace is what you are!”

They were standing close enough to each other that Des could smell the sour Corellian whiskey on Gerd’s breath. The man was drunk. Drunk enough to come looking for a fight, but still sober enough to hold his own.

“Five years ago today,” Gerd said, shaking his head sadly. “Five years ago today your own father died, and you don’t even remember!”

Des rarely even thought about his father anymore. He hadn’t been sorry to see him go. His earliest memories were of his father smacking him. He didn’t even remember the reason; Hurst rarely needed one.

“Can’t say I miss Hurst the same way you do, Gerd.”

“Hurst?” Gerd snorted. “He raised you by himself after your mama died, and you don’t even have the respect to call him Dad? You ungrateful son-of-a-Kath-hound!”

Des glared down menacingly at Gerd, but the shorter man was too full of drink and self-righteous indignation to be intimidated.

“Should’ve expected this from a mudcrutch whelp like you,” Gerd continued. “Hurst always said you were no good. He knew there was something wrong with you … Bane.”

Des narrowed his eyes, but didn’t rise to the bait. Hurst had called him by that name when he was drunk. Bane. He had blamed his son for his wife’s death. Blamed him for being stuck on Apatros. He considered his only child to be the bane of his existence, a fact he’d tended to spit out at Des in his drunken rages.

Bane. It represented everything spiteful, petty, and mean about his father. It struck at the innermost fears of every child: fear of disappointment, fear of abandonment, fear of violence. As a kid, that name had hurt more than all the smacks from his father’s heavy fists. But Des wasn’t a kid anymore. Over time he’d learned to ignore it, along with all the rest of the hateful bile that spilled from his father’s mouth.

“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered. “I’ve got work to do.”

With one hand he grabbed the hydraulic jack from Gerd’s grasp. He put the other hand on Gerd’s shoulder and shoved him away. Stumbling back, the inebriated man caught his heel on a rock and fell roughly to the ground.

He stood up with a snarl, his hands balling into fists. “Guess your daddy’s been gone too long, boy. You need someone to beat the sense back into you!”

Gerd was drunk, but he was no fool, Des realized. Des was bigger, stronger, younger … but he’d spent the last six hours working a hydraulic jack. He was covered in grime and the sweat was dripping off his face. His shirt was drenched. Gerd’s uniform, on the other hand, was still relatively clean: no dust, no sweat stains. He must have been planning this all day, taking it easy and sitting back while Des wore himself out.

But Des wasn’t about to back down from a fight. Throwing Gerd’s jack to the ground, he dropped into a crouch, feet wide and arms held out in front of him.

Gerd charged forward, swinging his right fist in a vicious uppercut. Des reached out and caught the punch with the open palm of his left hand, absorbing the force of the blow. His right hand snapped forward and grabbed the underside of Gerd’s right wrist; as he pulled the older man forward, Des ducked down and turned, driving his shoulder into Gerd’s chest. Using his opponent’s own momentum against him, Des straightened up and yanked hard on Gerd’s wrist, flipping him up and over so that he crashed to the ground on his back.

The fight should have ended right then; Des had a split second where he could have dropped his knee onto his opponent, driving the breath from his lungs and pinning him to the ground while he pounded Gerd with his fists. But it didn’t happen. His back, exhausted from hours of hefting the thirty-kilo jack, spasmed.

The pain was agonizing; instinctively Des straightened up, clutching at the knotted lumbar muscles. It gave Gerd a chance to roll out of the way and get back to his feet.

Somehow Des managed to drop into his fighting crouch again. His back howled in protest, and he grimaced as red-hot daggers of pain shot through his body. Gerd saw the grimace and laughed.

“Cramping up there, boy? You should know better than to try and fight after a six-hour shift in the mines.”

Gerd charged forward again. This time his hands weren’t fists, but claws grasping and grabbing at anything they could find, trying to nullify the younger man’s height and reach by getting in close. Des tried to scramble out of the way, but his legs were too stiff and sore to get him clear. One hand grabbed his shirt, the other got hold of his belt as Gerd pulled both of them to the ground.

They grappled together, wrestling on the hard, uneven stone of the cavern floor. Gerd had his face buried against Dessel’s chest to protect it, keeping Des from landing a solid elbow or head-butt. He still had a grip on Des’s belt, but now his other hand was free and punching blindly up to where he guessed Des’s face would be. Des was forced to wrap his arms in and around Gerd’s own, interlocking them so neither man could throw a punch.

With their limbs pinned, strategy and technique meant little. The fight had become a test of strength and endurance, with the two combatants slowly wearing each other down. Dessel tried to roll Gerd over onto his back, but his weary body betrayed him. His limbs were heavy and soft; he couldn’t get the leverage he needed. Instead it was Gerd who was able to twist and turn, wrenching one of his hands free while still keeping his face pressed tight against Des’s chest so it wouldn’t be exposed.

Des wasn’t so lucky … his face was open and vulnerable. Gerd struck a blow with his free hand, but he didn’t hit with a closed fist. Instead he drove his thumb hard into Des’s cheek, only a few centimeters from his real target. He struck again with the thumb, looking to gouge out one of his opponent’s eyes and leave him blind and writhing in pain.

It took Des a second to realize what was happening; his tired mind had become as slow and clumsy as his body. He turned his face away just as the second blow landed, the thumb jamming painfully into the cartilage of his upper ear.

Dark rage exploded inside Des: a burst of fiery passion that burned away the exhaustion and fatigue. Suddenly his mind was clear, and his body felt strong and rejuvenated. He knew what he was going to do next. More importantly, he knew with absolute certainty what Gerd would do next, too.

He couldn’t explain how he knew; sometimes he could just anticipate an opponent’s next move. Instinct, some might have said. Des felt it was something more. It was too detailed—too specific—to be simple instinct. It was more like a vision, a brief glimpse into the future. And whenever it happened, Des always knew what to do, as if something was guiding and directing his actions.

When the next blow came, Des was more than ready for it. He could picture it perfectly in his mind. He knew exactly when it was coming and precisely where it would strike. This time he turned his head in the opposite direction, exposing his face to the incoming blow—and opening his mouth. He bit down hard, his timing perfect, and his teeth sank deep into the dirty flesh of Gerd’s probing thumb.

Gerd screamed as Des clamped his jaw shut, severing the tendons and striking bone. He wondered if he could bite clean through and then—as if the very thought made it happen—he severed Gerd’s thumb.

The screams became shrieks as Gerd released his grasp and rolled away, clasping his maimed hand with his whole one. Crimson blood welled up through the fingers trying to stanch the flow from his stump.

Standing up slowly, Des spat the thumb out onto the ground. The taste of blood was hot in his mouth. His body felt strong and reenergized, as if some great power surged through his veins. All the fight had been taken out of his opponent; Des could do anything he wanted to Gerd now.

The older man rolled back and forth on the floor, his hand clutched to his chest. He was moaning and sobbing, begging for mercy, pleading for help.

Des shook his head in disgust; Gerd had brought this on himself. It had started as a simple fistfight. The loser would have ended up with a black eye and some bruises, but nothing more. Then the older man had taken things to another level by trying to blind him, and he’d responded in kind. Des had learned long ago not to escalate a fight unless he was willing to pay the price of losing. Now Gerd had learned that lesson, too.

Des had a temper, but he wasn’t the kind to keep beating on a helpless opponent. Without looking back at his defeated foe, he left the cavern and headed back up the tunnel to tell one of the foremen what had happened so someone could come tend to Gerd’s injury.

He wasn’t worried about the consequences. The medics could reattach Gerd’s thumb, so at worst Des would be fined a day or two’s wages. The corporation didn’t really care what its employees did, as long as they kept coming back to mine the cortosis. Fights were common among the miners, and ORO almost always turned a blind eye, though this particular fight had been more vicious than most—savage and short, with a brutal end.

Just like life on Apatros.

2

Sitting in the back of the land cruiser used to transport miners between Apatros’s only colony and the mines, Des felt exhausted. All he wanted was to get back to his bunk in the barracks and sleep. The adrenaline had drained out of him, leaving him hyperaware of the stiffness and soreness of his body. He slumped down in his seat and gazed around the interior of the cruiser.

Normally, there would have been twenty other miners crammed into the speeder with him, but this one was empty except for him and the pilot. After the fight with Gerd, the foreman had suspended Des without pay, effective immediately, and had ordered the transport to take him back to the colony.

“This kind of thing is getting old, Des,” the foreman had said with a frown. “We’ve got to make an example of you this time. You can’t work the mines until Gerd is healed up and back on the job.”

What he really meant was, You can’t earn any credits until Gerd comes back. He’d still be charged room and board, of course. Every day that he sat around doing nothing would go onto his tab, adding to the debt he was working so desperately to pay off.

Des figured it would be four or five days until Gerd was able to handle a hydraulic jack again. The on-site medic had reattached the severed thumb using a vibroscalpel and synthflesh. A few days of kolto injections and some cheap meds to dull the pain, and Gerd would be back at it. Bacta therapy could have him back in a day; but bacta was expensive, and ORO wouldn’t spring for it unless Gerd had miner’s insurance … which Des highly doubted.

Most miners never bothered with the company-sponsored insurance program. It was expensive, for one thing. What with room, board, and the fees covering the cost of transport to and from the mines, most thought they gave ORO more than enough of their hard-earned pay without adding insurance premiums onto the stack.

It wasn’t just the cost, though. It was almost as if the men and women who worked the cortosis mines were in denial, refusing to admit the potential dangers and hazards they encountered every day. Getting insurance would force them to take a look at the cold, hard facts.

Few miners ever reached their golden years. The tunnels claimed many, burying bodies in cave-ins or incinerating them when somebody tapped into a pocket of explosive gases trapped in the rock. Even those who made it out of the mines tended not to survive long into their retirement. The mines took their toll. Sixty-year-old men were left with bodies that looked and felt like they were ninety, broken shells worn down by decades of hard physical labor and exposure to airborne contaminants that slipped through the substandard ORO filters.

When Des’s father died—with no insurance, of course—all Des got out of it was the privilege of taking on his father’s accumulated debt. Hurst had spent more time drinking and gambling than mining. To pay for his monthly room and board he’d often had to borrow credits from ORO at an interest rate that would be criminal anywhere but in the Outer Rim. The debt kept piling up, month to month and year to year, but Hurst didn’t seem to care. He was a single parent with a son he resented, trapped in a brutal job he despised; he had given up any hope of escaping Apatros long before the heart attack claimed him.

The Hutt spawn probably would have been glad to know his son had gotten stuck with his bill.

The transport sped above the barren rocks of the small planet’s flatlands with no sound but the endless drone of the engines. The featureless wastes flew by in a blur, until the view out the window was nothing but a curtain of shapeless gray. The effect was hypnotic: Des could feel his tired mind and body eager to drift into deep and dreamless sleep.

This was how they got you. Work you to exhaustion, dull your senses, numb your will into submission … until you accepted your lot and wasted your entire life in the grit and grime of the cortosis mines. All in the relentless service of the Outer Rim Oreworks Company. It was a surprisingly effective trap; it worked on men like Gerd and Hurst. But it wasn’t going to work on Des.

Even with his father’s crushing debt, Des knew he’d pay ORO off someday and leave this life behind. He was destined for something greater than this small, insignificant existence. He knew this with absolute certainty, and it was this knowledge that gave him the strength to carry on in the face of the relentless, sometimes hopeless grind. It gave him the strength to fight, even when part of him felt like giving up.

He was suspended, unable to work the mines, but there were other ways to earn credits. With a great effort he forced himself to stand up. The floor swayed under his feet as the speeder made constant adjustments to maintain its programmed cruising altitude of half a meter above ground level. He took a second to get used to the rolling rhythm of the transport, then half walked, half staggered up the aisle between the seats to the pilot at the front. He didn’t recognize the man, but they all tended to look the same anyway: grim, unsmiling features, dull eyes, and always wearing an expression as if they were on the verge of a blinding headache.

“Hey,” Des said, trying to sound nonchalant, “any ships come in to the spaceport today?”

There was no reason for the pilot to keep his attention fixed on the path ahead. The forty-minute trip between the mines and the colony was a straight line across an empty plain; some of the pilots even stole naps along the route. Yet this one refused to turn and look at Des as he answered.

“Cargo ship touched down a few hours ago,” he said in a bored voice. “Military. Republic cargo ship.”

Des smiled. “They staying for a while?”

The pilot didn’t answer; he only snorted and shook his head at the stupidity of the question. Des nodded and stumbled back toward his seat at the rear of the transport. He knew the answer, too.

Cortosis was used in the hulls of everything from fighters to capital ships, as well as being woven into the body armor of the troops. And as the war against the Sith dragged on, the Republic’s need for cortosis kept increasing. Every few weeks a Republic freighter would touch down on Apatros. The next day it would leave again, its cargo bays filled with the valuable mineral. Until then the crew—officers and enlisted soldiers alike—would have nothing to do but wait. From past experience, Des knew that whenever Republic soldiers had a few hours to kill they liked to play cards. And wherever people played cards, there was money to be made.

Lowering himself back onto his seat at the rear of the speeder, Des decided that maybe he wasn’t quite ready to hit his bunk after all.

By the time the transport stopped on the edges of the colony, Des’s body was tingling with anticipation. He hopped out and sauntered toward his barracks at a leisurely pace, fighting his own eagerness and the urge to run. Even now, he imagined, the Republic soldiers and their credits would be sitting at the gaming tables in the colony’s only cantina.

Still, there was no point in rushing over there. It was late afternoon, the sun just beginning its descent beyond the horizon to the north. By now most of the miners from the night shift would be awake. Many of them would already be at the cantina, whiling away the time until they had to make the journey out to the mines to start their shift. For the next two hours Des knew he’d be lucky to find a place to sit down in the cantina, never mind finding an empty seat at a pazaak or sabacc table. Meanwhile, it would be another few hours before the men working the day shift climbed onto the waiting transports to head back to their homes; he’d get to the cantina long before any of them.

Back at his barracks, he stripped off his grime-stained coveralls and climbed into the deserted communal showers, scouring the sweat and fine rock dust from his body. Then he changed into some clean clothes and sauntered out into the street, making his way slowly toward the cantina on the far side of town.

The cantina didn’t have a name; it didn’t need one. Nobody ever had any trouble finding it. Apatros was a small world, barely more than a moon with an atmosphere and some indigenous plant life. There were precious few places to go: the mines, the colony, or the barren wastes in between. The mines were a massive complex encompassing the caves and tunnels dug by ORO, as well as the refining and processing branches of ORO’s operations.

The spaceports were located there, too. Freighters left daily with shipments of cortosis bound for some wealthier world closer to Coruscant and the Galactic Core, and incoming vessels bringing equipment and supplies to keep the mines running arrived every other day. Employees who weren’t strong enough to mine cortosis worked in the refining plants or the spaceport. The pay wasn’t as good, but they tended to live longer.

But no matter where people worked, they all came home to the same place at the end of their shifts. The colony was nothing more than a ramshackle town of temporary barracks thrown together by ORO to house the few hundred workers expected to keep the mines running. Like the world itself, the colony was officially known as Apatros. To those who lived there, it was more commonly referred to as “the muck-huts.” Every building was the same shade of dingy gray durasteel, the exterior weathered and worn. The insides of the buildings were virtually identical, temporary workers’ barracks that had become all too permanent. Each structure housed four small private rooms meant for two people, but often holding three or more. Sometimes entire families shared one of those rooms, unless they could find the credits for the outrageous rents ORO charged for more space. Each room had bunks built into the walls and a single door that opened onto a narrow hall; a communal bathroom and shower were located at the end. The doors tended to squeak on ill-fitting hinges that were never tended to; the roofs were a patchwork of quick fixes to seal up the leaks that inevitably sprang whenever it rained. Broken windows were taped against the wind and cold, but never replaced. A thin layer of dust accumulated over everything, but few of the residents ever bothered to sweep out their domiciles.

The entire colony was less than a kilometer on each square side, making it possible to walk from any given building to any of the other identical structures in fewer than twenty standard minutes. Despite the unrelenting similarity of the architecture, navigating the colony was easy. The barracks had been placed in straight rows and columns, forming a grid of utilitarian streets between the uniformly spaced domiciles. The streets couldn’t exactly be called clean, though they were hardly festering with garbage. ORO cleared trash and refuse just often enough to keep conditions sanitary, since an outbreak of diseases bred by filth would adversely affect the mine’s production. However, the company didn’t seem to mind the cluttered junk that inevitably accumulated throughout the town. Broken-down generators, rusted-out machinery, corroded scraps of metal, and discarded, worn-out tools crowded the narrow streets between the barracks.

There were only two structures in the colony that were in any way distinguished from the rest. One was the ORO market, the only store onworld. It had once been a barracks, but the bunks had been replaced with shelves, and the communal shower area was now a secure storage room. A small black-and-white sign had been fastened to the wall outside, listing the hours of operation. There were no displays to lure shoppers in, and no advertising. The market stocked only the most basic items, all at scandalous markups. Credit was gladly advanced against future wages at ORO’s typically high interest rate, guaranteeing that buyers would spend even more hours in the mine working off their purchases.

The other dissimilar building was the cantina itself, a magnificent triumph of beauty and design when compared with the dismal homogeny of the rest of the colony. The cantina was built a few hundred meters beyond the edge of the town, set well apart from the gray grid of barracks. It stood only three stories high, but because every other structure was limited to a single floor it dominated the landscape. Not that it needed to be that tall. Inside the cantina everything was located on the ground floor; the upper stories were merely a façade constructed for show by Groshik, the Neimoidian owner and bartender. Above the first-floor ceiling, the second and third floors didn’t really exist—there were only the rising walls and a dome made of tinted violet glass, illuminated from within. Matching violet lights covered the pale blue exterior walls. On almost any world the effect would have been ostentatious and tacky, but amid the gray of Apatros it was doubly so. Groshik often proclaimed that he had intentionally made his cantina as garish as possible, simply to offend the ORO powers-that-be. The sentiment made him popular with the miners, but Des doubted if ORO really cared one way or the other. Groshik could paint his cantina any color he wanted, as long as he gave the corporation its cut of the profits each week.

The twenty-standard-hour day of Apatros was split evenly between the two shifts of miners. Des and the rest of the early crew worked from 0800 to 1800; his counterparts worked from 1800 to 0800. Groshik, in an effort to maximize profits, opened each afternoon at 1300 and didn’t close for ten straight hours. This allowed him to serve the night-crew workers before they started and catch the day crew when that shift was over. He’d close at 0300, clean for two hours, sleep for six, then get up at 1100 and start the process all over again. His routine was well known to all the miners; the Neimoidian was as regular as the rising and setting of Apatros’s pale orange sun.

As Des crossed the distance between the edge of the colony proper and the cantina’s welcoming door, he could already hear the sounds coming from inside: loud music, laughter, chatter, clinking glasses. It was almost 1600 now. The day shift had two hours to go before quitting time, but the cantina was still packed with night-shift workers looking to have a drink or something to eat before they boarded the shuttles that would take them to the mines.

Des didn’t recognize any faces: the day and night crews rarely crossed paths. The patrons were mostly humans, with a few Twi’leks, Sullustans, and Cereans filling out the crowd. Des was surprised to notice a Rodian, too. Apparently the night crew were more tolerant of other species than the day shift. There were no waitresses, servers, or dancers; the only employee in the cantina was Groshik himself. Anyone who wanted a drink had to come up to the large bar built into the back wall and order it.

Des pushed his way through the crowd. Groshik saw him coming and momentarily dipped out of sight behind the bar, reappearing with a mug of Gizer ale just as Des reached the counter.

“You’re here early today,” Groshik said as he set the drink down with a heavy thud. His low, gravelly voice was difficult to hear above the din of the crowd. His words always had a guttural quality, as if he were speaking from the very back of his throat.

The Neimoidian liked him, though Des wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because he’d watched Des grow up from a young kid to a man; maybe he just felt sorry Des had been stuck with such a rankweed for a father. Whatever the reason, there was a standing arrangement between the two: Des never had to pay for a drink if it was poured without being asked for. Des gratefully accepted the gift and downed it in one long draft, then slammed the empty mug back down onto the table.

“Ran into a bit of trouble with Gerd,” he replied, wiping his mouth. “I bit his thumb off, so they let me go home early.”

Groshik tilted his head to one side and fixed his enormous red eyes on Des. The sour expression on his amphibian-like face didn’t change, but his body shook ever so slightly. Des knew him well enough to realize the Neimoidian was laughing.

“Seems like a fair trade,” Groshik croaked, refilling the mug.

Des didn’t guzzle the second drink as he had the first. Groshik rarely gave him more than one on the house, and he didn’t want to abuse the bartender’s generosity.

He turned his attention to the crowd. The Republic visitors were easy to spot. Four humans—two men, two women—and a male Ithorian in crisp navy uniforms. It wasn’t just their clothes that made them stand out, though. They all stood straight and tall, whereas most of the miners tended to hunch forward, as if carrying a great weight on their backs.

On one side of the main room, a smaller section was roped off from the rest of the cantina. It was the only part of the place Groshik had nothing to do with. The ORO Company allowed gambling on Apatros, but only if it was in charge of the tables. Officially this was to keep anyone from cheating, but everyone knew ORO’s real concern was keeping the wagers in check. It didn’t want one of its employees to win big and pay off all his or her debts in one lucky night. By keeping the maximum limits low, ORO made sure it was more profitable to work the mines than the tables.

In the gaming section were four more naval soldiers wearing the uniform of the Republic fleet, along with a dozen or so miners. A Twi’lek woman with the rank of petty officer on her lapel was playing pazaak. A young ensign was sitting at the sabacc table, talking loudly to everyone around him, though nobody seemed to be listening to him. Two more officers—both human, one male, one female—also sat at the sabacc table. The woman was a lieutenant; the man bore the insignia of a full commander. Des assumed they were the senior officers in charge of the mission to receive the cortosis shipment.

“I see you’ve noticed our recruiters,” Groshik muttered.

The war against the Sith—officially nothing more than a series of protracted military engagements, even though the whole galaxy knew it was a war—required a steady stream of young and eager cadets for the front lines. And for some reason the Republic always expected the citizens on the Outer Rim worlds to jump at the chance to join them. Whenever a Republic military crew passed through Apatros, the officers tried to round up new recruits. They’d buy a round of drinks, then use it as an excuse to start up a conversation, usually about the glorious and heroic life of being a soldier. Sometimes they’d play up the brutality of the Sith. Other times they’d spin promises of a better life in the Republic military—all the while pretending to be friendly and sympathetic to the locals, hoping a few would join their cause.

Des suspected they received some kind of bonus for any new recruit they conned into signing up. Unfortunately for them, they weren’t going to find too many takers on Apatros. The Republic wasn’t too popular on the Rim; people here, including Des, knew the Core Worlds exploited small, remote planets like Apatros for their own gain. The Sith found a lot of anti-Republic sympathizers out here on the fringes of civilized space; that was one of the reasons their numbers kept growing as the war dragged on.

Despite their dissatisfaction with the Core Worlds, people still might have signed up with the recruiters if the Republic wasn’t so concerned with following the absolute letter of the law. Anyone hoping to escape Apatros and the clutches of the mining corporation was in for a rude shock: debts to ORO still had to be paid, even by recruits protecting the galaxy against the rising Sith threat. If someone owed money to a legitimate corporation, the Republic fleet would garnish his or her wages until those debts were paid. Not too many miners were excited about the prospect of joining a war only to have the privilege of not getting paid.

Some of the miners resented the senior officers and their constant push to lure naïve young men and women into joining their cause. It didn’t bother Des, though. He’d listen to them prattle on all night, as long as they kept playing cards. He figured it was a small price to pay for getting his hands on their credits.

His eagerness must have shown, at least to Groshik. “Any chance you heard a Republic crew was stopping by and then picked a fight with Gerd just so you could get here early?”

Des shook his head. “No. Just a happy coincidence, is all. What angle are they working this time? Glory of the Republic?”

“Trying to warn us about the horrors of the Brotherhood of Darkness,” was the carefully neutral reply. “Not going over too well.”

The cantina owner kept his real opinions to himself when it came to matters of politics. His customers were free to talk about any subject they wanted, but no matter how heated their arguments became, he always refused to take sides.

“Bad for business,” he had explained once. “Agree with someone and they’ll be your friend for the rest of the night. Cross them and they might hate you for weeks.” Neimoidians were known for their shrewd business sense, and Groshik was no exception.

A miner pushed his way up to the bar and demanded a drink. When Groshik went to fill the order, Des turned to study the gaming area. There weren’t any free seats at the sabacc table, so for the time being he was forced into the role of spectator. For well over an hour he studied the plays and the wagers of the newcomers, paying particular attention to the senior officers. They tended to be better players than the enlisted troops, probably because they had more credits to lose.

The game on Apatros followed a modified version of the Bespin Standard rules. The basics of the game were simple: make a hand as close to twenty-three as possible without going over. Each round, a player had to either bet to stay in the hand, or fold. Any player who chose to stay in could draw a new card, discard a card, or place a card into the interference field to lock in its value. At the end of any round a player could come up, revealing his or her hand and forcing all other players to show their cards, as well. Best hand at the table won the hand pot. Any score over twenty-three, or below negative twenty-three, was a bomb-out that required the player to pay a penalty. And if a player had a hand that totaled exactly twenty-three—a pure sabacc—he or she won the sabacc pot as a bonus. But what with random shifts that could unexpectedly change the value of cards from round to round, and other players coming up early, a pure sabacc was a lot harder to achieve than it sounded.

Sabacc was more than a game of luck. It was about strategy and style, knowing when to bluff and when to back down, knowing how to adapt to the ever-changing cards. Some players were too cautious, never betting more than the minimum raise even when they had a good hand. Others were too aggressive, trying to bully the rest of the table with outrageous bets even when they had nothing. A player’s natural tendencies showed through if you knew what to look for.

The ensign, for example, was clearly new to the game. He kept staying in with weak hands instead of folding his cards. He was a chaser, not satisfied with cards good enough to collect the hand pot. He was always looking for the perfect hand, hoping to win big and collect the sabacc pot that kept on growing until it was won. As a result, he kept getting caught with bomb-out hands and having to pay a penalty. It didn’t seem to slow his betting, though. He was one of those players with more credits than sense, which suited Des just fine.

To be an expert sabacc player, you had to know how to control the table. It didn’t take Des many hands to realize the Republic commander was doing just that. He knew how to bet big and make other players fold winning hands. He knew when to bet small to lure others into playing hands they should have folded. He didn’t worry much about his own cards; he knew that the secret to sabacc was figuring out what everyone else was holding … and then letting them think they knew what cards he was holding. It was only when all the hands were revealed and he was raking in the chips that his opponents would realize how wrong they’d been.

He was good, Des had to admit. Better than most of the Republic players who passed through. Despite his pleasant appearance, he was ruthless in scooping up pot after pot. But Des had a good feeling; sometimes he just knew he couldn’t lose. He was going to win tonight … and win big.

There was a groan from one of the miners at the table. “Another round and that sabacc pot was mine!” he said, shaking his head. “You’re lucky you came up when you did,” he added, speaking to the commander.

Des knew it wasn’t luck. The miner had been so excited, he was twitching in his seat. Anyone with half a brain could see he was working toward a powerful hand. The commander had seen it and made his move, cutting the hand short and chopping the other gambler’s hopes off at the knees.

“That’s it,” the miner said, pushing away from the table. “I’m tapped out.”

“Looks like now’s your chance,” Groshik whispered under his breath as he swept past to pour another drink. “Good luck.”

I don’t need luck tonight, Des thought. He crossed the floor of the cantina and stepped over the nanosilk rope into the ORO-controlled gaming room.

3

Des approached the sabacc table and nodded to the Beta-4 CardShark dealing out the hands. ORO preferred automated droids to organic dealers: no salary to pay, and there was no chance a wily gambler could convince a droid to cheat.

“I’m in,” he declared, taking the empty seat.

The ensign was sitting directly across from him. He let out a long, loud whistle. “Blast, you’re a big boy,” he shouted boisterously. “How tall are you—one ninety? One ninety-five?”

“Two meters even,” Des replied without looking at him. He swiped his ORO account card through the reader built into the table and punched in his security code. The buy-in for the table was added to the total already owing on his ORO account, and the CardShark obediently pushed a stack of chips across the table toward him.

“Good luck, sir,” it said.

The ensign continued to size Des up, taking another long drink from his mug. Then he brayed out a laugh. “Wow, they grow you fellas big out here on the Rim. You sure you ain’t really a Wookiee somebody shaved for a joke?”

A few of the other players laughed, but quickly stopped when they saw Des clench his jaw. The man smelled of Corellian ale. Same as Gerd had when he’d picked a fight with Des just a few hours earlier. Des’s muscles tightened, and he leaned forward in his chair. The smaller man let out a short, nervous breath.

“Come on now, son,” the commander said to Des in a calming voice, stepping in to control the situation the same way he’d been controlling the table all game long. He had an air of quiet authority, a patriarch presiding over a family squabble at the dinner table. “It’s just a joke. Can’t you take a joke?”

Turning to face the only player at the table good enough to give him a real challenge, Des flashed a grin and let the tension slip from his coiled muscles. “Sure, I can take a joke. But I’d rather take your credits.”

There was a brief pause, and then it was as if everyone had sighed in relief. The officer chuckled and returned the smile. “Fair enough. Let’s play some cards.”

Des started slow, playing conservatively and folding often. The limits on the table were low; the maximum value of any given hand was capped at one hundred credits. Between the five-credit ante and the two-credit “administration fee” ORO charged players each time they started a new round, the hand pots would barely cover the cost of sitting down at the table, even for a solid player. The trick was to win just enough hand pots to be able to stick around long enough for a chance at the sabacc pot that continued to build with each hand.

When he first started playing, one of the soldiers tried to make small talk. “I notice most of the human miners here shave their heads,” he said, nodding out at the crowd. “Why is that?”

“We don’t shave. Our hair falls out,” Des replied. “Comes from working too many shifts in the mines.”

“Working the mines? I don’t get it.”

“The filters don’t remove all the impurities from the air. You work ten-hour shifts day in and day out, and the contaminants build up in your system.” He spoke in a flat, neutral voice. There was no bitterness; for him and the rest of the miners it was just a fact of life. “It has side effects. We get sick a lot; our hair falls out. We’re supposed to take a few days off now and again, but ever since ORO signed those Republic military contracts the mines never shut down. Basically, we’re being slowly poisoned to make sure your cargo hold’s full when you leave.”

That was enough to kill any other attempts at conversation, and they continued the hands in relative silence. After half an hour Des was about even for the night, but he was just getting warmed up. He pushed in his ante and the ORO cut, as did the other seven players at the table. The dealer flipped two cards out to each of them, and another hand began. The first two players peeked at their cards and folded. The Republic ensign glanced at his cards and threw in enough chips to stay in the hand. Des wasn’t surprised—he hardly ever folded his cards, even when he had nothing.

The ensign quickly pushed one of his cards into the interference field. Each turn, a player could move one of the electronic chip-cards into the interference field, locking in its value to protect it from changing if there was a shift at the end of the round.

Des shook his head. Locking in cards was a fool’s play. You couldn’t discard a locked-in card; Des usually preferred to keep all his options open. The ensign, however, was thinking in the short term, not planning ahead. That probably explained why he was down several hundred credits on the night.

Glancing at his own hand, Des chose to stay in. All the rest of the players dropped, leaving just the two of them.

The CardShark dealt out another round of cards. Des glanced down and saw he had drawn Endurance, a face card with a value of negative eight. He was sitting at a total of six, an incredibly weak hand.

The smart move was to fold; unless there was a shift, he was dead. But Des knew there was going to be a shift. He knew it as surely as he had known where and when Gerd’s thumb was going to be when he bit down on it. These brief glimpses into the future didn’t happen often, but when they did he knew enough to listen to them. He pushed in his credits. The ensign matched the bet.

The droid scooped the chips to the center of the table, and the marker in front of him began to pulse with rapidly changing colors. Blue meant no shift; all the cards would stay the same. Red meant a shift: an impulse would be sent out from the marker, and one electronic card from each player would randomly reset and change its value. The marker flickered back and forth between red and blue, gaining speed until it was pulsing so quickly the colors blurred into a single violet hue. Then the flashing began to slow down and it became possible to tell the individual colors apart again: blue, red, blue, red, blue … It stopped on red.

“Blast!” the ensign swore. “It always shifts when I have a good hand!”

Des knew that wasn’t true. The chances of shifting were fifty–fifty: completely random. There was no way to predict whether a shift was coming … unless you had a gift like Des occasionally did.

The cards flickered as they reset, and Des scooped up his hand one more time. Endurance was gone, replaced by a seven. He was sitting at twenty-one. Not a sabacc, but a solid hand. Before the next round could begin, Des flipped his cards over, exposing his hand to the table. “Coming up on twenty-one,” he said.

The ensign threw his cards to the table in disgust. “Blasted bomb-out.”

Des collected the small stack of chips that were the hand pot, while the other man grudgingly paid his penalty into the sabacc pot. Des guessed it was closing in on five hundred credits by now.

One of the miners at the table stood up. “Come on, we got to go,” he said. “Last speeder leaves in twenty minutes.”

With grumbles and complaints, the other miners got up from their seats and trudged off to start their shift. The ensign watched them go, then turned curiously to Des.

“You ain’t going with them, big fella? I thought you were complaining about never getting a day off earlier.”

“I work the day shift,” Des said shortly. “Those guys are the night shift.”

“Where’s the rest of your crew?” the lieutenant asked. Des clearly recognized her interest as an attempt to keep the ensign from saying something to further antagonize the big miner. “The crowd’s become awfully thin.” She waved her hand around at the cantina, now virtually empty except for the Republic naval soldiers. Seeing the open seats at the sabacc table, a few of them were wandering over to join their comrades in the game.

“They’ll be along soon enough,” Des said. “I just ended my shift a bit early today.”

“Really?” Her tone implied that she knew of only one reason a miner’s shift might end early.

“Lieutenant,” one of the newly arrived soldiers said politely as they reached the table. “Commander,” he added, addressing the other officer. “Mind if we join in, sir?”

The commander looked over at Des. “I don’t want this young man to think the Republic is ganging up on him. If we take all the seats, where are his friends going to sit when they show up? He says they’ll be along any minute.”

“They’re not here now,” Des said. “And they’re not my friends. You might as well sit down.” He didn’t add that most of the day-shift miners probably wouldn’t play, anyway. When Des showed up at the table they tended to call it a night; he won too often for their liking.

The empty seats were quickly filled up.

“So how are the cards treating you, Ensign?” a young woman asked the man Des had bested in the last hand. She sat down beside him and placed a full mug of Corellian ale on the table in front of him.

“Not so good,” he admitted, flashing a grin and exchanging his empty mug for the full one. “I might have to owe you for this drink. I can’t seem to catch a break tonight.” He nodded his head in Des’s direction. “Watch out for this one. He’s as good as the commander. Either that, or he cheats.”

He smiled quickly to show it was just another of his mildly offensive jokes. Des ignored him; it wasn’t the first time he’d been called a cheat. He was aware that his precognition gave him an advantage over the other players. Maybe it was an unfair advantage, but he didn’t consider it cheating. It wasn’t as if he knew what was going to happen on every hand; he couldn’t control it. He was just smart enough to make the most of it when it happened.

The CardShark began passing out chips to the newcomers, wishing each of them a perfunctory “Good luck” as it did so.

“So it seems you don’t really get on well with the other miners,” the lieutenant said, keying on Des’s earlier comments. “Have you ever thought about changing careers?”

Des groaned inwardly. By the time he had joined the table the officers had given up their recruiting spiel and stuck mostly to playing cards. Now he’d given her an opening to bring it up again.

“I’m not interested in becoming a soldier,” he said, anteing up for the next hand.

“Don’t be so hasty,” she said, her voice slipping into a soothing, gentle patter. “Being a soldier for the Republic has its rewards. I suspect it’s better than working the mines, at least.”

“There’s a whole galaxy out there, son,” the commander added. “Worlds a lot more attractive than this one, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Don’t I know it, Des thought. Out loud he said, “I don’t plan to spend my whole life here. But when I do get off this rock, I don’t want to spend my days dodging Sith blasters on the front lines.”

“We won’t be fighting the Sith for much longer, son. We’ve got them on the run now.” The commander spoke with such calm assurance, Des was half tempted to believe him.

“That’s not how I hear it,” Des said. “Rumor is the Brotherhood of Darkness has been winning more than its share of the battles. I heard it’s got more than a dozen regions under its control now.”

“That was before General Hoth,” one of the other soldiers chimed in.

Des had heard of Hoth on the HoloNet; he was a bona-fide hero of the Republic. Victorious in half a dozen major confrontations, he was a brilliant strategist who knew how to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Not surprising, given his background.

“Hoth?” he asked innocently, glancing down at his cards. Garbage. He folded his hand. “Isn’t he a Jedi?”

“He is,” the commander replied, peeking at his own cards. He pushed in a small wager. “A Jedi Master, to be more accurate. And a fine soldier, too. You couldn’t ask for a better man to lead the Republic war effort.”

“The Sith are more than just soldiers, you know,” the drunken ensign said earnestly, his voice even louder than before. “Some of them can use the Force, just like the Jedi! You can’t beat them with blasters alone.”

Des had heard plenty of wild tales of Jedi performing extraordinary feats through the mystical power of the Force, but he figured they were legends and myth. Or at least exaggerations. He knew there were powers that transcended the physical world: his own premonitions were evidence of that. But the stories of what the Jedi could do were just too impossible to believe. If the Force was really such a powerful weapon, why was this war taking so long?

“The idea of answering to a Jedi Master doesn’t really appeal to me,” he said. “I’ve heard some strange things about what they believe in: no passion, no emotion. Sounds like they want to turn us all into droids.”

Another round of cards was dealt out to the remaining players.

“The Jedi are guided by wisdom,” the commander explained. “They don’t let things like desire or anger cloud their judgment.”

“Anger has its uses,” Des pointed out. “It’s gotten me out of some nasty spots.”

“I think the trick is not to get into those spots in the first place,” the lieutenant countered in her gentle voice.

The hand ended a few turns later. The young woman who had bought the ensign his drink came up on twenty—not a great hand, but not a bad one, either. She looked over at the commander as he flipped up his cards, and smiled when he had only nineteen. Her smile faded when the drunken ensign showed his twenty-one. When he scooped up the pot, she cut his laugh short with a friendly elbow to his ribs.

Everyone anted and the dealer flicked out another pair of cards to each player.

“The Jedi are the defenders of the Republic,” the lieutenant went on earnestly. “Their ways can seem strange to ordinary citizens, but they’re on our side. All they want is peace.”

“Really?” Des said, glancing at his cards and pushing in his chips. “I thought they wanted to wipe out the Sith.”

“The Sith are an illegal organization,” the lieutenant explained. She folded her cards after a moment of careful deliberation. “The Senate passed a bill outlawing them nearly three thousand years ago, shortly after Revan and Malak brought destruction to the entire galaxy.”

“I always heard Revan saved the Republic,” he said.

The commander jumped back into the conversation. “Revan’s story is complicated,” he said. “But the fact remains, the Sith and their teachings were banned by the Senate. Their very existence is a violation of Republic law—and with good reason. The Jedi understand the threat the Sith represent. That’s why they’ve joined the fleet. For the good of the galaxy, the Sith must be wiped out once and for all.”

The drunken ensign won the hand again, his second in a row. Sometimes it was better to be lucky than good.

“So the Republic says the Sith must be wiped out,” Des said as he anted up for the next hand. “If the Sith were the ones in charge, I bet they’d say the same thing about the Jedi.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what the Sith were really like,” one of the other soldiers said. “I’ve fought against them: they’re bloodthirsty killers!”

Des laughed. “Yeah, how dare they try to kill you in the middle of a war? Don’t they know you’re busy trying to kill them? How rude!”

“You bloody Kath-mutt!” the soldier snapped, rising up from his seat.

“Sit down, deckman!” the commander barked. The soldier did as he was told, but Des could feel the tension in the air. Everyone else at the table—with the possible exception of the two officers—was glaring at him.

Good. The last thing on their minds now was cards. Angry people didn’t make good sabacc players.

The commander sensed things were bad, too. He did his best to defuse the situation.

“The Sith follow the teachings of the dark side, son,” he said to Des. “If you saw the kinds of things they’ve done during this war … and not just to other soldiers. They don’t care if innocent civilians suffer.”

Only half listening, Des glanced at his cards and placed a wager.

“I’m not stupid, Commander,” he said then. “Whether the Republic officially acknowledges it or not, you’re at war with the Brotherhood of Darkness. And bad things happen during a war, on both sides. So don’t try to convince me the Sith are monsters. They’re people, just like you and me.”

Of all the players at the table, only the commander folded his cards. Des knew that at least a few of the soldiers were playing bad hands simply for the chance to take him down.

The commander sighed. “You’re right, to a point. The ordinary troopers—who serve in the army because they don’t know what the Sith Masters and the Brotherhood of Darkness are really like—are just people. But you have to look at the ideals behind this war. You have to understand what each side really stands for.”

“Enlighten me, Commander.” Des put just a hint of condescension in his voice and casually tossed in some more chips, knowing it would rile up the table even more. He was glad to see that nobody folded; he was playing them like a Bith musician trilling out a tune on a sabriquet.

“The Jedi seek to preserve peace,” the commander reiterated. “They serve the cause of justice. Whenever possible, they use their power to aid those in need. They seek to serve, not to rule. They believe that all beings, regardless of species or gender, are created equal. Surely you can understand that.”

It was more a statement than a question, but Des answered anyway. “But all beings aren’t really equal, are they? I mean, some are smarter, or stronger … or better at cards.”

He drew a small smile from the commander with the last comment, though everyone else at the table scowled.

“True enough, son. But isn’t it the duty of the strong to help the weak?”

Des shrugged. He didn’t believe much in equality. Working to make everybody equal didn’t leave much chance for anyone to achieve greatness. “So what about the Brotherhood of Darkness?” he asked. “What do they believe in?”

“They follow the teachings of the dark side. The only thing they seek is power; they believe the natural order of the galaxy is for the weak to serve the strong.”

“Sounds pretty good if you’re one of the strong.” Des flipped his cards up, then scooped up the pot, relishing the grumbling and curses muttered under the breath of the losers.

Des flashed a nasty grin around the table. “For the sake of the Republic, I hope you guys are better soldiers than you are sabacc players.”

“You mudcrutch, rankweed coward!” the ensign shouted, jumping up and spilling his drink onto the floor. “If it wasn’t for us, the Sith would be all over this pit of a world!”

Another miner would have taken a swing at Des, but the ensign—even more than slightly drunk—had enough military discipline to keep his fists at his sides. A stern glare from the commander made him sit down and mumble an apology. Des was impressed. And a little disappointed.

“We all know why the Republic cares about Apatros,” he said, stacking his chips and trying to appear nonchalant. In fact, he was scanning the table to see if anyone else was getting ready to make a move on him.

“You use cortosis in the hulls of your ships, you use it in your weapons casings, you even use it in your body armor. Without us, you wouldn’t stand a chance in this war. So don’t pretend you’re doing any favors here: you need us as much as we need you.”

Nobody had anted yet; all eyes were drawn to the drama unfolding among the players. The CardShark hesitated, its limited programming uncertain how to handle the situation. Des knew Groshik was watching from the far side of the cantina, his hand near the stun blaster he kept stashed behind the bar. He doubted the Neimoidian would need it, though.

“True enough,” the commander conceded, pushing his ante in. The others, including Des, followed suit. “But at least we pay you for the cortosis we use. The Sith would just take it from you.”

“No,” Des corrected, studying his cards, “you pay ORO for the cortosis. Those credits don’t make it all the way down to a guy like me.” He folded his hand but didn’t stop talking. “See, that’s the problem with the Republic. In the Core everything’s great: people are healthy, wealthy, and happy. But out here on the Rim things aren’t so easy.

“I’ve been working the mines almost as long as I can remember, in one way or another, and I still owe ORO enough credits to fill a freighter hull. But I don’t see any Jedi coming to save me from that little bit of injustice.”

Nobody had an answer for him this time, not even the commander. Des decided they’d talked enough politics; he wanted to focus on winning the two thousand credits that had built up in the sabacc pot. He went in for the kill.

“Don’t try to sell me on your Jedi and your Republic, because that’s exactly what it is: your Republic. You say the Sith only respect strength? Well, that’s pretty much the way things are out here on the Rim, too. You look out for yourself, because nobody else will. That’s why the Sith keep finding new recruits willing to join them out here. People with nothing feel like they’ve got nothing to lose. And if the Republic doesn’t figure that out pretty soon, the Brotherhood of Darkness is going to win this war no matter how many Jedi you have leading your army.”

“Maybe we should just stick to cards,” the lieutenant suggested after a long, uncomfortable silence.

“That works for me,” Des said. “No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings,” the commander said, forcing a smile.

A few of the other soldiers murmured assent, but Des knew the hard feelings were still there. He’d done everything he could to make sure they ran deep.

4

The hours ticked by. Other miners began to arrive, the day shift coming in to replace the night crew that had left. The CardShark kept dealing, and the players kept betting. Des’s stack of chips was growing steadily larger, and the sabacc pot kept on growing: three thousand credits, four thousand, five … None of the players seemed to be having fun anymore; Des figured his scorching rant had burned off all the pleasure from the game.

Des didn’t care. He didn’t play sabacc for fun. It was a job, same as working the mines. A way to earn credits and pay off ORO so he could leave Apatros behind forever.

Two of the soldiers pushed away from the table, their credits cleaned out. Their seats were soon filled by miners from the day shift. The lure of the massive sabacc pot was enough to draw them in, despite their reluctance to go up against Des.

Another hour passed and the senior officers—the lieutenant and the commander—finally packed it in. They, too, were replaced by miners with visions of hitting one good hand and cashing in the unclaimed sabacc pot. The Republic soldiers who stuck around, like the ensign who had first challenged Des, must have had deep, deep pockets.

With the constant influx of new players and new money, Des was forced to change his strategy. He was up several hundred credits; he had enough of a cushion built up that he could afford to lose a few hands if he had to. Now his only concern was protecting the sabacc pot. If he didn’t have a hand he thought he could win with, he’d come up in the first few turns. He wasn’t going to give anyone else a chance to build up a hand of twenty-three. He stopped folding, even when he had weak cards. Sitting out a hand gave the other players too much of a chance to win.

Some lucky shifts and some poor choices by his opponents made sure his strategy worked, though not without a cost. His efforts to protect the sabacc pot began to eat into his profits. His stack of winnings shrank quickly, but it would all be worth it if he won the sabacc pot.

Through hand after agonizing hand players continued to come and go. One by one the soldiers gave up their seats, forced out when they ran out of chips and couldn’t afford more. Of the original group, only Des and the ensign remained. The ensign’s pile was growing. A few of the soldiers stayed to watch, rooting for their man to beat the miner with the big mouth.

Other spectators came and went. Some were just waiting for a player to drop so they could swoop in and take the seat. Others were drawn by the intensity of the table and the size of the pots. After another hour the sabacc pot hit ten thousand chips, the maximum limit. Any credits paid into the sabacc pot now were wasted: they went straight into the ORO accounts. But nobody complained. Not with the chance to win a small fortune on the table.

Des glanced up at the chrono on the wall. The cantina would be closing in less than an hour. When he’d first sat down at the table, he’d felt certain he was going to win big. For a while he had been ahead. But the last few hours had drained his chips. Working to protect the sabacc pot was crippling him: he’d gone through all his profits and had to re-buy-in twice. He’d fallen into the classic gambler’s trap, becoming so obsessed with winning the big pot that he’d lost sight of how much he was losing. He’d let the game get personal.

His shirt was hot and sticky with sweat. His legs were numb from sitting so long, and his back was aching from hunching forward expectantly to study his cards.

He was down almost a thousand credits on the night, but none of the other players had been able to cash in on his misfortune. With the Sabacc pot capped all the antes and penalties went straight to ORO. He’d have to work a month of grueling shifts in the mines if he ever wanted to see any of those credits again. But it was too late to turn back now. His only consolation was that the Republic ensign was down at least twice as much as he was. Yet each time the man ran out of chips, he’d just reach into his pocket and pull out another stack of credits, as if he had unlimited funds. Or as if he just didn’t care.

The CardShark fired out another hand. As he peeked at his cards, Des began to feel the first real hints of self-doubt. What if his feeling was wrong this time? What if this wasn’t his night to win? He couldn’t remember a moment in the past when his gift had betrayed him, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.

He pushed his chips in with a weak hand, defying every instinct that told him to fold. He’d have to come up at the start of the next turn, no matter how weak his cards were. Any longer and someone else might steal the sabacc pot he was working so hard to collect.

The marker flickered and the cards shifted. Des didn’t bother to look; he simply flipped over his cards and muttered, “Coming up.”

When he saw his hand he felt like he’d been slapped. He was sitting at negative twenty-three exactly, a bomb-out. The penalty cleaned out his stack of chips.

“Whoa, big fella,” the ensign mocked drunkenly, “you must be lum-soaked to come up on that. What the brix were you thinking?”

“Maybe he doesn’t understand the difference between plus twenty-three and minus twenty-three,” said one of the soldiers watching the match, grinning like a manka cat.

Des tried to ignore them as he paid the penalty. He felt empty. Hollow.

“You don’t talk so much when you’re losing, huh?” the ensign sneered.

Hate. Des didn’t feel anything else at first. Pure, white-hot hatred consumed every thought, every motion, and every ounce of reason in his brain. Suddenly he didn’t care about the pot, didn’t care about how many credits he had already lost. All he wanted was to wipe the smug expression from the ensign’s face. And there was only one way he could do it.

He shot a savage glare in the ensign’s direction, but the man was too drunk to be intimidated. Without taking his eyes off his enemy, Des swiped his ORO account card into the reader and rang up another buy-in, ignoring the logical part of his mind that tried to talk him out of it.

The CardShark, its circuits and wires oblivious to what was really going on, pushed a stack of chips toward him and uttered its typically cheery, “Good luck.”

Des opened with the Ace and two of sabers. He was at seventeen, a dangerous hand. Lots of potential to go too high on his next card and bomb out. He hesitated, knowing that the smart move was to fold.

“Having second thoughts?” the ensign chided.

Acting on an impulse he couldn’t even explain, Des moved his two into the interference field, then pushed his chips into the pot. He was letting his emotions guide him, but he no longer cared. And when the next card came up as a three, he knew what he had to do. He shoved his three into the interference field beside the two that was already there. Then he bet the maximum wager and waited for the switch.

There were actually two ways to win the sabacc pot. One was to get a hand that totaled twenty-three exactly, a pure sabacc. But there was an even better hand: the idiot’s array. In modified Bespin rules, if you had a hand of two and three in the same suit and drew the face card known as the Idiot, which had no value at all, you had an idiot’s array … 23 in the literal sense. It was the rarest hand possible, and it was worth more than even a pure sabacc.

Des was two-thirds of the way there. All he needed now was a switch to take his ten and replace it with the Idiot. Of course, that meant there had to be a switch. And even then he’d have to draw the Idiot off it … and there were only two Idiots in the entire seventy-six-card deck. It was a ridiculously long shot.

The marker came up red; the cards shifted. Des didn’t even have to look at his hand: he knew.

He stared right into the ensign’s eyes. “Coming up.”

The ensign looked down at his own hand to see what the switch had given him and began to laugh so hard he could barely show his hand. He had the two of flasks, the three of flasks … and the Idiot!

There were gasps of surprise and murmurs of disbelief from the crowd. “How do you like that one, boys?” he cackled. “Idiot’s array on the switch!” He stood up, reaching out for the stack of chips on the small pedestal that sat in the center of the table representing the sabacc pot.

Des whipped his hand out and snagged the young man’s wrist in a grip as cold and hard as durasteel, then flipped over his own cards. The entire cantina became silent as a tomb; the ensign’s laughter died in his throat. A second later he pulled his hand free and sat back down, dumbfounded. From the far edge of the table somebody let out a long, low whistle of amazement. The rest of the crowd burst into noise.

“… never in my life …”

“… can’t believe …”

“… statistically impossible …”

“Two idiot’s arrays in the same hand?”

The CardShark summarized the result in the purest analytical fashion. “We have two players with hands of equal value. The hand will be determined by a sudden demise.”

The ensign didn’t react with the same kind of calm. “You stupid mudcrutch!” he spat out, his voice strangled with rage. “Now nobody’s going to get that sabacc pot!” His eyes bulged out wildly; a vein was pulsing on his forehead. One of his fellow soldiers had placed a hand on his shoulder, as if afraid his friend might leap across the table to try to choke the life out of the miner on the other side.

The ensign was right: neither of them would be collecting the sabacc pot on this hand. In a sudden demise each player was dealt one more card, and the value of the hands was recalculated. If you had the better hand, you’d win … but you wouldn’t get the sabacc pot unless you scored twenty-three exactly. That, however, seemed impossible: there were no more Idiots to deal out to preserve an idiot’s array, and no single card had a value higher than the Ace’s fifteen.

Not that Des cared. It was enough to have destroyed his opponent’s will; to have crushed his hopes and robbed him of his victory. He could feel the ensign’s hate, and he responded to it. It was like a living being … an entity he could draw strength from, fueling his own raging inferno. But Des didn’t put his emotions out on display for the rest of the crowd to see. The hate burning in him was his own private store, a power raging inside him so fierce he felt it could crack the world if he let it escape.

The dealer flicked out two cards faceup for everyone to see. They were both nines. Before anyone even had time to react the droid had recalculated the hand, determined that the two players were still tied, and fired out another card to each of them. The ensign took an eight, but Des got another nine. Idiot, two, three, nine, nine … twenty-three!

He reached out slowly and tapped his cards, whispering a single word to his opponent: “Sabacc.”

The soldier went ballistic. He leapt up, grabbed the underside of the table with both hands, and gave a mighty heave. Only the weight of the table and the builtin stabilizers kept it from flipping over, though it rocked and slammed back into the ground with a deafening crash. All the drinks on it spilled over; ale and lum washed across the electronic cards, causing them to spark and short out.

“Sir, please don’t touch the table,” the CardShark implored in a pitiful voice.

“Shut up, you hunk of rusted scrap metal!” The ensign grabbed one of the overturned mugs from the table and hurled it at the droid. It connected with a ringing thud. The droid stumbled back and fell over.

The ensign thrust a finger at Des. “You cheated! Nobody gets sabacc on a sudden demise! Not unless he cheats!”

Des didn’t say anything; he didn’t even stand up. But his muscles were braced in case the soldier made a move.

The ensign turned back to the droid as it rose shakily to its feet. “You’re in on it!” He threw another mug at it, connecting again and dropping the droid a second time. Two of the other soldiers tried to restrain him, but he shook free of their grip. He spun around, waving his arms at the crowd. “You’re all in on it! Dirty, Sith-loving scum! You hate the Republic! You hate us. We know you do. We know!”

The miners pushed in closer, grumbling angrily. The ensign’s insults weren’t far off the mark; there were a lot of bad feelings toward the Republic on Apatros. And if he didn’t watch his mouth, somebody was going to show him just how strong those feelings were.

“We give our lives to protect you, but you don’t give a wobber! Any chance to humiliate us, you take it!”

His friends had grabbed him again, trying to wrestle him out the door. But there was no way they could get through the crowd now. From the looks on their faces, the soldiers were terrified. With good reason, Des thought. None of them was armed; their blasters were back on their ship. Now they were trapped in the center of a hostile crush of heavily muscled miners who’d been drinking all night. And their friend wouldn’t shut up.

“You should get down on your knees and thank us each and every time we land on this ball of bantha sweat you call a planet! But you’re too stupid to know how lucky you are to have us on your side! You’re nothing but a bunch of filthy, illiterate—”

A lum bottle hurled anonymously from the crowd struck him hard in the side of his head, cutting his words short. He dropped to the floor, dragging his friends down with him. Des stood motionless as a mass of angry miners surged.

The sound of a blaster caused everyone to freeze. Groshik had climbed up onto the top of the bar, his stunner already charging up to fire again. But everybody knew the next shot wouldn’t be aimed at the ceiling.

“We’re closed,” he croaked as loud as his raspy voice could manage. “Everybody get out of my cantina!”

The miners began to back off, and the soldiers stood up warily. The ensign swayed, the cut on his forehead bleeding into his eye.

“You three first,” the Neimoidian said to the ensign and the soldiers who supported him. He waved the barrel of his weapon menacingly around the room. “Clear a path. Get them out of here.”

Everyone but the soldiers remained frozen. This wasn’t the first time Groshik had whipped out the stunner. The BlasTech CS-33 Firespray stun rifle was one of the finest nonlethal crowd-control devices on the market, capable of incapacitating multiple targets with a single shot. More than a few of the miners had felt the brutal force of its wide-beam blast rendering them unconscious. From personal experience Des could attest to the fact that it wasn’t a pain anyone was likely to forget.

Once the Republic crew vanished into the night, the rest of the crowd began to move slowly toward the door. Des fell into step with the masses, but as he passed the bar Groshik pointed the blaster right at him.

“Not you. You stay put.”

Des didn’t move a millimeter until all the others were gone. He wasn’t scared; he didn’t think Groshik would really fire. Still, he saw no advantage in giving him a reason to.

Only after the last patron had left and closed the door did Groshik lower his arm. He clambered down awkwardly from the bar and set the rifle on the table, then turned to Des.

“I figured it was safer to keep you here with me for a bit,” he explained. “Those soldiers were pretty mad. They might be waiting for you on the walk home.”

Des smiled. “I didn’t figure you were mad at me,” he said.

Groshik snorted. “Oh, I’m mad at you. That’s why you’re going to help me clean up this mess.”

Des sighed and shook his head in mock exasperation. “You saw what happened, Groshik. I was just an innocent bystander.”

Groshik wasn’t in any mood to hear it. “Just start picking up the chairs,” he muttered.

With the help of the CardShark—at least it was good for something besides dealing, Des thought—they finished cleaning up in just over an hour. When they were done the droid waddled out on shaky legs, heading toward the maintenance facilities for repairs. Before it left, Des made sure his sabacc winnings had been credited to his account.

Now that it was just the two of them, Groshik motioned Des over to the bar, grabbed a couple of glasses, and took a bottle down from the shelf.

“Cortyg brandy,” he said, pouring them each half a glass. “Direct from Kashyyyk. Not the hard stuff the Wookiees drink, though. Milder. Smoother. More tame.”

Des took a sip and nearly choked as the fiery liquid burned its way down his throat. “This is tame? I’d hate to see what the Wookiees drink!”

Groshik shrugged. “What do you expect? They’re Wookiees.”

With his second sip, Des was more careful. He let it roll across his tongue, savoring the rich flavor. “This is good, Groshik. And expensive, I bet. What’s the occasion?”

“You had quite a day. I thought you could use it.”

Des drained his glass. Groshik filled him up halfway, then corked the bottle and set it back on the shelf.

“I’m worried about you,” the Neimoidian rasped. “Worried about what happened in the fight with Gerd.”

“He didn’t give me much choice.”

The Neimodian nodded. “I know, I know. Still … you bit off his thumb. And tonight you nearly started a riot in my bar.”

“Hey, I just wanted to play cards,” Des protested. “It’s not my fault things got out of hand.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I saw you tonight. You were goading that soldier, playing him like you play everyone who sits down against you. You push them, twist them, make them dance like puppets on a string. But this time you never let up. Even when you had the advantage, you kept pushing. You wanted him to go off like that.”

“Are you saying I planned this whole thing?” Des laughed. “Come on, Groshik. It was the cards that set him off. You know I wasn’t cheating—it’s just not possible. How could I control what cards were dealt?”

“It was more than the cards, Des,” Groshik said, his gravelly voice dropping so low that Des had to lean in close to hear. “You were angry, Des. More angry than I’ve ever seen you before. I could feel it from all the way across the room, like something in the air. We could all feel it.

“The crowd turned ugly in a hurry, Des. It was like they were feeding off your rage and your hate. You were projecting waves of emotion, a storm of anger and fury. Everyone else just kind of got swept up in it: the crowd, that soldier … everybody. Even me. It was all I could do to aim that first shot from my blaster at the ceiling. Every instinct in my body was telling me to fire it into the crowd. I wanted to take them all down and leave them writhing in pain.”

Des couldn’t believe his ears. “Listen to what you’re saying, Groshik. It’s crazy. You know I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t do that. Nobody could.”

Groshik reached up a long, thin hand and patted Des on the shoulder. “I know you’d never do it on purpose, Des. And I know how crazy it sounds. But there was something different about you tonight. You gave in to your emotions, and it unleashed something … strange. Something dangerous.”

Groshik tossed his head back and drained the last of his cortyg, shuddering as it went down. “Just watch yourself, Des. Please. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Be careful, Groshik,” Des replied with another laugh. “Neimoidians aren’t known for relying on their feelings. It’s not good for business.”

Groshik studied him carefully for a moment, then nodded wearily. “True. Maybe I’m just tired. I should get some sleep. And so should you.”

They shook hands, and Des left the cantina.

5

The streets of Apatros were dark. ORO charged such high rates for power that everyone turned off all their lights when they went to bed, and tonight the moon was only the barest sliver in the sky. There wasn’t even the cantina’s glow to guide him: Groshik had shut off the lights on its walls and dome until he opened the next day. Des stayed in the middle of the street, trying to avoid breaking his shins on the debris hidden in the darker shadows along the edges.

Yet somehow, despite the near-absolute darkness, he saw them coming.

It was a split second before it happened, a sense that danger was coming … and where it was coming from. Three silhouettes leapt at him, two coming head-on and another attacking from behind. He ducked forward just in time, feeling the metal pipe that would have cracked his skull and knocked him cold swiping through the air a hairbreadth above him. He popped back up as it passed and lashed out with a fist, driving into the featureless head of the nearest figure. He was rewarded with the sick crunch of cartilage and bone.

He ducked again, this time to the side, and the pipe that would have brained him square between the eyes thumped down hard across his left shoulder. He staggered to the side, driven by the force of the blow. But in the darkness it took a moment for his opponents to locate him, and by then he had regained his balance.

Through the gloom he could just make out the vague outlines of his attackers. The one he’d punched was slowly standing up; the other two stood wary and ready. He didn’t have to see their faces to know who they were: the ensign and the two soldiers who’d half carried the man from the cantina. Des could smell the reek of Corellian ale wafting up at him, confirming their identities. They must have waited outside the cantina and followed him until they thought they could get the jump on him. That was good: it meant they hadn’t gone back to their ship to get their blasters.

They came at him again, rushing him all at once. They had the numbers and months of military hand-to-hand combat training on their side; Des had strength, size, and years of bare-knuckle brawling on his. But in the darkness, none of that really mattered.

Des met their charge head-on, and all four combatants tumbled to the ground. Punches and kicks landed without any thought given to target or strategy: the blind fighting the blind. Each blow he landed brought a satisfying grunt or groan from his opponents, but his enjoyment was limited by the pummeling his own body was enduring.

It didn’t matter if his eyes were open or closed, he couldn’t see a thing. He reacted on instinct; aches and pains were washed away in the darkness by the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

And then suddenly he saw something. Someone had drawn a vibroblade. It was still black as the heart of the mines during a cave-in, yet Des could see the blade clearly, as if it glowed with an inner fire. It stabbed toward him and he grabbed the wrist of the wielder, twisting it back and driving it toward the dark mass from which it had appeared. There was a sharp cry and then a choking gurgle, and suddenly the burning blade in his vision winked out, the threat extinguished.

The mass of bodies entwined with his quickly untangled, two of them scampering clear. The third was motionless. A second later he heard the click of a luma switching on, and he was momentarily blinded by its beam of light. Eyes squeezed shut, he heard a gasp.

“He’s dead!” one of the soldiers exclaimed. “You killed him!”

Shading his eyes against the illumination, Des glanced down to see exactly what he’d expected: the ensign lying on his back, the vibroblade plunged deep into his chest.

The luma flicked off, and Des braced himself for another assault. Instead he heard the sounds of footsteps fleeing in the night, heading toward the docking pads.

Des looked down at the body, planning to grab the glowing blade and use its light to guide him through the darkness. But the blade wasn’t glowing now. In fact, he realized, it had never really glowed at all. It couldn’t have: vibroblades weren’t energy weapons. Their blades were simple metal.

There were more pressing concerns than how he had seen the vibroblade in the darkness, however. As soon as they reached their ship, the soldiers would report to their commander, who would report the incident to the ORO authorities. ORO would turn the planet upside down looking for him. Des didn’t like his chances. It would be the word of a miner—one with a history of brawls and violence, at that—against two Republic naval soldiers. No one would believe it had been an act of self-defense.

And had it been, really? He had seen the blade coming. Could he have disarmed his opponent without killing him? Des shook his head. He didn’t have time for guilt or regrets. Not now. He had to find somewhere safe to hide out.

He couldn’t go back to his barracks: that was the first place they’d look. He’d never reach the mines on foot before daybreak, and there was nowhere on the open wastes he could hide once the sun came up. There was only one option, one hope. Eventually they’d go looking for him there, too. But he had nowhere else to go.

Groshik must have still been awake, because he answered the door only seconds after Des began pounding on it. The Neimoidian took one look at the blood on the young man’s hands and shirt and grabbed him by the sleeve.

“Get in here!” he croaked, yanking Des through the door and slamming it shut behind him. “Are you hurt?”

Des shook his head. “I don’t think so. The blood isn’t mine.”

Taking a step back, the Neimoidian looked him up and down. “There’s a lot of it. Too much. Smells human.”

When Des didn’t reply, Groshik ventured a guess. “Gerd’s?”

Another shake of the head. “The ensign,” Des said.

Groshik dropped his head and swore under his breath. “Who knows? Are the authorities after you?”

“Not yet. Soon.” Then, as if trying to justify his actions, he added, “There were three of them, Groshik. Only one’s dead.”

His old friend nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure he had it coming. Just like Gerd. But that doesn’t change the facts. A Republic soldier is dead … and you’re the one who’s going to take the blame.”

The cantina owner led Des over to the bar and brought down the bottle of cortyg brandy. Without saying a word, he poured them each a drink. This time he didn’t stop at half glasses.

“I’m sorry I came here,” Des said, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence. “I didn’t mean to get you mixed up in this.”

“Getting mixed up in things doesn’t bother me,” Groshik reassured him with a comforting pat on his arm. “I’m just trying to figure a way to get us out of this now. Let me think.”

They downed their glasses. It was all Des could do to keep from panicking; with each passing second he expected a dozen men in ORO body armor to crash down the cantina’s door. After what seemed like hours, but was probably only a minute or two, Groshik began to talk. He spoke softly, and Des wasn’t sure if the Neimoidian was addressing him or merely talking out loud to help himself think.

“You can’t stay here. ORO can’t afford to lose their Republic contracts. They’ll turn the whole colony upside down to find you. We have to get you offworld.” He paused. “But by morning, your picture will be on every vidscreen in Republic space. Changing your looks won’t help much. Even with a wig or facial prosthetics you tend to stand out in a crowd. So that means we have to get you out of Republic space. And that means …” Groshik trailed off.

Des waited expectantly.

“Those things you said tonight,” Groshik ventured, “about the Sith and the Republic. Did you mean it? Did you really mean it?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

There was another long pause, as if the bartender was gathering himself. “How would you feel about joining the Sith?” he suddenly blurted out.

Des was caught completely off guard. “What?”

“I know … people. I can get you offworld. Tonight. But these people aren’t looking for passengers: the Sith need soldiers. They’re always recruiting, just like those Republic officers tonight.”

Des shook his head. “I don’t believe this. You work for the Sith? You always said never to take sides!”

“I don’t work for the Sith,” Groshik snapped. “I just know people who do. I know people who work for the Republic, too. But they’re not going to be much help in this situation. So I need to know, Des. Is this something you want?”

“I don’t have a lot of other options,” Des mumbled in reply.

“Maybe, maybe not. If you stay here, the ORO authorities are sure to find you. This wasn’t a cold-blooded murder. The judiciary probably won’t let you get off by pleading self-defense, but they’ll have to admit there were extenuating circumstances. You’ll serve time on one of the penal colonies—five, maybe six years—and then you’re a free man.”

“Or I join the Sith.”

Groshik nodded. “Or you join the Sith. But if I’m going to help you do this, I want to be sure you know what you’re getting into.”

Des thought about it, but not for long. “I’ve spent my entire life trying to get off this hunk of rock,” he said slowly. “If I go to a prison world, I’m trading one barren, blasted planet for another. No different than staying right here.

“If I join the Sith, at least I’m out from under ORO’s thumb. And you heard what that Republic commander said about them. The Sith respect strength. I think I’ll be able to hold my own.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Groshik conceded. “But don’t dismiss everything else that commander said. He was right about the Brotherhood of Darkness. They can be ruthless and cruel. They bring out the worst in some people. I don’t want you to fall into that trap.”

“First you tell me to join the Sith,” Des said, “now you’re warning me against joining them. What’s going on?”

The Neimoidian gave a long, gurgling sigh. “You’re right, Des. The decision is made. Grim fate and ill fortune have conspired against you. It’s not like sabacc; you can’t fold a bad hand. In life you just play the cards you’re dealt.” He turned away, heading for the small stairs at the back of the cantina. “Come on. In a few hours, after they’ve searched the housing units in the colony, they’ll start searching the starport for you. We have to hurry if we want to get you safely hidden away on one of the freight cruisers before then.”

Des reached out across the bar and grabbed Groshik’s shoulder. Groshik turned to face him, and Des clasped the Neimoidian’s long, slender forearm.

“Thank you, old friend. I won’t forget this.”

“I know you won’t, Des.” Though the words were kind, there was an unmistakable sorrow in the gravelly voice.

Des released his grip, feeling awkward, ashamed, scared, grateful, and excited all at the same time. He felt like he needed to say something else, so he added, “I’ll make this up to you somehow. The next time we meet—”

“Your life here is over, Des,” Groshik said, cutting him off. “There won’t be a next time. Not for us.”

The Neimoidian shook his head. “I don’t know what’s ahead of you, but I get the feeling it isn’t going to be easy. Don’t count on others for help. In the end each of us is in this alone. The survivors are those who know how to look out for themselves.”

With that he turned away, his feet shuffling briskly across the cantina’s floor as he headed to the back exit. Des hesitated a moment, Groshik’s words burning into his mind, then rushed off to follow.

*  *  *

Huddled in the hold of the ship, Des tried to get comfortable. He’d been crammed into the small smuggler’s hatch for nearly an hour. It was a tight fit for a man of his size.

Twenty minutes earlier he had heard an ORO patrol come to inspect the ship. They had made a cursory search; not finding the fugitive they were seeking, they had left. A few seconds later the captain, a Rodian pilot, had rapped hard on the panel keeping Des hidden.

“You stay until engines go,” he had called in passable galactic Basic. “We take off, you come out. Not before.”

Des hadn’t recognized him when he’d climbed aboard; he had looked like any other Rodian he’d ever seen. Just another independent freighter captain picking up a load of cortosis, hoping to sell it on some other world for enough profit to keep his ship flying another few months.

If ORO had offered a reward for Des’s capture, the captain probably would have sold him out. That meant the ORO managers hadn’t put a price on his head. They were more worried about paying out a bounty than letting a fugitive escape Republic justice. It wasn’t important that they found him, as long as they could show the Republic they had tried. Groshik must have realized all this when he made the arrangements to smuggle Des aboard.

The high-pitched whine of the engines powering up caused Des to brace himself against the walls of his close quarters. A few seconds later the whine became a deafening roar, and the ship lurched beneath him. The repulsors fired, counterbalancing the vessel, and Des felt the press of the g’s as the ship took to the sky.

He kicked at the panel once, knocking it free, and untangled himself from the hidey-hole. The captain and crew weren’t around; they would all be at their stations for liftoff.

Des didn’t know their destination. All he knew was that at the end of the trip a human woman was waiting to sign him up for the Sith army. As before, the thought filled him with a mix of emotions. Fear and excitement dominated all the others.

There was a slight jostling of the ship as it broke atmosphere and began to speed away from the tiny mining world. A few seconds later Des felt an unfamiliar but unmistakable surge as they jumped to hyperspace.

A sudden sense of liberation filled his spirit. He was free. For the first time in his life, he was beyond the grasping reach of ORO and its cortosis mines. Groshik had said that grim fate and ill fortune were conspiring against him, but Des wasn’t so sure now. Things hadn’t worked out quite the way he’d planned—he was a fugitive with the blood of a Republic soldier on his hands—but he had finally escaped Apatros.

Maybe the cards he’d been dealt weren’t so bad, after all. In the end he’d gotten the one thing he wanted most. And when you came right down to it, wasn’t that the only thing that really mattered?

6

Phaseera’s yellow sun was directly overhead, beaming down across the lush valley and over the jungle camp where Des and his fellow Sith troopers waited. Beneath the shelter of a cydera tree, Des ran a quick system check on his TC-22 blaster rifle to pass the time. The power pack was fully charged, good for fifty shots. His backup power pack checked out, too. The aim was off just slightly, a common problem with all TC models. They had good range and power, but over time their scopes could lose precise calibration. A quick adjustment brought it back into line.

His hands moved with a quick confidence born of a thousand repetitions. Over the past twelve months he’d gone through the routine so many times he barely even had to think about it anymore. A pre-battle weapons check wasn’t standard practice in the Sith militia, but it was a habit he’d gotten into—one that had saved his life on several occasions. The Sith army was growing so fast that supply couldn’t keep up with demand. The best equipment was reserved for veterans and officers, while new recruits were forced to make do with whatever was available.

Now that he was a sergeant he could have requested a better model, but the TC-22 was the first weapon he’d learned to fire and he’d become pretty good with it. Des figured a little routine maintenance was a better option than learning to master the subtle nuances of another weapon.

His blaster pistol, however, was top of the line. Not all Sith troopers were given pistols: for most soldiers a medium-range, semi-repeating rifle was weapon enough. They’d probably be dead long before they ever got close enough to their enemy to use a pistol. But in the past year Des had proven a dozen times over that he was more than just turret fodder. Soldiers good enough to survive the initial rush and get in tight to the enemy ranks needed a weapon more suited to close-quarters fighting.

For Des that weapon was the GSI-21D: the finest disruptor pistol manufactured by Galactic Solutions Industries. Optimum range was only twenty meters, but within that distance it was capable of disintegrating armor, flesh, and droid plating with equal efficiency. The 21D was illegal in most Republic-controlled sectors of the galaxy, a testament to its awesome destructive potential. The disruptor’s power pack carried only enough charge for a dozen shots, but when he was eye-to-eye with an opponent it rarely took more than one.

He slid the pistol into the holster clipped to his belt, checked the vibroblade in his boot, and turned his attention to his troops. All around him the men and women of his unit were following his lead, making similar inspections of their own equipment as they waited for the orders. He couldn’t help but smile; he’d trained them well.

He’d joined the Sith armies as a way to escape both prison and Apatros itself. But it hadn’t taken him long to actually grow fond of the soldier’s life. There was a camaraderie among the men and women who fought at his side, a bond that quickly extended to include Des himself. He’d never felt any connection to the miners on Apatros and indeed had always considered himself something of a loner. But in the military he’d found his true place. He belonged here with the troops. His troops.

Senior Trooper Adanar noticed his gaze and responded by thumping a closed fist lightly against his chest twice, just over his heart. It was a gesture known only to members of the unit: a private sign for loyalty and fidelity, a symbol of the bond they all shared.

Des returned the gesture. He and Adanar had been in the same unit since day one of their military careers. The recruiter had signed them up together and assigned them both to the Gloom Walkers, Lieutenant Ulabore’s unit.

Adanar picked up his rifle and sauntered over to where his friend was sitting. “You figure we’re going to need that disruptor pistol of yours anytime soon, Sarge?”

“No harm in being prepared,” Des replied, whipping out the disruptor and giving it a spinning flourish before returning it to its holster.

“I wish they’d give us the go-ahead already,” Adanar grumbled. “We’ve been in position for two days now. How long are they going to wait?”

Des shrugged. “We can’t go until they’re ready to move in with the main force. We go too early and the plan falls apart.”

The Gloom Walkers had earned quite a reputation over the past year. They’d been in scores of battles on half a dozen worlds, and they’d tasted far more than their share of victories. They’d gone from being one of a thousand expendable front-line units to elite troops reserved for critical missions. Right now they were the key to capturing the manufacturing world of Phaseera—if someone would just give them the order to go. Until then they were stuck in this jungle camp an hour’s march away from their objective. They’d been here only a couple of days, but it was already beginning to take its toll.

Adanar began to pace. Des sat calmly in the shade, watching him march back and forth.

“Don’t wear yourself out,” he said after a minute. “We’re not going anywhere until nightfall at the earliest. You might as well get comfortable.”

Adanar stopped pacing, but he didn’t sit down. “Lieutenant says this is going to be easy as a spicerun,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “You figure he’s right?”

Lieutenant Ulabore had received many accolades for the success of his troops, but everyone in the unit knew who was really in charge when the blaster bolts started flying.

That fact had become painfully clear nearly a year before back on Kashyyyk, where Des and Adanar had seen their first action. The Brotherhood of Darkness had tried to secure a foothold in the Mid Rim by invading the system, sending in wave after wave of troops to capture the resource-rich homeworld of the Wookiees. But the planet was a Republic stronghold and they weren’t about to retreat, no matter how badly outnumbered.

When the Sith fleet first landed, their enemies simply vanished into the forest. The invasion turned into a war of attrition, a long, drawn-out campaign fought among the branches of the wroshyr trees high above the planet’s surface. The Sith troopers weren’t used to fighting in the treetops, and the thick foliage and kshyy vines of the forest canopy provided perfect cover for the Republic soldiers and their Wookiee guides to launch ambushes and guerrilla raids. Thousands upon thousands of the invaders were wiped out, most dying without even seeing the opponent who had fired the fatal shot … but the Sith Masters just kept sending more troops in.

The Gloom Walkers were part of the second wave of reinforcements. During their first battle they were separated from the main lines, cut off from the rest of the army. Alone and surrounded by enemies, Lieutenant Ulabore panicked. Without direct orders, he had no idea what to do to keep his unit alive. Fortunately, Des was there to step in and save their hides.

For starters, he could sense the enemy even when he couldn’t see them. Somehow he just knew where they were. He couldn’t explain it, but he’d stopped trying to explain his unique talents long ago. Now he just tried to use them to his best advantage. With Des as their guide, the Gloom Walkers were able to avoid the traps and ambushes as they slowly worked their way back to rejoin the main force. It took three days and nights, countless brief but deadly battles, and a seemingly endless march through enemy territory, but they made it. Through all the fighting, the unit lost only a handful of soldiers, and the troops who made it back knew they owed their lives to Des.

The story of the Gloom Walkers became a rallying point for the rest of the Sith army, raising morale that had become dangerously low. If a single unit could survive for three days on its own, they reasoned, then surely a thousand units could win the war. In the end it took almost two thousand units, but Kashyyyk finally fell.

As leader of the heroic Gloom Walkers, Lieutenant Ulabore was given a special commendation. He never bothered to mention that Des was really the one responsible. Still, he’d been smart enough to promote Des to sergeant. And he knew enough to stay out of the way when things got hot.

“So?” Adanar repeated. “What’s the word, Des? When they finally give us the go, is this mission going to be a spicerun?”

“The lieutenant’s just saying what he thinks we all want to hear.”

“I know that, Des. That’s why I’m talking to you. I want to know what we’re really in for.”

Des thought about it for a few moments. They were holed up in the jungle on the edge of a narrow valley—the only route into Phaseera’s capital city, where the Republic army had set up its base camp. On a nearby hill overlooking the valley was a Republic outpost. If the Sith tried to move troops through the valley, even at night, the outpost was sure to spot them. They’d signal ahead to the base camp so their defenses would be up and fully operational long before the enemy ever reached them.

The Gloom Walkers’ mission was simple: eliminate the outpost so the rest of the army could launch a surprise attack on the Republic base camp. They had interference boxes—short-range jamming equipment they could use to keep the outpost from transmitting a signal to warn the main camp—but they’d have to hit them fast. The outpost reported each day at dawn, and if the Gloom Walkers struck too soon, the Republic would realize something was wrong when the daily report didn’t come in.

The timing was critical. They’d have to take them out just before the main force entered the area. That would leave a few hours to cross the valley and catch the base camp unprepared. It was doable, but only if everything was coordinated perfectly. The Gloom Walkers were in place, but the main force wasn’t ready to make its move yet … and so they waited.

“I’m worried,” Des finally conceded. “Taking that outpost won’t be easy. Once we get the go-ahead there’s no margin for error. We have to be perfect. If they’ve got any surprises waiting for us, we could be in trouble.”

Adanar spit on the ground. “I knew it! You’ve got a bad feeling, don’t you? This is Hsskhor all over again!”

Hsskhor had been a disaster. After Kashyyyk fell, the surviving Republic soldiers fled to the neighboring world of Trandosha. Twenty units of Sith troopers, including the Gloom Walkers, were sent in pursuit. They caught up to the Republic survivors on the desert plains outside the city of Hsskhor.

A day of savage fighting left many dead on both sides, but no definitive victor. Des had been uneasy throughout the battle, though at the time he hadn’t been able to say why. His unease had grown as night fell and both sides retreated to opposite ends of the battlefield to regroup. The Trandoshans had struck a few hours later.

The pitch-black night wasn’t a problem for the reptilian Trandoshans: they could see into the infrared spectrum. They seemed to come out of nowhere, materializing from the darkness like a nightmare given substance.

Unlike the Wookiees, the Trandoshans weren’t allied with either side in the galactic civil war. The bounty hunters and mercenaries of Hsskhor cut a swath of destruction through the ranks of Republic and Sith alike, not caring whom they fought just as long as they came away with trophies from their kills.

Details of the massacre were never officially released. Des had been at the very center of the carnage, and even he could barely piece together what had happened. The attack caught the Gloom Walkers, like every other unit, completely off guard. By the time the sun rose nearly half the Sith troops had been cut down. Des lost a lot of friends in the slaughter … friends he might have saved if he had paid more attention to the dark premonition he’d felt when he first set foot on that forsaken desert world. And he vowed he’d never let the Gloom Walkers get caught in a slaughter like that again.

In the end Hsskhor paid a heavy price for the ambush. Reinforcements were sent in from Kashyyyk to overwhelm both the Republic forces and the Trandoshans. It took less than a week for the Sith to claim victory, and the once proud city was sacked and razed to the ground. Many of the Trandoshans simply gave up the fight to defend their homes and offered their services to their conquerors. They were bounty hunters and mercenaries by trade, and hunters by nature. They didn’t care whom they were working for, as long as there was a chance to do some more killing. Needless to say, the Sith had welcomed them with open arms.

“This isn’t going to be a repeat of Hsskhor,” Des assured his nervous companion. It was true he had an uneasy feeling once again. But this time it was different. Something big was going to happen, but Des couldn’t say for sure whether it would be good or bad.

“Come on, Des,” Adanar pressed. “Go talk to Ulabore. He listens to you sometimes.”

“And tell him what?”

Adanar threw his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know! Tell him about your bad feeling. Make him get on the comm to HQ and tell them to pull us back. Or convince them to send us in! Just don’t leave us sitting out here like a bunch of dead womp rats rotting in the sun!”

Before Des could answer, one of the junior troopers, a young woman named Lucia, ran up and snapped off a crisp salute. “Sergeant! Lieutenant Ulabore wants you to assemble the troops by his tent. He’ll address them in thirty minutes,” she said, her voice earnest and excited.

Des flashed a smile at his friend. “I think we’ve finally got our orders.”

The soldiers stood at attention as the lieutenant and Des reviewed the troops. As it always did, the inspection consisted of Ulabore moving up and down the ranks, nodding and giving half-muttered approvals. It was mostly for show, a chance for Ulabore to feel as if he had something to do with the success of a mission.

Once they were done, the lieutenant marched to the front of the column and turned to face the troops. Des stood alone in front of the unit, his back to them so he could be face-to-face with his superior officer.

“Everyone here is familiar with our mission objective,” Ulabore began, his voice unusually high-pitched and loud. Des guessed he was trying to sound authoritative, but it came across as shrill.

“I’ll leave the specifics of the mission to the sergeant here,” he continued. “Our task is not an easy one, but the days of the Gloom Walkers getting easy jobs are long gone.

“I don’t have much else to say; I know you’re all as eager as I am to end this pointless waiting. That’s why I’m happy to inform you that we’ve been given the order to move out. We hit the Republic outpost in one hour!”

Horrified gasps and loud whispers of disbelief rose up from the ranks. Ulabore stepped back as if he’d been slapped. He’d obviously been expecting cheers and exultation, and was rattled by the sudden anger and lack of discipline.

“Gloom Walkers, hold!” Des barked. He stepped up to the lieutenant and lowered his voice. “Sir, are you certain those were the orders? Move in one hour? Are you certain they didn’t mean one hour after nightfall?”

“Are you questioning me, Sergeant?” Ulabore snapped, making no attempt to keep his own voice down.

“No, sir. It’s just that if we leave in one hour it’ll still be light out. They’ll see us coming.”

“By the time they see us we’ll already be close enough to jam their transmitters,” the lieutenant countered. “They won’t be able to signal back to the base camp.”

“It’s not that, sir. It’s the gunships. They’ve got three repulsorcraft equipped with heavy-repeating flash cannons. If we try to take the outpost during the day, those things will mow us down from the sky.”

“It’s a suicide mission!” someone shouted out from the ranks.

Ulabore’s eyes became narrow slits, and his face turned red. “The main army is moving out at dusk, Sergeant,” he said through tightly clenched teeth. “They want to cross the valley in darkness and hit the Republic base camp at first light.”

“Then there’s no reason for us to move so soon,” Des replied, struggling to remain calm. “If they start at dusk, it’s going to take at least three hours before they reach the valley from their current position. That gives us plenty of time to take the outpost down before they get here, even if we wait until after dark.”

“It’s obvious you don’t understand what’s really going on, Sergeant.” Ulabore spoke as if arguing with a stubborn child. “The main force isn’t going to start moving until after we report our mission is complete. That’s why we have to move now.”

It made sense: the generals wouldn’t want to risk the main force until they knew for certain the valley was secure. But sending them in during the light of day guaranteed that the Gloom Walkers’ casualty rate would increase fivefold.

“You have to comm back to HQ and explain the situation to them,” Des said. “We can’t take on those gunships in the air. We have to wait till they ground them for the night. You have to make them understand what we’re up against.”

The lieutenant acted as if he hadn’t even heard him. “The generals give the orders to me, and I give them to you,” he snapped. “Not the other way around! The army is moving out at dusk, and that’s not going to change to fit your schedule, Sergeant!”

“They won’t have to change their plans,” Des insisted. “If we leave as soon as it gets dark, we’ll still have that outpost down by the time they reach the valley. But sending us in now is just—”

“Enough!” the lieutenant snapped. “Quit braying like a bantha cut off from its herd! You have your orders, now follow them! Or do you want to see what happens to soldiers who defy their superior officers?”

Suddenly it was clear to Des what was really going on. Ulabore knew the order was a mistake, but he was too scared to do anything about it. The order must have come directly from one of the Dark Lords. Ulabore would rather lead his troops into a slaughter than face the wrath of a Sith Master. But Des wasn’t about to let him drive the Gloom Walkers to their doom. This wasn’t going to become a repeat of Hsskhor. He hesitated for only a second before slamming his fist into his lieutenant’s chin, knocking him cold.

There was stunned silence from the rest of the troops as Ulabore slumped to the ground. Des quickly took away the fallen officer’s weapons, then turned and pointed at a pair of the newest recruits.

“You two, keep an eye on the lieutenant. Make sure he’s comfortable if he wakes up, but don’t let him anywhere near the comm.”

To the communications officer he said, “Just before dusk send a message back to HQ telling them our mission is complete so they can start moving the main force into the valley. That will give us two hours to achieve our objective before they get here.”

Turning to address the rest of the troops, he paused to let the gravity of his next words sink in. “What I’ve done here is mutiny,” he said slowly. “There’s a chance anyone who follows me from here on in will face a court-martial when this is over. If any of you feel you can’t follow my orders after what I’ve done here today, speak up now and I’ll surrender command to Senior Trooper Adanar for the rest of the mission.”

He gazed out across the soldiers. For a second nobody spoke; then as one they all raised their fists and gave two light raps on their chest, just above the heart.

Overwhelmed with pride, Des had to swallow hard before he could give his final order to the troops … his troops. “Gloom Walkers, dismissed!”

The ranks dispersed in groups of twos and threes, the soldiers whispering quietly to one another. Adanar broke away from the rest and came up to Des.

“Ulabore’s not going to forget this,” he said quietly. “What are you going to do about him?”

“After we take that outpost they’ll want to pin a medal on our commanding officer,” Des replied. “I’m betting he’d rather shut up and accept it than let anyone know what really happened.”

Adanar grunted. “Guess you got it all worked out.”

“Not quite,” Des admitted. “I’m still not sure how we’re going to take down that outpost.”

7

The outpost was located in a clearing on the top of a plateau overlooking the valley. Under the cover of night, the Gloom Walkers had moved silently through the jungle until they had it surrounded. Des had broken the unit up into four squads, each approaching from a different side. Each squad carried an interference box with it.

They had set up and activated the i-boxes once they’d closed to within half a kilometer of the base, jamming all transmissions within their perimeter. The squads had continued on to the edges of the clearing then stopped, waiting for Des to give them the signal to move in. With no communication among the squads—the i-boxes jammed their own equipment as well—the most reliable signal was the sound of blasterfire.

As he stared across the clearing at the three repulsorcraft sitting on the landing pad atop the outpost’s roof, Des felt a familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach. All soldiers felt the same thing going into battle, whether they admitted it or not: fear. Fear of failure, fear of dying, fear of watching their friends die, fear of being wounded and living out the rest of their days crippled or maimed. The fear was always there, and it would devour you if you let it.

Des knew how to turn that fear to his own advantage. Take what makes you weak and turn it into something that makes you strong. Transform the fear into anger and hate: hatred of the enemy; hatred of the Republic and the Jedi. The hate gave him strength, and the strength brought him victory.

For Des the transformation came easily once the fighting started. Thanks to his abusive father, he’d been turning fear into anger and hate ever since he was a child. Maybe that was why he was such a good soldier. Maybe that was why the others looked to him for leadership.

They were waiting on his signal even now, waiting for him to take the first shot. As soon as he did, they’d charge the outpost. The Gloom Walkers were outnumbered nearly two to one; they’d need the advantage of surprise to even out the odds. But those gunships were a problem Des hadn’t anticipated.

The clearing was surrounded by bright lights that illuminated everything within a hundred meters of the outpost itself. And even though the repulsorcraft were grounded, there was a soldier stationed in the open flatbed at the rear of each vehicle, operating the turrets. The armored walls of the flatbed rose to waist height to give the gunner some cover, and the turret itself was heavily shielded to protect it from enemy fire.

From the landing pad on the roof, the gunners had a clear view of the surrounding area. If he fired that first shot, the other units would charge out into the clearing and right into a storm of heavy-repeating blasterfire. They’d be torn apart like zucca tossed into a rancor pit.

“What’s the matter, Sarge?” one of the soldiers in his squad asked. It was Lucia, the junior trooper who’d delivered Ulabore’s orders to him earlier. “What are we waiting for?”

It was too late to call off the mission. The main army was already on the move; by the time Des got back to camp to warn them, they’d be halfway through the valley.

He glanced down at the young recruit and noticed the scope on her weapon. Lucia was carrying a TC-17 long-range blaster rifle. Her knuckles were white from gripping her weapon too tightly in fear and anticipation. She’d seen only minor combat duty before being assigned to the Gloom Walkers, but Des knew she was one of the best shots in the unit. The TC-17 was only good for a dozen shots before the power cell had to be switched out, but it had a range well over three hundred meters.

Each of the four squads had a sniper assigned to it. When the fighting began, their job was to watch the perimeter of the battle and make sure none of the Republic soldiers escaped to warn their main camp.

“See those soldiers standing in the rear of the gunships? The ones working the flash cannons?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“If we don’t get rid of them somehow, they’re going to turn our squads into turret fodder about ten seconds after this battle begins.”

She nodded again, her eyes wide and scared. Des tried to keep his voice even and professional to calm her down.

“I want you to think about this very carefully now, trooper. How fast do you think you could take them out from here?”

She hesitated. “I … I don’t even know if I could, Sarge. Not all of them. Not from this angle. I could get a line on the first one, but as soon as he goes down, I doubt the others will stand still long enough for me to take aim. They’ll probably duck down in the flatbed for cover. And even if I take the gunners out, there’s half a dozen more soldiers on that roof who would jump in to take their places. I can’t drop nine targets that fast by myself, Sarge. Nobody can.”

Des bit his lip and tried to figure out an answer to the problem. There were only three gunships. If he could somehow get a message to the sniper in each squad and have them fire at exactly the same time, they might be able to take out the unsuspecting gunners … though they’d still have to stop the other six soldiers from replacing them.

He cut off his own line of thought with a silent curse. It would never work. Because of the i-boxes there was no way to get a message to the other squads in time.

Taking the sniper rifle from Lucia’s hands, he brought the weapon up and set his eye to the scope to get a better look at the situation. He scanned the roof quickly from side to side, noting the position of every Republic soldier. With the magnification of the scope he could make out their features clear enough to see their lips moving as they spoke.

The situation was practically hopeless. The outpost was the key to taking Phaseera, and the turrets on the roof were the key to taking the outpost. But Des was out of options and almost out of time.

He felt the fear stronger than ever and took a deep breath to focus his mind. Adrenaline began to pump through his veins as he redirected the fear to give him strength and power. He lined the blaster’s scope up on one of the gunners, and a red veil fell across his vision. And then he fired.

He acted on instinct, moving too quickly to let his conscious thoughts get in the way. He didn’t even see the first soldier drop; the scope was already moving to his next target. The second gunner had just enough time to open his eyes wide in surprise before Des fired and moved on to the third. But she’d seen the first gunner go down and had already dropped down behind the armored walls of the gunship’s flatbed for cover.

Des resisted the impulse to fire wildly and moved the scope in a tight circle, looking in vain for a clean shot. The sound of blasterfire exploded in the night, along with shouts and pounding feet as the Gloom Walkers burst from their cover and rushed the outpost. They’d followed their orders to the letter, charging out at the sound of the first shot. Des knew he had only a few seconds before the turrets opened up on them and turned the clearing into a killing field, but he couldn’t see the shot to take out the third gunner.

He whipped the rifle around in desperation, looking for a new target on the roof. He set his sights on a soldier crouched down low beside a small canister. The soldier wasn’t moving, and he’d covered his face with his hands as if shielding his vision. The blast from Des’s weapon hit him square in the chest just as the device at the soldier’s feet detonated.

“Flash canister!” Lucia screamed, but her warning came too late. The view through the scope vanished in a brilliant white flare, temporarily blinding Des.

But with his vision gone, he could suddenly see everything clearly. He knew the position of every soldier even as they all scrambled for cover; he could track exactly where they were and where they were going.

The soldier in the third turret was training the cannons on the incoming wave of troopers. In the excitement she’d popped her head up just slightly above the walls of the flatbed, leaving the smallest of targets exposed. Des took her with a single shot, the bolt going in cleanly through one ear hole on her helmet and out the other.

It was as if time had slowed down. Moving with a calm and deadly precision, he trained his rifle on the next target, taking her through the heart; barely a moment later he got the soldier beside her right between his cold blue eyes. Des took one man in the back as he ran for the nearest gunship. Another was halfway up one of the flatbed’s ladders when a bolt sliced through his thigh, knocking him off balance. He fell from the ladder, and Des put another shot through his chest before he hit the ground.

It had taken fewer than three seconds to wipe out eight of the nine soldiers. The last one made a run for the edge, hoping to escape by diving off the roof on the far side of the building. Des let him run. He could feel the terror coming in waves off his doomed prey; he savored it for as long as he could. The soldier leapt from the rooftop and seemed to hang in midair for a second; Des fired his last three shots into his body, draining the weapon’s power cell.

He handed the weapon back to Lucia, blinking rapidly at the tears welling up as his eyes tried to soothe their damaged retinas. The effects of the flash canister were only temporary; his vision was already beginning to return. And the miraculous second sight he’d experienced was slipping away.

Rubbing his eyes, he knew now was not the time to think about what had just happened. He’d eliminated the gunners, but his troops were still outnumbered. They needed him down in the hot zone, not here on the edges of the battle.

“Keep an eye on that roof,” he ordered Lucia. “If any of those Republic mudcrutches appear on top, take them out before they get to the gunships.”

She didn’t reply; her mouth was hanging open in amazement at what she’d just witnessed.

Des grabbed her by the shoulder and gave her a rough shake. “Snap out of it, trooper! You’ve got a job to do!”

She shook her head to gather her senses and nodded, then loaded another energy cell into her weapon. Satisfied, Des pulled out the 21D and charged across the clearing, eager to join in the battle.

Three hours later it was all over. The mission had been a complete success: the outpost was theirs, and the Republic had no idea that thousands of Sith troopers were marching through the valley to attack them at first light. The battle itself had been short but bloody: forty-six Republic soldiers dead, and nine of Des’s own. Every time a Gloom Walker went down, part of Des felt he’d failed somehow, but given the nature of their mission, keeping the casualties under double digits was more than he could have reasonably hoped for.

Once their objective was secured he’d left Adanar and a small contingent to hold the outpost. With Des in the lead, the rest of the unit marched back to its base camp.

Along the way he tried to ignore the hushed whispers and furtive looks the rest of the company was giving him. Lucia had spread the word of his amazing shooting, and it was the talk of the unit. None of them was brave enough to say anything to his face, but he could hear snippets of conversation from the ranks behind him.

Honestly, he couldn’t blame them. Looking back, even he wasn’t sure what had happened. Des was a good marksman, but he was no sniper. Yet somehow he’d managed to pull off a dozen impossible shots with a weapon he’d never fired before … most of them after being blinded by a flash canister. It was beyond unbelievable. It was as if, when he’d lost his vision, some mysterious power had taken over and guided his actions. It was exhilarating, but at the same time it was terrifying. Where had this power come from? And why couldn’t he control it?

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that at first he didn’t even notice the strangers waiting at their base camp. It was only after they stepped up and slapped the stun cuffs on his wrists that he realized what was going on.

“Welcome back, Sergeant.” Ulabore’s voice was filled with bile.

Des glanced around. A dozen enforcers—the military security of the Sith army—were standing with weapons drawn. Ulabore stood behind them, a deep bruise on his face where Des had struck him. In the background Des could see the two junior recruits he’d left in charge of Ulabore. They were staring down at the ground, embarrassed and ashamed.

“Did you really think those raw recruits would keep their commanding officer trussed up like some kind of prisoner?” Ulabore taunted him from behind the protective wall of armed guards. “Did you really believe they would follow you in your madness?”

“That madness saved our lives!” Lucia shouted. Des held up his shackled hands to silence her: this situation could get out of hand far too easily.

When nothing else happened, the lieutenant seemed to gain some courage. He stepped out from behind the protective wall of enforcers and over to Des.

“I warned you about disobeying orders,” he sneered. “Now you get to see firsthand how the Brotherhood of Darkness deals with mutinous soldiers!”

A few of the Gloom Walkers began to reach slowly for their weapons, but Des shook his head and they froze. The enforcers already had their blasters drawn and weren’t afraid to use them. The troopers wouldn’t manage to get off even a single shot.

“What’s the matter, Sergeant?” Ulabore pressed, drawing closer to his defeated enemy. Too close. “Nothing to say?”

Des knew he could kill the lieutenant with one quick move. The enforcers would take him out, but at least Ulabore would go with him. Every fiber of his being wanted to lash out and end both their lives in an orgy of blood and blasterfire. But he managed to fight the impulse. There was no point in throwing his life away. A court-martial would likely end in a death sentence, but at least if he went to trial he’d have a chance.

Ulabore stepped up and slapped him once across the face, then spit on his boots and stepped back. “Take him away,” he said to the enforcers, turning his back on Des.

As Des was taken away he couldn’t help but see the look in the eyes of Lucia and the troopers whose lives he’d saved only hours ago. He had a feeling the next time the unit went into combat, Ulabore would suffer an unfortunate—and fatal—accident.

That realization brought the hint of a smile to his lips.

The enforcers marched him through the jungle for hours, weapons drawn and trained on him the entire time. They only lowered them when they reached the sentries on the perimeter of the main Sith camp.

“Prisoner for a court-martial,” one of the enforcers said flatly. “Go tell Lord Kopecz.” One of the sentries saluted and ran off.

They marched Des through the camp toward the brig. He saw recognition in the eyes of many of the soldiers. With his height and bald head he was an imposing figure, and many of the troops had heard of his exploits. Seeing a formerly ideal soldier being brought before a court-martial was sure to leave an impression.

They reached the camp’s makeshift prison, a small containment field over a three-by-three-by-three-meter pit that served as a holding area for captured spies and POWs. The enforcers had relieved him of his weapons when they first took him into custody; now they did a more thorough search and stripped him of all other personal effects. Then they shut down the containment field and roughly tossed him in, not even bothering to release his cuffs. He landed awkwardly on the hard ground at the bottom of the hole. As he struggled to his feet he heard an unmistakable hum as the field was activated once again, sealing him in.

The pit was empty, other than Des himself. The Sith didn’t tend to keep prisoners around for long. He began to wonder if he’d made a serious mistake. He’d hoped his past service might buy him some leniency at his trial, but now he realized his reputation might actually work against him. The Sith Masters weren’t known for their tolerance or their mercy. He’d defied a direct order: there was a good chance they’d decide to make a harsh example of him.

He couldn’t say how long they’d left him at the bottom of the pit. After a while he fell asleep, exhausted by the battle and the forced march. He slipped in and out of consciousness; at one point it was light outside his prison and he knew day must have come. The next time he came to it was dark again.

They hadn’t fed him yet; his stomach was growling in protest as it gnawed away at itself. His throat was parched and dry; his tongue felt as if it had swollen up large enough to choke him. Despite this, there was a slowly increasing pressure on his bladder, but he didn’t want to relieve himself. The pit stank enough already.

Maybe they were just going to leave him here to die a slow and lonely death. Given the rumors he’d heard of Sith torture, he almost hoped that was the case. But he hadn’t given up. Not yet.

When he heard the sound of approaching footsteps he scrambled to his feet and stood straight and tall, even though his hands were still cuffed in front of him. Through the containment field he could just make out the blurred forms of several guards standing on the edge of the pit, along with another figure wearing a heavy, dark cloak.

“Take him to my ship,” the cloaked figure said in a deep, rasping voice. “I will deal with this one on Korriban.”

8

Des never got a clear look at the man who’d ordered his transfer. By the time they’d gotten him out of the pit, the cloaked figure had vanished. They gave him food and water, then let him clean and refresh himself. Though he was freed from the cuffs, he was still under heavy guard as he boarded a small transport ship heading for Korriban.

Nobody spoke to him on the trip, and Des didn’t know what was going on. At least he wasn’t cuffed anymore. He chose to take that as a good sign.

They arrived in the middle of the day. He had expected them to touch down at Dreshdae, the only city on the dark and forbidding world. Instead the ship landed at a starport built atop an ancient temple overlooking a desolate valley. A chill wind blew across the landing pad as he disembarked, but it didn’t bother Des. After the stale air of the pit, any breeze felt good. He felt a shiver go down his spine as his foot touched Korriban’s surface. He’d heard that this had once been a place of great power, though now only the merest shadows remained. There was an undercurrent of malice here; he’d felt it as soon as the transport had entered the bleak planet’s atmosphere.

From this vantage point he could make out other temples scattered across the world’s desert surface. Even at this distance he could perceive the eroded rock and crumbling stone of the once grand entrances. Beyond the valley, the city of Dreshdae was a mere speck on the horizon.

He was met on the landing pad by a hooded figure. He could tell right away this wasn’t the same one who had come to him in the pit. This person had neither the size nor the impressive bearing of his liberator; even through the containment field Des had been able to sense his commanding presence.

This figure, which Des now thought to be female, motioned for him to follow. Silently she led him down a flight of stone steps and into the temple itself. They crossed a landing and descended another set of stairs, then repeated the pattern, working their way level by level down from the temple’s apex to the ground below. There were doors and passages leading off from each landing, and Des could hear snippets of sound and conversation echoing from them, though he could never quite tell what was being said.

She didn’t speak, and Des knew better than to break the silence himself. Technically, he was still a prisoner. For all he knew, she was leading him to his court-martial. He wasn’t about to make things worse by asking foolish questions.

When they reached the bottom of the building, she led him to a stone archway with yet another flight of stairs. These were different, however: they were narrow and dark, and wound their way down until they vanished from sight deep in the bowels of the ground. Without a word his guide handed him a torch she had taken from a bracket on the wall and then stepped aside.

Wondering what was going on, Des made his way carefully down the steep staircase. He couldn’t say how much deeper he went; it was difficult to maintain any perspective in the narrow confines of the stairwell. After several minutes he reached the bottom, only to find a long hallway stretching out before him. At the end of the hallway he encountered a single room.

The room was dark and filled with shadow. Only a few torches sputtered on the stone wall, their dying flames barely able to pierce the gloom.

Des paused at the threshold, letting his eyes adjust. He could just make out a dim figure inside. It beckoned to him.

“Come forward.”

He felt a chill, though the room was far from cold. The air itself was electric, filled with a power he could actually feel. He was surprised that he didn’t feel afraid. He recognized what he felt as the chill of anticipation.

As Des moved deeper into the room the features of the shrouded figure became clear, revealing himself to be a Twi’lek. Even under the loose-fitting robe he wore, Des could see he was thick and heavyset. He stood nearly two meters tall, easily the largest Twi’lek Des had ever met … though not quite as large as Des himself.

His lekku wound down his broad chest and wrapped back up around his muscular neck and shoulders; his eyes glowed orange beneath his brow, mirroring the flickering torches. He smiled, revealing the sharp, pointed teeth common to his species.

“I am Lord Kopecz of the Sith,” he said. At that moment, Des knew without a doubt this was the cloaked one who had come to him in the pit, and he gave a slight bow of his head in acknowledgment.

“I am to be your inquisitor,” Lord Kopecz explained, his voice showing no emotion. “I alone will determine your fate. Rest assured my judgment will be final.”

Des nodded again.

The Twi’lek fixed his burning orange eyes on Des. “You are no friend of the Jedi or their Republic.”

It wasn’t a question, but Des felt compelled to answer anyway. “What have they ever done for me?”

“Exactly,” Kopecz said with a cruel smile. “I understand you have fought many battles against the Republic forces. Your fellow troopers speak highly of you. The Sith have need of men like you if we are to win this war.” He paused. “You were a model soldier … until you disobeyed a direct order.”

“The order was a mistake,” Des said. His throat had grown so dry and tight that he had trouble getting the words out.

“Why did you refuse to attack the outpost during the day? Are you a coward?”

“A coward wouldn’t have completed the mission,” Des replied sharply, stung by the accusation.

Kopecz tilted his head to the side and waited.

“Attacking in the daylight was a tactical mistake,” Des continued, trying to press his point. “Ulabore should have relayed that information back to command, but he was too scared. Ulabore was the coward, not me. He would rather risk death at the hands of the Republic than face the Brotherhood of Darkness. I prefer not to throw my life away needlessly.”

“I can see that from your service record,” Kopecz said. “Kashyyyk, Trandosha, Phaseera … if these reports are accurate, you have performed incredible feats during your time with the Gloom Walkers. Feats some would claim to be impossible.”

Des bristled at the implication. “The reports are accurate,” he replied.

“I have no doubt that they are.” Kopecz either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about the tone of Des’s reply. “Do you know why I brought you to Korriban?”

Des was beginning to realize that this wasn’t really a court-martial after all. It was some kind of test, though for what he still wasn’t sure.

“I feel I’ve been chosen for something.”

Kopecz gave him another sinister smile. “Good. Your mind works quickly. What do you know of the Force?”

“Not much,” Des admitted with a shrug. “It’s something the Jedi believe in: some great power that’s supposed to be just floating out there in the universe somewhere.”

“And what do you know of the Jedi?”

“I know they believe themselves to be guardians of the Republic,” Des replied, making no attempt to hide his contempt. “I know they wield great influence in the Senate. I know many believe they have mystical powers.”

“And the Brotherhood of Darkness?”

Des considered his words more carefully this time. “You are the leaders of our army and the sworn enemy of the Jedi. Many believe that you, like them, have unnatural abilities.”

“But you do not?”

Des hesitated, struggling to come up with the answer he thought Kopecz wanted to hear. In the end he couldn’t figure out what his inquisitor was looking for, so he simply told the truth. “I believe most of the stories are greatly exaggerated.”

Kopecz nodded. “A common enough belief. Those who do not understand the ways of the Force regard such tales as myth or legend. But the Force is real, and those who wield it have power you can’t even imagine.

“You have seen many battles but you have not experienced the real war. While troops vie for control of worlds and moons, the Jedi and Sith Masters seek to destroy each other. We are being driven toward an inevitable and final confrontation. The faction that survives, Sith or Jedi, will determine the fate of the galaxy for the next thousand years.

“True victory in this war will not come through armies, but through the Brotherhood of Darkness. Our greatest weapon is the Force, and those individuals who have the power to command it. Individuals like you.”

He paused to let his words sink in before continuing. “You are special, Des. You have many remarkable talents. These talents are manifestations of the Force, and they have served you well as a soldier. But you have only scratched the surface of your gift. The Force is real; it exists all around us. You can feel the power of it in this room. Can you sense it?”

Des hesitated only a moment before nodding. “I feel it. Hot. Like a fire waiting to explode.”

“The power of the dark side. The heat of passion and emotion. I can feel it in you, as well. Burning beneath the surface. Burning like your anger. It makes you strong.”

Kopecz closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if basking in the heat. The tips of his head-tails twitched ever so slightly. The only sound was the faint crackle of flame from the torches. A bead of sweat rolled down the crown of Des’s bare scalp and along the back of his neck. He didn’t wipe it away, though he did shift his feet uncomfortably as it trickled its way between his shoulder blades. The slight movement seemed to snap the Twi’lek out of his trance.

He didn’t speak again for several seconds, but he studied Des intently with his piercing gaze. “You have touched the Force in the past, but your abilities are an insignificant speck beside the power of a true Sith Master,” he finally said. “There is great potential in you. If you stay here on Korriban, we can teach you to unleash it.”

Des was speechless.

“You would no longer be a trooper on the front lines,” Kopecz continued. “If you accept my offer, that part of your life is over. You will be trained in the ways of the dark side. You will become one of the Brotherhood of Darkness. And you will not return to the Gloom Walkers.”

Des felt his heart pounding, his head swimming. As long as he could remember, he’d known he was special because of his unique talents. And now he was being told that his abilities were nothing compared with what he could really accomplish.

Still, part of him balked at the idea of leaving his unit without even having a chance to say good-bye. He considered Adanar, Lucia, and the others as more than just fellow soldiers; they were his friends. Could he really abandon them like this, even for the chance to join the Sith Masters?

He recalled one of the last things Groshik had ever said to him: Don’t count on others for help. In the end each of us is in this alone. The survivors are those who know how to look out for themselves.

Everything he’d had, he’d given to his unit. He’d saved their lives too many times to count. And in the end, when the enforcers had come to take him away, they’d been powerless to save him. They would have tried if he’d let them, but they would have failed. Des realized the truth: his unit—his friends—could do nothing for him now.

He could rely only on himself, like always. He’d be a fool to turn this opportunity down.

“I am honored, Master Kopecz, and I gratefully accept your offer.”

“The way of the Sith is not for the weak,” the big Twi’lek warned. “Those who falter will be … left behind.” There was something ominous in his tone.

“I won’t be left behind,” Des replied, unfazed.

“That remains to be seen,” Kopecz noted. Then he added, “This is a new beginning for you, Des. A new life. Many of the students who come here take a new name for themselves. They leave their old life behind.”

Des had no desire to hang on to any part of his old life. An abusive father, the brutality of working the mines on Apatros; he had been seeking a new life for as long as he could remember. The Gloom Walkers had offered an escape, but it had been a temporary one. Now he had a chance to leave his past behind forever. All he had to do was embrace the Brotherhood of Darkness and its teachings. And yet, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt the cold grip of fear closing in on him. The fear made him hesitate.

“Do you wish to choose a new name for yourself, Des?” Kopecz asked, possibly sensing his reluctance. “Do you wish to be reborn?”

Des nodded.

Kopecz smiled once more. “And by what name shall we call you now?”

The fear would not stop him; he would seize the fear, transform it, and make it his own. He would take what had once made him weak and use it to make himself strong.

“My name is Bane. Bane of the Sith.”

Lord Qordis, exalted Master of the Sith Academy on Korriban, scratched gently at his chin with long, talon-like fingers.

“This student you have brought me—this Bane—has never been trained in the ways of the Force?”

Kopecz shook his head and twitched his lekku ever so slightly in annoyance. “As I told you before, Qordis, he grew up on Apatros, a world controlled by the ORO Company.”

“Yet you managed to find this young man and bring him here to the Academy. It seems almost too convenient.”

The heavyset Twi’lek snarled. “This is not a plot against you, Qordis. That is no longer our way. We are a Brotherhood now, remember? You are too suspicious.”

Qordis laughed. “Not suspicious; cautious. It has helped me to maintain my position here among so many powerful and ambitious young Sith.”

“He is as powerful as any of them,” Kopecz insisted.

“But he is also older. We prefer to find our students when they are younger and more … malleable.”

“Now you sound like a Jedi,” Kopecz sneered. “They seek younger and younger pupils, hoping to find them pure and innocent. In time they will refuse any who are not infants. We must be quick to pluck those they leave behind. Besides,” he continued, “Bane is too strong to simply pass over, even for the Jedi. We are lucky we found him before they did.”

“Yes, lucky,” Qordis echoed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “His arrival here seems to be an incredible turn of many fortuitous events. Quite lucky indeed.”

“Some might see it that way,” Kopecz admitted. “Others might see it as something more. Destiny, perhaps.”

There was silence while Qordis considered his longtime rival’s words. “The other acolytes have been training for many years. He will be far behind,” he said at last.

“He will catch up, if given the chance,” Kopecz insisted.

“And I wonder … will the others give him that chance? Not if they are smart. I’m afraid we may simply be throwing away one of Lord Kaan’s best troopers.”

“We both know the Jedi won’t be defeated by soldiers,” Kopecz snapped. “I’d gladly trade a thousand of our best troopers for even one Sith Master.”

Qordis seemed taken aback by his passionate reaction. “He is that strong, is he? This Bane?”

Kopecz nodded. “I think he might be the one we’ve been searching for. He could be the Sith’ari.”

“Before he can claim that title,” Qordis said with a cunning smile, “he’ll have to survive his training.”

PART TWO

9

Peace is a lie. There is only passion.

Through passion, I gain strength.

Through strength, I gain power.

Through power, I gain victory.

Through victory my chains are broken.

Kopecz was gone, rejoining Kaan’s army and the war being waged against the Jedi and the Republic. Bane had remained behind at the Sith Academy on Korriban to learn the ways of the Sith. His first lesson began the next morning, at the feet of Lord Qordis himself.

“The tenets of the Sith are more than just words to be memorized,” the Master of the Academy explained to his newest apprentice. “Learn them, understand them. They will lead you to the true power of the Force: the power of the dark side.”

Qordis was taller than Kopecz. Taller even than Bane. He was very thin and clad in a black, loose-fitting robe, with the hood drawn back to fall across his shoulders. He might have been human, but something about his appearance seemed off. His skin was an unnatural, chalky hue, made even more obvious by the glittering gems encrusting the many rings on his long fingers. His eyes were dark and sunken. His teeth were sharp and pointed, and his fingernails were curved and wicked talons.

Bane knelt before him, similarly clad in a dark robe with the hood drawn back. Earlier this morning he had heard the Code of the Sith for the first time, and the words were still fresh and mysterious. They swirled through the undercurrents of his mind, occasionally bubbling up into his conscious thoughts as he tried to absorb the deeper meaning behind them. Peace is a lie. There is only passion. He knew the first tenet to be true, at least. His entire life was proof of that.

“Kopecz tells me you come to us as a raw apprentice,” Qordis noted. “He says you have never been trained in the ways of the Force.”

“I’m a quick learner,” Bane assured him.

“Yes … and strong in the power of the dark side. But the same can be said of all who come here.”

Not sure how to respond, Bane decided the wisest course of action was to stay silent.

“What do you know of this Academy?” Qordis finally asked.

“The students here are taught to use the Force. They are taught the secrets of the dark side by you and the other Sith Lords.” After a brief hesitation he added, “And I know there are many other academies like this one.”

“No,” Qordis corrected. “Not like this one. It is true we have other training facilities spread across our evergrowing empire, places where individuals with promise are taught to control and use their power. But each facility is unique, and where individual students are sent depends on how much potential we see in them.

“Those with a noticeable but limited ability are sent to Honoghr, Gentes, or Gamorr to become Sith Warriors or Marauders. There they are taught to channel their emotions into mindless rage and battle fury. The power of the dark side transforms them into ravaging beasts of death and destruction to be unleashed against our enemies.”

Through passion I gain strength, Bane thought. But when he spoke he said, “Brute strength alone is not enough to bring down the Republic.”

“True,” Qordis agreed. From the tone of his voice Bane knew he had said what his Master wanted to hear.

“Those with greater ability are sent to worlds that have allied with our cause to destroy the Republic: Ryloth, Umbara, Nar Shadaa. These students become creatures of shadow, learning to use the dark side for secrecy, deception, and manipulation. Those who survive the training became unstoppable assassins, capable of drawing on the dark side to kill their targets without ever moving a muscle.”

“Yet even they are no match for the Jedi,” Bane added, thinking he understood the direction the lesson was taking.

“Precisely,” his Master agreed. “The academies on Dathomir and Iridonia are most similar to the one here. There apprentices study under Sith Masters. Those who succeed in their training become the adepts and acolytes who swell the ranks of our armies. They are the counterparts to the Jedi Knights who stand in the way of our ultimate conquest.

“But even as the Jedi Knights must answer to the Jedi Masters, so must the adepts and acolytes answer to the Sith Lords. And those with the potential to become Sith Lords—and only those with such potential—are trained here on Korriban.”

Bane felt a shiver of excitement. Through strength I gain power.

“Korriban was the ancestral home of the Sith,” Qordis explained. “This planet is a place of great power; the dark side lives and breathes in the very core of this world.”

He paused and slowly extended his skeletal hand, palm upward. It almost seemed as if he was cradling something unseen—something precious and invaluable—in his claw-like fingers.

“This temple we stand in was built many thousands of years ago to collect and focus that power. Here you can feel the dark side at its strongest.” He closed his fist so tightly that his long fingernails cut into his palm, drawing blood. “You have been chosen because you have great potential,” he whispered. “Great things are expected of the apprentices here on Korriban. The training is difficult, but the rewards are great for those who succeed.”

Through power I gain victory.

Qordis reached out and placed his wounded palm on the crown of Bane’s bare scalp, anointing him with the blood of a Sith Lord. Bane had seen plenty of blood as a soldier, yet for some reason this ceremonial act of self-mutilation revolted him more than any battlefield gore. It was all he could do not to pull away.

“You have the potential to become one of us—one of the Brotherhood of Darkness. Together we can cast off the shackles of the Republic.”

Through victory my chains are broken.

“But even those with potential can fail,” Qordis finished. “I trust you will not disappoint us.”

Bane had no intention of doing that.

The next few weeks passed quickly as Bane threw himself into his studies. To his surprise, he discovered that his inexperience with the Force was the exception rather than the rule. Many of the students had trained for months or years before they had been accepted at the Academy on Korriban.

At first Bane found this troubling. He had just started his training and he was already behind. In such a competitive, ruthless environment he would be an easy target for every other student. But as he mulled it over, he began to realize he might not be as vulnerable as he’d thought.

He alone, of all the apprentices at the Academy, had been able to manifest the power of the dark side without any training at all. He’d used it so often he’d come to take it for granted. It had given him advantages over his opponents in cards and brawling. In war it had warned him of danger and brought him victory in otherwise impossible circumstances.

And he’d done it all on instinct, with no training, without even any conscious idea of what he was doing. Now, for the first time, he was being taught to truly use his abilities. He didn’t have to worry about any of the other students … if anything, they should be worrying about him. When he completed his training, none of the others would be his equal.

Most of his learning came at the feet of Qordis and the other Masters: Kas’im, Orilltha, Shenayag, Hezzoran, and Borthis. There were group training sessions at the Academy, but they were few and far between. The weak and the slow could not be allowed to hold back the strong and ambitious. Students learned at their own pace, driven by their desire and hunger for power. There were, however, nearly six students for every Master, and the apprentices had to prove their worth before one of the instructors would spend valuable time teaching them the secrets of the Sith.

Though he was a neophyte, Bane found it easy to garner the attention of the Sith Lords, particularly Qordis. He knew the extra attention would inevitably breed animosity in the other students, but he forced himself not to think about that. In time the additional instruction he got from the Masters would allow him to catch up to and pass the other apprentices, and once he did he wouldn’t need to worry about their petty jealousies. Until then he was careful to stay out of the way and not draw attention to himself.

When he wasn’t learning from the Masters, he was in the library studying the ancient records. As the Jedi kept their archives at their Temple on Coruscant, so the Sith had begun to collect and store information in the archives of Korriban’s temple. However, unlike the Jedi library—where most of the data was stored in electronic, hologrammic, and Holocron formats—the Sith collection was limited to scrolls, tomes, and manuals. In the three thousand standard years since Darth Revan had nearly destroyed the Republic, the Jedi had waged a tireless war to eradicate the teaching tools of the dark side. All known Sith Holocrons had been either destroyed or spirited away to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant for safekeeping. There were many rumors of undiscovered Sith Holocrons—either hidden away on remote worlds, or covetously hoarded by one of the dark Masters eager to keep its secret knowledge for himself. But all efforts by the Brotherhood to find these lost treasures had proved futile, forcing them to rely on the primitive technologies of parchment and flimsiplast.

And because the collection was constantly being added to, the indexes and references were hopelessly out of date. Searching the archives was often an exercise in futility or frustration, and most of the students felt their time was better spent trying to learn from or impress the Masters.

Perhaps it was because he was older than most of the others, or maybe because his years of mining had taught him patience—whatever the explanation, Bane spent several hours each day studying the ancient records. He found them fascinating. Many of the scrolls were historical records recounting ancient battles or glorifying the deeds of ancient Sith Lords. By itself the information had little practical use, but he could see each individual work for what it actually represented: a tiny piece of a much larger puzzle, a clue to a much greater understanding.

The archives supplemented what he learned from the Masters. It gave context to abstract lessons. Bane felt that, in time, the ancient knowledge would be the key to unlocking his full potential. And so his understanding of the Force slowly took shape.

Mystical and unexplainable, the Force was also natural and essential: a fundamental energy binding the universe and connecting all living things within it. This energy, this power, could be harnessed. It could be manipulated and controlled. And through the teachings of the dark side, Bane was learning to seize hold of it. He practiced his meditations and exercises daily, often under the watchful eye of Qordis. After only a few weeks he learned to move small objects simply by thinking about it—something he would have thought impossible only a short time before.

Yet now he understood that this was only the beginning. He was starting to grasp a great truth on a deep, fundamental level: that the strength to survive must come from within. Others will always fail you. Friends, family, fellow soldiers … in the end, each person must stand alone. When in need, look to the self.

The dark side nurtured the power of the individual. The teachings of the Sith Masters would make him strong. In pleasing them, he could unlock his full potential and one day sit among them.

When the first wave of the attack came, the Republic fleet orbiting the skies of Ruusan was caught completely unprepared. A small and politically insignificant planet, the heavily forested world had been used as a base to stage devastating hit-and-run attacks against the Sith forces stationed in the nearby Kashyyyk system. Now the enemy had turned that same strategy against them.

The Sith struck without warning, materializing en masse from hyperspace: an almost suicidal maneuver for such a massive fleet. Before an alarm could even be sounded, the Republic ships found themselves being bombarded by three Dreadnaught cruisers, two corsair battleships, dozens of interceptors, and a score of Buzzard fighters. And at the head of the attack was the flagship of the Brotherhood of Darkness, the Sith Destroyer Nightfall.

In his meditation sphere aboard Nightfall, Lord Kaan was directing the assault. From inside the chamber he could communicate with any of the other ships, issuing his orders with the knowledge they would be instantly and completely obeyed. The chamber was alive with light and sound: glowing monitors and flashing screens beeped incessantly to alert him to the constantly changing updates on the status of the battle.

The Dark Lord, however, never even glanced at the screens. His perception extended far beyond the meditation sphere, far beyond the data spit out by the electronic readouts. He knew the location of each vessel engaged in the conflict: his own and those of the enemy. He could sense every volley fired, every evasive turn and roll, every move and countermove made by every ship. Often he could sense them even before they happened.

His brow was knotted in intense concentration; his breath came in long, ragged gasps. Beads of perspiration rolled down his trembling body. The strain was enormous, yet with the aid of the meditation sphere he maintained his mental focus, drawing on the dark side of the Force to influence the outcome of the conflict despite his physical exhaustion.

The art of battle meditation—a weapon passed down from the ancient Sith sorcerers—threw the enemy ranks into chaos, feeding their fear and hopelessness, crushing their hearts and spirits with bleak despair. Every false move by the opponent was magnified, every hesitation was transformed into a cascade of errors and mistakes that overwhelmed even the most disciplined troops. The battle had only just begun, and it was already all but over.

The Republic fleet was in complete disarray. Two of its four Hammerhead-class capital ships had lost primary shields in the first strafing run of the Buzzards. Now the Sith Dreadnaughts were moving in, targeting the suddenly vulnerable Hammerheads with their devastating forward-mounted laser cannons. On the verge of being crippled and left utterly helpless, they were just now managing to scramble their own fighters to ward off the rapidly closing enemy cruisers.

The other two capital ships were being ravaged by Rage and Fury, the Sith battleships. The ponderous Republic Hammerheads relied on support ships to establish a defensive line to hold off enemy attackers while they positioned themselves to bring their heavy guns to bear. Without these defensive lines they were all but helpless against the much quicker and more nimble corsairs. Rage and Fury cut in along a vector that minimized the number of cannons the Hammerheads could target them with, then swept across their bows, firing all guns. When the Hammerheads tried to change direction to bring more guns to bear, the corsairs would pivot and double back for another pass along a different vector, inflicting even more damage. The savage maneuver was known as slashing the deck, and without the support of fighters or battleships of their own, the capital ships couldn’t withstand it for long.

Aid from the Republic battleships, however, was not likely to come. The one on point patrol was already a charred and lifeless hull, obliterated in the first seconds of the attack by a direct hit from Nightfall’s guns before it could raise its shields. The other two were being swarmed by interceptors and pounded by Nightfall’s broadside laser artillery, and didn’t figure to last much longer than the first.

Kaan could feel it: panic had set in among the Republic troops and commanders. His attack was pure offense; his strategy maximized damage but left his own ships exposed and vulnerable to a well-organized counterattack. But no such response was forthcoming. The Republic captains were unable to coordinate their efforts, unable to establish their lines of defense. They couldn’t even organize a proper retreat … escape was impossible. Victory was his!

And then suddenly Fury was gone, snuffed out by an explosion that ripped the corsair apart. It had happened so quickly that Kaan—even with the precognitive awareness of his battle meditation—hadn’t sensed it coming. The two Hammerheads had turned at tangential angles, both somehow locking in on Fury’s path simultaneously. One had opened up with its forward cannons to take down Fury’s shields, while the other had unleashed a barrage of laserfire at the exact same spot, causing a massive detonation that destroyed the battleship in the blink of an eye. It was a brilliant maneuver: two different ships perfectly coordinating their efforts while under relentless assault to wipe out a common foe. It was also impossible.

Kaan ordered Rage into evasive action; the corsair peeled off its attack run just as the Hammerheads opened fire, narrowly avoiding the fate of its sister ship. The Dreadnaughts closing in on the crippled Hammerheads were also forced to break off their attack run as four full squads of Republic fighters burst forth from the cargo bays of their supposedly defenseless prey. Even under ideal conditions it would have been hard to scramble the fighters so quickly; in this situation it was unthinkable. Yet Kaan could feel them: nearly fifty Aurek fighters flying in tight formation, pressing the attack on the Dreadnaughts while all four Hammerheads pulled back. They were establishing a defensive line!

Drawing on the power of the dark side, Lord Kaan pushed out with his will to touch the minds of the enemy. They were grim, but not desperate. Some were afraid, but none panicked. All he felt was discipline, purpose, and resolve. And then he felt something else. Another presence in the battle.

It was subtle, but he was certain it hadn’t been there at all in the first few minutes of the attack. Someone was using the Force to bolster the morale of the Republic troops. Someone was using the light side to counter the effects of Kaan’s battle meditation and turn the tide. Only a Jedi Master would have the strength to oppose the will of a Sith Lord.

Kopecz felt it, too. Strapped into the seat of his interceptor, he was spinning and swerving through the Hammerhead’s barrage of antifighter turret blasts when the presence of the Jedi Master crashed over him like a wave. It caught him off guard, causing him to lose his focus for a split second. For any other pilot, that would have been enough to end his life, but Kopecz was no ordinary pilot.

Reacting with a quickness born of instinct, honed by training, and bolstered by the power of the dark side, he slammed the throttle back and pushed hard on the stick. The interceptor lurched down and forward into a sharp dive, narrowly ducking beneath three successive blasts of the Hammerhead’s ion cannons. Pulling out of the dive, he banked into a wide roll and circled back toward the largest of the four Republic cruisers. The Jedi was there. He could sense him: the Force was emanating from the ship like a beacon. Now Kopecz was going to kill him.

Back on Nightfall, Kaan was also locked in mortal combat with the Jedi Master, though theirs was a battle waged through the ships and pilots of their respective fleets. The Republic had more ships with greater firepower; Kaan had been relying on the element of surprise and his battle meditation to give the Sith the advantage. Now, however, both of those advantages had been nullified. Despite his strength, the Dark Lord was no expert in the rare art of battle meditation. It was one of many talents, and he had worked to develop them all equally. The opposing Jedi, however, had likely been trained from birth for just such a confrontation. The tide of the battle was slowly turning, and the Dark Lord was becoming desperate.

He gathered his will and lashed out with a sudden surge of dark side power, a desperate gambit to swing the engagement back under his control. Spurred on by adrenaline, bloodlust, and the irresistible compulsion of their leader, a pair of buzzard pilots tried to ram their ships into the nearest Aurek squadron, determined to break their formation with a suicide attack. But the Republic pilots didn’t panic or break ranks trying to avoid his reckless charge. Instead they met the assault head-on, firing their weapons and vaporizing the enemy before any harm could be done.

On the other side of the battle, Kopecz’s interceptor knifed through the defensive perimeter established around the capital ship and its precious Jedi cargo, too quick and nimble for either the Aurek fighters or the turrets to get a lock. Penetrating the Republic lines, Kopecz flew his ship into the heart of the main hangar; the blast doors closed a fraction of a second too late. He opened fire as his ship spun and skidded across the docking bay’s floor, wiping out most of the soldiers unfortunate enough to be caught inside.

As the ship slowed to a halt, he popped open the hatch and flipped out of his seat. Nimbly landing on his feet, he drew and ignited his lightsaber in one smooth motion. The first sweeping arc of the crimson blade caught the blasterfire of the two troopers who had survived the initial assault, deflecting it harmlessly away. Another flip closed the six-meter distance between the Twi’lek and his attackers; another arc of the blade ended their lives.

Kopecz paused to assess the situation. Mangled bodies and shattered machinery were all that remained of the crew and equipment that maintained the Republic fighters. Smiling, he crossed over to the hatch leading into the interior of the capital ship.

He strode quickly and confidently through the halls, guided by the power emanating from the Jedi Master like a tuk’ata drawn by the scent of a squellbug. A security team intercepted him in one of the hallways. The red badges on their sleeves marked them as an elite squad of specially trained soldiers: the best bodyguards the Republic military had to offer. Kopecz knew they must have been good … one actually managed to fire her weapon twice before the entire unit fell to his lightsaber.

He entered a large chamber with a single door at the back. His prey was beyond that door, but in the center of the room a pair of Selkath—amphibious beings from the world of Manaan—barred his way with lightsabers drawn. These were mere Padawans, however, servants of the Jedi Master. Kopecz didn’t even bother engaging them in lightsaber combat: it would have been beneath him. Instead he thrust a meaty fist forward and used the Force to hurl them across the room. The first Padawan was stunned by the impact. By the time he struggled uncertainly to his feet, his companion was already dead, the life choked out of her by the power of the dark side.

The surviving Padawan retreated as Kopecz slowly advanced; the Sith Lord crossed the room with measured strides as he gathered his power. He unleashed it in a storm of electricity, bolts of blue-violet lightning ripping through the flesh of his unfortunate victim. The Selkath’s body danced in convulsions of agony until his smoking corpse finally collapsed to the floor.

Reaching the door at the rear of the room, Kopecz opened it and stepped into the small meditation chamber beyond. An elderly Cerean female, clad in the simple brown robes of a Jedi Master, was seated cross-legged on the floor. Her creased and wrinkled face was bathed in sweat from the strain of using her battle meditation against Kaan and the Sith.

Exhausted, drained, she was no match for the Sith Lord who loomed above her. Yet she made no move to flee or even defend herself. With certain death only seconds away, she kept her mind and power focused entirely on the fleet battle.

Kopecz couldn’t help but admire her courage even as he methodically cut her down. Her calm acceptance robbed his victory of any joy. “Peace is a lie,” he muttered to himself as he stalked back through the halls toward the docking bay and his waiting ship, anxious to leave before Nightfall or one of the other ships blew the Hammerhead to bits.

The death of the Jedi Master turned the tide once more. Resistance crumbled; the battle became a Sith rout, and then a slaughter. No longer protected by the power of the light side of the Force, the Republic soldiers were completely demoralized by the terror and despair Kaan spawned in their minds. Those who were strong-willed gave up all hope save that of escaping the battle alive. The weak-willed were left so despondent, they could only hope for a quick and merciful death. The former didn’t get what they wanted, but the latter did.

Strapped into the hatch of his interceptor, Lord Kopecz launched his craft from the hangar mere seconds before the capital ship was destroyed in a glorious and cataclysmic explosion.

The Sith losses that day were heavier than expected, but their victory was absolute. Not a single Republic ship, pilot, or soldier escaped the First Battle of Ruusan alive.

10

Bane’s power was growing. In only a few months of training he had learned much about the Force and the power of the dark side. Physically, he felt stronger than ever before. In morning training runs he could sprint at nearly full speed for five kilometers before he even began breathing heavily. His reflexes were quicker, his mind and senses were sharper than he possibly could have imagined.

When necessary he could channel the Force through his body, giving him bursts of energy that allowed him to do seemingly impossible feats: perform full flips from a standing position; survive falls from incredible heights uninjured; leap vertically ten meters or more.

He was completely aware of his surroundings at all times, sensing the presence of others. Sometimes he could even get a feel for their intentions, vague impressions of their very thoughts. He was able to levitate larger objects now, and for longer periods. With each lesson his power grew. It became easier and easier to command the Force and bend it to his will. And with each week, Bane realized he had surpassed another of the apprentices who had once been ahead of him.

Less and less of his time was spent in the archives studying the ancient scrolls. His initial fascination with them had faded, swept away by the intensity of Academy life. Absorbing the knowledge of Masters long dead was a cold and sterile pleasure. Historical records were no competition for the feeling of exhilaration and power he felt when actually using the Force. Bane was part of the Academy and the Brotherhood of the Darkness. He was part of the now, not the ancient past.

He began to spend more time mingling with the other students. Already he could sense that some of them were jealous, though none dared to act against him. Competition among the students was encouraged, and the Masters allowed the rivalry to drift into the animosity and hatred that fueled the dark side. But there were harsh penalties for any apprentice caught interfering with or disrupting the training of another student.

Of course, all the apprentices understood that the punishment was actually for the crime of being careless enough to get caught. Treachery was tacitly accepted, as long as it was done with enough cunning to avoid the notice of the instructors. Bane’s phenomenal progress protected him from the machinations of his fellow students; no one could move against him without drawing the attention of Qordis or the other Sith Lords.

Unfortunately, the extra attention made it difficult for Bane himself to use treachery, manipulation, or similar techniques to attain greater status within the Academy.

There was, however, one sanctioned way students could bring a rival down: lightsaber combat. The chosen weapon of both the Jedi and the Sith, the lightsaber was more than just a blade of energy capable of cutting through almost every material in the known galaxy. The lightsaber was an extension of the user and his or her command of the Force. Only those with strict mental discipline and total physical mastery could use the weapon effectively … or so Bane and the others had been taught.

Few of the students actually possessed lightsabers yet; they still had to prove themselves worthy in the eyes of Qordis and the others. Yet that didn’t keep Lord Kas’im, the Twi’lek Blademaster, from instructing them in the styles and techniques they would use once they had finally earned their weapons. Each morning the apprentices would gather on the wide, open roof of the temple to practice their drills and routines under his watchful eye, struggling to learn the exotic maneuvers that would bring them victory on the battlefield.

Perspiration was already running down the crown of Bane’s head and into his eyes as he put his body through its paces. He blinked away the stinging sweat and redoubled his exertions, carving the air before him again and again and again with his training saber. All around him other apprentices were doing the same; each was struggling to conquer his or her own physical limitations and become more than just a warrior with a weapon. The goal was to become an extension of the dark side itself.

Bane had begun by learning the basic techniques common to all seven traditional lightsaber forms. His first weeks had been spent in endless repetitions of defensive postures, overhand strikes, parries, and counterstrikes. By observing the natural tendencies of his students as they learned the basics, Lord Kas’im determined which form would best match their style. For Bane he chose Djem So, Form V. The fifth form emphasized strength and power, allowing Bane to use his size and muscles to his best advantage. Only after he was able to perform each of the moves of Djem So to the satisfaction of Kas’im was he allowed to begin the real training.

Now, along with the other students at the Academy, he spent the better part of an hour each morning practicing his techniques with his training saber under the Blademaster’s watchful eye. Made of durasteel with blunted edges, the training sabers were crafted specifically so that their balance and heft mimicked the energy beams projected by real lightsabers. A solid blow could inflict serious damage, but since a lightsaber did not work that way, each training blade was also covered with millions of toxin-filled barbs too small to see, fashioned from the microscopic ridge spines of the deadly pelko bug—a rare insect found only deep beneath the desert sands of the Valley of the Dark Lords on Korriban itself. With a direct hit, the minuscule barbs could pierce the weave of any fabric; the pelko venom would cause the flesh immediately to burn and blister. Temporary paralysis set in instantly at the point of infection, leaving any limb struck all but useless. This provided an excellent way to mimic the effects of losing a hand, arm, or leg to a lightsaber blade.

The morning was filled with the grunts of the apprentices and the swish-swish-swish as their blades sliced the air. In some ways it reminded Bane of his military training: a group of soldiers united in the repetition of drills until the moves became instinctive.

But there was no sense of camaraderie at the Academy. The apprentices were rivals, plain and simple. In many ways it wasn’t that different from his days on Apatros. Now, however, the isolation was worth it. Here they were teaching him the secrets of the dark side.

“Wrong!” Kas’im suddenly barked. He had been walking up and down the ranks of apprentices as they trained, but had now stopped right beside Bane. “Strike with malice and precision!” He reached out and seized Bane’s wrist, turning it roughly and changing the angle of the training blade. “You’re coming in too high!” he snapped. “There is no room for error!”

He stayed at Bane’s side for several seconds, watching to ensure the lesson had been properly learned. After several hard thrusts by Bane with the altered grip, the Blademaster nodded in approval and continued his rounds.

Bane repeated the single move over and over, careful to maintain the height and angle of the blade exactly as Kas’im had shown him, teaching his muscles through countless repetitions until they could replicate it flawlessly each and every time. Only then would he move on to incorporating it into more complicated maneuvers.

Soon he was breathing heavily from his exertions. Physically Kas’im’s training sessions couldn’t measure up to hammering a cortosis vein with a hydraulic jack for hours at a time. But they were far more exhausting in other ways. They demanded intense mental focus, an attention to detail that went far beyond what was visible to the naked eye. True mastery of the blade required a combination of both body and mind.

When two Masters engaged in lightsaber combat, the action happened too quickly for the eye to see or the mind to react. Everything had to be done on instinct; the body had to be trained to move and respond without conscious thought. To accomplish this, Kas’im made his students practice sequences, carefully choreographed series of multiple strikes and parries drawn from their chosen style. The sequences were designed by the Blademaster himself so that each maneuver flowed smoothly into the next, maximizing attack efficiency while minimizing defensive exposure.

Using a sequence in combat allowed the students to free their minds from thought as their bodies automatically continued through the moves. Using sequences was more efficient and much quicker than considering and initiating each strike or block on its own, providing an enormous advantage over an opponent unfamiliar with the technique.

However, ingraining a new sequence so it could be properly executed was a long and laborious process. For many it would take two to three weeks of training and drills—longer if the sequence was derived from a style the student was still struggling to master. And even the tiniest mistake in the smallest of moves could render the entire sequence worthless.

Kas’im had spotted a potentially fatal flaw in Bane’s technique. Now Bane was determined to fix it, even if it meant hours of practice on his own time. Bane was relentless in his pursuit of perfection—not just in his combat training, but in all his studies. He was a man on a mission.

“Enough,” Kas’im’s voice called out. At that single command all the students stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to the Blademaster. He was standing at the head of the assemblage, facing them.

“You may rest for ten minutes,” he told them. “Then the challenges will begin.”

Bane, along with most of the others, lowered himself into a meditative position, legs crossed and folded beneath him. Laying his training saber on the ground beside him, he closed his eyes and slipped into a light trance, drawing on the dark side to rejuvenate his aching muscles and refresh his tired mind.

He let the power flow through him, let his mind drift. As it often did, it drifted back to the first time he’d touched the dark side. Not the fumbling brushes he’d had back on Apatros or during his days as a soldier, but a true recognition of the Force.

It had been his third day here at the Academy. He’d been applying the meditation techniques he’d learned the day before when suddenly he felt it. It was like the bursting of a dam, a raging river flooding through him, sweeping away all his failings: his weakness, his fear, his self-doubt. In that instant he’d understood why he was here. At that moment his transformation from Des to Bane, from mere mortal to one of the Sith, had truly begun.

Through power, I gain victory.

Through victory my chains are broken.

Bane knew all about chains. Some were obvious: an abusive, uncaring father; grueling shifts in the mines; debts owed to a faceless, ruthless corporation. Others were more subtle: the Republic and its idealistic promises of a better life that never materialized; the Jedi and their vow to rid the galaxy of injustice. Even his friends in the Gloom Walkers had been a kind of chain. He’d cared for them, been responsible for them. Yet in the end, what use had they been when he’d needed them most?

He understood now that personal attachments could only hold him back. Friends were a burden. He had to rely on himself. He had to develop his own potential. His own power. In the end, that was what it really came down to. Power. And, above all else, the dark side promised power.

He heard the sounds of movement around him; the soft shuffle of robes as the other apprentices rose from their meditations and made their way toward the challenge ring. He grabbed his training saber with one hand and sprang to his feet to join them.

At the end of each session the class would gather in a wide, irregular circle at the top of the temple. Any student could step into the circle and issue a challenge to another. Kas’im would observe the duels closely, and once it was over he would analyze the action for the class. Those who won would be praised for their performance, and their status in the informal hierarchy of the Academy would rise. Those who lost would be chastised for their failings, as well as suffering a blow to their prestige.

When Bane had first begun his training, many of the students had eagerly called him out. They knew he was a neophyte in the Force and they were eager to take down the heavily muscled giant in front of their classmates. At first he had declined the challenges. He knew they were the quickest way to gain prestige at the Academy, but he wasn’t foolish enough to be drawn into a battle he was guaranteed to lose.

In the past months, however, he had worked hard to learn his style and refine his technique. He learned new sequences quickly, and when Kas’im himself had commented on his progress, Bane had felt confident enough to begin accepting the challenges. He wasn’t victorious every time, but he was winning far more duels than he was losing, slowly climbing his way to the top of the ladder. Today he felt ready to take another step.

The apprentices were standing three rows deep, forming a ring of bodies around a clearing in the center roughly ten meters in diameter. Kas’im stepped into the middle. He didn’t speak, but merely tilted his head—a sign that it was time for the challenges to begin. Bane stepped into the center before anyone else could make a move.

“I challenge Fohargh,” he announced in ringing tones.

“I accept” came the reply from somewhere in the crowd on the opposite side. The apprentices parted to let the one challenged pass. Kas’im gave a slight bow to each combatant and stepped to the clearing’s edge to give them room.

Fohargh was a Makurth. In many ways he reminded Bane of the Trandoshans he had fought in his days with the Gloom Walkers. Both species were bipedal saurians—lizardlike humanoids covered in leathery green scales—but the Makurths had four curved horns growing from the top of their heads.

Early in Bane’s training, he had fought Fohargh—and he had lost. Badly.

The Makurth was nocturnal by nature. Like the miners of the night shift on Apatros, however, he had grown accustomed to an unnatural schedule in order to train with the rest of the apprentices at the Academy. During their first duel Bane had underestimated Fohargh, expecting him to be sluggish and slow during the daylight hours. He wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

As Kas’im and the apprentices watched in silence, the two combatants circled each other in the ring, training sabers held out before them in standard ready stances. The Makurth’s breath came in grunts and growls from his flaring nostrils as he tried to intimidate his human opponent. From time to time he’d give a short bellow and shake his four-horned lizard’s head while flashing his savage teeth. The last time he’d faced the green-scaled, snorting demon of an apprentice, Bane had been intimidated by Fohargh’s act. Now he simply ignored the posturing.

Bane lunged out with a simple overhand strike, but Fohargh responded with a quick parry to deflect the blow to the side. Instead of the crackle and hum of blades of pure energy crossing, there was a loud clang as the weapons clashed. Immediately the combatants spun away from each other and resumed their ready positions.

Bane rushed forward, his blade ascending diagonally from right to left in a long, swift arc. Fohargh managed to redirect the impact with his own weapon, but lost his balance and stumbled back. Bane tried to press his advantage, his training saber arcing up from left to right. His opponent spun out of harm’s way, backpedaling quickly to create space. Bane broke off the half-completed sequence and settled back into the ready position.

Back on Apatros his latent abilities in the Force had allowed him to anticipate and react to the moves of his foe. Here, however, every opponent enjoyed the same advantage. As a result, victory required a combination of the Force and physical skill.

Bane had worked on acquiring that physical skill over the past months. As this ability grew, he was able to devote less and less of his mental energy to the physical actions of thrust, parry, and counterthrust. This allowed him to keep his mind focused so he could use the Force to anticipate his opponent’s moves, while at the same time obscuring and confusing his enemy’s own precognitive senses.

The last time he and Fohargh had fought, Bane had still been a novice. He had only learned a handful of sequences. Now he knew almost a hundred, and he was able to transition smoothly from the end of one sequence into the beginning of another, opening up a wider range of attack-and-defense combinations. And more options made it more difficult for a foe to use the Force to anticipate his actions.

Fohargh, despite his terrifying appearance, was smaller and lighter than his human opponent. Physically outmatched by the brute force of Bane’s Form V, he was forced to rely on the defensive style of Form III to keep his larger opponent’s overpowering attacks at bay.

Spinning his training saber in a quick flourish, Bane leapt high in the air and came crashing down from above. Fohargh parried the attack but was knocked to the ground. He rolled onto his back and barely managed to get his saber up in time to block Bane’s next slashing attack. A chorus of metal on metal rang out as Bane’s blows descended like rain. The Makurth kept him from landing a direct hit with a masterful defensive flurry, then swept Bane off his feet with a leg-whip, leaving them both supine.

They flipped to their feet simultaneously, mirror images, and their sabers met with another resounding crash before they disengaged once again. There were some whispers and mutters from the assembled crowd, but Bane did his best to tune them out. They had thought the battle was over … as had Bane himself. He was disappointed that he hadn’t been able to finish off his fallen opponent, but he knew victory was near. Fohargh’s survival had extracted a heavy toll: he was breathing in ragged gasps now, his shoulders slumping.

Bane rushed Fohargh again. This time, however, the Makurth didn’t back away. He stepped forward with a quick thrust, switching from Form III to the more precise and aggressive Form II. Bane was caught off guard by the unexpected maneuver and was a microsecond slow in recognizing the change. His parry attempt knocked the tip of the blade away from his chest, only to have it slice across his right shoulder.

The crowd gasped, Fohargh howled in victory, and Bane screamed in pain as the saber slipped to the ground from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Mindlessly, Bane used his other hand to shove his opponent in the chest. Fohargh reeled backward, and Bane rolled away to safety.

Scrambling to his feet, Bane extended his left hand to the training saber lying on the ground three meters away. It sprang up and into his palm, and he once again assumed the ready position, his right arm dangling uselessly at his side. Some Sith learned to fight with either hand, but Bane hadn’t yet reached that advanced stage. The weapon felt awkward and clumsy as he held it. Left-handed, he was no match for Fohargh. The fight was over.

His opponent sensed it, as well. “Defeat is bitter, human,” he growled in Basic, his voice deep and menacing. “I have bested you; you have lost.”

He wasn’t asking Bane to yield; surrender was never an option. He was simply taunting him, publicly humiliating him in front of the other students.

“You trained for weeks to challenge me,” Fohargh continued, drawing out his mockery. “You failed. Victory is mine again.”

“Then come finish me!” Bane snapped back. There wasn’t much else he could say. Everything his enemy said in his heavily accented Basic was true, and the words cut far deeper than the blunted training saber’s edge possibly could.

“This ends when I choose,” the Makurth replied, refusing to be baited.

The eyes of the other apprentices burned into Bane; he could feel them drinking in his suffering as they stared at him. They resented him, resented the extra attention he had been receiving from the Masters. Now they reveled in his failure.

“You are weak,” Fohargh explained, casually twirling his own saber in a complex and intricate pattern. “You are predictable.”

Stop it! Bane wanted to scream. End this! Finish me! But despite the emotion building up inside him, he refused to give his opponent the satisfaction of saying another word. Instead he let the all-but-useless saber fall once more to the ground. In the background he could see the Blademaster watching intently, curious to see how the confrontation would reach its inevitable end.

“The Masters cosset you. They give you extra time and attention. More than the others. More than me.”

Bane barely even heard the words anymore. His heart was pounding so loud he could hear the blood coursing through his veins. Literally quaking with impotent rage, he lowered his head and dropped to one knee, exposing his bare neck.

“Despite this, you are still my inferior … Bane of the Sith.”

Bane. Something in the way Fohargh said it caused Bane to glance up. It was the same way his father used to say the word.

“That name is mine,” Bane whispered, his voice low and threatening. “Nobody uses it against me.”

Fohargh either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. He took a leisurely step forward. “Bane. Worthless. An insignificant nothing. The Masters wasted their time on you. Time better spent on other students. You are well named, for you truly are this Academy’s bane!”

“No!” Bane screamed, thrusting his good hand out palm-forward even as Fohargh leapt in to finish him off. Dark side energy erupted from his open palm to catch his opponent in midair, hurling him back to the edge of the crowd where he landed at Kas’im’s feet.

The Master watched with an intrigued but wary expression. Bane slowly clenched his fist and rose to his feet. On the ground before him, Fohargh was writhing in agony, clutching at his throat and gasping for breath.

Unlike the Makurth, Bane had nothing to say to his helpless opponent. He squeezed his fist harder, feeling the Force rushing through him like a divine wind as he crushed the life out of his foe. Fohargh’s heels pounded out a staccato rhythm on the temple’s stone roof as his body convulsed. He began to gurgle, and pink froth welled up from between his lips.

“Enough, Bane,” Kas’im said in a cold, even voice. Though he stood only centimeters away from the death throes of his student, his eyes were fixed on the one still standing.

A final surge of power roared up in the core of Bane’s being and exploded out into the world. In response, Fohargh’s body went stiff and his eyes rolled back in his head. Bane released his hold on the Force and his fallen enemy, and the Makurth’s body went limp as the last vestiges of life ebbed away.

“Now it’s enough,” Bane said, turning his back on the corpse and walking toward the stairs that led back inside the temple. The circle of students quickly opened a path for him to pass. He didn’t need to look back to know that Kas’im was watching him with great interest.

Bane felt the presence of someone following him down the stairs from the temple roof long before he heard the footsteps. He didn’t change his pace, but he did stop at the first landing and turn to face whoever it was. He half expected to see Lord Kas’im, but instead of the Blademaster he found himself staring into the orange eyes of Sirak, another apprentice at the Academy. Or rather, the top apprentice at the Academy.

Sirak was a Zabrak, one of three apprenticing here on Korriban. Zabrak tended to be ambitious, driven, and arrogant—perhaps it was these traits that made the Forcesensitives of the race so strong in the ways of the dark side—and Sirak was the perfect embodiment of those characteristics. He was far and away the strongest of the three. Wherever Sirak went, the other two usually followed, trailing at his heel like obedient servants. They made a colorful trio: red-skinned Llokay and Yevra, and pale yellow Sirak. But right now the other two were conspicuously absent.

There were rumors that Sirak had begun studying the ways of the dark side under Lord Qordis nearly twenty years ago, long before the Academy at Korriban had been resurrected. Bane didn’t know if the rumors were true, and he hadn’t thought it wise to ask about it. The Iridonian Zabrak was both powerful and dangerous. So far Bane had done his best to avoid drawing the attention of the Academy’s most advanced student. Apparently, that strategy was no longer an option.

The rush of adrenaline he’d felt as he’d ended Fohargh’s life was fading, along with the confidence and sense of invincibility that had led to his dramatic exit. Bane wasn’t exactly afraid as the Zabrak approached him, but he was wary.

In the dim torchlight of the temple, Sirak’s pale yellow skin had taken on a sickly, waxen hue. Unbidden, it brought back memories of Bane’s first year working the mines on Apatros. A crew of five—three men and two women—had been trapped in a cave-in. They had survived the collapsing tunnel by escaping into a reinforced safety chamber dug out of the rock, but noxious fumes released in the collapse had seeped into their haven and killed them all before rescue teams could dig them out. The complexion of their bloated corpses was the exact same color as Sirak’s: the color of a slow, agonizing death.

Bane shook his head, pushing the memory away. That life belonged to Des, and Des was gone. “What do you want?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

“You know why I am here,” was the icy response. “Fohargh.”

“Was he a friend of yours?” Bane was genuinely confused. With the exception of his fellow Zabrak, Sirak rarely mingled with the other students. In fact, many of the accusations Fohargh had leveled at Bane—such as preferential treatment from the Masters—could easily be applied to Sirak, as well.

“The Makurth was neither friend nor enemy” was the haughty reply. “He was beneath my notice, as were you. Until now.”

Bane’s only reply was a steady, unblinking stare. The flickering torchlight reflecting off the Zabrak’s pupils made it seem as if hungry flames licked away at the inside of his skull.

“You are an intriguing opponent,” Sirak whispered, taking a step closer. “Formidable … at least compared with the other so-called apprentices here. I am watching you now. I am waiting.”

He reached out slowly and pressed his finger into Bane’s chest. Bane had to fight the urge to take a step back.

“I do not issue challenges,” the Zabrak continued. “I have no need to test myself against a lesser opponent.” Flashing a cruel smile, he lowered his finger and took a step back. “However, when you fool yourself into believing you are ready, you will inevitably challenge me. I shall be looking forward to it.”

With that he brushed past Bane on the narrow landing, bumping him slightly with his shoulder as if unaware of him, then continuing on down the stairs to the level below.

The message of that slight bump was not lost on Bane. He knew Sirak was trying to intimidate him … and to goad him into a confrontation Bane wasn’t ready for. He wasn’t about to fall for the trap. Instead he stood motionless at the top of the landing, refusing to turn and watch Sirak depart. Only when he heard the sounds of the rest of the class descending from the roof did he move again, spinning on his heel and continuing down the stairs to the lower levels and the privacy of his own room.

11

The next morning Bane was not with the other students on the temple roof as they sparred. Lord Qordis wanted to speak with him. Privately.

He strode through the virtually empty halls of the Academy toward the meeting, his outward appearance calm and confident. Inside he was anything but.

All night, as he lay surrounded by the silence and darkness of his room, the duel had played itself over and over in his head. Free from the emotion of the battle, he knew he had gone too far. He had proven his dominance over Fohargh by pinning him with the Force; he had achieved dun möch. The Makurth would never dare to challenge him again. Yet for some reason Bane hadn’t been able to stop there. He hadn’t wanted to stop.

At the time he had felt no guilt over his actions. No remorse. Yet once his blood cooled, part of him couldn’t help but feel he had done something wrong. Had Fohargh really deserved to die?

But another part of him refused to accept the guilt. He’d had no love for the Makurth. No feelings at all. Fohargh had been nothing but an obstacle to Bane’s progress. An obstacle that had been removed.

He had given himself over to the dark side completely in that moment. It had been more than simple rage or bloodlust. It went deeper, to the very core of his being. He’d lost all reason and control … but it had felt right.

Bane had spent a long and sleepless night trying to reconcile the two emotions: triumph and remorse. But when the summons came that morning his inner conflict had been swept away by more immediate concerns.

Fohargh’s death would have repercussions. Combat was supposed to test the apprentices, harden their mettle through struggle and pain. It wasn’t meant to kill. Each and every disciple at the Academy, from Sirak down to the least and lowest of the students, had the ability to become a Master. Each possessed an extremely rare gift in the dark side—a gift that was meant to be used against the Jedi, not against one another.

In killing Fohargh, Bane had thinned the ranks of potential Sith Masters. He had dealt a serious blow to the war effort. Each apprentice at the Academy was valued more highly than an entire division of Sith troopers. He had destroyed an invaluable tool. For that, Bane suspected, he would be punished severely.

As he marched toward the meeting that could decide his fate he tried to push both fear and guilt from his mind. Nothing he did now could bring Fohargh back. The Makurth was gone, but Bane was still here. And he was a survivor. He had to be strong. He had to find some way to justify his actions to Lord Qordis.

He was already putting together his arguments. Fohargh had been weak. Bane hadn’t just killed him: he’d exposed him. Qordis and the other Masters encouraged rivalry and dissension among their charges. They understood the value of challenge and competition. Those who showed promise—the individuals who elevated themselves above the others—were rewarded. They received one-on-one instruction with the Masters to reach their full potential. Those who could not keep up were left behind. That was the way of the dark side.

Fohargh’s death was no more than a natural extension of the dark side philosophy. His death was the ultimate failure—his own failure. Why should Bane be blamed for another’s weakness?

His pace quickened and he clenched his teeth in angry frustration. No wonder his emotions were so conflicted. The teachings of the Academy were self-contradictory. The dark side allowed for no mercy, no forgiveness. Yet the apprentices were expected to pull back once they had bested their opponents in the dueling ring. It was unnatural.

He had reached the threshold of Qordis’s door. He hesitated, briefly wavering between fear of what his punishment would be and anger at the impossible situation he and all the other apprentices were put in every day.

Anger, he finally decided, would serve him best.

He knocked sharply at the door, then opened it when the command to enter came from within. Qordis was kneeling in the center of the chamber, deep in meditation. Bane had been in this room before, but he couldn’t help but marvel at the extravagance. The walls were adorned with expensive tapestries and hangings. Golden braziers and censers burning heavy incense were scattered haphazardly about to provide a dim glow in the hazy air. In one corner was a large, luxuriant bed. In another was an intricately carved table of obsidian, a small chest atop it.

The lid of the chest was open, revealing the jewelry inside: necklaces and chains of precious metals, rings of gold and platinum encrusted with ostentatious gemstones. Qordis took great pains to surround himself with material goods and the trappings of wealth, and he took greater pains to make sure others noticed his opulence. On some level, Bane suspected, the Sith Lord derived pleasure—and power—from the covetous desire and greed his possessions inspired in others.

The trinkets held little interest for Bane, however. He was more impressed with the manuscripts and tomes that lined the bookshelves along the wall, each a magnificent volume clad in leather embossed with gold leaf. Many of the volumes were thousands of years old, and he knew they contained the secrets of the ancient Sith.

At last Lord Qordis rose to his feet, standing tall and straight so he could look down on his student with his gray, sunken eyes.

“Kas’im told me what happened yesterday morning,” he said. “He tells me you are responsible for Fohargh’s death.” The tone of his voice gave Bane no clues as to his emotional state.

“I am not responsible for his death,” Bane answered calmly. He was angry, but he wasn’t stupid. He chose his next words very carefully; he wanted to convince Lord Qordis, not enrage him. “Fohargh was the one who let his guard down. He left himself vulnerable in the ring. It would have shown weakness not to take advantage of it.”

His statement wasn’t entirely factual, but it was close enough to the truth. One of the first lessons Kas’im taught students was how to build a protective shield around themselves in combat to prevent an enemy from using the Force against them. A Force-talented opponent could yank away your lightsaber, knock you off balance, or even extinguish your lightsaber’s blade without the touch of a hand or weapon. A Force-shield was the most basic—and most necessary—protection there was.

It had become instinctive for all the appentices, almost second nature. As soon as the blade was drawn, the protective veil went up. Guarding against the Force powers of the enemy and obscuring your own intentions required as much concentration and energy as augmenting your physical prowess or anticipating the moves of your foe. It was that unseen part of combat, the invisible battle of wills, not the obvious interaction of bodies and blades, that more often than not decided the fate of a duel.

“Kas’im says Fohargh did not lower his guard,” Qordis countered. “He says you simply ripped through it. His defenses could not stand before your power.”

“Master, are you saying I should hold back if my opponent is weak?”

It was a loaded question, of course. One Qordis didn’t even bother to answer.

“It is one thing to defeat an opponent in the ring. But even once he was down, you continued to attack him. He was beaten long before you killed him. What you did was no different from striking with the blade against a fallen and unconscious foe … something that is not permitted in the training ring.”

The words struck too close to home, dredging up the guilt Bane had tried to bury even as he had made his way to this meeting. Qordis was silent, waiting for Bane’s reaction. Bane had to make some type of reply. But the only answer he could come up with was a question he had wrestled with in the twilight hours before dawn. “Kas’im knew what was happening. He could see what I was doing. Why didn’t he stop me?”

“Why not, indeed?” Qordis replied smoothly. “Lord Kas’im wanted to see what would happen. He wanted to see how you would act in that situation. He wanted to see if you would be merciful … or if you would be strong.”

And suddenly Bane realized he hadn’t been called into the Master’s room to be punished. “I … I don’t understand. I thought it was forbidden to murder another apprentice.”

Qordis nodded. “We cannot have the students attacking each other in the halls; we want your hatred to be directed against the Jedi, not one another.” The words echoed the argument Bane had been having with himself only minutes earlier. But what came next was something he hadn’t anticipated.

“Despite this, Fohargh’s death may turn out to be a minor loss if it helps you to achieve your full potential. Exceptions can be made for those who are strong in the dark side.”

“Like Sirak?” Bane asked, the words out of his mouth before he even realized what he was saying.

Fortunately, the question seemed to amuse Lord Qordis rather than offend him. “Sirak understands the power of the dark side,” he said with a smile. “Passion fuels the dark side.”

“Peace is a lie, there is only passion.” Bane muttered out of habit. “Through passion, I gain strength.”

“Exactly.” Qordis seemed pleased, though with himself or his student it was hard to tell. “Through strength, I gain power; through power, I gain victory.”

“Through victory my chains are broken,” Bane dutifully recited.

“Understand this—truly understand it—and your potential is limitless!”

Qordis gave a dismissive wave of his hand, then settled back onto his meditation mat as Bane turned to go. At the door of the room, though, the young man paused and turned back.

“What is the Sith’ari?” he blurted out.

Qordis tilted his head to the side. “Where did you hear that word?” His voice was grave.

“I … I’ve heard some of the other students use it. About Sirak. They say he could be the Sith’ari.”

“Some of the old texts speak of the Sith’ari,” Qordis answered slowly, gesturing with a ring-laden claw at the books scattered about the room. “They say the Sith will one day be led by a perfect being, one who embodies the dark side and all we stand for.”

“Sirak is this perfect being?”

Qordis shrugged. “Sirak is the strongest student at the Academy. For now. Perhaps in time he will surpass Kas’im and me and all the other Sith Lords. Perhaps not.” He paused. “Many of the Masters do not believe in the legend of the Sith’ari,” he continued after a moment. “Lord Kaan discounts it, for one. It goes against the philosophy underlying the Brotherhood of Darkness.”

“What about you, Master? Do you believe in the legend?”

Bane waited while Qordis considered his reply. It felt like forever.

“These are dangerous questions to ask,” the Dark Lord finally said. “But if the Sith’ari is more than a legend, he will not simply be born as the exemplar of all our teachings. He—or she—must be forged in the crucibles of trial and battle to attain such perfection. Some might argue such training is the purpose of this Academy. But I would counter by insisting that we train our apprentices to join the ranks of the Sith Lords so they may stand alongside Kaan and the rest of the Brotherhood.”

Realizing that was as good an answer as he was going to get, Bane nodded and left. He had been absolved of his crime, given a pardon because of his power and potential. He should have been exultant, triumphant. But for some reason all he could think about as he headed up to the roof to join the other students was the sticky gurgles of Fohargh’s dying breaths.

That night, in the privacy of his room, Bane struggled to make sense of what had happened. He sought the deeper wisdom behind the Master’s words. Qordis had said that his emotions—his anger—had let him summon up the strength to defeat Fohargh. He said passion fueled the dark side. Bane had felt this enough times to know it was true.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than that. He didn’t consider himself a cruel person. He didn’t believe he was ruthless or sadistic. Yet how else to explain what he had done to the helpless Makurth? It had been murder, or execution … and Bane was having trouble accepting it.

He had a lot of blood on his hands: he’d killed hundreds, maybe even thousands, of Republic soldiers. But that had been war. And the ensign he’d killed on Apatros had been a case of self-defense. Those were all cases of kill or be killed, and he had no regrets about what he’d done. Unlike yesterday.

No matter how he tried, he couldn’t find a way to justify what had happened in the ring. Fohargh had taunted him, feeding his rage and lethal fury. Yet he couldn’t even use the excuse that he’d been swept up in the heat of the moment. Not if he was being honest with himself. He’d felt his emotions raging through him as he’d drawn on the dark side, but the act itself had been cold and deliberate. Calculating, even.

Lying in his bed, Bane couldn’t help but wonder if the relationship between passion and the dark side was more complex than Qordis had made it seem. He closed his eyes, thinking back on what had happened. He took slow, deep breaths, trying to stay calm and detached so he could analyze what had gone wrong.

He had been humiliated and embarrassed, and he’d responded with anger. His anger had let him summon the dark side to lash out at his enemy. He could remember a feeling of elation, of triumph, when Fohargh went sprawling through the air. But there was something else, too. Even in victory, his hatred had kept growing, rising up like the flames of a fire that could be quenched only with blood.

Passion fueled the dark side, but what if the dark side also fueled passion? Emotion brought power, but that power increased the intensity of those emotions … which in turn led to an increase in the power. In the right circumstances, it would create a cycle that would end only when a person reached the limits of his or her ability to command the Force—or when the target of his or her anger and hatred was destroyed.

Despite the heat in his room, a cold shiver ran down Bane’s spine. How was it possible to contain or control a power that fed on itself? The more he, as an apprentice, learned to draw on the Force, the more his emotions would control him. The stronger a person became, the less rational he would be. It was inevitable.

No, Bane thought. He was missing something. He had to be. If this were true, the Masters would be teaching the students techniques to avoid this situation. They would be learning to distance themselves from their own emotions, even as they used them to draw upon the dark side. But there was nothing of this in their training, so Bane’s analysis had to be wrong. It had to be!

Somewhat reassured, Bane let his thoughts drift into the comfort of sleep.

“You make me sick,” his father spat. “Look how much you eat! You’re worse than a kriffing zucca pig!”

Des tried to ignore him. He hunkered down in his seat at the dinner table and concentrated on the food on his plate, shoveling slow forkfuls into his mouth.

“Did you hear me, boy?” his father snapped. “You think that food in front of you is free? I gotta pay for that food, you know! I worked every day this week and I still owe more now than I did at the beginning of the blasted month!”

Hurst was drunk, as usual. His eyes were glassy, and he still reeked of the mines; he hadn’t even bothered to shower before hitting the bottle he kept tucked away beneath the covers of his cot.

“You want me to start working double shifts to support you, boy?” he shouted.

Without looking up from his plate Des muttered, “I work just as many shifts as you do.”

“What?” Hurst said, his voice dropping down to a menacing whisper. “What did you just say?”

Instead of biting his lip, Des looked up from his plate and right into his father’s red, bleary eyes. “I said I work as many shifts as you do. And I’m only eighteen.”

Hurst pushed his chair away from the table and rose. “Eighteen, and still too dumb to know when to keep your mouth shut.” He shook his head from side to side in exaggerated disappointment. “Bloody bane of my existence is what you are.”

Throwing his fork down on his plate, Des pushed his own chair back from the table and stood up to his full height. He was taller than his father now, and his frame was beginning to fill out with muscles earned in the tunnels.

“Are you going to beat me now?” he snarled at his father. “Going to teach me a lesson?”

Hurst’s jaw dropped open. “What the brix is wrong with you, boy?”

“I’m sick of this,” Des snapped. “You blame all your problems on me, but you’re the one who’s drinking away all our credits. Maybe if you sobered up we could get off this stinking world!”

“You smart-mouthed, mudcrutch whelp!” Hurst roared, flipping the table so it crashed against the wall. He leapt across the now empty space between them and grabbed Des by his wrists in a grip as unbreakable as a pair of durasteel binders. The young man tried to wrench free, but his father outweighed him by twenty-some kilos, almost half of which was muscle.

Knowing it was hopeless, Des stopped struggling after a few seconds. But he wasn’t going to cower and cry. Not this time. “If you’re going to beat me tonight,” he said, “remember that it might be the last time, old man. You better make it a good one.”

Hurst did. He lit into his son with the savage fury of a bitter, hopeless man. He broke his nose; he blackened both his eyes. He knocked out two of his teeth, split his lip, and cracked his ribs. But throughout it all Des never said a word, and he didn’t shed a single tear.

That night, as Des lay in his bed too bruised and swollen to sleep, a single thought kept running through his mind, drowning out the loud drunken snores of Hurst passed out in the corner.

I hope you die. I hope you die. I hope you die.

He’d never hated his father as much as he did at that moment. He envisioned a giant hand squeezing his father’s cruel heart.

I hope you die. I hope you die. I hope you die.

The words rolled over and over, an endless mantra, as if he could make them come true through sheer force of will.

I hope you die. I hope you die. I hope you die.

The tears he’d held back during the brutal thrashing finally came, hot drops streaming down his purple, swollen face.

I hope you die. I hope you die. I hope you—

Bane woke with a start, his heart pounding and his body bathed in terror sweat as he thrashed against the covers tangled around his legs. For a brief second he thought he was back on Apatros in the cramped room filled with Hurst and the overwhelming stench of booze. Then he realized where he was, and the nightmare began to fade. A horrible realization swept in to take its place.

Hurst had died that night. The authorities had ruled it a natural death. A heart attack, brought on by a combination of too much alcohol, a life working the mines, and the overexertion of nearly beating his own son to death with his bare hands. They never suspected the real cause. Neither had Bane. Not until now.

Trembling slightly, he rolled over, exhausted but knowing sleep wouldn’t come again this night.

Fohargh wasn’t the first person he had murdered with the Force. He probably wouldn’t be the last. Bane was smart enough to understand that.

He shook his head to clear away the memory of Hurst’s death. The man had deserved neither pity nor mercy. The weak would always be crushed by the strong. If Bane wanted to survive, he had to become one of the strong. That was why he was here at the Academy. That was his mission. That was the way of the dark side.

But the realization did nothing to quell the queasy feeling in his stomach, and when he closed his eyes he could still see father’s face.

12

“No!” Kas’im barked, disdainfully slapping Bane’s training saber aside with his own weapon. “Wrong! You’re too slow on the first transition. You’re leaving your left side wide open for a quick counter.”

The Blademaster was teaching him a new sequence; he’d been teaching it to him for more than a week. But for some reason Bane couldn’t seem to grasp the intricacies of the movements. His blade felt clumsy and awkward in his hand.

He stepped back and resumed the ready position. Kas’im studied him briefly, then dropped into a defensive stance in front of him. Bane took a deep breath to focus his mind before letting his body trigger the sequence once again.

His muscles moved instinctively, exploding into action. There was a hiss as the downstroke of his blade carved through the air in the first move, a blur of motion … but far too slow. Kas’im responded by slipping to the side and bringing his own double-bladed weapon around in a long, swift arc that struck Bane hard in the ribs.

The breath whooshed out of him and he felt the searing pain of the pelko barbs, followed by the all-too-familiar numbness spreading up through the left side of his torso. He staggered back, helpless, as Kas’im watched silently. Bane struggled to stay upright and failed, collapsing awkwardly to the floor. The Blademaster shook his head in disappointment.

Bane dragged himself to his feet, trying not to let his frustration show. It had been nearly three weeks since he had beaten Fohargh in the ring, and since that time he had been training with Kas’im in individual sessions to improve his lightsaber combat. But for some reason he wasn’t making any progress.

“I’m sorry, Master. I will go practice the drills again,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Drills?” the Twi’lek repeated, his voice cruel and mocking. “What good will that do?”

“I … I must learn the sequence better. To become faster.”

Kas’im spat on the ground. “If you truly believe that, then you’re a fool.”

Bane didn’t know how to respond, so he kept silent.

The Blademaster stepped forward and gave him a sharp cuff on his ear. It was meant not to hurt, but to humiliate. “Fohargh was better trained than you,” he snapped. “He knew more sequences, he knew more forms. But they couldn’t save him.

“The sequences are just tools. They help you free your mind so you can draw upon the Force. That is where you will find the key to victory. Not in the muscles of your arms or the quickness of your blade. You must call upon the dark side to destroy your enemies!”

Clenching his jaw from the burning pain now spreading through the entire left side of his body, Bane could only nod.

“You’re holding back,” the Master went on. “You aren’t using the Force. Without it, your moves are slow and predictable.”

“I … I’ll try harder, Master.”

“Try?” Kas’im turned away in disgust. “You’ve lost your will to fight. This lesson is over.”

Realizing he had been dismissed, Bane slowly made his way to the stairs leading down from the temple roof. As he reached them, Kas’im called out one last piece of advice.

“Return when you are ready to embrace the dark side instead of pulling away from it.”

Bane didn’t turn to look back: the pain and numbness of his left side made that impossible. But as he hobbled down the stairs, Lord Kas’im’s words echoed in his ears with the ring of truth.

This wasn’t the first training session he had failed in. And his failures weren’t limited to Kas’im and the lightsaber. Bane had gained in both reputation and prestige when he defeated Fohargh; several of the Masters had shown a sudden willingness to give him individual, one-on-one training. Yet despite the extra attention, Bane’s skills hadn’t progressed at all. If anything, he’d actually taken several steps back.

He made his way through the halls to his room, then lay down gingerly on his bed. There wasn’t anything he could do while he was temporarily crippled by the pelko venom except rest and meditate.

It was obvious something was wrong, but he couldn’t say exactly what. He no longer felt sharp. He no longer felt alive. When he had first become conscious of the Force flowing through him, his senses had become hyper-aware: the world had seemed more vibrant and more real. Now everything was muted and distant. He walked through the halls of the Academy as if he was in some kind of trance.

He wasn’t sleeping well; he kept having nightmares. Sometimes he dreamed of his father and the night he died. Other times he dreamed of his fight with Fohargh. Sometimes the dreams blended together, merging into one terrible vision: the Makurth beating him in the apartment on Apatros, his father lying dead in the dueling ring atop the temple on Korriban. And each time Bane would wake choking back a scream, shivering even though his body was bathed in sweat.

But it was more than just lack of sleep that left him in a dazed stupor. The passion that had driven him was gone. The raging fire inside him had vanished, replaced by a cold emptiness. And without his passion, he was unable to summon the power of the dark side. It was becoming harder and harder to command the Force.

The changes were subtle, barely noticeable at first. But over time small changes built up. Now moving even small objects left him exhausted. He was slow and clumsy with the training saber. He could no longer anticipate what his opponents would do; he could only react after the fact.

He couldn’t deny it any longer: he was regressing. Apprentices he had surpassed long ago had caught up to him again. He could tell he was falling behind just by watching the other students during their studies … which meant they could probably tell, too.

He thought back on what the Twi’lek Master had told him. You’ve lost your will to fight.

Kas’im was right. Bane had felt it slipping away since his first dream of his father. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to reclaim the anger and competitive fire that had fueled his meteoric rise through the hierarchy of Sith apprentices.

Return when you are ready to embrace the dark side instead of pulling away from it.

Something was holding him back. Some part of him recoiled from what he had become. He would meditate for hours each day, concentrating his mind in search of the swirling, pulsing fury of the dark side locked away within him. Yet he searched in vain. A cold veil had fallen across the core of his being, and try as he might he couldn’t tear it aside to seize the power that lay beneath.

And he was running out of time. So far nobody had dared to challenge him in the dueling ring—not since Fohargh’s death. The Makurth’s gruesome end still inspired enough fear in the other students for them to steer clear of him. But Bane knew they wouldn’t keep their distance much longer. His confidence and abilities were waning, and his failures were becoming more public. Soon it would be as obvious to the other students as it was to him.

In those first days after Fohargh’s death his only true rival had been Sirak. Now every apprentice on Korriban was a potential threat. The hopelessness of the situation tore away at his guts. It made him want to scream and claw at the stone walls in impotent rage. Yet for all his frustrations, he was unable to summon the passion that fed the dark side.

Soon a challenger would step forward in the dueling ring, eager to take him down. And there was nothing he could do to stop that moment from coming.

Lord Kaan paced restlessly on the bridge of Nightfall as it orbited the industrial world of Brentaal IV. The Sith fleet occupied the Bormea sector, the region of space where the Perlemian Trade Route and the Hydian Way intersected. The Brotherhood of Darkness now controlled two of the most important hyperspace lanes serving the Core Worlds; Republic resistance to the ever-advancing Sith fleet was crumbling.

And yet despite this most recent victory, Kaan felt something wasn’t right. If anything, their conquest of the Bormea sector had been too easy. The worlds of Corulag, Chandrila, and Brentaal had all fallen in rapid succession, their defenders offering only token resistance before retreating in the face of the invading horde.

In fact, he had sensed only a handful of Jedi among the Republic forces opposing them. This was not the first time the Jedi had been virtually absent from key battles: during encounters at Bespin, Sullust, and Taanab, Kaan had expected to be confronted by a fleet led by Jedi Master Hoth, the only Republic commander who seemed capable of winning victories against the Sith. But General Hoth—despite the reputation he had earned in the early stages of the war—was never there.

At first Kaan suspected it was a trap, some elaborate scheme arranged by the wily Hoth to ensnare and destroy his sworn enemy. But if it was a trap, it had never been sprung. The Sith were pressing in from all sides; they were almost sitting on the doorstep of Coruscant itself. And the Jedi had all but vanished, seemingly having deserted the Republic in its time of greatest need.

He should have been ecstatic. Without the Jedi, the war was as good as over. The Republic would fall in a matter of months, and the Sith would rule. But where had the Jedi gone? Kaan didn’t like it. The strange message Kopecz had sent just a few hours earlier had only added to his unease. The Twi’lek was coming to meet Nightfall with urgent news about Ruusan, news he wouldn’t transmit across regular channels. News so important he felt he had to deliver it in person.

“An interceptor has just docked in Nightfall’s landing bay, Lord Kaan,” one of the bridge crew reported.

Despite his anxiousness to hear Kopecz’s news, Lord Kaan resisted the urge to go down to the landing bay to meet him. He felt something had gone very, very wrong, and it was important to maintain an appearance of calm assurance before his troops. Yet patience was not a virtue many of the Sith Lords possessed, and he couldn’t keep himself from pacing as he waited for the Twi’lek to make his way to the bridge and deliver his ominous report.

After what seemed like hours but was no more than a few minutes, Kopecz finally arrived. His expression did nothing to alleviate Kaan’s growing apprehension as he crossed the bridge and gave a perfunctory bow.

“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.

13

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.

There was a brief lull in the action as the two combatants paused to reevaluate their strategies, each breathing heavily. Sirak twirled his weapon in a quick, complex sequence that brought the saber under his right arm, around behind his back, over his left shoulder, and around to the front. Then he smiled and did it in reverse.

Bane watched the extravagant flourish with a sinking feeling. Sirak had been toying with him in the first few passes, dragging the fight out so his victory would seem more impressive. Now he was showing his true skill, using sequences that blended several forms at once, switching rapidly among different styles in complex patterns Bane had never seen before.

It was just one more sign of the Zabrak’s superiority. If Bane tried to combine different styles into a single sequence, he’d probably gouge out an eye or smack himself in the back of the head. It was clear he was overmatched; his only hope was that his enemy would get careless and make a mistake.

Sirak moved in again, his training saber moving so quickly that Bane could hear the sizzle as it split the air. Bane leapt forward to meet the challenge, trying to call up the power of the dark side to anticipate and block the dual blades moving too fast for his eyes to see. He felt the Force flowing through him, but it seemed distant and hollow: the veil was still there. He was able to keep the paralyzing edges of Sirak’s saber at bay, but it required him to concentrate all his attention on controlling his own blade … leaving him vulnerable to the real purpose of the attack being unleashed against him.

Bane’s skull exploded as Sirak’s forehead slammed into his face. Pain turned his vision into a field of silver stars. The cartilage of his nose gave way with a sickening crunch, a geyser of blood gushing forth. Blind and dazed, he was able to parry the next strike only by instinct guided by the faintest whisper of the Force. But Sirak spun as his saber was turned away and delivered a back roundhouse kick that shattered Bane’s kneecap.

Screaming, Bane collapsed, his free hand slamming into the ground as he braced his fall. Sirak crushed the fingers under his boot, grinding them into the unyielding stone of the temple roof. A knee came up, fracturing his cheek and jawbone with a thunderous crack.

With a last, desperate burst Bane tried to hurl his opponent backward with the dark side. Sirak brushed the impact aside, easily deflecting it with the Force-shield he had wrapped himself in at the start of the duel. Then he moved in close to finish the job with his blades. The first blow hit with the impact of a landspeeder slamming into an irax, breaking Bane’s right wrist. The training saber dropped from his suddenly nerveless grasp. The next strike took him higher up on the same arm, dislocating his elbow.

A simple kick to the face sent jagged bits of tooth shooting out of his mouth and bolts of pain shooting through his broken jaw. He slumped forward, barely conscious, as Sirak stepped back and lowered his saber, reaching out with a free hand to grab Bane around the throat with the crushing grip of the Force. He raised his arm, lifting the muscular Bane as if he were a child, then hurled him across the ring.

Bane felt another bone snap as he crashed to the ground, but his body had passed into a state of shock and there was no longer any pain. He lay motionless in a crumpled, twisted heap. Blood from his nose and mouth clogged his throat. A coughing fit racked his body, and he heard rather than felt the grinding of his broken ribs.

Everything began to go dim. He caught a glimpse of a pair of blood-flecked boots striding toward him, and then Bane surrendered himself to the merciful darkness.

Kopecz shook his head as he studied the battle plan Kaan had laid out on a makeshift table in the middle of his tent. The holomap of Ruusan’s terrain showed the positions of the Sith forces as glowing red triangles floating above the map. The Jedi positions were represented by green squares. Despite this high-tech advancement, the rest of the map was a simple two-dimensional representation of the surrounding area’s topography. It did nothing to convey the grim devastation that had left Ruusan a virtual wasteland, ravaged by war.

Three great fleet battles had taken place high above the world in the past year, scattering debris from the losing side across the sparsely populated world each time. Scorched and twisted hulls that had once been ships had crashed into the lush forests, igniting wildfires that had reduced much of the small world’s surface to ash and barren soil.

Ruusan, despite its meager size, had become a world of major importance to both the Republic and the Sith. Strategically located on the edges of the Inner Rim, it also stood at what most considered the border between the Republic’s dangerous frontier and its safe and secure Core. Ruusan was a symbol. Conquering it represented the inevitable advance of the Sith and their conquest of the Republic; liberating it would be emblematic of the Jedi’s ability to drive the invaders away and protect the Republic’s citizens. The result was an endless cycle of battles, with neither side willing to admit defeat.

The First Battle of Ruusan had seen the invading Sith fleet rout the Republic forces using the elements of surprise and the strength of Kaan’s battle meditation. The second battle saw the Republic try to reclaim control of Ruusan and fail, driven back by the enemy’s superior numbers and firepower.

The third battle in the skies above Ruusan marked the emergence of the Army of Light. Instead of Republic cruisers and fighters, the Sith found themselves facing a fleet made up primarily of one- and two-crew fighters piloted exclusively by Jedi. The common soldiers who had joined Kaan’s army were no match for the Force, and Ruusan was saved … for a time.

The Sith had responded to the Army of Light by amassing the full numbers of the Brotherhood of Darkness into a single army, then unleashing it on Ruusan. The war that had ravaged the world from on high moved down to the surface, with far more devastating consequences. Compared with space fleet battles, ground combat was brutal, bloody, and visceral.

Kopecz slammed his fist down on the table. “It’s hopeless, Kaan.”

The other Dark Lords gathered in the tent murmured in agreement.

“The Jedi positions are too well defended; they have all the advantages,” Kopecz went on angrily. “High ground, entrenched fortifications, superior numbers. We can’t win this battle!”

“Look again,” Kaan replied. “The Jedi have spread themselves too thin.”

The big Twi’lek studied the map in more detail and realized Kaan was right. The Jedi perimeter extended too far out from their base camp. It took him barely a moment to realize why.

The clash between the armies of Jedi and Sith, led by Jedi Masters and Dark Lords, had shaken the foundations of the world. The power of the Force raged unchecked across the battlefields like the thunder of an exploding star. Towns, villages, and individual homes caught up in the storm had been wiped out, leaving only death and destruction behind. Civilians caught up in the wake of war had been forced to flee, becoming refugees of an epic battle between the champions of light and dark.

Seeing their suffering, the Jedi had sought to console, comfort, and protect the innocent citizens of Ruusan. They planned their strategies around defending civilian settlements and homesteads, even at the expense of resources and tactical advantage. The Sith, of course, made no such concessions.

“The Jedi’s compassion is a weakness,” Kaan continued. “One we can exploit. If we concentrate our full numbers on a single point, we can breach their lines. Then the advantage will be ours.”

The assembled generals and strategists of the Brotherhood of Darkness nodded in agreement. Several raised their voices in roars of triumph and congratulations. Only Kopecz refused to join in the celebrations.

“The Army of Light still outnumbers us two to one,” the heavyset Twi’lek reminded them. “Their lines may be overextended in some places, but we don’t know where they are vulnerable. They know our scouts are watching; they hide their numbers just as we hide ours. If we attack a location where their numbers are strong, we’ll be slaughtered!”

The rest of the generals stilled their voices, no longer swept up in their leader’s enthusiasm now that the glaring flaw in his plan had been exposed. Again, there were rumbles of disagreement and displeasure. Kopecz ignored the reaction of the other Dark Lords. For all their power, for all their ambition, they were like so many banthas, blindly following the rest of the herd. In theory everyone in the Brotherhood of Darkness was equal, but in practice Kaan ruled the others.

Kopecz understood this, and he was willing to follow him. The Sith needed a strong and charismatic leader, a man of vision, to quell the infighting that had plagued their ranks. Kaan was just such a leader, and he was normally a brilliant military tactician. But this plan was madness. Suicide. Unlike the rest of the rabble, Kopecz wasn’t about to follow their leader into certain death.

“You underestimate me, Kopcez,” Kaan reassured him, his voice calm and confident, as if he had anticipated this question all along and had an answer prepared. Perhaps he did. “We won’t strike until we know exactly where they are most vulnerable,” the Dark Lord explained. “By the time we attack, we’ll know the precise number and composition of every unit and patrol along their perimeter.”

“How?” Kopecz demanded. “Even our Umbaran shadow spies can’t provide us with that kind of detail. Not quickly enough to use it in planning our attack. We have no way of getting the information we’d need.”

Kaan laughed. “Of course we do. One of the Jedi will give it to us.”

The flaps covering the entrance of the long tent serving as the Sith war room parted as if on cue, and a young human woman clad in the robes of the Jedi order stepped through. She was of average height, but that was the only thing about her that could ever be called average. She had thick, raven hair that tumbled down past her shoulders. Her face and figure were perfect examples of the human female form; her tricopper-hued skin was set off by green eyes smoldering with a heat that was both a warning and an invitation. She moved with the lithe grace of a Twi’lek dancer as she walked the length of the assembled Dark Lords, a coy smile on her lips as she pretended not to hear their whispers of surprise.

Kopecz had seen many striking females in his time. Several of the female Dark Lords gathered in the tent were gorgeous, renowned as much for their incredible beauty as their devastating power. But as the young Jedi drew closer, he found he was unable to take his eyes off her. There was something magnetic about her, something that transcended mere physical attractiveness.

She carried her head high, her proud features issuing an unspoken challenge as she approached. And Kopecz saw something else: naked ambition, raw and hungry.

At his side Kaan whispered, “Remarkable, isn’t she?”

She reached the front of the tent and dipped smoothly to one knee, bowing her head ever so slightly in deference to Lord Kaan.

“Welcome, Githany,” he said, motioning for her to rise. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“It’s my pleasure, Lord Kaan,” she purred. Kopecz felt his knees go momentarily weak at her sensual voice, then snapped to rigid attention. He was too old and too wise to let himself be blinded by this woman’s charms. He cared only about what she could offer them against the Jedi.

“You have information for us?” he asked abruptly.

She tilted her head to one side and gave him a curious glance, trying to find the reason for his cold reception. After a moment’s pause she answered, “I can tell you exactly where to strike at their lines, and when. Lord Hoth put a Jedi named Kiel Charny in charge of coordinating their defenses. I got the information directly from him.”

“Why would this Charny share that kind of information with you?” Kopecz asked suspiciously.

She gave him a sly grin. “Kiel and I were … close. We shared many things. He had no idea I would come to you with the information.”

Kopecz narrowed his eyes. “I thought the Jedi disapproved of that sort of thing.”

Her smile became a sneer. “The Jedi disapprove of a lot of things. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

Kaan stepped forward before he could ask any more questions, placing a familiar hand on her hip and turning her away from Kopecz.

“We don’t have time for this, Githany,” he said. “You must give us your report and return to the Jedi camp before anyone notices you’re missing.”

She flashed a dazzling smile at Kaan and nodded. “Of course. We have to hurry.”

He gently ushered her over to the holomap, and a knot of strategists closed in, shielding her from view as she gave them the details of the Jedi guard. A few seconds later Kaan emerged from the crowd and walked back over to stand beside Kopecz.

“Ambition, betrayal—the dark side is strong in her,” the Twi’lek whispered. “I’m surprised the Jedi ever took her in.”

“They probably believed they could turn her to the light,” Kaan replied, speaking just as softly. “But Githany was born to the dark side. Like me. Like you. It was inevitable she would join the Sith someday.”

“The timing is fortunate,” Kopecz noted. “Maybe a little too fortunate. It may be a trap. Are you sure we can trust her? I think she’s dangerous.”

Kaan dismissed the warning with a soft laugh. “So are you, Lord Kopecz. That’s what makes you so useful to the Brotherhood.”

Bane was floating, weightless, surrounded by darkness and silence. It seemed he was adrift in the black void of death itself.

Then consciousness began to return. His body, jerked from blissful unawareness, thrashed in the dark green fluid of the bacta tank, creating a stream of bubbles that rose silently to the surface. His heart began to pound; he could hear the blood rushing through his veins.

His eyes popped open in time to see a med droid come over to adjust some of the settings on his tank. Within seconds his heart rate slowed and the involuntary thrashing of his bruised and broken limbs settled. But though his body was calmed by the tranquilizer, Bane’s mind was now fully alert and aware.

Memories of motion and pain flickered across his mind. The sights, sounds, and smells of combat. He remembered the approach of bloodstained boots: his blood. Kas’im must have stepped in after he’d blacked out and kept Sirak from killing him. They must have brought him here to heal.

At first he was surprised that they would bother to help him recover. Then he realized that he, like all the students at the Academy, was too valuable to the Brotherhood to simply throw away. So he would survive … but his life was essentially over.

Since coming to the Academy he had worked toward one clear goal. All his studying, all his training had been for one single purpose: to understand and command the power of the dark side of the Force. The dark side would bring him power. Glory. Strength. Freedom.

Now he would be a pariah at the Academy. He would be allowed to listen in on the group lessons, to practice his skills in Kas’im’s training sessions, but that would be all. Any hope he might have had of getting one-on-one training with any of the Masters had been crushed in his humiliating defeat. And without that specializing guidance, his potential would wither and die.

In theory all in the Brotherhood were equal, but Bane was smart enough to see the real truth. In practice the Sith needed leaders, Masters like Kaan, or Lord Qordis here at the Academy. The strong always stepped forward; the weak had no choice but to follow.

Now Bane was doomed to be one of the followers. A life of subservience and obedience.

Through victory my chains are broken. But Bane had not found victory, and he understood all too well the chains of servitude that would bind him forevermore. He was destroyed.

Part of him wished Sirak had just finished the job.

14

There was an air of unusual celebration in the halls of the Sith Academy. The Brotherhood of Darkness had scored a resounding victory over the Jedi on Ruusan, and the jubilation of the feast Qordis had thrown to mark the victory lingered in the air. During training sessions, drills, and lessons, students could be heard whispering excitedly as details of the battle were shared. The Jedi on Ruusan had been completely wiped out, some said. Others insisted Lord Hoth himself had fallen. There were rumors that the Jedi Temple on Coruscant was defenseless, and it was only a matter of days before it was ransacked by the Dark Lords of the Sith.

The Masters knew that much of what was being said was exaggerated or inaccurate. The Jedi on Ruusan had been routed, but a great many had managed to escape the battle. Lord Hoth was not dead; most likely he was rallying the Jedi for the inevitable counterattack. And the Jedi Temple on Coruscant was still well beyond the reach of Kaan and the Brotherhood of Darkness. On the orders of Qordis, however, the instructors allowed the enthusiasm of their apprentices to go unchecked for the sake of improving morale.

The exultant mood at the Academy had little effect on Bane, however. It had taken three weeks of regular sessions in the bacta tank before he’d fully recovered from the horrific beating Sirak had given him. Most of the time a loss in the dueling ring required only a day or two in the tanks before the student was ready to resume training. Of course, most of the students didn’t lose as badly as Bane had.

Hurst had been free with his fists, and Bane had suffered more than a few severe thrashings growing up. The punishments of his youth had taught him how to deal with physical pain, but the trauma inflicted by Sirak was far worse than anything he’d endured at his father’s hands.

Bane shuffled slowly down the halls of the Academy, though his measured pace was one of choice rather than necessity. The lingering discomfort he felt was insignificant. Thanks to the bacta tanks his broken bones had mended and his bruises had vanished completely. The emotional damage, however, was more difficult to reverse.

A pair of laughing apprentices approached, regaling each other with supposedly factual accounts of the Sith victory on Ruusan. Their conversation stopped as they neared the solitary figure. Bane ducked his head to avoid meeting their eyes as they passed. One whispered something unintelligible, but the contempt in her tone was unmistakable.

Bane didn’t react. He was dealing with the emotional pain in the only way he knew how. The same way he’d dealt with it as a child. He withdrew into himself, tried to make himself invisible to avoid the scorn and derision of others.

His defeat—so public and so complete—had destroyed his already suspect reputation with both the students and the Masters. Even before the duel many had sensed that his power had left him. Now their suspicions had been confirmed. Bane had become an outcast at the Academy, shunned by the other students and disregarded by the Masters.

Even Sirak ignored him. He had beaten his rival into submission; Bane was no longer worthy of his notice. The Zabrak’s attention, like the attention of nearly all the apprentices, had turned to the young human female who had come to join them shortly after the battle on Ruusan.

Her name was Githany. Bane had heard that she had once been a Jedi Padawan but had rejected the light in favor of the dark side … a common enough story at the Academy. Githany, however, was anything but common. She had played an integral role in the Sith victory on Ruusan, and had arrived at Korriban with the fanfare of a conquering hero.

Bane hadn’t been strong enough to attend the victory feast where Qordis had introduced the new arrival to the rest of the students, but he had seen her several times at the Academy since then. She was stunningly beautiful; it was obvious that many of the male students lusted after her. It was just as obvious that several of the female students were jealous of her, though they kept their resentment well hidden for their own sake.

Githany was as arrogant and cruel as she was physically becoming, and the Force was exceptionally strong in her. In only a few weeks she’d already developed a reputation for crushing those who got in her way. It was no surprise she had quickly became a favorite of Qordis and the other Dark Lords.

None of this really mattered to Bane, however. He trudged on through the halls, head down, making his way to the library located in the depths of the Academy. Studying the archives had seemed the best way to supplement the teachings of the Masters in the early stages of his development. Now the cold, quiet room far beneath the Temple’s main floors offered him his only place of refuge.

Not surprisingly, the massive room was empty save for the rows of shelves stacked with manuscripts haphazardly arranged and then forgotten. Few students bothered to come here. Why waste time contemplating the wisdom of the ancients when you could study at the feet of an actual Dark Lord? Even Bane came here only as a last resort; the Masters wouldn’t waste their time on him anymore.

But as he perused the ancient texts, a part of him he’d thought dead began to reawaken. The inner fire—the burning rage that had always been his secret reserve—was gone. Still, even if only faintly, the dark side called to him, and Bane realized that he wasn’t ready to give up on himself. And so he gave himself up to studying.

It wasn’t permissible for students to remove records from the archive room, so Bane did all his reading there. Yesterday he had finally completed a rather long and detailed treatise by an ancient Sith Lord named Naga Sadow on the uses of alchemy and poisons. Even in that he had found small kernels of deeper wisdom he had claimed for his own. Bit by bit his knowledge was growing.

He walked slowly up and down the rows, glancing at titles and authors, hoping to find something useful. He was so intent on his search that he failed to notice the dark, hooded figure that entered the archives and stood silently in the doorway, watching him.

Githany didn’t say a word as the tall, broad-shouldered man wandered through the archives. He was physically imposing; even under his loose-fitting robes his muscles were obvious. Concentrating as she had been taught by the Jedi Masters before she’d betrayed them, she was able to feel the power of the dark side in him; he was remarkably strong in the Force. Yet he didn’t carry himself like a man who was strong or powerful. Even here, away from the eyes of anyone else, he walked stooped over, his shoulders hunched.

This was what Sirak could do to a rival, she realized. This was what he could do to her if she went up against him and lost. Githany had every intention of challenging the Academy’s acknowledged top student … but only once she was certain she could beat him in the dueling ring.

She had sought out Bane hoping to learn from his mistakes. Seeing him now, weak and broken, she realized she might be able to get more from him than just information. Normally she would be wary of allying herself with another student, particularly one as strong as Bane. Githany preferred to work alone; she knew all too well how devastating the consequences of unexpected betrayal could be.

But the man she saw was vulnerable, exposed. He was alone and desperate; he was in no position to betray anyone. She could control him, using him as necessary and disposing of him when she was done.

He took a book down from one of the shelves and walked slowly over to the tables. She waited until he had settled himself in and begun his reading. She took a deep breath and cast back her hood, letting her long tresses cascade down her shoulders. Then she put on her most seductive smile and moved in.

Bane carefully opened the pages of the ancient volume he had taken down from the archive shelves. It was titled The Rakata and the Unknown World, and according to the date was nearly three thousand standard years old. But it wasn’t the title or subject matter that had grabbed him. It was the author: Darth Revan. Revan’s story was well known to Sith and Jedi alike. What intrigued Bane was the use of the Darth title.

None of the modern Sith used the Darth name, preferring the designation Dark Lord. Bane had always found this puzzling, but he had never asked the Masters about it. Perhaps in this volume by one of the last great Sith to use the designation he could find out why the tradition had fallen into disuse.

He had barely begun to read the first page when he heard someone approaching. He glanced up to see the Academy’s newest apprentice—Githany—striding toward him. She was smiling, making her already remarkable features even more attractive. In the past Bane had only seen her from a distance; up close she literally took his breath away. As she swept into the seat beside him, the faintest whiff of perfume tickled his nose, causing his already racing heart to quicken its beat.

“Bane,” she whispered, speaking softly even though there was no one else in the archives to be disturbed by their conversation. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Her statement caught him by surprise. “Looking for me? Why?”

She placed a hand on his forearm. “I need you. I need your help against Sirak.”

Her closeness, the brief contact with his arm, and her alluring fragrance sent his head spinning. It took him several moments to figure out what she meant, but once he did her sudden interest in him became obvious. News of his humiliation at the Zabrak’s hands had reached her ears. She had come to see him in person, hoping she might learn something that would keep her from falling victim to a similar failure.

“I can’t help you with Sirak,” he said, turning away from her and burying his face in his book.

The hand on his forearm gently squeezed, and he looked up again. She had leaned in closer, and he found himself staring right into her emerald eyes.

“Please, Bane. Just listen to what I have to say.”

He nodded, not sure if he’d even be able to speak while she was pressed so close against him. He closed the book and turned slightly in his chair to better face her. Githany gave a grateful sigh and leaned back slightly. He felt a small flicker of disappointment as her hand slipped from his arm.

“I know what happened to you in the dueling ring,” she began. “I know everyone believes Sirak destroyed you; that somehow the defeat robbed you of your power. I can see you believe it, too.”

Her face had taken on an expression of sorrow. Not pity, thankfully. Bane didn’t want that from anyone—especially not her. But she showed genuine regret as she spoke.

When he didn’t reply she took a deep breath and continued. “They’re wrong, Bane. You can’t just lose your ability to command the Force. None of us can. The Force is part of us; it’s part of our being.

“I heard accounts of what you did to that Makurth. That showed what you were capable of. It revealed your true potential; it proved you were blessed with a mighty gift.” She paused. Her gaze was intense. “You may believe you’ve squandered that gift, or lost it. But I know better. I can sense the power inside you. I can feel it. It’s still there.”

Bane shook his head. “The power may be there, but my ability to control it is gone. I’m not what I used to be.”

“That’s not possible,” she said, her voice gentle. “How can you believe that?”

Though he knew the answer, he hesitated before replying. It was a question he had asked himself countless times while floating in the weightless fluid of the bacta tank. After his defeat he’d had plenty of opportunity to struggle with his failure, and he’d eventually come to realize what had gone wrong … though not how to fix it.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to share his personal revelation with a virtual stranger. But who else was he going to tell? Not the other students; certainly not the Masters. And even though he hardly knew Githany, she had reached out to him. She was the only one to do so.

Exposing personal weakness was something only a fool or an idiot would risk here at the Academy. Yet the hard truth was that Bane had nothing left to lose.

“All my life I’ve been driven by my anger,” he explained. He spoke slowly, staring down at the surface of the table, unable to look her in the eye. “My anger made me strong. It was my connection to the Force and the dark side. When Fohargh died—when I killed him—I realized I was responsible for my father’s death. I killed him through the power of the dark side.”

“And you felt guilty?” she asked, once again placing a soft hand on his arm.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Her hand was warm; he could feel the heat radiating through the fabric of his sleeve to his skin underneath. “All I know is that the realization changed me. The anger that drove me was gone. All that was left behind was … well … nothing.”

“Give me your hand.” Her voice was stern, and Bane hesitated only an instant before reaching out. She clasped his palm with both her hands. “Close your eyes,” she ordered, even as she shut her own.

In the darkness he became acutely aware of how tightly she had clenched his hand: squeezing the flesh so hard he could feel the beating of her heart through her palms. It was quick and urgent, and his already racing heart accelerated in response.

He felt a tingling in his fingers, something beyond mere physical contact. She was reaching out with the Force.

“Come with me, Bane,” she whispered.

Suddenly he felt as if he were falling. No, not falling: diving. Swooping down into a great abyss, the black emptiness inside his very being. The chill darkness numbed his body; he lost all sensation in his extremities. He could no longer feel Githany’s hands wrapped about his own. He didn’t even know if she was still sitting beside him. He was alone in the freezing void.

“The dark side is emotion, Bane.” Her words came to him from a long way off, faint but unmistakable. “Anger, hate, love, lust. These are what make us strong. Peace is a lie. There is only passion.” Her words were louder now, loud enough to drown out the drumming of his heart. “Your passion is still there, Bane. Seek it out. Reclaim it.”

As if in response to her words his emotions began to well up inside him. He felt anger. Fury. Pure, pulsing hatred: hatred of the other students for ostracizing him, hatred of the Masters for abandoning him. Most of all he hated Sirak. And with the hate came the hunger for revenge.

Then he felt something else. A spark; a flicker of light and heat in the cold darkness. His mind lunged out and grasped the flame, and for one brief instant he felt the glorious power of the Force burning through him once more. Then Githany let go of his hand and it was gone—snuffed out as if he had merely imagined it. But he hadn’t. It was real. He’d actually felt it.

He opened his eyes warily, like a man waking from a dream he was afraid to forget. From the expression on Githany’s face, he knew she must have felt something, too.

“How did you do that?” he asked, trying and failing to keep the desperation out of his voice.

“Master Handa taught me when I was studying under him in the Jedi order,” she admitted. “I lost touch with the Force once, just as you have. I was still a young girl when it happened. My mind simply couldn’t cope with something so vast and infinite. It created a wall to protect itself.”

Bane nodded, remaining fervently silent so she could continue.

“Your anger is still there. As is the Force. Now you must break through the walls you’ve built around it. You have to go back to the beginning and learn how to connect with the Force once more.”

“How do I do that?”

“Training,” Githany answered, as if it was obvious. “How else does one learn to use the Force?”

The faint hope her revelation had kindled inside him died.

“The Masters won’t train me anymore,” he mumbled. “Qordis has forbidden it.”

“I will train you,” Githany said coyly. “I can share with you everything I learned from the Jedi about the Force. And whatever I learn about the dark side from the Masters I can teach to you, as well.”

Bane hesitated. Githany was no Master, yet she had trained as a Jedi for many years. She probably knew much about the Force that would be new to him. At the very least he’d learn more with her help than without it. And yet something bothered him about her offer.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

She gave him a sly smile. “Still don’t trust me? Good. You shouldn’t. I’m only in this for myself. I can’t defeat Sirak on my own. He’s too strong.”

“They say he’s the Sith’ari,” Bane muttered.

“I don’t believe in prophecies,” she countered. “But he has powerful allies. And the other Zabrak apprentices here are completely loyal to him. If I’m ever going to challenge him, I need somebody on my side. Somebody strong in the Force. Somebody like you.”

Her reasons made sense, but there was still something bothering him. “Lord Qordis and the other Masters wouldn’t approve of this,” he warned her. “You’re taking an awful risk.”

“Risks are the only way to claim the rewards,” she replied. “Besides, I don’t care what the Masters think. In the end those who survive are the ones who look after themselves.”

It took Bane a second to realize why her words sounded so familiar. Then he remembered the last thing Groshik had said to him before he left Apatros. In the end each of us is in this alone. The survivors are those who know how to look out for themselves.

“You help me regain the Force, and I’ll help you against Sirak,” he said, extending his arm. She clasped it in her own, then stood up to leave. Bane held his grip, forcing her to sit back down. There was a dangerous glint in her eye, but he didn’t let go.

“Why did you leave the Jedi?” he asked.

Her expression softened, and she shook her head. She extended her free hand and placed it gently on his cheek. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to share that with you.”

He nodded. He didn’t need to push her now, and he knew he hadn’t earned the right yet.

The hand on his cheek fell away, and he let go of her arm. She gave him one last appraising glance, then rose and walked away with brisk, purposeful strides. She never glanced back, but Bane was content to follow her swaying hips until she was out of sight.

Githany knew he was watching her make her exit. Men always watched her; she was used to it.

All in all she felt the meeting had gone well. For a split second at the end—when he’d refused to let go of her arm—she had wondered if she’d underestimated him. His defiance had caught her off guard; she’d expected someone weak and subservient. But once she’d looked into his eyes she’d realized he was clinging to her out of desperation and fear. One single meeting and he already couldn’t bear to let her go.

Even though she’d been with the Sith only a short time, the ways of the dark side came naturally to her. She felt no pity or sorrow for him; his vulnerability only made him easier to control. And unlike the Jedi, the Brotherhood of Darkness rewarded ambition. Each rival she brought low proved her worth and elevated her status within the Sith.

Bane would make the perfect tool to bring her rivals down, she thought. He was incredibly strong in the Force. Even stronger than she’d first realized. She’d been amazed at the power she’d felt inside him. And now he was completely wrapped around her finger. She just had to make sure he stayed that way.

She’d bring him along slowly, always keeping him just behind her own abilities. It was a dangerous game, but one she knew she could play well. Knowledge was power, and she alone controlled what knowledge he would gain. She’d teach him. String him along, twist him to her will, then use him to crush Sirak. And then, if she felt Bane was growing too powerful, she’d destroy him, too.

Night had fallen over Korriban; sputtering torches cast eerie shadows in the halls of the Academy. Bane made his way through those halls wrapped in a black cloak, little more than a shadow himself.

It was forbidden for apprentices to leave their rooms after curfew—one of the steps Qordis had taken to reduce the “unexplained” deaths that seemed to be all too common in academies populated by rival students of the dark side. Bane knew that if he was caught, the punishment would be severe. But this was the only time he could act without fear of being seen by the other students.

He wound his way through the dormitory floor that housed the students until he reached the stairway leading to the upper levels and the Masters’ quarters. He glanced quickly from side to side, peering into the flickering shadows cast on the stone walls. He paused, listening for the sound of anyone who might catch him in the halls. He had memorized the routes of the night sentries who patrolled the corridors after dark; he knew it would be almost an hour before they returned to this floor of the temple. But there were many other underlings—kitchen staff, cleaning staff, groundskeepers—who served the needs of the Academy and might be wandering about.

Hearing only silence, he proceeded up the stairs. He made his way quickly past the personal quarters of Qordis, somewhat relieved to see that even the Sith Master felt the need to close and lock his door at night. He continued on past another half a dozen doors, pausing only when he reached the entrance to the Blademaster’s room.

He knocked once softly, careful not to wake the others. Before he could knock a second time, the door swung open to reveal the Twi’lek. For a split second Bane thought he must have been standing on the other side waiting for him. But that was impossible, of course. More likely the Blademaster’s highly tuned reflexes had reacted to the first knock so quickly that he had already crossed the room and opened the door by the time the second rap came.

He was clad in a pair of pants, but his torso was bare, showing his scarred and tattooed chest. His confused expression confirmed Bane’s assumption that the Blademaster hadn’t known he was coming, and the speed with which he reached out to grab Bane and haul him inside the room confirmed his suspicions about his extraordinary reflexes.

Before Bane even realized what was happening, the door was closed and locked behind him, sealing the two of them together in the small, dark room. His host lit a small glow rod on a stand by the bed and turned to glare at his uninvited guest.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, keeping his voice low.

Bane hesitated, uncertain how much to tell him. He had been thinking about Githany’s offer, and what she had said to him. He had decided she was right: he had to look out for himself if he was to survive. That meant he had to be the one to bring Sirak down, not her.

“I want you to train me again,” Bane whispered. “I want you to teach me all you know about the art of lightsaber combat.”

Kas’im shook his head in response, but Bane thought he sensed a brief hesitation before he did so.

“Qordis will never allow it. He has made it very clear that none of the Masters is to waste any more time on you.”

“I didn’t think you answered to Qordis,” Bane countered. “Aren’t all the Masters equal in the Brotherhood of Darkness?”

It was a blatant appeal to the Blademaster’s pride, and the Twi’lek easily recognized it for what it was. He smiled, amused at Bane’s boldness. “True enough,” he admitted. “But here on Korriban the other Lords defer to Qordis. It avoids … complications.”

“Qordis doesn’t have to know,” Bane pointed out, taking heart in the fact that Kas’im hadn’t flat-out refused him yet. “Train me in secret. We can meet at night on the temple roof.”

“Why should I do this?” the Twi’lek asked, crossing his muscular arms. “You ask for the teachings of a Sith Lord, but what are you offering me in return?”

“You know my potential,” Bane pressed. “Qordis has cast me aside. If I succeed now, he cannot take the credit. If I become an expert warrior for the Brotherhood, Lord Kaan will know you were the one who trained me. And if I fail, no one will ever suspect your part in this. You have nothing to lose.”

“Nothing but my time,” the other replied, scratching his chin. “You’ve lost your will to fight. You proved that against Sirak.” His lekku were quivering ever so slightly, and Bane took it as a sign that, despite his words, he was seriously considering the offer.

Again, Bane hesitated. How much did he dare to reveal? He still planned to let Githany teach him about the Force and the ways of the dark side. But he had realized that if she was his only teacher, he would forever be beneath her in power. If he wanted to be the one to take out Sirak, he’d need Kas’im to help him … and he’d need to keep her from finding out.

“My will to fight is back,” he finally said, deciding not to reveal Githany’s involvement in his sudden resurrection. “I’m ready to embrace the power of the dark side.”

Kas’im nodded. “Why are you doing this?”

Bane knew this was the final test. Kas’im was a Dark Lord of the Sith. His talent and skill were reserved for those who would one day rise up and join the Masters in the Brotherhood of Darkness. He wanted more than proof that Bane was truly ready for this. He wanted proof that Bane was worthy.

“I want revenge,” Bane replied after careful consideration. “I want to destroy Sirak. I want to crush him like an insect beneath the heel of my boot.”

The Blademaster smiled in grim satisfaction at his answer. “We will begin tomorrow.”

15

Bane made his way down the hall with careful, measured steps. But though his pace was somber and subdued, his mood was one of elated triumph. In the weeks since his fateful meeting with Githany his situation had turned around completely.

As promised, she was teaching him. The first few sessions had gone slowly as she’d helped him work through his mind’s fear of its own potential. Bit by bit the black veil had been torn away. Piece by piece she was helping him reclaim what he had lost, until once again he felt the power of the dark side coursing through his veins.

Since then the training had gone much more quickly. His hunger for revenge drove his studies. It fueled his ability to use the Force. It enabled him to understand the lessons that the Masters had taught Githany and she had then passed on to him. Despite being ignored by the instructors, he was once again learning everything the other apprentices were being taught—and learning it rapidly.

As another student passed Bane bowed his head, keeping up the pretense of subservience. It was important that none of the others suspected anything had changed. He kept his training with Githany hidden from everyone, even Kas’im … just as the Blademaster’s training was kept secret from her.

Kas’im knew he was growing more formidable with the blade, but didn’t know he was making similar strides in other areas. Githany could see his progress in unleashing his true potential with the Force, but wasn’t aware he was also mastering the intricacies of lightsaber combat. As a result, they were both likely to underestimate the full scope of his abilities. Bane liked the subtle edge that gave him.

His days were now filled with study and training. In the darkest hours before morning’s first light he would meet Kas’im to practice drills and techniques. He would meet with Githany in the archives in the midday, where she could share instruction with him without fear of interruption or discovery. And whenever he wasn’t training with Kas’im or studying with Githany, he read the ancient texts.

Another apprentice approached and Bane moved to the side, projecting an image of weakness and fear to hide his remarkable metamorphosis. He waited until the other apprentice’s footsteps faded away before heading down the stairs toward the tomes in the temple’s lowest levels.

Qordis or one of the other Masters might have been able to pierce the false front he projected and sense his true power, were they not blinded by their own arrogance. They had dismissed him as a failure; now he was beneath their notice. Fortunately, this anonymity suited Bane just fine.

He hardly slept at all anymore. It seemed his body no longer needed sleep; it fed on his growing command of the dark side. An hour or two of meditation each day was enough to keep his body energized and his mind invigorated. He consumed knowledge with the appetite of a starving rancor, devouring everything he got from his secret mentors and always hungering for more. The Blademaster was amazed at his progress, and even Githany—despite her years of study with the Jedi—was hard-pressed to keep ahead of him. Everything he learned from them he supplemented with the wisdom of the ancients. On his first arrival he had sensed the value of the archives, only to turn his back on them as he had been drawn into the daily routine and intense lessons of the Academy. Now he understood that his initial instincts had been right after all: the knowledge contained in the yellowed parchments and leather-bound manuscripts was timeless. The Force was eternal, and though the Masters at the Academy now walked a different path than their Sith forebears had, they all sought answers in the dark side.

He smiled at the irony of this life. He was the outcast, the student Qordis had wanted left behind. Yet with Githany, Kas’im, and his own study of the archives, he was receiving far more education than any other apprentice on Korriban.

The truth would be revealed soon enough. When the time was right, Sirak would discover that he had underestimated Bane. They all would.

“Excellent!” Kas’im said as Bane blocked the Dark Lord’s flurry and countered with one of his own. He didn’t actually score a direct hit, but he did force the Blademaster to take a full step back under the fury of his assault.

Suddenly the Twi’lek leapt high in the air, spinning and twisting so he could lash down at Bane as he flipped over the top of him. Bane was ready, switching from offense to defense so smoothly it all seemed to be a single action. He parried both blades of Kas’im’s weapon even as he ducked out of the way and rolled clear to safety.

He spun to face his foe, only to see that Kas’im had lowered his weapon, signifying the end of the lesson.

“Very good, Bane,” the Twi’lek said, giving him a slight bow. “I thought you might be caught off guard by that move, but you were able to anticipate and defend it with near-perfect form.”

Bane basked in his Master’s praise, but he was sorry to know the session was over. He was breathing hard, his muscles glistening with sweat and twitching with adrenaline, yet he felt as if he could have continued fighting for hours. Sparring and drills had become much more than mere physical exertion for him now. Each movement, every strike and thrust, had become an extension of the Force acting through the corporeal shell of his flesh-and-bone body.

He longed to engage another opponent in the dueling ring. He hungered for the challenge of testing himself against the other apprentices. But it wasn’t time. Not yet. He still wasn’t good enough to defeat Sirak, and until he could take the Zabrak down he had to keep his rapidly developing talent hidden.

Kas’im tossed him a towel. Bane was pleased to see that the Twi’lek was sweating, too—though nowhere near as profusely as he was.

“Do you have anything you want me to work on for tomorrow?” Bane asked eagerly. “A new sequence? A new form? Anything?”

“You’ve moved far beyond sequences and forms,” the Master told him. “In that last pass you broke off your attack in the middle of one sequence and came at me from a completely different and unexpected angle.”

“I did?” Bane was surprised. “I … I didn’t really mean to.”

“That’s what made it such a potentially devastating move,” Kas’im explained. “You’re letting the Force guide your blade now. You act without thought or reason. You’re driven by passion: fury, anger … even hate. Your saber has become an extension of the dark side.”

Bane couldn’t help smiling, but then his brow furrowed in consternation. “I still couldn’t get past your defenses,” he said, trying to re-create the battle in his mind. No matter what he had tried to do, it seemed one side of the Twi’lek’s twin-bladed weapon was always there to parry his attack. A seed of doubt crept into his mind as he recalled that Sirak used a similar style of weapon. “Does the double-bladed lightsaber give you an advantage?” he asked.

“It does, but not in the way you believe,” Kas’im replied.

Bane was silent, waiting patiently for further explanation. After a few seconds his Master obliged him.

“As you already know, the Force is the real key to victory in any confrontation. However, the equation is not so simple. Someone well trained in lightsaber combat can defeat an opponent who is stronger in the Force. The Force allows you to anticipate your opponent’s moves and counter them with your own. But the more options your foe has available, the more difficult it is to predict which will be chosen.”

Bane thought he understood. “So the double-bladed weapon gives you more options?”

“No,” Kas’im replied. “But you think it does, so the effect is the same.”

For several seconds Bane thought about the Blademaster’s strange words, trying to decipher them. In the end he had to admit defeat. “I still don’t understand, Master.”

“You know the single-bladed lightsaber well; you use it yourself and you’ve seen most of the other apprentices use it, as well. My double-bladed weapon seems strange to you. Unfamiliar. You don’t fully understand what it can and cannot do.” From the lack of impatience or exasperation in the Twi’lek’s tone, Bane could tell this was something he hadn’t been expected to grasp on his own.

“In combat, your mind tries to keep track of each blade separately, effectively doubling the number of possibilities. But the two blades are connected: by knowing the location of one, you are automatically aware of the location of the other. In actual practice, the double-bladed lightsaber is more limited than the traditional lightsaber. It can do more damage, but it is less precise. It requires longer, sweeping movements that don’t transition well into a quick stab or thrust. Because the weapon is difficult to master, however, few among the Jedi—or even the Sith—understand it. They don’t know how to attack or defend effectively against it. That gives those of us who use it an advantage over most of our opponents.”

“Like Githany’s whip!” Bane exclaimed. Githany eschewed traditional weaponry in favor of the very rare energy whip: just one of the many traits that made her stand out from the other apprentices. It operated on the same basic principles as a lightsaber, but instead of a steady beam, the energy of the crystals was projected in a flexible ribbon that would twist, turn, and snap in response to both Githany’s physical motions and her use of the Force.

“Exactly. The energy whip is far less efficient than any of the lightsaber blades. However, nobody ever practices against the whip. Githany knows that her enemies’ confusion at being confronted with the whip gives her an edge.”

“By telling me this secret, you’ve given up your advantage,” Bane noted, smiling as he pointed to Kas’im’s double saber.

“Only to a very small degree,” the Twi’lek said. “You now understand why an exotic weapon or unfamiliar style will be more difficult to defend against, but until you become an expert in a particular style, in the heat of combat your mind will still struggle to grasp its limitations.”

Bane kept pressing, eager to turn this new insight into something practical he could use. “So by studying different styles, I could negate that advantage?”

“In theory. But time spent studying other styles is time away from mastering your own form. Your best progress will come from focusing more on yourself and less on your opponent.”

“Then why even bother telling me all this?” Bane blurted out, frustrated.

“Knowledge is power, Bane. My purpose is to give you that knowledge. It is up to you to figure out how best to use it.”

With those words the Blademaster left him, heading down the temple stairs to steal a few hours of sleep before the morning sun rose. Bane remained behind, wrestling with the lesson until it was time to meet Githany in the archives.

The smell of burning ozone wafted through the archives, filling Githany’s nostrils as she watched Bane practicing his latest exercise. The room crackled and hissed as he channeled the energy of the Force and flung it about the room in great arcing bolts of blue-violet lightning.

Githany stood with Bane at the center of a maelstrom. A fierce wind swirled around them, tearing at her hair and the folds of her robe. It rocked and shook the bookshelves, knocking manuscripts to the floor and rifling their pages. The air itself was charged with electricity, causing her skin to itch.

In the midst of it all, Bane laughed, then raised his arms in triumph and launched another blast to ricochet off the far wall. Each time the lightning flared, the intensity of the flash burned Githany’s retinas, causing her to shield her eyes. She noticed that Bane didn’t look away: his eyes were wide and wild with the rush of power.

The thunder was almost deafening, and the storm was still building. If Bane wasn’t careful, the echoes would reach the levels above the archives, revealing their secret training ground to the rest of the Academy.

Moving carefully, Githany reached out and touched his arm. He snapped his head around to face her, and the madness in his eyes almost made her recoil. Instead she smiled.

“Very good, Bane!” she shouted, trying to make her voice heard above the din. “That’s enough for today!”

She held her breath in anticipation until he nodded and lowered his arms. Instantly she felt the power of the storm abating. Within a few seconds it was gone; only the mess it had made remained.

“I’ve—I’ve never felt anything like that before,” Bane gasped, his face still showing his exhilaration.

Githany nodded. “It’s a remarkable sensation,” she agreed. “But you must be careful not to lose yourself in it.” She was parroting the words of Master Qordis, who had taught her how to summon Force lightning only a few days earlier. However, she had never conjured anything even approaching the majesty of what Bane had just unleashed.

“You must maintain control, or you could find yourself swept up in the storm along with your enemies,” she told him, trying to mimic the calm, slightly condescending tone the Masters used with their apprentices. She couldn’t let him know that he had already surpassed her in this new talent. She couldn’t let him know that she had felt the cold grip of fear clutching at her during his performance.

He looked around at the toppled shelves, taking in the books and scrolls strewn about the room. “We’d better clean this up before somebody sees it and wonders what happened in here.”

She nodded again, and the two of them set to restoring the archives to their previous state. As they worked, Githany couldn’t help but wonder if she had made a mistake in allying herself with Bane.

Only the top apprentices had been present when Qordis had taught them to use the dark side to corrupt the Force into a deadly storm. None of them—not even Sirak—had been able to create much more than a few jolts of energy that first day. Yet only an hour after being taught the technique by Githany, Bane had summoned enough energy to rip apart an entire room.

This wasn’t the first time Bane had taken a lesson she had taught him and exceeded her achievements on his first attempt. He was far stronger in the Force than she had realized, and he seemed to be growing more so each day. She worried that she might lose her control over him.

She was careful, of course. She wasn’t foolish enough to tell him everything she learned from the Sith Masters. Yet that didn’t seem to be giving her an advantage over her pupil anymore. Sometimes she wondered if all his study of the ancient texts was actually giving him an advantage over her. Learning at the feet of a true Master should be more beneficial than reading theoretical works written thousands of years earlier … unless the current-day Sith were somehow flawed.

Unfortunately, she didn’t know how she could test her theory. If she suddenly started spending hours each day in the archives, Bane would wonder what she was up to. He might decide that her teachings weren’t as valuable as what he could learn on his own. He might decide she was expendable. And if it came down to a confrontation, she was no longer sure she could defeat him.

But Githany prided herself on her adaptability. Her initial plan of keeping him as a subservient apprentice was no longer viable. She still wanted Bane on her side, though; he could prove to be a powerful ally—beginning with his killing Sirak.

They worked in silence for the next hour, gathering up the books and straightening the shelves. By the time the room was restored to some semblance of order, Githany’s back ached from the constant bending, lifting, and reaching. She collapsed into one of the chairs, giving Bane a tired smile.

“I’m exhausted,” she said with an exaggerated sigh.

He made his way over and stepped behind her, placing his large hands on her shoulders, just at the base of her long neck. He began to massage the muscles, his caress surprisingly gentle for a man so large.

“Mmm … that feels nice,” she admitted. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“Working the cortosis mines teaches you a lot about aches and pains,” he replied, working his thumbs deep into her shoulder blades. She gasped and arched her back, then went slowly limp as her muscles melted beneath his touch.

He rarely spoke of his past life, though over their time together she had pieced most of it together. In contrast, she had always been much more guarded with what she revealed about herself.

“You asked me once why I left the Jedi,” she mumbled, feeling herself drifting away on the rhythmic pressure of his fingers on her neck. “I never told you, did I?”

“We all have things in our past we would rather not revisit,” he replied without stopping. “I knew you would tell me when you were ready.”

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back as he continued to knead her shoulders.

“My Master was a Cathar,” she said softly. “Master Handa. I studied under him for almost as long as I can remember; my parents gave me over to the order when I was just a toddler.”

“I’ve heard the Jedi care little for the bonds that hold families together.”

“They only care about the Force,” she admitted after a moment’s consideration. “Worldly attachments—friends, family, lovers—cloud the mind with emotion and passion.”

Bane chuckled, a deep, low sound she felt thrumming through the tips of his fingers. “Passion leads to the dark side. Or so I’ve heard.”

“It wasn’t a joke to the Jedi. Especially not to Master Handa. The Cathar are known as a hot-blooded species. He was always warning me and Kiel about the dangers of giving in to our emotions.”

“Kiel?”

“Kiel Charny. Another of Handa’s Padawans. We often trained together; he was only a year older than me.”

“Another Cathar?” Bane asked.

“No, Kiel was human. Over the years we became close. Very close.”

The slight increase in the pressure of his touch told her that Bane had taken in the full meaning of her words. She pretended not to notice. “Kiel and I were lovers,” she continued. “The Jedi are forbidden from forming such attachments. The Masters fear it will cloud the mind with dangerous emotions.”

“Were you really attracted to him, or just to the idea of disobeying your Master?”

She thought about it for a long time. “A bit of both, perhaps,” she said finally. “He was handsome enough. Strong in the Force. There was an undeniable attraction.”

Bane only grunted in response. His hands had stopped massaging, and were now resting on her neck.

“Once we became lovers it didn’t take long for Master Handa to find out. Despite all his preaching about controlling emotion, I could tell he was furious. He commanded us to set our feelings aside and forbade us from continuing our relationship.”

Bane snorted his contempt. “Did he really think it would be that simple?”

“The Jedi see emotion as part of our bestial nature. They believe we must transcend our baser instincts. But I know passion is what makes us strong. The Jedi only fear it because it makes their Padawans unpredictable and difficult to control.

“Master Handa’s reaction made me realize the truth. Everything the Jedi believed about the Force was a perversion of reality, a lie. I finally understood I would never reach my full potential under Master Handa. That was the moment I turned my back on the order and began planning my defection to the Sith.”

“What about Kiel Charny?” He was rubbing her shoulders once again, but his hands were a little rougher now.

“I asked him to come with me,” she confessed. “I told him we had a choice to make: the Jedi, or each other. He chose the Jedi.”

The tension in Bane’s hands eased ever so slightly. “Is he dead?”

She laughed. “Did I kill him, do you mean? No, he was still alive the last I heard. He may have died battling the Sith on Ruusan since then, but I didn’t feel the urge to kill him myself.”

“Then I guess your feelings for him weren’t as strong as you thought.”

Githany stiffened. It might have been a joke, but she knew there was truth in Bane’s words. Kiel had been convenient. Though there was a physical attraction, he had become more than a friend mostly because of her situation: studying day and night with him under Master Handa; the pressure of living up to the unrealistic ideals of a Jedi; the stress of being trapped in the seemingly endless war on Ruusan.

Bane ringed her neck with his hands, his touch firm but not tight. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, causing her to shiver at the warmth and closeness of his breath. “When you finally betray me, I hope you care enough to try to kill me yourself.”

She jumped up from the chair, slapping his hands away and spinning to face him. For a split second she saw a self-satisfied expression on his face. Then it was gone, replaced by a look of apologetic concern.

“I’m sorry, Githany. It was just a joke. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I opened up a painful part of my past, Bane,” she said warily. “It’s not something I want to make light of.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I … I’ll go.”

She studied him as he turned and made his way out of the archives. He seemed genuinely sorry for what he’d said, as if he regretted hurting her. The perfect situation to give her the emotional leverage she had been looking for … if only she hadn’t seen that flicker of something else.

Once he was gone she shook her head, trying to make sense of the situation. Bane looked like a great, hulking brute of a man, but there was wisdom and cunning beneath his heavy brow and bald skull.

She thought back on the last twenty minutes, trying to determine when she had lost control of the situation. There had been sparks between them, just as she had intended. Bane had done nothing to hide his desire for her; she’d sensed the heat as he caressed her neck. Still, something had gone wrong with her carefully planned seduction.

Was it possible she actually felt something for him?

Githany unconsciously bit her lower lip. Bane was powerful, intelligent, and bold. She needed him if she was going to eliminate Sirak. But he had a knack for surprising her. He kept challenging and defying her expectations.

She had to admit she found him intriguing in spite of this. Or perhaps because of it. Bane was everything Kiel hadn’t been: ambitious, impulsive, unpredictable. Despite her best intentions, some small part of her was drawn to him. And that, more than anything else, made him a very dangerous ally.

16

High atop the temple of Korriban, beneath the light of a bloodred moon, two figures stood poised in silhouette: one human, one Twi’lek. A chill wind swept across the roof, but though both combatants had stripped off their robes to fight bare-chested, neither shivered from the cold. They might have been statues, still and hard as stone, were it not for the smoldering heat in their eyes.

Without warning the figures lunged, moving so swiftly it would have been impossible for an observer to say which one acted and which reacted. They met with a thunderous crash of their savage blades.

Even as he desperately fought to hold his ground, Bane was studying Kas’im carefully. He was acutely aware of every feint and strike, analyzing and memorizing each block, parry, and counterstrike. The Blademaster had said his time would be better spent focusing on improving his own technique, but Bane was determined to negate Sirak’s advantage by absorbing all he could from the Twi’lek’s double-bladed fighting style.

The exchange lasted well over a minute, with no break or lull in the action, until Bane spun away to regroup. He had sensed his attacks slipping into an unconscious pattern, and predictability was death against an opponent as skilled as Kas’im. He had fallen into that trap once the previous week. He wasn’t about to make the mistake twice.

The two combatants faced each other once again, motionless save for their eyes, which flicked and darted in search of any sign they could use to gain some slight advantage.

Over the past month their training sessions had become less frequent but far more intense. Part of Bane believed Kas’im actually found value in sparring against him: the Blademaster had to grow bored crossing blades with apprentices and students so far beneath his own level.

Of course, Bane had yet to land a telling blow against his Master. But each time they sparred he felt as if he was getting closer and closer to a victory. Kas’im’s form and technique were flawless, but Bane was aware that the slightest miscue was all the opening he needed.

Both fighters were breathing hard; the session had gone far longer than any before it. Their battles typically ended when the Twi’lek landed a scoring blow, disabling one of his student’s limbs with the burning pelko venom. On this night, however, Kas’im had yet to land such a blow.

Kas’im charged forward, and the clang and clash of their weapons rang out over the rooftop in a sharp staccato rhythm. They stood toe-to-toe, hammering away at each other, neither giving ground or quarter. Ultimately Bane was forced to disengage, breaking off the melee before the Blademaster’s superior skill broke down his defenses.

This time it was Bane who initiated the charge. Once again their training sabers rained down, and once again they broke apart with both combatants unscathed. This time, however, the outcome of the battle was no longer in doubt.

Bane hung his head and lowered his blade in an admission of defeat. The last pass he had held Kas’im off, but with each swing of his saber he had grown a micro-second slower. Fatigue was setting in. Even the Force couldn’t keep his muscles fresh forever, and the seemingly endless duel had finally taken too great a toll. The Blademaster, on the other hand, had lost almost none of his speed and sharpness.

Bane doubted he would get through the next pass, and even if he did, the one after that would bring certain defeat. It was inevitable, so there was no point in pressing to the point that he actually suffered the pain of getting hit.

Kas’im seemed momentarily surprised at the concession, then nodded in acceptance of the victory. “You were smart to recognize that the battle was over, but I expected you to fight on until the end. There is little honor in surrender.”

“Honor is a fool’s prize,” Bane replied, reciting a passage from one of the volumes he had recently read in the archives. “Glory is of no use to the dead.”

After pondering his words for a moment, the Blademaster nodded. “Well said, my young apprentice.”

Bane wasn’t surprised that Kas’im didn’t recognize the quote. The words had been written by Darth Revan nearly three millennia earlier. The Masters were as lax as the students when it came to studying the ancient writings. It seemed the Academy had turned its back on the past champions of the dark side.

True, Revan had eventually gone back over to the Jedi and the light after being betrayed by Darth Malak. Still, Revan and Malak had come within a hairsbreadth of wiping out the Republic. It was foolish to discount all they accomplished, and even more foolish to ignore the lessons that could be learned from them. Yet Qordis and the other Masters stubbornly refused to spend any time studying the history of the Sith order. Fortunately for Bane, it was a trait they passed along to their students.

It had given him an undeniable advantage over the other apprentices. If nothing else, it had shown him the true potential of the dark side. The archives were filled with accounts of incredible feats of power: cities laid waste, worlds brought low, entire star systems swallowed up when a Dark Lord caused the sun to go nova. Some of these tales were likely exaggerations, myths that had grown with each retelling before being set down on parchment. Yet they had their roots in truth, and that truth had inspired Bane to push himself farther and faster than he otherwise would have dared.

Thinking of Revan and the Sith Lords of the past brought to mind another question that had been troubling him for some time. “Master, why don’t the Sith use the Darth title anymore?”

“It was Lord Kaan’s decision,” the Twi’lek told him as he toweled off. “The Darth tradition is a relic of the past. It represents what the Sith once were, not what we are now.”

Bane shook his head, dissatisfied with the answer. “There has to be more to it than that,” he said, stooping to retrieve the robe he had cast off at the start of their duel. “Lord Kaan wouldn’t throw out the ancient traditions without justification.”

“I see you won’t be satisfied with the easy answer,” Kas’im said with a sigh, pulling on his own robe. “Very well. To understand why the title is no longer used, you must understand what it truly represents. The Darth title was more than just a symbol of power; it was a claim of supremacy. It was used by those Dark Lords who have sought to enforce their will on the other Masters. It was a challenge—a warning to bow down or be destroyed.”

Bane already knew this from his studies, but he didn’t think it was wise to interrupt. Instead he crossed his legs and lowered himself into a sitting position, looking up at his Master and just listening.

“Of course, few of the Dark Lords would ever submit to another’s will for long,” Kas’im continued. “Wherever one of our order took up the Darth title, deception and betrayal were always close at hand to snatch it away. There can be no peace for a Master who dares to use the Darth name.”

“Peace is a lie,” Bane replied. “There is only passion.”

Kas’im raised an eyebrow in exasperation. “Peace was a poor choice of words. What I meant was stability. Those Masters who chose the Darth title spent as much time guarding against their supposed allies as they did battling the Jedi. Kaan wanted to put an end to such wastefulness.”

From where he sat, it seemed to Bane as if the Blademaster was trying to convince himself as much as his student.

“Kaan wants us to focus all our resources on our true enemy instead of one another,” Kas’im asserted. “That is why we are all equals in the Brotherhood of Darkness.”

“Equality is a myth to protect the weak,” Bane argued. “Some of us are strong in the Force, others are not. Only a fool believes otherwise.”

“There are other reasons the Darth title was abandoned,” Kas’im insisted with just a hint of frustration. “It attracted the attention of the Jedi, for one. It revealed our leaders to the enemy; it gave them easy targets to eliminate.”

Bane still wasn’t convinced. The Jedi knew who the real leaders of the Sith were; whether they called themselves Darth or Lord or Master made no difference. But he could tell the Twi’lek was uncomfortable with the discussion, and he knew enough to let the matter drop.

“Forgive me, Lord Kas’im,” he said, bowing his head. “I meant no offense. I only sought to draw upon your wisdom to explain that which I could not understand myself.”

Kas’im looked down at him with the same expression he had used when Bane had abruptly ended their duel a few moments earlier. Eventually, he asked, “So now you see the wisdom behind Lord Kaan’s decision to end the tradition?”

“Of course,” Bane lied. “He is acting for the good of us all.” As he rose to his feet he thought, Kaan’s acting like one of the Jedi. Worrying about the greater good. Seeking to bring harmony and cooperation to our order. The dark side withers and dies under those conditions!

Kas’im stared at Bane as if he wanted to say more. In the end, however, he let it drop. “That’s enough for today,” he said. In the distance the sky had turned the faint gray of first light; dawn was only an hour away. “The other students will be arriving for their training soon.”

Bane bowed once more before taking his leave. As he made his way down the temple steps he realized that Kas’im, for all his skill with the lightsaber, couldn’t teach him what he really needed to know. The Twi’lek had turned his back on the past; he had abandoned the individualistic roots of the Sith in favor of Kaan’s Brotherhood.

The mysteries of the dark side’s true potential were beyond his reach—and likely beyond the reach of every Master at the Academy.

Githany could sense that something was troubling Bane. He was barely paying attention as she shared what she had learned from the Sith Masters in her most recent lessons.

She didn’t know what was bothering him. In truth, she didn’t care. Unless it interfered with her own plans.

“Something’s on your mind, Bane,” she whispered.

Lost in his thoughts, he took a moment to react. “I’m … I’m sorry, Githany.”

“What’s wrong?” she pressed, trying to sound genuinely concerned. “What are you thinking about?”

He didn’t answer at first; he seemed to be weighing his words carefully before speaking. “Do you believe in the power of the dark side?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“And is it what you envisioned? Does the Academy live up to your expectations?”

“Few things ever do,” she replied with a hint of a smile. “But I’ve learned a lot from Qordis and the others since I’ve come here. Things the Jedi could never have taught me.”

Bane gave a derisive snort. “Most of what I’ve learned has come from these books.” He waved a hand at the shelves.

She wasn’t sure what to say next, so she said nothing.

“You once told me the Masters didn’t know everything,” Bane continued. “You meant the Jedi Masters at the time, but I’m starting to believe it applies to the Sith, as well.”

“They were wrong to turn their backs on you,” she said, seeing the opportunity she had long been waiting for. “But you have to place your blame where it belongs. We both know who is responsible for doing this to you.”

“Sirak,” he said, spitting out the name as if it were poison.

“He must pay for what he did to you, Bane. We’ve waited long enough. It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

Githany allowed the hint of a tremor into her voice. “Tomorrow morning I’m going to challenge him in the dueling ring.”

“What?” Bane shook his head. “Don’t be stupid, Githany! He’ll destroy you!”

Perfect, she thought. “I have no choice, Bane,” she said gravely. “I’ve already told you I don’t believe in the legend of the Sith’ari. Sirak may be the top student in the school, but he’s not invincible.”

“He may not be the Sith’ari, but he’s still too strong for you. You can’t face him in the dueling ring, Githany. I’ve studied him; I know how good he is. You can’t beat him.”

She let his words hang in the air for a long time before dropping her head in defeat. “What other choice is there? We have to destroy him, and the only way is by facing him in the dueling ring.”

Bane didn’t reply right away; she knew he was mulling over another solution. They both knew there was only one possible course of action, one answer he would inevitably come to. They’d have to kill Sirak outside the ring. Assassinate him. It was a blatant violation of the Academy’s rules, and the consequences would be severe if they were caught.

That’s why it had to be Bane who came up with the idea. Once it was out there, Githany was confident she could maneuver him into performing the actual deed by himself. It was the perfect plan: get rid of Sirak and have Bane assume all the risk.

Later she could “accidentally” tip off the Masters about Bane’s involvement … if she needed to. She wasn’t so sure about that part of her plan anymore, though. She wasn’t convinced she wanted to betray Bane. But she didn’t mind manipulating him.

He drew in a long breath, gathering himself to speak. She prepared herself to give a very convincing—and very contrived—exclamation of surprise.

“You can’t face Sirak in the ring, but I can,” he said.

“What?” Githany’s surprise was completely genuine. “He nearly beat you to death last time! He’ll kill you for sure this time!”

“This time I intend to win.”

The way he spoke made Githany realize she was missing something. “What’s going on, Bane?” she demanded.

He hesitated a moment before admitting, “I’ve been training with Lord Kas’im in secret.”

That made sense, she saw. In fact, she should have figured it out on her own. Maybe you would have if, if you hadn’t let Bane get to you, she chided herself. You knew you were starting to have feelings for him; you let them cloud your judgment.

Out loud she said, “I don’t like being played for a fool, Bane.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “I’m not stupid, Githany. I know what you wanted from me. I know what you expected me to say. I will get my revenge on Sirak. But I’m taking my own path.”

Without even realizing it she had begun chewing on her lower lip. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning. Just as you said you were going to.”

“But you know I wasn’t serious.”

“And you know I am.”

Unbidden, Githany’s finger began to twine itself in a lock of her hair. She pulled her arm down sharply as soon as she realized what she was doing.

Bane reached out a hand and let it rest gently on her shoulder. “You don’t have to worry,” he reassured her. “Nobody will know you were involved.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she whispered.

He tilted his head to one side, studying her closely to see if she was being honest with him. Much to her own surprise, she actually was.

Bane must have sensed her sincerity, because he leaned in close and kissed her softly on the lips. He drew back slowly, letting his hand slip from her shoulder. Without another word, he rose to his feet and made his way toward the door leading out of the archives.

She watched him go in silence, then at the last second called out, “Good luck, Bane. Be careful.”

He stopped as if he’d taken a blaster bolt in the throat, his body rigid. “I will,” he replied without looking back. And then he was gone.

Moments later Githany felt her face burning. She absently brushed away a tear coiling down her cheek, then brought her hand up slowly, staring in disbelief at the moisture smeared across her palm.

Disgusted at her own weakness, she wiped the tear away on the folds of her cloak. She stood up from the chair and threw her shoulders back, bracing her spine and holding her head high and proud.

So what if things hadn’t quite gone according to plan? If Bane killed Sirak in the ring, her rival would still be dead. And if Bane failed, she could always find someone else to assassinate the Zabrak. It would all work out the same in the end.

But as she marched smartly from the room, part of her knew that wasn’t true. No matter how this played out, things were going to be very different from anything she had imagined.

The morning sky was dark with storm clouds. Far in the distance thunder could be heard rumbling across the empty plains that separated the temple from the Valley of the Dark Lords.

Bane hadn’t slept that night. After his confrontation with Githany, he had returned to his room to meditate. Even that had proved difficult; his mind was churning with too many thoughts to properly focus.

Memories of the gruesome beating he had suffered kept forcing themselves to the fore, dragging doubt and the fear of failure behind them. So far he’d managed to resist the whispers that threatened his resolve, and he’d stayed firm in his original plan.

The apprentices were gathering, some casting sour glances at the clouds overhead. The temple roof was completely exposed to the elements, but no matter how wet, cold, and miserable the students got, they knew the drills and challenges would not be canceled. A little rain was nothing to a Sith, Kas’im was fond of saying.

Bane found his place amid the throng in preparation for the group drills. The apprentices around him studiously ignored his presence. It had been this way ever since his loss to Sirak: he was shunned; he had become anathema to the other students. Though he trained with them in all the group sessions, it was as if he didn’t really exist. He was a silent shadow lurking on the fringes, excluded in spirit if not in actual physical presence.

He scanned the crowd for Githany, but when he caught her eye she quickly looked away. Still, he found her presence reassuring. He believed she wanted him to succeed, or at least part of her did. He believed that some of what they felt for each other was more than just part of the game they had both been playing.

As the drills began he made a point not to look over at Sirak. He had studied the Zabrak in excruciating detail over the past months; anything he happened to notice now would only cause him to second-guess himself. Instead he focused on his own technique.

In the past he had purposefully worked errors and mistakes into his routines during the drills in order to keep his growing talent hidden from any student who might happen to cast a glance in his direction. Now, however, the time for secrecy was gone. After the challenges today everyone would know what he was capable of—or he would be dead and forgotten forever.

The rain began to come down. Slowly at first; fat, heavy drops spaced enough apart that he could make out the sound as each one landed. But then the clouds opened up and the rain came in a steady, pounding rhythm. Bane barely even noticed. He’d escaped inside himself, digging down deep to confront his fear. As his body went through the motions of basic attack and defense stances along with the rest of the class, he slowly transformed the fear into anger.

It was impossible for Bane to say how long the training session lasted: it seemed to go on forever, but in actual fact Kas’im probably kept it brief in light of the steady downpour soaking his charges. By the time it ended and the apprentices had gathered into the familiar circle around the dueling ring, the young man had turned his seething anger into white-hot hate.

As he had done the last time he challenged Sirak, he entered the ring before anyone else had a chance to act, pushing his way through the crowd from his position on the outermost edge. There was a murmur of surprise when the others recognized who had stepped forward.

He could feel the dark side churning inside him, a storm far fiercer than the one pelting down on him from the sky. It was time for his hate to set him free.

“Sirak!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the rising wind. “I challenge you!”

17

Bane’s challenge hung in the air, as if the relentless sheets of rain had somehow trapped his words. Through the darkness of the storm he saw the crowd part and Sirak step slowly forward.

The Zabrak moved with a quiet confidence. Bane had hoped the unexpected challenge might unsettle his enemy. If he could rattle Sirak, catch him off guard or confuse him, he would have an advantage before the fight even began. But if his opponent felt anything at all, he kept it carefully masked beneath a cold, calm veneer.

Sirak handed his long, double-bladed training saber to Yevra, one of the Zabrak siblings who always seemed to follow in his wake, then stripped off his heavy, rain-soaked cloak. Beneath his robes he wore a simple pair of breeches and a sleeveless vest. Without a word he held out his balled-up cloak and Llokay, the other Zabrak, scampered out from the crowd and took it from him. Then Yevra scurried in to return his weapon to his open and waiting hand.

Bane peeled off his own cloak and let it drop to the ground, trying to ignore the cold sting of the rain on his naked torso. He hadn’t really expected Sirak to be flustered by his challenge, but at the very least he’d hoped the Zabrak would be overconfident. There was, however, a ruthless efficiency in Sirak’s preparation—an economy and precision of movement—that told Bane he was taking this duel very seriously.

Sirak was arrogant, but he was no fool. He was smart enough to understand that Bane wouldn’t challenge him again unless he thought he had some plan for victory. Until he understood what that plan was, he wasn’t going to take his opponent for granted.

Bane knew he could probably beat Sirak now. Like Githany, he didn’t believe in the legend of a chosen one who would rise up from the Sith ranks: he was convinced Sirak was not, in fact, the Sith’ari. He didn’t want just to beat him, however. He wanted to destroy him, just as Sirak had destroyed him in their last meeting.

But Sirak was too good; he’d never leave himself exposed the way Bane had. Not at first. Not unless Bane somehow lured him into it.

Across the ring Sirak assumed the ready position. His rain-slicked skin seemed to glow in the darkness: a yellow demon emerging from the shadows of a nightmare into reality’s harsh light.

Bane leapt forward, opening the melee with a series of complex, aggressive attacks. He moved quickly … but not too quickly. There were gasps of astonishment from the crowd at his obvious and unexpected skill, though Sirak turned aside his assault easily enough.

In response to the inevitable counterattack, Bane let himself stagger back into a stumbling retreat. For a brief instant he saw his opponent overextend, leaving his right arm vulnerable to a strike that would have ended the contest right then and there. Fighting his own finely honed instincts, Bane held back. He’d worked too long and too hard to claim victory with a simple blow to the arm.

The battle continued in the familiar rhythm of combat, the ebb and flow of attack and defense. Bane made sure his attacks were effective yet crude, trying to convince his enemy that he was a dangerous but ultimately inferior opponent. Each time he warded off one of Sirak’s charges he embellished his defensive maneuvers, transforming quick parries into long, clumsy swipes that seemed to keep the double-bladed saber at bay as much through blind luck as intention.

With the surge and swell of each exchange Bane gently prodded with the Force, testing and searching for a weakness he could exploit. It took only a few minutes until he recognized it. Despite his training, the Zabrak had no real experience in long, drawn-out battles—none of his opponents had ever lasted long enough to truly push him. Imperceptibly, the strikes of his foe became less crisp, the counters less precise, and the transitions less elegant as Sirak gradually wore down. The fog of exhaustion was slowly clouding his mind, and Bane knew it was only a matter of time until he made a crucial—and fatal—miscalculation.

Yet even though he was battling the Zabrak, Bane’s real struggle was with himself. Time and again he had to pull back to keep from lunging through an opening presented by his enemy’s increasingly desperate assault. He understood that the crushing victory he sought would only come through patience—a virtue not normally encouraged in followers of the dark side.

In the end his patience was rewarded. Sirak became more and more frustrated as he continually tried and failed to bring his bumbling, stumbling opponent down. As the prolonged physical exertion began to take its toll, his swings became wild and reckless, until he abandoned all pretense of defense in an effort to end the duel he sensed was slipping away from him.

When the Zabrak’s desperation turned to hopelessness, every impulse in Bane screamed with the desire to take the initiative and end the fight. Instead he let the tantalizing closeness of Sirak’s defeat feed his appetite for vengeance. The hunger grew with each passing second until it became a physical pain tearing away at his insides: the dark side filled him and he felt it on the verge of ripping him apart, splitting his skin and gushing out like a fountain of black blood.

He waited until the last possible second before unleashing the energy bottled up inside him in a tremendous rush of power. He channeled it through his muscles and limbs, moving so fast it seemed as if time had stopped for the rest of the world. In the blink of an eye he knocked the saber from Sirak’s hand, sliced down to shatter his forearm, then spun through and brought his saber crashing into his opponent’s lower leg. It splintered under the impact and Sirak screamed as a shard of gleaming white bone sliced through muscle, sinew, and finally skin.

For an instant none of the spectators was even aware of what had happened; it took their minds a moment to catch up and register the blur of action that had occurred so much quicker than their eyes could see.

Sirak lay crumpled on the ground, writhing in agony and clutching with his one good hand at the chunk of bone protruding from his shin. Bane hesitated a split second before moving in to finish him off, savoring the moment … and giving Kas’im the opportunity to intervene.

“Enough!” the Blademaster shouted, and the apprentice obeyed, freezing his saber even in the act of chopping it down on his helpless foe. “It’s over, Bane.”

Slowly, Bane lowered his saber and stepped away. The fury and focus that had turned him into a conduit of the dark side’s unstoppable power was gone, replaced by a hyperconscious awareness of his physical surroundings. He was standing atop the temple roof in the middle of a raging storm, drenched in cold rain, his body half frozen.

He began to shiver as he cast about the ground for his discarded cloak. He picked it up but, finding it soaked completely through, didn’t bother to put it on.

Kas’im stepped from the crowd, smoothly placing himself between Bane and the helpless Zabrak.

“You have witnessed an amazing victory today,” he told the assembled throng, shouting to be heard above the pounding rain. “Bane’s triumph was as much a result of his brilliant strategy as his superior skill.”

Bane was barely listening to the words. He merely stood in the center of the ring, silent save for the chattering of his teeth.

“He was patient and careful. He didn’t just want to defeat his opponent … he wanted to destroy him! He achieved dun möch—not because he was better than Sirak, but because he was smarter.”

The Blademaster reached out a hand and placed it on Bane’s bare shoulder.

“Let this be a lesson to you all,” he concluded. “Secrecy can be your greatest weapon. Keep your true strength hidden until you are ready to unleash the killing blow.”

He let go of Bane’s shoulder and whispered, “You should go inside before you catch a chill.” Then he turned to address the stunned Zabrak siblings standing at the edge of the circled students. “Take Sirak down to the medcenter.”

As they moved forward to carry their moaning and barely conscious champion away, Bane turned toward the stairs. Kas’im was right: he had to get out of the rain.

Feeling strangely surreal, he walked stiffly toward the stairs that led into the warmth and shelter of the rooms below. The crowd parted quickly to let him through. Most of the other apprentices were staring at him with expressions of fear and open wonder, yet he barely noticed. He descended the steps to the temple’s main floor, walking in a stupor that was broken only when he heard Githany call his name.

“Bane!” she shouted, and he turned to see her hurrying down the stairs after him. Her drenched hair was plastered haphazardly to her face and forehead. Her soaked clothes clung tightly to her body, accentuating every curve of her shapely form. She was breathing hard, though whether from excitement or the exertion of catching up to him he couldn’t say.

He waited at the base of the stairs as she approached. She ran down the steps toward him, and for a moment he thought she would continue on into his arms. At the last second she stopped, however, and stood mere centimeters from him.

Githany took a second to catch her breath before she spoke. When she did, her words were harsh, though her voice was low. “What happened up there? Why didn’t you kill him?”

Part of him had been expecting this reaction, though another part of him was hoping she had come to congratulate him on his victory. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

“He sent me to the bacta tank in our first duel. Now I’ve done the same to him,” he replied. “That’s vengeance.”

“That’s foolish!” she shot back. “You think Sirak’s going to just forget about this? He’ll come after you again, Bane. Just like you came after him. That’s the way this works. You missed your chance to put a permanent end to this feud, and I want to know why.”

“My blade was raised for the killing blow,” Bane reminded her. “Lord Kas’im stepped in before I could finish Sirak off. The Masters don’t want one of their top students to end up dead.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Your blade was raised, but Kas’im didn’t stop you. You hesitated. Something held you back.”

Bane knew she was right. He had hesitated. He just wasn’t sure why. He tried to explain it … to Githany and himself. “I’ve already killed one foe in the ring. Qordis chastised me for Fohargh’s death. He warned me not to let it happen again. I guess … I guess I was worried about what the Masters would do to me if I killed another apprentice.”

Githany’s eyes narrowed in anger. “I thought we’d finally stopped lying to each other, Bane.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it wasn’t entirely accurate, either. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling guilty beneath her furious glare.

“You couldn’t do it,” she said, reaching out and jabbing him hard in the chest with her finger. “You felt the dark side swallowing you up, and you pulled back.”

Now it was Bane’s turn to get angry. “You’re wrong,” he snapped, swiping her accusing hand away. “I retreated from the dark side after I killed Fohargh. I know how that felt. This is different.”

His words carried the righteous weight of truth. Last time he’d felt hollow inside, as if something had been taken from him. This time he could still feel the Force flowing through him in all its savage glory, filling him with its heat and power. This time the dark side remained his to command.

Githany wasn’t convinced. “You still aren’t willing to give yourself fully to the dark side,” she said. “Sirak showed weakness, and you showed him mercy. That’s not the way of the Sith.”

“What do you know of the ways of the Sith?” he shouted. “I’m the one who’s read the ancient texts, not you! You’re stuck learning from Masters who’ve forgotten their past.”

“Where in the ancient texts does it say to show compassion to a fallen enemy?” she asked, her voice dripping with scorn.

Stung by the words, Bane shoved her sharply backward and turned away. She took a quick step to balance herself, but kept her distance.

“You’re just angry because your plan fell apart,” he muttered, suddenly unwilling to face her. He wanted to say more, but he knew the rest of the students would be down soon. He didn’t want anyone to see them talking together, so he simply walked away and left her standing there alone.

Githany followed him with cold, calculating eyes. She’d been impressed watching him toy with Sirak in the ring; he’d seemed invincible. But when he’d failed to kill the helpless Zabrak, she was quick to recognize and identify what had happened. It was a flaw in Bane’s character, a weakness he refused to recognize. Yet it was there nonetheless.

Once the passion of the moment had faded—once he was no longer driven by the dark side—his seething bloodlust had cooled. He hadn’t even been able to kill his most hated enemy without provocation. Which meant he probably wouldn’t be able to kill Githany if it ever came down to it.

Knowing this changed the nature of their relationship once again. Recently she’d begun to fear Bane, afraid that if he ever turned on her, she wouldn’t be strong enough to stand against him. Now she knew that this would never happen. He simply wasn’t capable of killing an ally without justification.

Fortunately, she didn’t have the same limitations.

Bane was still thinking about what Githany had said later that night as he lay in bed, unable to sleep. Why hadn’t he been able to kill Sirak? Was she right? Had he pulled back out of some misguided sense of compassion? He wanted to believe he had embraced the dark side, but if he had, he would have cut Sirak down without a second thought—no matter what the consequences.

However, it was more than this that was bothering him. He was frustrated by how he’d left things with Githany. He was undeniably drawn to her; she was hypnotic and compelling. Each time she brushed up against him he felt chills down his spine. Even when they were apart he often thought of her, memories lingering like the scent of her intoxicating perfume. At night her long black hair and dangerous eyes haunted his dreams.

And he honestly believed she felt something for him, too … though he doubted she would ever admit it. Yet as close as they’d become during their secret lessons together they’d never consummated their yearning. It just seemed wrong while Sirak was still the top apprentice at the academy. Defeating him had been the underlying goal for each of them; neither one had wanted any distractions from that goal. He was a common foe that united them to a single cause, but in many ways he had also been a wall keeping them apart.

Taking Sirak down should have leveled that wall into rubble. But Bane had seen the disappointment in Githany’s face after the battle. He’d promised to kill their enemy, and she’d believed in him. Yet in the end his actions had proved he wasn’t up to her expectations, and the wall between them had suddenly grown much, much stronger.

Someone knocked softly at the door of his chamber. It was well after curfew; none of the apprentices had any reason to be in the halls. He could think of only one person who might be wandering the halls at this hour.

Leaping from his bed he crossed the floor in one quick stride and yanked open the door. He quickly masked his disappointment at seeing Lord Kas’im standing beyond the threshold.

The Blademaster stepped through the open door without waiting for an invitation; he gave Bane a nod that told him to close it once he was inside. Bane did as he was bidden, wondering at the purpose of the unannounced late-night visit.

“I have something for you,” the Twi’lek said, brushing away the folds of his cloak and reaching for his lightsaber on his belt. No, Bane realized. Not his lightsaber. The handle of Kas’im’s weapon was noticeably longer than most, allowing it to house two crystals, one to power each blade. This hilt was smaller, and it was fashioned with a strange curve, giving it a hooked appearance.

The Blademaster ignited the lightsaber: its single blade burned a dark red. “This was the weapon of my Master,” he told Bane. “As a young child I would watch for hours as my Master performed his drills. My earliest memories are of dancing ruby lights moving through the sequences of battle.”

“You don’t remember your parents?” Bane asked, surprised.

Kas’im shook his head. “My parents were sold in the slave markets of Nal Hutta. That’s where Master Na’daz found me. He noticed my family on the auction blocks; perhaps he was drawn to them because we were Twi’leks like himself. Even though I was barely old enough to stand, Master Na’daz could sense the Force in me. He purchased me and took me back to Ryloth, to raise me as his apprentice among our own people.”

“What happened to your parents?”

“I don’t know,” Kas’im replied with an indifferent shrug. “They had no special connection to the Force, so my Master saw no reason to purchase them. They were weak, and so they were left behind.”

He spoke casually, as if the knowledge that his parents had lived and probably died as slaves in the service of the Hutts had no effect on him whatsoever. In a way his apathy was understandable. He’d never known his parents, so he had no emotional ties to them, good or bad. Bane briefly wondered how his own life might have been different if he had been raised by someone else. If Hurst had been killed in the cortosis mines when he was just an infant, would he still have ended up here at the Academy on Korriban?

“My Master was a great Sith Lord,” Kas’im continued. “He was particularly adept in the arts of lightsaber combat—a skill he passed on to me. He taught me how to use the double-bladed lightsaber, though as you can see he preferred a more traditional design for himself. Except for the handle, of course.”

The blade flickered out of existence as he shut off the weapon and tossed it to Bane, who caught it easily, wrapping his hand around the hooked handle.

“It feels strange,” he muttered.

“It requires a minor variation in your grip,” Kas’im explained. “Hold it more in the palm, farther away from the fingertips.”

Bane did as instructed, letting his body grow accustomed to the odd heft and balance. Already his mind was beginning to run through the implications of the new grip. It would give the wielder more power on his overhand strikes, and it would change the angle of the attacks by the merest fraction of a degree. Just enough to confuse and disorient an unsuspecting opponent.

“Some moves are more difficult with this particular weapon,” Kas’im warned. “But many others are far more effective. In the end I think you’ll find this lightsaber will suit your personal style quite well.”

“You’re giving this to me?” Bane asked incredulously.

“Today you proved you were worthy of it.” There was just a hint of pride in the Blademaster’s voice.

Bane ignited it, listening to the sweet hum of the power pack and the crackling hiss of the energy blade. He performed a few simple flourishes, then abruptly shut it off.

“Does Qordis approve?”

“The decision is mine, not his,” Kas’im stated. He almost sounded offended. “I haven’t held on to this blade for ten years just so Qordis can decide whom I give it to.”

Bane answered with a respectful bow, fully aware of the great honor that Kas’im had just bestowed upon him. To fill the uncomfortable silence that followed he asked, “Your Master gave you this when he died?”

“I took it when I killed him.”

Bane was so stunned that he couldn’t cover his reaction. The Blademaster saw it and smiled slightly.

“I had learned everything I could from Master Na’daz. As strong as he was in the dark side, I was stronger. As skilled as he was with the lightsaber, I became better.”

“But why kill him?” Bane asked.

“A test. To see if I was as strong as I believed. This was before Lord Kaan rose to power; we were still trapped in the old ways. Sith versus Sith, Master versus apprentice. Foolishly pitting ourselves against one another to prove our dominance. Fortunately, the Brotherhood of Darkness put an end to all that.”

“Not completely,” Bane muttered, thinking of Fohargh and Sirak. “The weak still fall to the strong. It is inevitable.”

Kas’im tilted his head to the side, trying to gauge the meaning behind his words. “Don’t allow yourself to be blinded by this honor,” he warned. “You are not ready to challenge me, young apprentice. I have taught you everything you know, but I haven’t taught you everything I know.”

Bane couldn’t help but smile. The notion of facing Kas’im in a real fight was preposterous. He knew he was no match for the Blademaster. Not yet. “I will keep that in mind, Master.”

Satisfied, Kas’im turned to go. Just before Bane closed the door behind him he added, “Lord Qordis wants to see you first thing in the morning. Go to his chambers before the morning drills.”

Even the sobering prospect of meeting with the Academy’s grim overseer couldn’t dampen Bane’s elated spirit. As soon as he was alone in his room he reignited the lightsaber and began practicing his sequences. It was many hours before he finally put the weapon away and crawled wearily into bed, all thoughts of Githany long banished from his mind.

The morning’s first light found Bane at the door leading into the private quarters of Lord Qordis. It had been many months since he had last been here. At that time he had been chastised for killing Fohargh. This time he had severely injured one of the top students of the Academy—one of Qordis’s personal favorites. He wondered what was in store for him.

Summoning his courage, he knocked once.

“Enter,” came the voice from within.

Trying to ignore a feeling of trepidation, Bane did as he was told. Lord Qordis was in the center of the room kneeling on his meditation mat. It was almost as if he hadn’t moved: his position was exactly the same as it had been at their last meeting.

“Master,” Bane said, making a low bow.

Qordis didn’t bother to rise. “I see you have a lightsaber on your belt.”

“Lord Kas’im gave it to me. He felt I earned it with my latest victory in the ring.” Bane suddenly felt very defensive, as if he was under attack.

“I have no wish to contradict the Blademaster,” Qordis replied, though his tone suggested the opposite. “However, though you now carry a lightsaber, do not forget that you are still an apprentice. You still owe your obedience and allegiance to the Masters here at the Academy.”

“Of course, Lord Qordis.”

“The way in which you defeated Sirak has left quite an impression on the other students,” Qordis continued. “They will look to emulate you now. You must set an example for them.”

“I will do my best, Master.”

“That means your private sessions with Githany must end.”

A chill washed over Bane. “You knew?”

“I am a Sith Lord, and Master of this Academy. I am not a fool, and I am not blind to what is happening within the walls of the temple. I tolerated such behavior when you were an outcast because it did no harm to the other apprentices. Now, however, many of the students will be watching you closely. I do not want them following your path and trying to train one another in a misguided attempt to duplicate your success.”

“What will happen to Githany? Will she be punished?”

“I will speak with her just as I am speaking with you. It must be clear to the rest of the apprentices that the two of you are not training together in private. That means you cannot see her anymore. You must avoid all contact except in the group lessons. If you both obey me in this, there will be no further consequences.”

Bane understood Lord Qordis’s concerns, but he felt the solution went too far. There was no need to cut him off from Githany so completely. He wondered if the Masters knew of his attraction to her. Did they fear she would be a distraction?

No, he realized, that wasn’t it. This was simply about control. Bane had defied Lord Qordis; he had succeeded despite being shunned by the rest of the Academy. Now Qordis wanted to claim ownership of Bane’s accomplishments.

“That is not all,” Qordis continued, interrupting Bane’s thoughts. “You must also put an end to your study of the archives.”

“Why?” Bane burst out, surprised and angry. “The manuscripts contain the wisdom of the ancient Sith. I have learned much about the ways of the dark side from them.”

“The archives are relics of the past,” Qordis countered sharply. “They are from a time that has long since vanished. The order has changed. We have evolved beyond what you learned in those musty scrolls and tomes. You would understand this if you had been studying with the Masters instead of rushing off on your own path.”

You’re the one who forced me down that path, Bane thought. “The Sith may have changed, but we can still build on the knowledge of those who came before us. Surely you understand that, Master. Why else would you have rebuilt the Academy on Korriban?”

There was a flash of anger in the Dark Lord’s eyes. He obviously didn’t like being challenged by one of his students. When he spoke, his voice was cold and menacing. “The dark side is strong on this world. That is the only reason we chose to come here.”

Bane knew he should let the matter drop, but he wasn’t ready to back down. This was too important. “But what about the Valley of the Dark Lords? What about the tombs of all the dark Masters buried on Korriban, and the secrets hidden inside them?”

“Is that what you seek?” Qordis sneered. “The secrets of the dead? The Jedi pillaged the tombs when Korriban fell to them three thousand years ago. Nothing of value remains.”

“The Jedi are servants of the light,” Bane protested. “The dark side has secrets they will never understand. There may be something they missed.”

Qordis laughed, a harsh and scornful bark. “Are you really so naïve?”

“The spirits of powerful Sith Masters are said to linger in their tombs,” Bane insisted, stubbornly refusing to be cowed. “They appear only to those who are worthy. They would not have revealed themselves to the Jedi.”

“Do you really believe ghosts and spirits still linger in their graves, waiting to pass on the great mysteries of the dark side to those who seek them out?”

Bane’s thoughts turned back to his studies. There were too many such accounts documented in the archives to be mere legend. There had to be some truth to it.

“Yes,” he answered, though he knew it would infuriate Qordis even more. “I believe I can learn more from the ghosts in the Valley of the Dark Lords than the living Masters here at the Academy.”

Qordis leapt to his feet and slapped Bane hard across the face, his talon-like fingernails drawing blood. Bane held his ground; he didn’t even flinch.

“You are an impudent fool!” his Master shouted. “You worship those who are dead and gone. You think they hold some great power, but they are nothing but dust and bone!”

“You’re wrong,” Bane said. He could feel the blood welling up in the scratches on his face, but he didn’t reach up to wipe it away. He simply stood still as stone in front of his seething Master.

Even though Bane didn’t move, Qordis took half a step back. When he spoke, his voice was more composed, though it still dripped with anger. “Get out,” he said, extending a long, bony finger toward the door. “If you value the wisdom of the dead so much, then go. Leave the temple. Go to the Valley of the Dark Lords. Find your answers in their tombs.”

Bane hesitated. He knew this was a test. If he apologized now—if he groveled and begged the forgiveness of his Master—Qordis would probably let him stay. But he knew Qordis was wrong. The ancient Sith were dead, but their legacy remained. This was his chance to claim it as his own.

He turned his back on Lord Qordis and marched from the room without a word. There was no point in continuing the argument. The only way he could win was by finding proof. And he wasn’t going to find it standing here.

18

Bane had missed the morning practice session. It wasn’t hard for Kas’im to figure out who was responsible for his absence.

He didn’t bother to knock on Lord Qordis’s door; he simply used the Force to burst apart the lock, then kicked it open. Unfortunately, the element of surprise he’d been hoping for had been lost.

Qordis had his back to the door, examining one of the magnificent tapestries that hung beside his oversized bed. He didn’t turn when the Blademaster burst in; he didn’t react at all. Which meant he’d been expecting the intrusion.

Kas’im gestured violently with his hand, and the door slammed shut. What he was about to say wasn’t for the ears of the students. “What in blazes did you do, Qordis?”

“I assume you are referring to apprentice Bane” came the too-casual reply.

“Of course I kriffing mean Bane! No more games, Qordis. What did you do to him?”

“To him? Nothing. Not in the way you’re thinking. I merely tried to reason with him. Tried to make him understand the necessity of working within the structure of this institution.”

“You manipulated him,” Kas’im said with a sigh of resignation. He knew Qordis had no fondness for Bane. Not with Lord Kopecz—his longtime rival—being the one who’d brought him here. The Blademaster realized he should have warned the young apprentice to be on his guard.

“You twisted his mind somehow,” he continued, trying to draw out a reaction. “You forced him down a path you wanted him to take. A path of ruin.”

There was no immediate reply. Tired of staring at Qordis’s back, he stepped forward and reached up to grab the taller man by the shoulder, whirling him around to face him. “Why, Qordis?”

In the first brief second that the overseer of the Academy was spun around, Kas’im caught a glimpse of uncertainty and confusion in the gaunt, drawn features. Then those features twisted into a mask of rage, dark eyes burning in sunken sockets. Qordis slapped Kas’im’s hand away.

“Bane brought this on himself! He was willful! Obsessed with the past! He is of no use to us until he accepts the teachings of this Academy!”

Kas’im was taken aback: not by the sudden outburst, but by the unexpected glimpse of uncertainty that had preceded it. Suddenly he wondered if maybe the meeting hadn’t gone exactly as planned. Perhaps Qordis had tried to manipulate Bane and failed. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d underestimated their unusual apprentice.

Now Kas’im felt more curious than angry. “Tell me what happened, Qordis. Where is Bane now?”

Qordis sighed, almost regretful. “He’s gone into the wastelands. He’s heading for the Valley of the Dark Lords.”

“What? Why would he do that?”

“I told you: he’s obsessed with the past. He believes there are secrets out there that will be revealed to him. Secrets of the dark side.”

“Did you warn him of the dangers? The pelko swarms? The tuk’ata?”

“He never gave me a chance. He wouldn’t have listened anyway.”

That much, at least, Kas’im believed. Yet he wasn’t sure if he trusted the rest of Qordis’s story. The Master of the Academy was subtle, crafty. It would be just like him to trick someone into venturing through the deadly Valley of the Dark Lords. If he wanted to eliminate Bane without being held accountable, this would be one of the ways to do it—except for one small thing.

“He’s going to survive,” Kas’im stated. “He’s stronger than you know.”

“If he survives,” Qordis replied, turning back to the tapestry, “he will learn the truth. There are no secrets in the valley. Not anymore. Everything of value has been taken: stripped away first by Sith seeking to preserve our order, and later by Jedi seeking to wipe it out. There is nothing left in the tombs but hollow chambers and mounds of dust. Once he sees this for himself, he will give up his foolish idealization of the ancient Sith. Only then will he be ready to join the Brotherhood of Darkness.”

The conversation was over; that much was clear. Qordis’s words made sense, if this was all part of a larger lesson to make Bane finally abandon the old ways and accept the new Sith order and Kaan’s Brotherhood.

Yet as he turned and left the room, Kas’im couldn’t shake the feeling that Qordis was rationalizing events after the fact. Qordis wanted others to believe he had been in control the whole time, but the haunted look the Blademaster had glimpsed gave evidence to the real truth: Qordis had been scared by something Bane had done or said.

That thought brought a smile to the Twi’lek’s lips. He had every confidence Bane would survive his journey into the Valley of the Dark Lords. And he was very interested to see what would happen when the young man returned.

Sirak was moving gingerly. He’d spent the past thirty-six hours in a bacta tank, and though his injuries were completely healed, his body still instinctively reacted to the memories of the wounds inflicted by Bane’s saber. Slowly, he gathered up his personal effects, anxious to return to the familiar surroundings of his own room and leave the solitude of the medcenter behind.

One of the med droids floated in, bringing him a pair of pants, a shirt, and a dark apprentice’s robe. The clothes smelled of disinfectant; it was common practice to sterilize everything before bringing it into the medcenter. The garments fit, but he knew as soon as he put them on that they had never been worn before.

He hadn’t seen a single being other than the med droids since being carried unconscious from the dueling ring. Nobody had come to check up on him while he’d floated in the healing fluid: not Qordis, not Kas’im, not even Llokay or Yevra. He didn’t blame them.

The Sith despised weakness and failure. Whenever apprentices lost in the dueling ring, they were left alone with the shame of their defeat until strong enough to resume their studies. It happened to everyone sooner or later … except it had never before happened to Sirak.

He had been invincible, untouchable—the top apprentice in every discipline. He’d heard the rumors and the whispers. They called him the Sith’ari, the perfect being. Only they wouldn’t be calling him the Sith’ari now. Not after what Bane had done to him.

He turned to the door and found Githany standing there, watching him.

“What do you want?” he asked warily.

He knew who she was, though he’d never actually spoken to her. On the day of her arrival he’d identified her as a potential threat. He’d watched her, and he’d seen her watching him, each measuring and gauging the other, trying to determine who had the upper hand. Sirak was wary of all potential challengers, or so he had thought—until the one student he’d feared the least had brought him down.

“I came to speak to you,” she answered. “About Bane.”

He twitched involuntarily at the name, then cursed himself for his reaction. If Githany had noticed, she gave no indication.

“What about him?” he asked curtly.

“I’m curious as to what your plans are now. How are you going to handle this situation?”

It was a struggle to summon up his old arrogance, yet somehow he managed a satisfactory sneer. “My plans are my own.”

“Are you going to seek revenge?” she pressed.

“In time, perhaps,” he finally admitted.

“I can help you.”

She took a step farther into the room. Even in that single step Sirak could see that she moved with the sensual grace of a Zeltron veil dancer.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

“I helped Bane defeat you,” she said. “I recognized his potential from the moment I first saw him. When Qordis and the other Masters turned their backs on him, I secretly taught him their lessons in the Force. I knew the dark side was strong in him. Stronger than in me. Stronger than in you. Maybe even stronger than in the Masters themselves.”

Sirak couldn’t see the point of her story. “You still haven’t answered my question. You got what you wanted out of Bane. Why help me now?”

She shook her head sadly. “I was wrong about Bane. I thought if I helped him grow stronger, he would embrace the dark side. Then I could learn from him and gain power of my own. But he is incapable of embracing the dark side. Everyone else believes his triumph over you was a great victory. Only I recognized it as a failure.”

She was toying with him. Mocking him. And he didn’t like it. “No one ever beat me in the dueling ring before Bane!” he snapped. “How can you call him a failure?”

“You’re still alive,” she said simply. “When the moment came to strike you down and end your life, he hesitated. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was weak.”

Intrigued, Sirak didn’t respond right away. Instead he waited for her to elaborate.

“He plotted and planned for months to take his revenge on you,” she continued. “His hate gave him the strength to surpass you … and at the last instant he showed mercy and let you live.”

“I left him alive at the end of our first duel,” Sirak reminded her.

“That was no act of mercy—it was an act of contempt. You thought you had utterly destroyed him. If you knew he would rise up to one day challenge you again, you would have taken his life regardless of the rules of the Academy.

“You underestimated him. A mistake I know you won’t make again. But Bane does not underestimate you. He knows you are powerful enough to represent a true threat. Yet still he left you alive, knowing you would one day seek revenge against him. He is either a weakling or a fool,” she concluded, “and I want no part of either.”

There was some truth in what she said, but Sirak still wasn’t convinced. “You change allegiances too quickly, Githany. Even for a Sith.”

She was silent for a long time, trying to figure out how to answer him. Then suddenly she looked down at the floor, and when she looked up her eyes were filled with shame and humiliation.

“It was Bane who ended this alliance, not me,” she admitted, nearly choking on the words. “He abandoned me,” she continued, making no attempt to hide her bitterness. “He left the Academy. He never told me why. He never even said good-bye.”

Suddenly everything fell into place. Sirak understood her sudden desire to join with him in a partnership against her former ally. Githany was used to being in control. She was used to being in charge. She was used to being the one who ended things. And she didn’t like being on the other side.

It was like the old Corellian expression: Fear the wrath of a female scorned.

“Where did he go?” he asked.

“The students are saying Qordis sent him out into the Valley of the Dark Lords.”

Sirak nearly blurted out, Then he’s dead already! but at the last second he remembered her admonishment not to underestimate Bane again. Instead he said, “You expect he will return.”

“I’m certain of it.”

“Then we will be ready,” Sirak promised. “When he comes back, we will destroy him.”

As Bane marched across the scorched sand of Korriban’s wastelands, he noticed the sun sinking quickly below the horizon. He’d been walking for hours beneath its heat; the small city of Dreshdae and the temple that towered over it were far behind him. They had been reduced to mere specks on the horizon; if he was to look back, he would have just been able to make them out in the fading light.

He didn’t look back. He marched doggedly onward. The blazing heat hadn’t slowed him; neither would temperatures that were about to drop to near freezing with the setting of the sun. Physical discomfort—cold, heat, thirst, hunger, fatigue—had no significant effect on him, sustained as he was by the power of the Force.

Still, he was troubled. He remembered the first time he’d set foot on Korriban. He’d sensed the power of the world: Korriban was alive with the dark side. Yet the feeling had been faint and distant. During his time at the Academy he’d grown so accustomed to the almost subconscious hum that he barely even noticed it anymore.

When he’d left the temple and the starport behind, he’d expected that feeling to grow stronger. With each step drawing him closer to the Valley of the Dark Lords he thought he’d feel the dark side growing in its intensity.

Instead he’d felt nothing. No noticeable change at all. He was only a few kilometers away from the valley’s entrance; he could see the shaded outlines of the nearest tombs carved from the stone walls. And still the dark side was no stronger than a hollow echo, no more than the lingering memory of distant words spoken in the distant past.

Pushing his doubts and reservations aside, he redoubled his pace. He wanted to reach the valley before complete darkness. He had grabbed a handful of glow rods before leaving the Academy; he could use them to find his way if necessary. Unfortunately, their light would act like a beacon in the darkness, signaling his location to anyone—or anything. With his new lightsaber at his side he was confident he could survive almost any encounter, but there were things that lurked near the tombs whose attention he would rather not attract.

The last few rays of light still hung in the air when he finally reached his destination. The Valley of the Dark Lords lay sprawled out before him, hidden beneath the cover of twilight’s gloom. He briefly considered stopping for the night and making camp until dawn, then rejected the idea. Day or night would make no difference once he was inside the tombs: he’d have to use the glow rods no matter what time it was. And now that he was finally here he was too eager to see what he could find to put it off any longer.

He chose the nearest temple, the only one he could actually make out in the dim light. Like all the tombs, this one had been dug out from the high stone cliffs that boxed in the valley on either side. The grand archway at the entrance had been built out from the cliff face, but the chambers that housed the remains of the Dark Lord interred within wound their way deep into the rock.

As he got closer, he could make out intricate designs carved into the archway. Something was written across the top in letters he didn’t recognize. He guessed that the craftsmanship would have been awe inspiring at one time, but eons of desert winds had worn away most of the detail.

He paused on the threshold, taking in the air of forbidden mystery that surrounded the entrance to the tomb. He still sensed no change in the Force, however. Stepping up to the entrance, he was shocked to see that the great stone slab of a door had been split asunder. He ran his fingers along the edges of the fissure. Smooth. Worn. Whoever had broken the door had done it long ago.

Bane stood up straight and marched boldly through the shattered portal. He made his way down the long entrance tunnel, moving slowly through the gloom. Half a dozen meters in, the darkness became absolute, so he pulled out a glow rod and activated it.

An eerie blue light filled the tunnel, sending a small swarm of deadly pelko bugs scurrying for refuge beyond the dim circle of illumination. They had been stalking him, closing in from all sides. He could still sense them there, lurking in the shadows all around him, but he wasn’t afraid. After all, it wasn’t the light keeping them at bay.

Pelko bugs, like many of the creatures indigenous to Korriban, were attuned to the Force. They would have sensed Bane’s arrival even before he entered the tomb; his power would inevitably draw them in. Yet it also kept them and their paralyzing spines at a safe distance. Instinctively, the pelko bugs could sense the sheer scope of his power; they were wary of him. They wouldn’t come close enough to actually attack him, making them nothing more than a nuisance. Larger predators, like the tu’kata, might pose a real threat. But he’d deal with them if and when the time came.

Right now he was more concerned with the potential dangers the builders of the tomb might have left behind. Sith mausoleums were notorious for their fiendishly lethal traps. Bane reached out with the Force, carefully probing the walls, ground, and ceiling in front of him for anything out of the ordinary. He was relieved—and slightly disappointed—to discover nothing. Part of him had hoped he would stumble across an undiscovered chamber, something the Jedi had missed.

He continued down the tunnel, winding his way past various chambers where the wealth and treasures would have been buried with the deceased Dark Lord—along with his still-living lesser servants. The rooms held no interest for him; he wasn’t a grave robber. Instead he continued deeper and deeper until he reached the burial chamber itself.

The pelko bugs matched his progress, endlessly circling just beyond the blue illumination cast by his glow rod. He could hear the high-pitched clicking—skreek skreek skreek—of the frustrated swarm: powerless to assail their prey, yet irresistibly caught up in the wake of his passing.

The burial chamber was easily identifiable by the enormous stone sarcophagus in the center of the room, resting atop a small stone pedestal. It was little more than a blocky shadow on the fringes of the glow rod’s light, but it filled him with a sense of both fear and awe.

Still using the Force to scan for traps, he cautiously approached the tomb, his trepidation growing as the blue light washed over it to reveal more and more details. The stone was carved with symbols similar to those on the crypt’s entrance, but these hadn’t suffered untold centuries of erosion. They stood out starkly, brutal and sharp. He couldn’t read the unfamiliar language or identify the Dark Lord from the crest, yet he knew this was the resting place of an ancient and mighty being.

He reached the platform; it stood a little higher than his knee. He put one foot on it, then reached out to grip a protruding edge of one of the carved symbols on the side of the sarcophagus itself. He half expected to receive a sharp jolt or shock, but all he felt was cold stone beneath his palm.

Using his hold to maintain his balance, he hauled himself up so that he was standing with both feet on the platform, looking down at the top of the tomb. To his horror, he could now see that the stone slab sealing the sarcophagus had been virtually destroyed. Whatever had been inside was gone, replaced by rubble, dust, and a few bits of broken bone that might once have been the fingers or toes of the Dark Lord’s skeletal remains.

He stepped down from the platform, frustrated but still not willing to give up. Slowly, he turned in a great circle, as if he expected to find the stolen remains lying in a corner of the burial chamber. There was nothing: the tomb had been robbed and defiled.

Bane hadn’t been sure what he expected to find, but it wasn’t this. The spirits of the ancient Dark Lords were beings of pure dark side energy; they were as eternal as the Force itself. The spirit would linger for centuries—millennia, even—until a worthy successor came along. Or so the texts in the archive had led him to believe.

Yet the harsh evidence before him was undeniable. The ancient manuscripts had failed him. He had gambled everything on the truth of their words—even defying Qordis himself—and he had lost.

In desperation he cast his head back and threw his arms to the uneven rock of the ceiling above. “I’m here, Master!” he cried. “I’ve come to learn your secrets!” He paused, listening for a response. Hearing nothing, he shouted, “Show yourself! By all the power of the dark side, show yourself!”

His words reverberated off the walls, sounding empty and hollow. He dropped to his knees, his arms falling to his sides and his head slumping forward. As the echo died away, the only sound was the shrill clicking of the pelko bugs.

Kopecz spit on the ground as he surveyed the camp. He was surrounded by an army, but it was an army of inferiors. Everywhere he looked he saw the minions of the Sith: battle ragers, assassins, and apprentices. But there were precious few Sith Masters. The seemingly endless war against the Jedi on the battlefields of Ruusan was taking a heavy toll on Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness. Without reinforcements they would be forced to retreat—or be wiped out by General Hoth and his hated Army of Light.

The heavyset Twi’lek rose to his feet, spurred to action by the realization that something had to be done. He made his way through scattered pockets of soldiers, noticing how many were injured, exhausted, or simply defeated. By the time he reached the entrance to Lord Kaan’s tent the contempt he felt for his so-called Brothers had reached a boiling point.

When Kopecz entered, Lord Kaan took one look at him and dismissed his other advisers with a sharp wave of his hand. They filed out, none of them daring to come too close.

“What is it, my old friend?” Kaan asked. His voice was charming as ever, but his eyes were wide and wild, like a hunted beast.

“Have you seen what passes for our army out there?” Kopecz snarled, poking a thumb over his shoulder as he walked slowly forward. “If this is all we have to stand against Lord Hoth, we may as well burn our black robes and start practicing the Jedi Code.”

“We have reinforcements coming,” Lord Kaan assured him. “Two more full divisions of foot soldiers, another core of snipers. Half a platoon of repulsorcraft armed with heavy guns. There are many who are drawn to the glory of our cause. More and more each day. The Brotherhood of Darkness cannot fail.”

Kopecz took little comfort in his promises. Lord Kaan had always been the strength of the Brotherhood of Darkness, a man who had rallied the Dark Lords to a single cause through the greatness of his personality and vision. Now, however, he looked like a man on the edge. The strain of constantly battling the Jedi had left him frazzled.

Kopecz shook his head in disgust. “I’m not one of your sycophantic advisers,” he said, his voice rising. “I won’t grovel and scrape before you, Lord Kaan. I won’t heap praise on your fool head when I can see with my own eyes that you are leading us to our destruction!”

“Keep your voice down!” Kaan snapped. “You will destroy the morale of our troops!”

“They have no morale left to destroy,” Kopecz shot back, though he did lower his volume. “We can’t defeat Jedi with ordinary soldiers. There are too many of them and not enough of us.”

“By us you mean those worthy of joining the ranks of the Dark Lords,” Kaan replied. He sighed and stared down at the holomap spread out on the table before him.

“You know what you have to do,” Kopecz told him, his voice losing some of the anger. He had chosen to follow Kaan; he wouldn’t abandon him now. But he wasn’t about to sit idly by and face certain defeat. “We face an army of Jedi Knights and Masters. We can’t stand against them without our own Masters from the Academy. The students, too. All of them.”

“They are mere apprentices,” Kaan protested.

“They are the strongest of our order,” Kopecz reminded him. “We both know even the lowliest students on Korriban are stronger than half the so-called Dark Lords here on Ruusan.”

“Qordis’s work is not yet complete. The students there still have so much to learn,” Kaan insisted, though without much force. “So much untapped potential. The Academy represents the future of the Sith.”

“If we cannot defeat the Jedi here on Ruusan, then we have no future!” Kopecz insisted.

Lord Kaan clutched his head with his hands, as if a great pain threatened to burst his skull in two. He began to tremble in the grip of some terrible palsy. Kopecz involuntarily stepped back.

It only took a few seconds for Kaan to regain his composure and lower his hands. The haunted look in his eyes was gone, replaced by the calm self-assurance that had drawn so many to the Brotherhood in the first place.

“You’re right, old friend,” he said. The words were smooth and easy; he spoke as if a great weight had been lifted from him. He radiated confidence and strength. He seemed to glow with a violet aura, as if he were the very embodiment of the dark side. And suddenly, inexplicably, Kopecz was reassured.

“I will send word to Qordis,” Kaan continued, the Force emanating from him in palpable waves. “You are right. It is time for those at the Academy on Korriban to truly join the ranks of the Sith.”

19

Bane had never been so hungry in his life. It twisted his stomach into knots, causing him to hunch over as he trudged slowly across Korriban’s wastes toward Dreshdae. For thirteen days he had searched the tombs in the Valley of the Dark Lords, sustaining himself only with the Force and the hydration tablets he’d brought along for the desert journey. He never slept, but rested his mind from time to time through meditation. Yet for all its power, even the Force couldn’t create something from nothing. It could ward off starvation for a time, but not forever.

Twice he’d been set on by packs of tuk’ata, the guardian hounds that prowled the crypts of their former Masters. The first time he’d driven them away with the Force, seizing the body of the alpha male and hurling it into the rest of the pack, injuring several of the beasts. They’d scurried away with high-pitched howls that had sent shivers down his spine. The second attack had been far bloodier. While exploring one of the most recent tombs he’d found himself surrounded by a dozen tuk’ata: a pack twice the size of the first. He’d unleashed his lightsaber on them, slicing through flesh and bone. When the pack finally broke and fled, only four of the twelve tuk’ata still lived.

After that the tuk’ata left him alone, which was a good thing, because he was no longer sure he’d be able to hold them off if they attacked again. To fuel his muscles for the ongoing search through tomb after tomb, he’d overtaxed his body’s reserves, literally devouring himself from the inside out. Now he was paying the price.

He could have eased his suffering by slipping into a meditative trance, slowing his heartbeat and vital functions to preserve his energy. Yet in the end that would accomplish nothing. Nobody would come to find him, and eventually even a state of hibernation would end in a slow, if relatively painless, death.

Death was not an option he was ready to consider. Not yet. Despite his futile search, despite the crushing disappointment, he wasn’t ready for that. Not if it meant that the truth he had discovered would die with him. So he endured the pain, and willed his rapidly failing flesh to take him back. Back to the Academy.

It had taken him only a day to walk to the valley at the beginning of his quest. He was now on the third day of his trip back. He had been strong and fresh when he’d first set out; now he was famished and weak. But there was more to his slowed pace than mere physical wanting.

Before he had been buoyed by expectation. Now he was weighed down by the burden of failure. Qordis had been right: the ancient Dark Lords of Korriban were gone. Nearly three thousand years had passed between the time the Sith had been driven from Korriban by Revan, and the day Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness officially reclaimed this world for the order. In that time the legacy of the original Sith had been completely wiped away.

He’d gone into the desert seeking enlightenment, but found only disillusionment. Korriban was no longer the cradle of darkness; it was a husk, a withered, desiccated corpse that had been picked clean by scavengers. Qordis had been right … yet Bane now understood that he was also very, very wrong.

Bane hadn’t found what he was looking for in the tombs. But in the long trek back across the desert his mind had finally become clear. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion: the physical suffering cleansed his thoughts. It stripped away all his illusions and exposed the lies of Qordis and the Academy. The spirits of the Sith were gone from Korriban forever. But it was Lord Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness—not the Jedi—who were to blame.

They had twisted and perverted the ancient order of the Sith. The Academy’s teachings flew in the face of everything Bane had learned in the archives about the ways of the dark side. Kaan had cast aside the true power of the individual and replaced it with the false glory of self-sacrifice in the name of a worthy cause. He sought to destroy the Jedi through might of arms, rather than cunning. Worst of all, he proclaimed that all were equal in the Brotherhood of the Sith. But Bane knew equality was a myth. The strong were meant to rule; the weak, to serve.

The Brotherhood of Darkness stood for everything that was wrong with the modern Sith. They had fallen from the true path. Their failure was the reason the spirits of the Dark Lords had vanished. None on Korriban—not Master, not apprentice—had been worthy of their wisdom; none worthy of their power. They had simply faded away, scattered like a handful of dust cast across the desert sand. Bane could see the truth so clearly now. Yet Qordis and the others were forever blind. They followed Kaan as if he had bound them up with some secret spell.

A faint gust of wind brought the sound of distant voices to his ears. Glancing up, he was surprised to see the temple of the Academy looming ahead of him, less than a kilometer away. Caught up in his philosophical ramblings, he hadn’t realized how far he’d come. He was close enough to see small figures moving at the base of the building: servants, or possibly a handful of students from the Academy out wandering the surrounding grounds. One of them noticed him approaching and scurried back inside, probably to deliver news of his return to Qordis and the other Masters.

Bane wasn’t sure what kind of reception they’d give him. In truth he didn’t care, as long as they brought him food. Beyond that they were of no use to him anymore. He despised them all: Masters and apprentices alike. They were no better than the Jedi who had looted Korriban three millennia before. The Academy was an abomination, a testament to how far the Sith had fallen from the true ideals of the dark side.

Bane alone understood this. He alone saw the truth. And he alone could lead the Sith back to the way of the dark side.

He wouldn’t be foolish enough to say so, of course. The Brotherhood would never follow him; neither would Qordis or any of the others at the Academy. Weak and ignorant as they were, they could still overwhelm him with their numbers. If he was to restore the Sith to their true glory, he would need an ally.

Not one of the Masters: they were all too close to Kaan. And the apprentices were nothing but groveling servants, blindly following their Masters. They had no real understanding of the dark side. They didn’t sense that they were being led down a false path. Not a single one of them was worthy.

No, Bane corrected himself. There was one. Githany.

She wasn’t intimidated by the Masters. She had defied them to train Bane. The fact that she’d done it for her own selfish reasons only offered further proof that she understood the true nature of the dark side.

He wished now that he had spoken to her before he’d left the Academy. He could have at least tried to explain why he had to go. She had been disappointed in him for letting Sirak survive. Rightfully so. But in the end he was the one who had turned away from her. He was the one who left her behind while he went in search of Korriban’s hidden secrets. What could she possibly think of him now?

As he reached the edge of the temple grounds the scents of the midday meal being prepared in the kitchens wafted out to him, driving all other thoughts from his mind. Mouth watering and stomach rumbling, he hobbled up the steps toward the ever-nearing prospect of food.

The news that Bane had returned did not sit well with Qordis. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Lord Kaan had sent an urgent message: everyone from the Academy was to come to Ruusan to join the battle against the Jedi. The apprentices were all to be presented with lightsabers and given seats in the Brotherhood of Darkness, elevating them to the ranks of the Dark Lords of the Sith.

It wouldn’t do to show up with one of his most powerful students being as defiant as Bane had been at their last meeting. It would be even worse if Bane spurned the offer and went off on his own, disobeying the command to go to Ruusan. Lord Kaan had managed to keep the Brotherhood together, but it was an alliance that was always on the verge of disintegrating. In the face of their repeated failure to drive the Jedi from Ruusan, the refusal of one prominent Sith to fall into line might be all it took to make everything unravel.

One defection could lead to others, and things would return to a state of chaos: Sith fighting Sith as the various Dark Lords sought to dominate and destroy their rivals. The Jedi would survive and rebuild their order, all the while laughing at the foolishness of their mortal enemies.

If only Bane had perished out in the wastes of Korriban! Unfortunately, he had returned, and Qordis couldn’t do anything to eliminate him now. Not after Kaan’s directive. They had need of every lightsaber and every Sith, especially one as strong as Bane. For the sake of the Brotherhood—for the sake of Lord Kaan’s glorious vision—Qordis would have to find some way to make amends.

News that Bane had returned spread quickly through the Academy. Sirak wasn’t surprised. If anything, he was relieved. When Master Qordis had informed the students they would soon be shipping out to Ruusan, he’d feared they would leave before Bane returned, denying him his vengeance.

Instead fortune had smiled on him. He’d have to act quickly, though. Once they left Korriban it would be too late. Lord Kaan would have all the apprentices swear vows of loyalty and fealty to each other when they joined the Brotherhood. Killing his enemy after that would be an act of betrayal punishable by death. He wanted revenge, but not at the cost of his own life.

He knew Yevra and Llokay would help him, but he’d need more than them to destroy an enemy as strong as Bane. He needed Githany.

Knocking on the door to her room, he waited for her to call “Enter” before going in.

She was lying on her bed, looking casual and relaxed. In contrast, Sirak felt taut as a wire stretched beyond its limit.

“He’s back” was all he said.

“When?” She didn’t need to ask who he was talking about.

“He staggered in an hour ago. Maybe less. He went straight to the kitchens.”

“The kitchens?” She seemed surprised. Or offended. No doubt she’d expected him to come to her first.

“He’s vulnerable,” Sirak pointed out, his hand dropping to the hilt of his newly acquired lightsaber. “Half starved. Exhausted. We should go after him now.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she snapped. “What would the Masters do to us if we chopped him down in the kitchens?”

She was right. “Do you have a plan?”

She nodded. “Tonight. Wait in the archives. I’ll bring him to you there.”

“I’ll bring Yevra and Llokay.”

A sour grimace puckered up her face. “I suppose we’ll need them,” she conceded, making no effort to hide her distaste.

Sirak’s mouth twisted into a cruel grin. “I only ask one more thing. Let me be the one who deals the killing blow.”

Bane collapsed into his bed, his belly full to bursting. He’d gorged himself in the kitchen, tearing into the food with the manners of a Gamorrean soldier at the barracks trough. He’d stuffed himself with everything in sight until his ravenous hunger was sated. It was only then that he remembered he hadn’t actually slept in nearly two weeks.

Hunger had given way to exhaustion, and he’d wandered from the kitchen to his room in a daze. Within seconds he had dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He woke several hours later to a knocking at his door. Still groggy, he forced himself to his feet, lit a glow rod, and opened the door.

Qordis was standing in the hall. He barged in without waiting for an invitation, closing the door behind him. Bane was too busy trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep to protest.

“Welcome back, Bane,” the Master said. “I trust your journey was … educational.”

Puzzled at Qordis’s cordial tone, Bane only nodded.

“I hope you understand now why I let you go,” Qordis said.

Because you were too much of a coward to try and stop me, Bane thought, but didn’t say anything aloud.

“This was the final phase of your training,” the Master continued. “You had to understand why we have abandoned the old ways. This is a new age, and you could understand that only once you recognized the old age was truly gone.”

Bane maintained his stoic silence, not agreeing with Qordis but unwilling to argue the point.

“Now that you have learned your final lesson, the Academy has nothing left to teach you.” On that point, at least, they were in complete agreement. “You are no longer an apprentice, Bane. You are now fit to join the ranks of the Masters. You are now a Dark Lord of the Sith.”

He paused, as if expecting some kind of reaction. Bane stood still as the stone statues he’d seen guarding the tombs of the ancient Sith in some of the older crypts.

Qordis cleared his throat, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I know Lord Kas’im has already given you a lightsaber. I, too, have a gift for you.” He held out his hand, a lightsaber crystal in his palm.

When Bane hesitated, Qordis spoke again. “Take it, Lord Bane.” He put a special emphasis on the new title. It sounded sour in Bane’s ears: an empty honor bestowed by a fool who believed himself a Master. But he said nothing as the other continued speaking.

“This synthetic crystal is stronger than the one powering your lightsaber now,” Qordis assured him. “And it is much, much stronger than the natural crystals the Jedi use in their own weapons.”

Moving slowly, Bane reached out and took it in his hand. It was cold to the touch at first, but as he gripped it the six-sided stone quickly grew warm.

“The timing of your return from the wastes couldn’t have been better,” Qordis continued. “We are making preparations to leave Korriban. Lord Kaan has need of us on Ruusan. All the Sith must be united in the Brotherhood of Darkness if we are to defeat the Jedi.”

“The Brotherhood will fail,” Bane stated, boldy declaring what he knew to be true only because he knew the other wouldn’t believe. “Kaan does not understand the dark side. He is leading you down the path of ruin.”

Qordis drew in a sharp breath, then spat it out in an angry hiss. “Some might consider that talk to be treason, Lord Bane. You would do well to keep such ideas to yourself in the future.” He wheeled away and strode angrily to the door, wrenching it open. His reaction was exactly as Bane had expected.

The tall Master spun back to face Bane one more time. “You may be a Dark Lord now, Bane. But there is still much about the dark side you do not understand. Join the Brotherhood and we can teach you what we know. Reject us, and you will never find what you seek.”

The Master stalked out; Bane watched silently as the door swung shut behind him. Qordis was wrong about the Brotherhood, but he was right about one thing: there was still much about the dark side Bane needed to understand.

And there was only one place in the galaxy he could go to learn it.

20

Bane crawled back into bed after Qordis left. He thought about going to see Githany, but he was still exhausted. Tomorrow, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

Several hours later he was again disturbed by a knock on his door. This time he felt more refreshed when he woke. He sat up quickly and lit a glow rod, casting the room in soft light. There were no windows in his chamber, but he guessed it must be close to midnight: well past curfew.

He rose to his feet and went to greet his second uninvited visitor. This time he was not disappointed when he opened the door.

“Can I come in?” Githany whispered.

Bane stepped aside, catching the scent of her perfume as she brushed past him. As he silently closed the door behind her, she walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge. She patted the space beside her, and Bane dutifully sat down, turning slightly so he could look her in the eye.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Why did you leave?” she responded.

“It’s … it’s hard to explain. You were right about what happened with Sirak. I should have finished him, but I didn’t. I was foolish and weak. I didn’t want to admit that to you.”

“You left the Academy so you wouldn’t have to face me?” The words sounded compassionate, as if she were seeking to understand him. But Bane could sense the contempt beneath them.

“No,” he explained. “I didn’t leave because of you. I left because you were the only one who recognized my failing. Everyone else congratulated me for my great victory: Kas’im, Qordis … everyone. They were blind to the true nature of the dark side. As blind as I had been until you opened my eyes.

“I left because the Academy had nothing more to offer me. I went to the Valley of the Dark Lords hoping to find the answers I couldn’t find here.”

“And you never thought to come tell me all this?” Her voice had changed; the veil of false compassion was gone. Now she just sounded angry. Angry and hurt. Bane was relieved that she still felt strongly enough about him to reveal some genuine emotion.

“I should have come to you,” he admitted. “I acted rashly. I let my anger at Qordis drive me away.”

She nodded: passion and reckless actions were something he knew Githany could relate to.

“I’ve answered your question,” he said. “Now you answer mine. Why are you here?”

She hesitated, her teeth biting down softly on her lower lip. Bane recognized the unconscious gesture; it meant she was lost in thought, trying to sort something out.

“Not here,” she said at last, rising stiffly from the bed. “I have something to show you. In the archives.”

Without looking back to see if he was following, she made her way from his room and into the dim hall beyond, moving quickly. Bane scrambled to his feet and trotted after her, breaking into a jog to keep up.

She stared straight ahead, her boots making crisp snaps as they struck the stone floor with each brisk stride. The sharp sound echoed in the empty halls, but Githany appeared not to care. Bane could tell that something was bothering her, but he had no idea what it could be.

They found the door to the archives open. Githany didn’t seem surprised; she passed right through without slowing down. Bane paused for only an instant before following her.

At the far side of the room, beyond the rows of shelves, she stopped and turned to face him. There was an expression he couldn’t quite decipher on her haughty but beautiful features.

He crossed to the middle of the room then stopped short when she held up her hand, palm extended. “Githany,” he said, perplexed, “what’s going—”

His words were cut off by the hollow boom of the archive door slamming shut behind him. He whirled around to see Sirak, flanked by Yevra and Llokay. The Zabrak’s pale yellow lips were pulled back in a cruel smile so wide it gave him the appearance of a grinning skull. Bane couldn’t help but notice the lightsaber handles dangling from the belts of all three.

When Githany spoke from behind him he had to resist the urge to turn and face her. It wouldn’t be wise to expose his back to the Zabrak trio.

“Why did you follow me, Bane?” she asked, her voice a mixture of anger, disgust, and regret. “How could you be so stupid? Didn’t you realize you were walking into a trap?”

Githany had betrayed him. The conversation in his room had been a test—one that he’d failed. He knew her well enough to expect something like this. He should have been wary of a trap. Instead he’d been a blind and obedient fool.

He knew he’d brought this on himself. Now he had to discern a way out.

“Is this what you want, Githany?” he asked, trying to stall for time.

“She wants what all Sith want,” Sirak answered for her. “Power. Victory. She knows to side with the strong.”

“I’m stronger than he is,” Bane told Githany. “I proved that in the dueling ring.”

“There’s more to strength than physical prowess,” Sirak replied, igniting his lightsaber. It was the double-bladed variety. Bane’s eyes were focused squarely on the bright red blades, but he heard the hiss as the other two Zabrak followed suit. Githany, however, still hadn’t fired up her whip.

“Strength means more than just the ability to use the Force,” Sirak continued, starting to advance. “It means intelligence. Cunning. Ruthlessness.”

“You know how easily I defeated you in the ring,” Bane said, finally speaking directly to Sirak, though his words were still meant for Githany. “Are you so certain you can defeat me now?”

“Four against one, Bane. And you left your lightsaber back in your chambers. I like those odds.”

Bane laughed and turned his back on Sirak. The Zabrak was close enough to lunge in and kill him with one blow, but Bane was gambling he would hold back, wary of being lured into a trap. It was a dangerous gamble, but he wanted to be looking directly into Githany’s eyes when he spoke what might be his last words.

“This fool actually believes you brought me here for his sake,” he said to her. Behind him he could sense Sirak’s confusion and uncertainty. No attack came yet.

Githany met his stare with a cold, unflinching gaze and didn’t answer. But her teeth worried her lower lip.

“We both know why you brought me here, Githany,” he said, speaking quickly. Sirak wouldn’t wait for long. “You don’t want to side with Sirak. You’ve been plotting ways to get me to kill him ever since you first arrived.”

“Enough!” Sirak shouted. Bane threw himself forward, rolling out of the way at the last second as the double-bladed lightsaber sliced a deep furrow into the spot where he had been standing. As he rolled to his feet, he saw Githany move; when she tossed his lightsaber to him, he was already extending his hand and using the Force to guide the hilt into his grasp.

The weapon flared to life and he turned just in time to block Sirak’s charge. Yevra and Llokay were a few meters behind, rushing forward to join the fray.

Bane counterattacked, slashing down at Sirak’s legs. The Zabrak parried the blow, and their blades collided with a burning hum. On the edge of his awareness Bane heard the sound of Githany’s whip igniting.

A quick flurry caused Sirak to retreat. Bane feinted as if he was going to press forward, then took a step back, opening a full meter of space between them. It gave him just enough time to cast out his arm in the direction of the unsuspecting Yevra. Catching her up with the Force, he hurled her against one of the nearby shelves hard enough to splinter the wood.

She crumpled to the floor, dazed. Before she had a chance to rise, Githany lashed out with her whip and ended the Zabrak female’s life.

Bane barely had time to register her death before Llokay was on him. The red-skinned Zabrak was overmatched, but his grief and rage empowered him, and he drove his much larger opponent back with a brutal series of desperate slashes and strikes.

Staggering back, Bane was almost too distracted to see Sirak unleashing a bolt of crackling blue lightning at him. At the last second he twisted and caught the potentially lethal blast with the blade of his lightsaber, absorbing its energy. The move had been one of instinct and last resort, and it had left him vulnerable to a single quick thrust from Llokay. But Githany’s whip was snapping and cracking at Llokay’s eyes and face, and his blade was busy frantically warding off the blows.

Bane turned his attention back to Sirak, who hesitated. At that moment there was a scream from Llokay: he had misjudged the erratic path of Githany’s energy whip and lost an eye. A second scream would have followed, but she gashed open his throat, the burning tip of her weapon searing his vocal cords so he died in agonized silence.

Outnumbered, Sirak extinguished his lightsaber, dropped it to the ground, and fell to his knees.

“Please, Bane,” he begged, his voice cracking. “I yield. You are a true Sith Lord. I know that now.”

Githany whispered, “End it now, Bane.”

Bane advanced until he towered over his groveling foe. Suddenly it wasn’t just Sirak he saw before him. It was everyone he’d ever struck down. Every life he’d ever taken. Fohargh, the Makurth. The nameless Republic soldier he’d killed on Apatros. His father.

He was responsible for their deaths. Even now, they weighed on him. Guilt over Fohargh’s death had left him numb to the dark side for months. It had shackled him like iron. He didn’t want to suffer through that again.

“Listen to me,” Sirak pleaded. “I’ll serve you. I’ll do anything you command. You can use me. I can help you. Please, Bane—have mercy!”

Bane steeled himself. “Those who ask for mercy,” he answered coldly, “are too weak to deserve it.”

His blade decapitated his helpless foe. The torso remained upright for a full second, the charred edges of the cauterized stump where the head had once been attached still smoking. Then it toppled forward.

Staring down at it, Bane felt only one thing: freedom. The guilt, the shame, the weight of responsibility had all vanished in that single, decisive act. He had opened himself to the dark side completely. It surged through him, filling him with confidence and power.

Through power, I gain victory. Through victory my chains are broken.

He turned to see Githany smiling, her eyes filled with hunger.

“I of all people should have known better than to underestimate you,” she said. “You saw me take your lightsaber! That’s why you followed me.”

“No,” Bane replied, still heady from the rush of killing his enemy. “I didn’t see anything. I was just guessing.”

For a brief moment her expression darkened; then she burst out with a laugh. “You never cease to amaze me, Lord Bane.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said.

“Why not?” she asked. “Qordis has given all the students the rank of Dark Lord of the Sith.”

Seeing him wince, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, looking up into his face. “Bane,” she breathed, “we’re going to fight the Jedi! We’re going to join Lord Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness!”

He reached up and grasped her delicate hands in his own massive ones, then gently unwound her arms from around his neck. Puzzled, she offered no resistance as he brought his hands together at his chest, her own clasped between them.

How could he make her understand? He was of the dark side now; Sirak’s execution had been the final step. He had crossed the threshold; there was no going back. He would never hesitate again. Never doubt again. The transformation he had begun when he’d first come to the Academy was complete: he was Sith.

Now, more than ever, he understood the failings of the Brotherhood.

“Kaan is a fool, Githany,” he said, staring intently into her eyes to read her expression.

She recoiled slightly and tried to pull her hands away. He held them tight.

“You’ve never even met Lord Kaan,” she said defensively. “I have. He’s a great man, Bane. A man of vision.”

“He’s blind as an Orkellian cave slug,” Bane insisted. “The Brotherhood of Darkness, this Academy, everything the Sith have become is a monument to his ignorance!” He clasped her hands even more tightly. “Come with me. There is nothing left for us on Korriban, and only death on Ruusan. But I know somewhere else we can go. A place where the dark side is still strong.”

She squirmed her hands free and pulled away from him. “Lord Kaan has united the Sith in a single glorious cause. We can join them on Ruusan.”

“Then go!” Bane spat. “Join the others on Ruusan. Be united with them in their defeat.”

He turned and stormed angrily away as she called out “Wait, Bane. Wait!”

If she had made any move to follow him, he might have.

Bane kicked open the door to Qordis’s chamber; it slammed against the wall with a crash that reverberated down the hall. The Academy’s Master had been awake and already dressed, meditating on the mat in the center of his room. Now he leapt to his feet, anger darkening his face.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Did you send Sirak to kill me?” Bane blurted out. The time for subtlety was gone.

“What? I … did something happen to Sirak?”

“I killed him. Yevra and Llokay, too. Their bodies are in the archives.”

The shock and horror of his reaction made it clear that Qordis had known nothing about the attack. “You did this on the eve of our departure for Ruusan?” he asked, his voice rising shrilly.

A few of the other Masters had gathered in the corridor outside, drawn by Bane’s loud arrival. A handful of the students, as well. Bane didn’t care.

“You can go to Ruusan,” Bane snapped. “I will have nothing to do with the Brotherhood of Darkness.”

“You are a student of this Academy,” Qordis reminded him. “You will do as you are told!”

“I am a Dark Lord of the Sith,” Bane countered. “I serve no one but myself.”

Glancing over Bane’s shoulder at the gathering crowd of curious onlookers, Qordis dropped his voice to a threatening whisper. “We leave for Ruusan tomorrow, Lord Bane. You will be coming with us. This is not a matter for discussion.”

“I am leaving tonight,” Bane replied, lowering his voice to match and mock the tone of Qordis’s own. “And none of you here is strong enough to stop me.”

He turned his back on the head of the Academy and walked slowly from the room. For a brief second he felt the spurned Master gathering the Force, and Bane braced himself for a confrontation. But a second later he felt the power fading away.

At the threshold he halted. When he spoke, he was addressing the assembled gawkers as much as Qordis.

“Someone here once told me the Darth title was no longer used because it promoted rivalry among the Sith. It gave the Jedi an easy target. It was easier just to abandon the custom. To have all the Sith Masters use the same title of Dark Lord.”

He raised his voice slightly, speaking loud enough for all to hear. “But I know the truth, Qordis. I know why none of you claims that name for yourself. Fear. You’re cowards.”

He half turned and looked back at Qordis. “None of the Brotherhood is worthy of the Darth title. Least of all you.”

There was a gasp from the assemblage. Some of the students stepped back, expecting some type of reaction. Of course there was none.

Shaking his head in disgust, Bane left them there. As he passed the other Masters, Kas’im stepped in front of him, placing a hand on his chest.

“Don’t go,” the Blademaster said. “Let’s talk about this. If you just meet with Kaan you’ll understand. That’s all I ask, Bane.”

“It’s Darth Bane,” he said, slapping the Twi’lek’s hand away and pushing past him.

Nobody else tried to stop him as he made his way through the temple’s halls. Nobody tried to follow him or even called out as he mounted the stairs to the small landing pad on the roof.

There was only a single ship at the starport: the Valcyn, a T-class long-range personal cruiser. The blade-shaped vessel was one of the finest in the Sith fleet, equipped with the latest and most advanced technology. It had arrived just the day before: a gift from Kaan to Qordis, in recognition of his work with the apprentices at the Academy.

Bane lowered the access hatch and climbed inside. During his stint in the military he’d been given rudimentary training in the basics of piloting a standard hyperdrive vessel. Fortunately, the Valcyn’s controls matched all intergalactic standards of operation and were designed for ease of use. He sat himself down in the pilot’s chair and fired up the thrusters, punching in the hyperspace coordinates of his destination even as he began the liftoff sequence. A moment later the Valcyn rose up from the landing pad’s surface then shot off into the atmosphere, leaving Korriban and the Academy behind.

PART THREE

21

Lord Hoth, Jedi Master and acting general of the Republic forces on Ruusan, sat huddled on a stump outside his tent and stared up at the dark clouds hovering above the camp. He scowled at the brooding sky as if he could banish the coming storm with the fierceness of his expression.

“Is something troubling you, Lord Hoth?”

The voice of Master Pernicar, his longtime friend and right hand during this never-ending campaign, snapped his attention back to where it belonged.

“What isn’t troubling me, Pernicar?” he asked with a heavy sigh. “We’re low on food and medpacs. Our injured outnumber our hale. The scouts report that reinforcements are on their way to assist Kaan and his Sith.” He slapped his hand down on one knee. “All we have coming to our aid are youths and children.”

“Children who are strong in the Force,” Pernicar reminded him. “If we don’t recruit them to our side, the Sith will claim them for theirs.”

“Blast it, Pernicar, they’re just children! I need Jedi. Fully trained. All we can spare. But there are still members of our own order who refuse to help us.”

“Perhaps it’s how you ask them,” a new voice said from behind him.

Hoth rubbed his temples but didn’t turn to face the speaker. Lord Valenthyne Farfalla had been one of the first Jedi Masters to join the Army of Light on Ruusan. He had fought in nearly every confrontation, and the Sith had come to know him well: Farfalla was hard to miss even in the chaos of battle.

He had long, flowing curls of golden hair that hung down past his shoulders. The breastplate of his armor was also gold, buffed and polished until it gleamed before every battle. It was trimmed with bright red sleeves and adorned with rubies that matched the color of his eyes and contrasted with his pale skin.

Lord Hoth found him insufferable. Farfalla was a loyal servant of the light, but he was also a vain and prancing fool who spent more time selecting his wardrobe before each battle than he did planning strategy. Farfalla was the last person he wanted to deal with now.

“If you showed more tact, Lord Hoth,” Farfalla continued, gliding into view, “you might have rallied more Jedi to your cause.”

“I shouldn’t have to persuade them!” Hoth roared, leaping to his feet and waving his arms in exasperation. Farfalla hopped nimbly out of the way. “We’re fighting the Sith! The dark side must be destroyed! We could do it if more Jedi were here!”

“There are some who don’t see it that way,” Pernicar said calmly. He had become used to Hoth’s outbursts during their time on Ruusan, and had learned to ignore them, for the most part.

“There are other Republic worlds besides this one that are under attack,” Farfalla chimed in. “Many Jedi are aiding the Republic troops in other sectors, helping them against the Sith fleets.”

Hoth spat on the ground and was pleased to see Farfalla’s look of horrified disgust. “Those fleets might fly the banner of the Sith, but they’re made up of ordinary beings. The Republic has the numbers to beat them back. They don’t need the help of the Jedi to do it. All the real Sith—the Dark Lords—are here now. If we defeat the Brotherhood of Darkness, the Sith rebellion will collapse. Don’t they understand that?”

There was a long silence as the other two exchanged uneasy looks. It was Pernicar who finally found the courage to answer.

“Some of the Jedi believe we shouldn’t be here. They feel the only thing keeping the Brotherhood together is their hatred of the Army of Light. They claim if we disband and surrender Ruusan, then the Sith will quickly turn against each other, and the Brotherhood will tear itself apart.”

Hoth shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t they see what a great opportunity we have here? We can wipe out the followers of the dark side once and for all!”

“Some might argue that is not the purpose of our order,” Farfalla suggested gently. “The Jedi are defenders of the Republic. They feel the Army of Light is prolonging the rebellion by strengthening the Sith resolve. They say you are actually causing harm to the Republic you were sworn to defend.”

“Is that what you think?” Hoth snarled.

“Lord Farfalla has been with us since the beginning,” Pernicar reminded him. “He is only telling you what others are saying—those Jedi who have not come to Ruusan.”

“The Sith are getting reinforcements from Korriban,” Hoth grumbled. “We barely have enough numbers to hold them off as it is. I’ll just have to make them understand!”

“We would probably have more success if someone else approached them,” Farfalla said. “There are some who believe this has become a personal vendetta for you. They do not see Ruusan as the ultimate struggle between the light and the dark, but rather as a feud between you and Lord Kaan.”

Hoth sat back down wearily. “Then we are doomed. Without reinforcements we will be overwhelmed.”

Farfalla crouched down beside him, laying a perfectly manicured, heavily perfumed hand on Hoth’s brawny shoulder. It took every ounce of the general’s Jedi discipline not to shrug him off.

“Send me, my lord,” Farfalla said earnestly. “I have been here since the beginning; I believe in this cause as strongly as you.”

“Why should they listen to you any more than me?”

Farfalla gave a high, twittering laugh that set Hoth’s teeth on edge. “My lord, for all your skill in battle and all your strength in the Force, you are somewhat lacking in the delicate art of diplomacy. You are a brilliant general, and your taciturn nature serves you well when giving orders to your troops. Unfortunately, it can set those who are not under your command on edge.”

“You are too blunt, my lord,” Pernicar clarified.

“That’s what I just said,” Farfalla insisted with just a hint of annoyance. Then he continued, “On the other hand, people find me witty and charming. I can be quite persuasive when necessary. Give me leave to recruit others to our cause, and I will return with a hundred—no, three hundred!—Jedi ready to join the Army of Light.”

Hoth dropped his head into his hands again. His temples were throbbing: Farfalla always seemed to have that effect on him.

“Go,” he muttered without looking up. “If you’re so certain you can bring me reinforcements, then bring them.”

Farfalla gave an extravagant bow, then turned with a flourish and left, his golden locks streaming out behind him in the rising wind of the coming storm.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Pernicar spoke again. “Is that wise, my lord? Our numbers are already thin. How long do you think we can survive without him?”

The rain began to fall in great, heavy drops, and an idea sprang into Hoth’s mind. “The Sith can’t defeat us if we don’t stand and fight,” he said. “We won’t give them a chance. The wet season is here; the rains will make it impossible for their trackers to find us. We’ll hide in the forest, harrying them with quick attacks and ambushes before we vanish back into the trees.”

“That strategy won’t work once the dry season comes,” Pernicar warned.

“If Farfalla hasn’t brought me my reinforcements by then, it won’t matter,” Hoth replied.

The five Interlopers—small, midrange multitroop transport ships used by the Sith—swept in low over Ruusan’s horizon. Each vessel carried a crew of ten, comprised entirely of former students and Masters from Korriban’s Academy.

In the lead ship Githany worked the controls with the calm precision of a highly trained pilot. She’d actually learned to fly on a Republic vessel, but the basics were the same.

The Interlopers were lighter and quicker than the Bivouac transports preferred by the Republic. The Interlopers had less armor plating, sacrificing the safety of the occupants inside in exchange for greater range and maneuverability. As if to prove the point, she banked her vessel down and hard to port, bringing it so close to the planet’s surface that the leaves on the trees of Ruusan’s great forest trembled in the wake of the ion drive.

The other vessels followed her lead, never breaking formation. Linked to Githany through the Force, the other pilots reacted in perfect unison to her every move. If she made a mistake, the entire convoy would go down. But Githany didn’t make mistakes.

“It might be safer to climb higher above the tree line,” Lord Qordis observed from his seat at Githany’s side in the cockpit.

“I don’t want the Jedi picking anything up on their scanners,” she explained, her attention focused on keeping the ship from smashing into the ocean of wood mere meters below the hull. “The Brotherhood hasn’t secured this region. If a squad of seekers locks on to us, these transports aren’t equipped with enough firepower to hold them off.”

Far in the distance half a dozen small fighters came into view, their trajectory bringing them on a direct line to intercept the Interlopers’ path. Qordis swore, and Githany braced herself to begin evasive maneuvers.

A second later she recognized the distinctive outline of the Sith Buzzards and breathed a sigh of relief. “Our escort’s here,” she said.

They’d be at the Sith base camp in a few minutes, and with the Buzzards there to pick off any incoming Jedi fighters there was no need to fly so dangerously close to the treetops anymore. She could have eased back on the stick to bring the ship up to a safer altitude.

Instead she held her course. She enjoyed the thrill of being one tiny miscue from an instantaneous and fiery end. From his rigid posture in the copilot’s chair, it was clear Qordis didn’t share her opinion.

Once they cleared the forest she throttled back their speed, then brought the ship down gracefully in the landing field at the edge of Lord Kaan’s encampment.

A small collection of Sith Masters, Kaan standing at their head, waited to greet the reinforcements as they disembarked. They might have been only fifty in number, but each one of them was a Sith Lord: more powerful than an entire division of soldiers.

As she made her way down the ship’s exit ramp, Githany was quick to understand why their presence had been so urgently requested. Beyond the assemblage of Dark Lords the rest of the camp spread out to the limits of her vision, and all she could see was a picture of grim despair. Ragged, ramshackle tents arranged in tight rings of five housed the bulk of the army: cloth domiciles stained and torn by wind and rain. Scattered among them were repulsorcraft, heavy turrets, and other instruments of war. The equipment was caked with dried mud and spots of rust, as if efforts to keep it properly maintained had been abandoned.

The troops were spread out in small pockets, huddled around cook fires built in the circles of tents. Their uniforms were covered in dust and grime; many wore dirty bandages over wounds they had given up all hope of keeping clean or sterile. Their faces were all scarred by the bitter taste of far too many defeats at the hands of their enemy, and it was the hopelessness of their expressions that made the greatest impression.

Lord Qordis seemed similarly taken aback at the dismal scene, and he grimaced as Lord Kaan approached.

Kaan appeared thin, his face drawn and etched with lines of worry. His hair was bedraggled and unkempt. A day’s worth of stubble shadowed his chin, making him look old and weary. He seemed physically smaller than Githany remembered him. Diminished. Less commanding. The spark she had found so compelling when she’d first met him was no longer there. His eyes had once burned with the fire of a man absolutely confident of his imminent success. Now they burned with something else. Desperation. Madness, perhaps. She couldn’t help but wonder if Bane had been right.

“Welcome, Lord Qordis,” Kaan said, grasping the newcomer’s arm in greeting. He released his grip and turned to address the rest of them. “Welcome, all of you, to Ruusan.”

“I didn’t expect to see your army in such sorry shape,” Qordis mumbled.

A look that might have been anger flickered across Kaan’s features. Then it was gone, replaced by the beaming confidence Githany remembered. He threw his shoulders back and stood a little straighter.

“You can’t judge the victor of a war without seeing the condition of both sides,” he said crisply. “The Jedi are in far worse shape. My intelligence reports that their casualties are far greater than ours. Their supplies are running low; their numbers are dwindling. We have medpacs, food, and greater numbers. And they do not have fresh reinforcements.”

He lifted his voice so that it carried throughout the camp, his words booming across the tented landscape. “Now that you are here, the Brotherhood of Darkness is at last whole!”

The troops in camp paused and looked up at him. A few rose expectantly to their feet. There was fire in that single bold statement; it rekindled hope from the damp ashes of their fatigue and despair.

“The full power of the Sith Lords is now united here on Ruusan,” he continued, projecting his words to even the most distant of his followers. Reaching out to them with the undeniable power of the Force, he fed them, rejuvenated them, and filled their hollow spirits. “We are strong. Stronger than the Jedi. We are the champions of the dark side, and we will crush Lord Hoth and his servants of light!”

A great shout roared up from his troops. Those who were seated leapt to their feet. Those who were standing thrust their fists up in the air. The echo of their cheers shook the camp like a groundquake.

Githany felt it as surely as the rest of the troops. It was more than just the words. It was the way he said them. All her doubts and fears simply vanished, crushed by the weight of that single brief speech. It was as if she had been compelled to obey by a power greater than herself.

They made their way through the camp, reveling in the newfound optimism of the troops as Lord Kaan led them to the great tent where he convened his war sessions. A thickset Twi’lek fell into step beside Lord Qordis just ahead of Githany. Swept up in the moment, it took her several seconds to remember him: Lord Kopecz.

“Where’s Bane?” he asked Qordis, his voice so low that only Qordis and Githany likely heard him.

“Bane is gone,” Qordis replied.

Kopecz grunted. “What happened? Did you kill him?” He made little attempt to hide his contempt.

“He still lives. But he has turned his back on the Brotherhood of Darkness.”

“We need him,” Kopecz insisted. “He’s too strong for you to just let him go.”

“It was his choice, not mine!” Qordis snapped.

They continued in without speaking. Kopecz at last broke the silence, sighing as he asked, “Do you at least know where he went?”

“No,” Qordis said. “Nobody knows.”

Bane dropped the Valcyn out of hyperspace on the farthest edge of the remote system, then kicked in the ion drives and continued slowly toward the only habitable planet: a small world locked in orbit around a pale yellow star.

The planet’s official name was Lehon—the same as the solar system—but it was more commonly referred to as the Unknown World. Nearly three thousand years before, in this insignificant system located beyond the farthest edges of explored space, Darth Revan and Darth Malak had discovered the Rakata: an ancient species of Force-users that had ruled the galaxy long before the birth of the Republic.

They had also discovered the Star Forge, an incredible orbiting space station and factory … and a monument to the power of the dark side. A great battle had been fought here between the Republic, led by the redeemed Jedi Master Revan, and Darth Malak’s Sith. Malak had fallen, the Sith were routed, and the Star Forge had been destroyed, though at great cost to the Republic.

Even now the remnants of that titanic battle remained. Ships from both fleets had been engulfed in the cataclysmic explosion that had destroyed the Star Forge. Anything caught up in the shock waves of the detonation, including the massive factory itself, had been warped and shredded by the concussive force, then fused together by the heat of the blast into unrecognizable chunks of molten metal.

Much of the wreckage had coalesced into a wide band that encircled the small planet of Lehon like the rings common to many of the gas giants across the galaxy. The rest of the debris was scattered throughout the system, orbiting the sun like a vast asteroid field that made navigation difficult, if not impossible.

Bane switched the controls to manual and took over. Using the Force, he maneuvered his ship carefully through the treacherous obstacle course. It took nearly an hour to reach his destination, and by the time he finally passed beyond the ring and into the relative safety of the Unknown World’s atmosphere, he was sweating from the intense concentration.

There was no other ship traffic to contend with, of course. Nobody hailed him as he dropped from the sky toward the planet’s surface, looking for a place to land.

The Rakata had been a dying species on the verge of extinction when Revan and Malak discovered them. Virtually all evidence of their existence beyond their tiny homeworld had been wiped out; they had been purged from galactic memory. Nothing had significantly changed after the Battle of the Star Forge to alter that fact.

Republic officials had been aware of them, of course, but their existence had never been officially recognized beyond the classified reports of the conflict. It was believed that the general population wouldn’t have reacted well to the sudden reemergence of an ancient species that had once enslaved most of the known galaxy. The few surviving Rakata had declined to leave their ancestral home, and their numbers had been insufficient to maintain a viable gene pool. Within a few more generations the long, slow extinction of their species was finally complete.

Keeping secret the existence of the Rakata had proven to be a surprisingly simple task. The system had never attracted much attention after the battle. Although there was a vast amount of starship material left over from the destruction of the Star Forge, no attempts were made to salvage any of it. Rather than desecrating the floating graves of its soldiers, the Republic chose to honor the memory of its dead by designating Lehon a protected historical site. That made it technically illegal for any ship to enter the system without official authorization.

Nobody ever bothered to seek such permission. The system had no inherent value or resources, other than the protected starship debris. It was located well beyond any of the established hyperspace lanes and trade routes—so far out that not even smugglers bothered with it. A small notation of its location was added to the official Republic records, and it began to show up as an insignificant speck on the fringes of some of the more detailed star charts. Beyond that, it might as well have not even existed.

Bane understood that it wasn’t quite as simple as that. The Unknown World was a place strong in the Force. It may even have been the birthplace of the first servants of the dark side: the Rakata leaders who drove their people to conquer and enslave hundreds of worlds ten thousand years before the rest of the galaxy even discovered hyperdrive technology. That power had been concentrated and focused in the Star Forge, and would have been released with its destruction.

The Jedi understood this, and they feared what evil might breed in such a place. The Republic officials had acted on their instruction, isolating the entire system, effectively quarantining it from the rest of the galaxy. In the ensuing centuries the Jedi had worked to keep its secrets hidden. The story of Revan and Malak lived on, as did rumors and speculation regarding the Rakata, but the true nature of the Unkown World was buried beneath a shroud of secrets and lies of omission.

In the Academy archives Bane had come across bits and pieces that hinted at the truth. At first he hadn’t even realized the implications of what he was seeing. A small mention of the world here. An allusion to it there. Understanding had come slowly as he’d unraveled the mysteries of the dark side. As his knowledge grew, he had come closer and closer to assembling the entire puzzle. He’d thought to complete it in the Valley of the Dark Lords but had failed. Now he had come here to claim the final piece.

Below him the world was a patchwork of small tropical islands separated by bright blue ocean. He used the Valcyn’s sensors to identify the largest landmass, then swooped in looking for a place to touch down. The island was almost completely covered by thick, lush jungle, and there were no clearings large enough for his ship. Finally, he pulled the throttle back and began a slow descent, landing the Valcyn on the crystal sand beach on the island’s edge.

*  *  *

As soon as Bane’s feet touched the Unknown World’s surface he felt it: a deep thrumming, similar to what he’d first felt on Korriban but much, much stronger. Even the air felt different: heavy with ancient history and secrets long forgotten.

Standing with his back to the ocean, staring into the virtually impenetrable wall of forest that covered the island’s interior, he sensed something else, as well: a presence; a life-force of immense size and strength. It was moving toward him. Quickly.

A few seconds later he could hear it crashing through the undergrowth. It must have been drawn by the ship’s landing on the beach, an enormous hunter looking for fresh prey.

The rancor burst forth from the trees and began loping across the sand, bellowing its terrible cry. Bane held his ground, watching it come, marveling at the speed with which the massive beast moved. When it had closed the distance between them to fewer than fifty meters, he calmly held up a hand and reached out with the Force to touch the mind of the charging monster.

At his unspoken command it stumbled to a halt and stood in place, panting. Careful to keep the creature’s predatory instincts firmly in check, Bane approached the rancor. It remained still, as docile as a tauntaun being inspected by its rider.

From its size Bane could see it was a full-grown male, though the bright coloration of its hide and the small number of scars suggested that it must have only recently come to adulthood. He laid his palm on one of its massive legs, feeling the trembling muscles beneath the skin as he probed deeper into its animal brain.

He found no awareness, concept, or understanding of the Masters who had once tamed such beasts for use as guardians and mounts. He wasn’t surprised: the Rakata had vanished many centuries before this rancor had been born. But Bane was looking for something else.

A collage of images and sensations assailed him. Countless hunts through the forest, most ending in successful slaughter. The rending of sinew and bone. Feasting on the quarry’s still-warm flesh. The search for a mate. Battling with another rancor for dominance. And then, finally, he found what he was searching for.

Buried deep in the creature’s memories was the image of a great four-sided stone pyramid hidden deep within the jungle’s heart. The rancor had seen it only once, back when it was still a youngling in the care of the herd mothers. Yet the structure had left an indelible mark on the brutish mind.

The rancor was an animal, the top of the Unknown World’s food chain. It knew no fear, yet it let out a low moan as Bane dredged up the memory of that Temple. The beast shuddered, knowing what was expected of it, but it was powerless to flee; the Force compelled it to obey.

It crouched low to the ground, and Bane leapt up onto its back. It rose carefully to its feet, its rider perched on its great, hunched shoulders. At Bane’s command the rancor lumbered off, leaving the beach behind and heading back into the forest, carrying him toward the ancient Rakatan Temple.

22

It took nearly an hour before Bane reached his destination. The vegetation around him was teeming with life, but as he was carried along through the jungle he saw nothing larger than insects or small birds. Most creatures scattered before the rancor’s advance, vanishing long before Bane ever came close enough to catch even a glimpse of them. Yet though they scampered away, the rancor’s keen sense of smell often picked up their trail, and more than once Bane had to rein in the beast’s hunting instincts to keep it on course.

As difficult as it was to keep the beast from racing off in pursuit of its next meal, it became even more difficult to drive it forward as they neared the temple. Every few steps it would try to veer to the side or suddenly shy away from its course. Once it even tried to rear up and dislodge him from its shoulders.

Bane couldn’t see more than a few meters ahead through the thick vegetation, but he knew they were close now. He could sense the power of the Temple, calling to him from behind the impenetrable curtain of tangled vines and twisted branches. Clamping down with the dark side, he crushed the last of the mighty rancor’s will to resist and urged it forward.

Suddenly they broke through into a clearing, a circle nearly one hundred meters across. In the very center stood the Rakatan Temple. The structure rose nearly twenty meters to the sky, a monument of carved rock and stone. The only entrance was a broad archway at the peak of an enormous staircase carved into an outside wall of the Temple itself. Its surface was pristine: stark and pure, unsullied by clinging moss or climbing ivy. The grounds surrounding it were barren but for a carpet of short, soft grass. It was as if the jungle feared to creep forward and reclaim the tainted stone.

Bane leapt down from his mount, all his attention focused on the structure towering before him. Freed from his power, the rancor turned and fled back into the undergrowth. The terrible crashing cacophony of its escape was overlaid with its tortured howls, but Bane noticed neither sound. He had no more use for the rancor; he had found what he was searching for.

He took a trembling step forward before stopping short. He shook his head to clear it. The dark side was strong here, so strong it made him feel light-headed. That meant this was a place of danger; he couldn’t afford to be wandering around in a stupor.

According to the accounts he’d read in the archives, the Temple had once been protected by a powerful energy shield, one that required an entire Rakatan tribe—of which each individual had been a powerful Force-user—to bring it down. He didn’t sense any such barrier, but only a fool would proceed without caution.

As he had done in the tombs on Korriban, he began to probe the area around him with the Force. He felt the echoes of the safeguards that had once protected the Temple, but they were so weak as to be almost nonexistent. He wasn’t surprised. The shields around the Temple had been fueled by the power of the orbiting Star Forge. With its destruction, the shields had failed—along with all the other defenses that had made the Unknown World a graveyard of ships.

Wondering what else had been lost in the Star Forge’s violent end, he crossed the surrounding courtyard and mounted the Temple steps. The staircase was steep but wide, and the stone was neither worn nor cracked despite its age. It ended at a small landing leading to the stone archway of the entrance, three-quarters of the way up. He paused at the threshold, then passed through. He had a brief sensation of what it must have felt like for those who came before him: the anticipation, the thrill of discovery. Once inside, however, it only took a few minutes of exploration for his excitement to fade.

Like Korriban, the Temple had been stripped of anything of value. He searched for hours, beginning with the top floor where he had first come in and proceeding deeper and deeper until he reached the bottom level, combing every centimeter of the empty halls and deserted rooms. Yet even though his search was proving futile, he didn’t despair. The crypts in the Valley of the Dark Lords had felt drained—used up and sucked dry. The Unkown World felt different. There was still power here.

There had to be something here for him to find. He was certain of it. He refused to accept another failure.

It was in the lowest level of the Temple, far below the planet’s surface, that his obsessive quest finally ended. When he first stumbled into the room his attention was immediately drawn by the remains of a massive computer, but it was clearly beyond any hope of repair. And then he noticed something on the stone wall behind the computer.

The surface was etched with a number of arcane symbols: the language of the Rakata, perhaps. They meant nothing to him, and he would have dismissed them without a second glance. Except that one of them was glowing.

He almost hadn’t noticed it at first. It was subtle: a faint violet hue tracing the edges of one of the unusual shapes. It was almost perfectly level with his eye.

As he stared at it, the glow grew stronger. He stepped forward and reached out tentatively with his hand. The light winked out, startling him into taking a step back. He reached out again, but this time, instead of using his hand, he reached out with the Force.

The stone character flared to life.

Struggling to contain his eagerness, he again extended his hand and pressed hard against the glowing symbol. There was the sound of turning gears, and the grinding of stone on stone. The seams of a small square—less than half a meter on each side—took shape in the wall as a section of stone pushed out.

Bane stepped back as the chunk toppled down from the wall and shattered on the ground at his feet, revealing a small cubbyhole behind it. With no hesitation, he thrust his arm into the darkness to seize whatever was inside.

His fingers wrapped around something cold and heavy. He drew it out and stared in wonder at the artifact in his hand. Slightly larger than his fist, it had the shape of a four-sided pyramid—a tiny replica of the Temple in which he stood. Bane instantly recognized his prize for what it was: a Sith Holocron, a repository of forbidden knowledge just waiting to be unlocked.

The art of constructing Holocrons had been lost for countless millennia, but from his studies Bane knew something of the basic theory behind their design. The information they contained was stored within an interwoven, self-encrypted digital matrix. A Holocron’s protection systems couldn’t be circumvented or broken; the information couldn’t be sliced or copied. There was only one way to access the knowledge captured within.

Each Holocron was imprinted with the personality of one or more Masters to serve as guardians. When accessed by one capable of understanding its secrets, the Holocron would project tiny, crude hologrammic images of the various guardians. Through interaction with the student, the programmed simulacra would teach and instruct in much the same way as would a flesh-and-blood mentor.

However, all accounts of Sith Holocrons had made mention of the ancient symbols adorning the four-sided pyramid. The Holocron he held in his hand was almost completely blank. Could this possibly predate even the Holocrons of the ancient Sith? Was this a relic of the Rakata themselves? Would the guardians of the Holocron be the imprinted personalities of alien Masters from a time even before the birth of the Republic? And if so, would they be willing to teach him their secrets? Would they even respond to him?

Moving carefully, he set the Holocron gently on the floor, then sat down before it. He crossed his legs and began the deep, slow breathing of a meditative trance. Gathering and focusing his energy, Bane projected a wave of dark Force power out to engulf the small relic on the floor. The Holocron began to sparkle and shimmer in response.

He held his breath in anticipation, unsure what would come next. A small beam of light projected out from the top, the particles scattered and diffused. They began to shift and spin, coalescing into a cloaked figure, its features completely hidden by the hood of its heavy robe.

Then a voice spoke, crisp and clear. “I am Darth Revan, Dark Lord of the Sith.”

The empty halls of the Temple above trembled with the reverberations of Bane’s triumphant, booming laughter.

To Bane it seemed the teachings contained within the single Holocron surpassed those of the Academy’s entire archives. Revan had discovered many of the rituals of the ancient Sith, and as the Holocron’s avatar explained their nature and purpose, Bane could barely wrap his mind around their awesome potential. Some of the rituals were so terrible—so dangerous to attempt, even for a true Sith Master—that he doubted he would ever dare to use them. Yet he dutifully copied them down on sheaves of flimsi, preserving them so he could study them in greater depth later.

And there was far more than just the ancient practices of dark side sorcerers stored inside the Holocron. In only a few short weeks he’d learned more about the true nature of the dark side than he had in all his time on Korriban. Revan had been a true Sith Lord, unlike the simpering Masters who bowed to Kaan and his Brotherhood. And soon all his knowledge—his understanding of the dark side—would belong to Bane.

Githany woke with a start, kicking the covers off her cot and onto the dirt floor of the tent. She was sweating and flushed, but it wasn’t from the heat. Ruusan had entered its rainy season, and though the days were warm and humid, at night the temperature dropped enough that the sentries on duty could see the misty clouds of their own breath.

She’d been dreaming of Bane. No, not dreaming. The details were too sharp and clear to call it a dream; the experience too vivid and real. It was a vision. There was a link between the two of them, a bond established through their time together studying the Force. A connection between mentor and student was not unheard of, although Githany was no longer sure who had really been the Master and who the apprentice in their relationship.

Her vision had been one of stark clarity: Bane was going to come to Ruusan. But he wasn’t coming to join the Brotherhood. He was coming to destroy it.

She shivered, the perspiration cooling her skin in the chill night air. She rolled out of bed and pulled her heavy cloak on over her thin bedclothes. She had to speak to Kaan about this. It couldn’t wait until morning.

The night was dark: the moon and stars were blocked out by the brooding storm clouds that had filled the sky ever since she and the others from Korriban had arrived. A light mist fell from the sky, a slight improvement from the steady drizzle that had been falling when she’d crawled wearily into bed.

A handful of other Sith were wandering the camp. A few mumbled unintelligible greetings as they passed, but most kept their heads down and their feet plodding steadily through the mud. The ardor Kaan had inspired when the reinforcements had arrived had been dulled by the seemingly endless stream of gray, wet days. It would be several more weeks before the rains abated and gave way to the sweltering heat of Ruusan’s long summer. Until then Kaan’s followers would continue to suffer from the damp and cold.

Githany paid no attention. Focused on her mission, she slowed only when she reached the entrance to the great tent that Kaan had made his personal quarters. There was a light burning inside; Lord Kaan was awake.

She entered tentatively. What she had to say was for his ears only. Fortunately, she found him alone. But she stopped in the entry, staring in morbid fascination at the apparition before her. In the dim glow of the lantern that served as the tent’s only source of illumination, Kaan looked like a man gone mad.

He was pacing quickly up and down the length of the tent, his steps uneven and erratic. He was hunched over nearly double, muttering to himself and shaking his head. His left hand constantly strayed up to tug on a strand of his hair, then quickly jerked down as if it had been caught in some forbidden act.

She could hardly believe that this crazed being was the man she had chosen to follow. Was it possible Bane had been right all along? She was on the verge of slipping back out into the sodden night when Kaan turned and finally noticed her.

For a brief moment his eyes showed wild panic: they burned with the fear and desperation of a caged animal. Then suddenly he snapped to his full height, standing straight and tall. The look of terror left his eyes, replaced by one of cold anger.

“Githany,” he said, his welcome as cold as his icy expression. “I was not expecting visitors.”

Now it was she who felt fear. Lord Kaan radiated power: he could crush her as easily as she crushed the small beetles that sometimes scuttled across the floor of her tent. The memory of the craven, broken man was gone, blasted from her mind by the overwhelming aura of Kaan’s authority.

“Forgive me, Lord Kaan,” she said with a slight bow of her head. “I need to speak with you.”

His anger seemed to soften, though he still maintained his undeniably commanding presence. “Of course, Githany. I always have time for you.”

The words were more than cordial formality; there was something deeper beneath them. Githany was an attractive woman; she was used to being the object of innuendo and men’s barely hidden desire. Usually it evoked little more than revulsion, but in Kaan’s case it brought a warm flush to her cheeks. He was the founder of the Brotherhood of Darkness, a man of vision and destiny. How could she not be flattered by his attentions?

“I’ve had a premonition,” she explained. “I saw … I saw Darth Bane. He was coming to Ruusan to destroy us.”

“Qordis has made me well aware of Bane’s views,” he said, nodding. “This is not unexpected.”

“He doesn’t see the glory of our cause,” Githany said, apologizing for Bane. “He’s never met you in person. His only understanding of the Brotherhood comes through Qordis and the other Masters—the ones who turned their backs on him.”

Kaan gave her a puzzled stare. “You came to warn me that Bane is planning to destroy us. Now it seems you are trying to justify his actions.”

“The Force shows us what may be, not necessarily what will be,” she reminded him. “If we can convince Bane to join us, he could be a valuable ally against the Jedi.”

“I see,” Kaan said. “You feel that if we bring him into the fold of the Brotherhood, then your premonition will not come true.” There was a long pause, and then he asked, “Are you certain your personal feelings for him are not clouding your judgment in this matter?”

Embarrassed, Githany couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m not the only one who feels this way,” she mumbled, staring down at the ground. “Many of the others from Korriban are troubled by his absence, as well. They’ve felt his strength. They wonder why one so strong in the dark side would reject the Brotherhood.”

She raised her head when Kaan placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You might be right, Githany. But I cannot act on your suggestion. Nobody even knows where Bane is.”

“I do. There is a … a bond between us. I can tell you where Bane has gone.”

Kaan reached out to take her chin in his cupped palm. He tilted her head back ever so slightly. “Then I will send someone to him,” he promised. “You did the right thing by coming to me, Githany,” he added, gently releasing her and giving her a reassuring smile.

Githany, beaming with pride, smiled back.

She left a few minutes later, after explaining where Bane had gone and why. Kaan watched her go, her words troubling him though he was careful not to let it show. He had allayed her fears and he was confident she would remain loyal to the Brotherhood despite her obvious attraction to Bane. Githany imagined herself the object of every man’s desire, but Kaan could see a similar desire burning brightly within her: she hungered for power and glory. And he was all too willing to feed her pride and ambition with his flirting, praise, and promises.

Still, he wasn’t sure what to make of her vision. Though he was strong in the Force, his talents lay elsewhere. He could change the course of a war with his battle meditation. He could inspire loyalty in the other Lords through subtle manipulations of their emotions. But he had never experienced a premonition like the one that had brought her to his tent in the middle of the dark night.

His first inclination was to dismiss it as baseless worry brought on by low morale. The reinforcements from Korriban had brought expectations of a quick end to Ruusan’s long war. But General Hoth was too clever to let his Army of Light be crushed by the superior Sith might. He had switched tactics, conducting a war of hit-and-run skirmishes, stalling for time as he tried to marshal more support for his own forces.

Now the Sith were growing impatient and restless. The glorious victory Kaan had promised them weeks earlier had not materialized. Instead they trudged through mud and never-ending rain, trying to defeat an enemy that wouldn’t even stand and fight. Githany’s visit hadn’t surprised him. The only real surprise was that more of the Dark Lords hadn’t come to voice their dissatisfaction.

But that only made Githany’s warnings more dangerous. Bane had rejected the Brotherhood in a very public spectacle; all the recruits from Korriban claimed to have seen it in person. The story had spread through the camp like a plague. At first they had scoffed at his arrogance and stubbornness; he had chosen to walk alone, and he would not share in the triumph of the Brotherhood. In the absence of that triumph, however, some of the recruits had begun to wonder if Bane was right.

Lord Kaan had his spies among the Dark Lords. The whispers had reached his ears. The Lords were not ready to act on their doubts, but their resolve was weakening—along with their allegiance. He had forged a coalition of enemies and bitter rivals. Though the Brotherhood of Darkness appeared strong as durasteel, one firm voice of dissent could fracture it into a thousand fragile pieces.

He grabbed the lantern from his tent and headed out into the night’s drizzle, his long stride propelling him quickly through the camp. He would deal with Bane, just as he had promised Githany. If the recalcitrant young man could not be convinced to join them, he would have to be eliminated.

Within a few minutes Kaan had reached his destination. He paused at the door, remembering his anger at Githany’s unexpected entrance into his own tent. Not wishing to antagonize the man he had come to see, he called out, “Kas’im?”

“Come in,” a voice answered a second later, and he heard the unmistakable shuush of a lightsaber powering down.

He entered to find the Twi’lek Blademaster clad only in breeches, sweating and breathing hard.

“I see you’re up,” he noted.

“It’s not easy to sleep on the eve of battle. Even a battle that never seems to come.”

Kas’im was a warrior; Kaan knew he chafed at their inactivity. Drills and exercises could not quench his desire for actual combat. At the Academy on Korriban the Blademaster had performed his duty without complaint. But here on Ruusan the promise of battle was too near, too insistent. The scent of blood was always in the air, mingling with the sweat of fear and anticipation. Here Kas’im could be satisfied only once he stood face-to-face with an enemy. Soon his frustration would boil over into rebellion, and Kaan could ill afford to lose the loyalty of the greatest swordsman of his camp. Fortunately, he had a way to deal with both his problems—Bane and Kas’im—in one fell swoop.

“I have a mission for you. A mission of great importance.”

“I live to serve, Lord Kaan.” Kas’im’s answer was calm, but his head-tails twitched with anticipation.

“I must send you far from Ruusan. To the ends of the galaxy. You have to go to Lehon.”

“The Unknown World?” the Blademaster asked, puzzled. “There is nothing there but the graveyard of our order’s greatest defeat.”

“Bane is there,” Kaan explained. “You must go to him as my envoy. Explain that he must join the rest of the Sith here on Ruusan. Tell him that those who do not stand with the Brotherhood stand against it.”

Kas’im shook his head. “I doubt it will make a difference. Once his mind is set he can be … stubborn.”

“The dark side cannot be united in the Brotherhood if he stands alone,” Kaan explained. As he spoke, he reached out with the Force, pushing ever so gently at the Twi’lek’s wounded sense of pride. “I know he rejected you and the other Masters on Korriban. But you must make this offer once more.”

“And when he refuses?” Kas’im’s words were quick and sharp. Inwardly, Kaan smiled at the Blademaster’s growing anger even as he pushed just a little more.

“Then you must kill him.”

23

“Those who use the dark side are also bound to serve it. To understand this is to understand the underlying philosophy of the Sith.”

Bane sat motionless, eyes riveted on the avatar of a Dark Lord three thousand years dead and gone. Revan’s projected image winked out of existence, then slowly flickered back into view. The Holocron was failing. Dying. The material used to construct it—the crystal that channeled the energy of the Force to give the artifact life—was flawed. The more Bane used it, the less stable it became. Yet he couldn’t set it aside, even for a single day. He had become obsessed with tapping all the knowledge trapped within, and he spent hours on end drinking in Revan’s words with the same single-minded determination he had used when mining cortosis back on Apatros.

“The dark side offers power for power’s sake. You must crave it. Covet it. You must seek power above all else, with no reservation or hesitation.”

These words rang especially true for Bane, as if the preprogrammed personality of his virtual Master sensed it was nearing its end and had tailored its last lessons especially for him.

“The Force will change you. It will transform you. Some fear this change. The teachings of the Jedi are focused on fighting and controlling this transformation. That is why those who serve the light are limited in what they can accomplish.

“True power can come only to those who embrace the transformation. There can be no compromise. Mercy, compassion, loyalty: all these things will prevent you from claiming what is rightfully yours. Those who follow the dark side must cast aside these conceits. Those who do not—those who try to walk the path of moderation—will fail, dragged down by their own weakness.”

The words almost perfectly described Bane as he had been during his time at the Academy. Despite this, he felt no shame or regret. That Bane no longer existed. Just as he had cast aside the miner from Apatros when he had taken his Sith name, so had he cast aside the stumbling, uncertain apprentice when he had claimed the Darth title for himself. When he’d rejected Qordis and the Brotherhood, he had begun the transformation Revan spoke of, and with the Holocron’s help he was at last on the verge of completing it.

“Those who accept the power of the dark side must also accept the challenge of holding on to it,” Revan continued. “By its very nature, the dark side invites rivalry and strife. This is the greatest strength of the Sith: it culls the weak from our order. Yet this rivalry can also be our greatest weakness. The strong must be careful lest they be overwhelmed by the ambitions of those beneath them working in concert. Any Master who instructs more than one apprentice in the ways of the dark side is a fool. In time the apprentices will unite their strength and overthrow the Master. It is inevitable. Axiomatic. That is why each Master must have only one student.”

Bane didn’t respond, but his lip instinctively curled up in disgust as he remembered his instruction at the Academy. Qordis and the others had passed the apprentices around from class to class, as if they were children in school instead of heirs to the legacy of the Sith. Was it any wonder he had struggled to reach his full potential in such a flawed system?

“This is also the reason there can be only one Dark Lord. The Sith must be ruled by a single leader: the very embodiment of the strength and power of the dark side. If the leader grows weak, another must rise to seize the mantle. The strong rule; the weak are meant to serve. This is the way it must be.”

The image flickered and jumped, and then the tiny replica of Darth Revan bowed its head, drawing its hood up to hide its features once more. “My time here is ended. Take what I have taught you and use it well.”

And then Revan was gone. The glow emanating from the Holocron faded away to nothing. Bane retrieved the small crystal pyramid from the floor, but it was cold and lifeless in his hands. He felt no trace of the Force inside it.

The artifact was of no more use to him. As Revan had taught him, it must therefore be discarded. He let it drop to the floor. Then, very slowly and deliberately, he crushed it with the power of the Force until only dust remained.

The Sith Buzzard broke into Lehon’s atmosphere and plummeted down through the clear blue sky. At the controls Kas’im made slight alterations to keep his vessel on its course, a direct line for the homing beacon of the Valcyn.

He’d half expected Bane to have disabled the beacon, or at least changed its frequency. But despite being aware of it—the beacon was standard on virtually all craft—he had left it alone. Almost as if he wasn’t afraid of anyone coming after him. As if he welcomed it.

Within a few minutes Kas’im got a visual on his target. The ship that had once—briefly—belonged to Qordis before Bane had taken it for his own was resting on a beach of white sand, the azure waters of the Unknown World’s vast oceans on one side and the impenetrable jungle on the other. Scans showed no signs of life in the immediate vicinity, but Kas’im was wary as he brought his own craft in to touch down beside it.

He powered down the Buzzard and climbed out of the hatch. He felt the energy of the world, and the unmistakable presence of Darth Bane, seemingly emanating from the jungle’s dark heart. Leaping to the ground, he landed with a dull thud on the soft-packed sand, his feet sinking in ever so slightly. A cursory examination of the Valcyn confirmed what he’d already suspected: his prey wasn’t here.

Any tracks Bane might have left in the sand had been washed away by the tides or carried away on the breeze. Yet he knew where he was going. Before him, the jungle loomed lush and vibrant, thick and forbidding: an almost impenetrable wall of vegetation, except for a wide swath carved through it.

Someone or something of massive size and strength had torn that path through the trees and undergrowth. Already the jungle was trying to reclaim it. Moss grew thick across the ground, and a vast network of creeping vines wound their way over the surface. But it was clear enough for the Twi’lek to follow.

Hidden eyes were watching him from the jungle: even without the Force he would have felt their gaze studying him, evaluating him, following his every move in an effort to determine if this newcomer to the ecosystem was hunter or prey. To help clarify his role, he drew out his great double lightsaber and ignited the twin blades, then began to jog slowly down the path.

As he ran, he probed the surrounding foliage with the Force. Most of the creatures he sensed posed little threat. Still, he was wary. Something had blazed the trail he was following. Something big.

Almost ten kilometers in—he’d been jogging for nearly an hour—the Blademaster finally encountered his first rancor. The trail took a sharp turn to the east, and as he wound around the corner the creature burst from the surrounding trees, snarling and howling.

Kas’im wasn’t surprised in the least by the ambush. He’d sensed the rancor’s presence from several hundred meters away, just as it had surely caught his scent and stalked him from some great distance. He met the creature’s charge with calm, ruthless efficiency.

Ducking under the first swiping claw, he carved a deep gash along the beast’s left foreleg. When it reared back to bellow in pain, he sliced another deep groove in its soft underbelly. The rancor didn’t fall right away; it was far too massive to be felled by a pair of wounds from a lightsaber. Instead the pain drove it into a berserk rage. It flailed about with its teeth and talons, spinning, snapping, and slashing at everything around it.

Kas’im twisted and dodged, leaping over one attack, then dropping to the ground to roll beneath another. He moved so fast he would have been nothing but a blur had the rancor not been blinded by rage. And with each evasion he struck another blow, whittling away at the mountain of sinew and flesh like a master sculptor working a lump of lommite.

The rancor floundered, lumbering and stumbling as if it were performing some drunken spacer’s dance. In contrast, Kas’im was quick and precise. With each passing second his opponent slowed, its strength ebbing away. At last, with a forlorn groan, the beast toppled forward and lay motionless.

Leaving the beast where it had collapsed, Kas’im pressed on with a newfound urgency to his pace. The battle, short and simple as it had proved, was the first time he’d been tested in a true life-or-death struggle since he’d agreed to help Qordis train the students at the Academy. He was pleased to see that his skills had not been diminished by the long layoff.

Kas’im had a feeling he was going to need those skills again before the day was through.

Bane was sitting cross-legged on the stone floor of the central chamber on the Rakatan Temple’s uppermost floor. He was meditating on Revan’s words as he had often done between the Holocron’s lessons. Now that the artifact was gone, it was even more important to contemplate what he had learned about the nature of the dark side … and the path it would lead him down.

By its very nature, the dark side invites rivalry and strife. This is the greatest strength of the Sith: it culls the weak from our order.

The constant battling of the Sith since the beginning of recorded history served a necessary purpose: it kept the power of the dark side concentrated in a few powerful individuals. The Brotherhood had changed all that. There were now a hundred or more Dark Lords following Kaan, but most were weak and inferior. The Sith numbers were greater than they had ever been, yet they were still losing the war against the Jedi.

The power of the dark side cannot be dispersed among the masses. It must be concentrated in the few who are worthy of the honor.

The strength of numbers was a trap … one that had snared all the great Sith Lords who had come before. Naga Sadow, Exar Kun, Darth Revan: each had been powerful. Each had drawn disciples in, teaching them the ways of the dark side. Each had assembled an army of followers and unleashed them against the Jedi. Yet in each and every case the servants of light had prevailed.

The Jedi would always remain united in their cause. The Sith would always be brought low by infighting and betrayals. The very traits that drove them to individual greatness and glory—the unrelenting ambition, the insatiable hunger for power—would ultimately doom them as a whole. This was the inescapable paradox of the Sith.

Kaan had tried to solve the problem by making everyone equal in the Brotherhood. But his solution was flawed. It showed no understanding of the real problem. No understanding of the true nature of the dark side. The Sith must be ruled by a single leader: the very embodiment of the strength and power of the dark side.

If all are equal, then none is strong. Yet whoever rose from the swollen and bloated ranks of the Sith to claim the mantle of Dark Lord would never be able to hold it. In time the apprentices will unite their strength and overthrow the Master. It is inevitable. Together the weak would overwhelm the strong in a gross perversion of the natural order.

But there was another solution. A way to break the endless cycle dragging the Sith down. Bane understood that now. At first he had thought the answer might be to replace the order of the Sith with a single, all-powerful Dark Lord. No other Masters. No apprentices. Just one vessel to contain all the knowledge and power of the dark side. But he had quickly dismissed the idea.

Eventually even a Dark Lord would wither and die; all the knowledge of the Sith would be lost. If the leader grows weak, another must rise to seize the mantle. One alone would never work. But if the Sith numbered exactly two …

Minions and servants could be drawn into the service of the dark side by the temptation of power. They could be given small tastes of what it offered, as an owner might share morsels from the table with his faithful curs. In the end, however, there could be only one true Sith Master. And to serve this Master, there could be only one true apprentice.

Two there should be; no more, no less. One to embody the power, the other to crave it. The Rule of Two.

This was the knowledge that would lead the dark side into a new age. A revelation that would bring an end to the infighting that had defined the order for a thousand generations. The Sith would be reborn, the new ways would be swept away—and Bane would be the one to do it.

But first he would have to destroy the Brotherhood. Kaan, Qordis—all who had studied with him on Korriban, all the Masters on Ruusan—had to be purged until he alone remained.

Darth Bane, Lord of the Sith. The title was his by right; there was no other strong enough in the dark side to challenge him. The only question that remained was who was worthy of being his apprentice. And how he would eliminate the others.

“Bane!” Kas’im’s voice cut off his thoughts midstream. “I come with an invitation from Lord Kaan.”

Bane leapt to his feet, whipping out his lightsaber, enraged at being disturbed on the cusp of enlightenment. He glared at Kas’im, as angry at himself for being too engrossed in his own thoughts to sense the Twi’lek’s presence as he was at the interruption.

“How did you find me?” he asked, casting out with his mind to see who else might have invaded the Rakatan Temple and its inner sanctum. He felt a mixture of relief and disappointment when he realized Kas’im was alone. He had been hoping for one more … but she must have chosen not to come.

“Lord Kaan told me you had come to this world. Once I entered the atmosphere, I simply followed the Valcyn’s beacon,” the Blademaster replied. “How Lord Kaan knew you would be here I couldn’t say.”

Bane suspected Githany must have told him, but he didn’t bother telling that to the Twi’lek. Instead he asked, “Did Kaan send you to kill me?”

Kas’im gave a slight nod. “If you will not join the Brotherhood, I will leave your corpse on this barren and forgotten world.”

“Barren?” Bane echoed, incredulous. “How can you say that? The dark side is strong here. Far stronger than it ever was on Korriban. This is where we will find the power to destroy the Jedi—not in Kaan’s Brotherhood!”

“Korriban was once a place of great power, too,” his former instructor countered. “Over the centuries thousands of Sith have explored its secrets, and none of them discovered any great strategy to defeat our enemy.” The Twi’lek ignited his double-bladed lightsaber before continuing. “It is time to end this foolish quest, Bane. The old ways have failed. The Jedi defeated those who followed them: Exar Kun, Darth Revan … they all lost! We have to find a new philosophy if we want to defeat them.”

For a brief moment Bane felt the faint flicker of excitement. Kas’im’s words echoed his own thoughts. Was it possible the Blademaster was the apprentice he sought?

Kas’im’s next words brought Bane’s hopes crashing down. “Kaan understands this. That is why he created the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood is the future of the dark side.”

Bane shook his head. The Blademaster was as blind as all the others. For that he had to die. “Kaan is wrong. I will never follow him. I will never join the Brotherhood.”

Kas’im sighed. “Then your life ends here.” And he leapt in, his weapon moving with far more speed than he had ever shown during their practice sessions.

Parrying the first sequence Bane realized his former Master had always been holding something in reserve … just as Bane himself had done in the early stages of his battle against Sirak. Only now was he seeing Kas’im’s true ability, and he was barely able to defend himself. Barely, but still able.

His opponent grunted in surprise when Bane warded him off, then stepped back to regroup. He’d come in hard and fast, expecting to end their battle quickly. Now he had to reevaluate his strategy.

“You’re better than you were when we last fought,” he said, clearly impressed and making no attempt to hide it.

“So are you,” Bane responded.

Kas’im lunged in again, and the room was filled with the hiss and hum of lightsabers striking each other half a dozen times in the space of two heartbeats. Bane would have been carved to ribbons had he tried to react to each move individually. Instead he simply called upon the Force, letting it flow through him and guide his hand. He gave himself over to the dark side completely, without reservation. His weapon became an extension of the Force, and he responded to the Twi’lek’s unstoppable attack with an impenetrable defense.

Then he went on the attack. In the past he had always been afraid to surrender his will to the raw emotions that fueled the dark side. Now he had no such limitations; for the first time he was calling on his full potential.

He drove Kas’im back with furious slashes, forcing his old mentor into a backpedaling retreat across the floor of the chamber. Kas’im flipped back and out through the door into the hall beyond, but Bane was relentless in his pursuit, leaping forward and coming within a centimeter of landing a crippling blow to the Twi’lek’s leg.

His strike was turned aside at the last second, but he quickly followed it up with another series of powerful thrusts and stabs. The Blademaster continued to give ground, pushed inexorably back by the raging storm of Bane’s onslaught. Each time he tried to change tactics or switch forms, Bane anticipated, reacted, and seized the advantage.

The outcome was inevitable. Bane was simply too strong in the Force. Only some unexpected maneuver could save Kas’im, but they had fought too many times in the past for him to surprise Bane now. Over the course of his training Bane had seen every possible sequence, series, move, and trick with the double-bladed lightsaber, and he knew how to counter and nullify them all.

The Blademaster became desperate. Leaping, spinning, ducking, rolling: he was wild and reckless in his retreat, seeking now only to escape with his life. But he didn’t know the Temple like Bane did. Bane kept the routes to the outside cut off, slowly herding his opponent into a dead-end hallway.

Recognizing what was happening, Kas’im blew open the heavy door of a side room with the Force and dived inside. Bane knew there was no other exit, and he paused at the threshold of the room to savor his victory.

The Twi’lek stood in the center of the empty chamber, panting heavily, stooped ever so slightly, his head bowed. He looked up when Bane stepped through the doorway. But when his gaze met Bane’s, there was no hint of defeat in his eyes.

“You should have finished me when you had the chance,” he said. There were fewer than five meters between them, but it was just enough space for Kas’im to give the hilt of his lightsaber a quick twist. The long handle separated in the middle, and suddenly he was armed not with one double-bladed lightsaber, but with a pair of single blades, one in each hand.

Bane hesitated. Few of the students at the Academy had even attempted to use two sabers at once. The Blademaster had always discouraged them from this variation of the fourth form, saying it was inherently flawed. Now, as he saw the cruel and cunning expression on his enemy’s face, Bane understood the real truth.

The battle was rejoined, but now it was Bane who was in full retreat. Without proper training, even his enormous command of the Force was unable to anticipate the unfamiliar sequences of the two-handed fighting style. His mind was flooded with a million options of what his opponent might attempt, and he had no experience to draw on to eliminate any of them. Overwhelmed, he staggered back, floundering with the desperation of a drowning man.

Within the first few passes Bane knew he couldn’t win. Kas’im had trained his entire life for this moment. After years of study, he’d mastered all seven forms of the lightsaber. Then he’d honed his skill for decades, perfecting every move and sequence until he had become the perfect weapon and the greatest living swordsman in the galaxy. Maybe the greatest swordsman ever. Bane was no match for him.

The Blademaster was unrelenting in his pressure. He seemed to wield six blades rather than two: he attacked with a peculiar rhythm designed to keep his foe off balance, coming in with one blade high and the other low at the same time, striking from opposite sides at odd and opposing angles. Bane had no option but to fall back … and back … and back. He was fighting now with a single purpose: somehow escaping with his life. One hope gave him the strength to persevere in the face of overwhelming odds; one advantage the Blademaster had lacked during his own retreat. He knew the layout of the Temple, and he was able to work himself slowly toward the exit.

Battling through the halls and corridors, the combatants rounded a corner to bring them in sight of the Rakatan Temple’s only entrance: the wide archway and the small landing beyond, with the wide staircase leading back down to the ground nearly twenty meters below. In the instant it took Kas’im to recognize where they were and realize that his opponent might still escape, Bane thrust out with the Force. He knocked the Twi’lek off balance for a brief second, then backflipped out through the archway and onto the landing. He dropped into a crouch, still facing his opponent. But in his haste Bane had leapt too far; he was balanced precariously on the precipice of the uppermost stair, the steps falling sharply away behind him.

Kas’im responded by using the Force to knock Bane backward, sending him tumbling down the great stone staircase, away from the Blademaster. The fall would have broken his neck—or at least fractured an arm or a leg—if Bane hadn’t cocooned himself in the Force. Even so he reached the bottom bruised, battered, and momentarily stunned.

On the landing high above Kas’im stood beneath the massive arch of the Temple entrance, staring down at him.

“I will follow you wherever you run,” he said. “Wherever you go I will eventually find you and kill you. Don’t live your life in fear, Bane. Better to end it now.”

“I agree,” Bane replied, hurling out the wave of Force energy he had been gathering during the Blademaster’s speech.

There was nothing subtle about Bane’s attack: the massive shock wave shook the very foundations of the great Rakatan Temple. The concussive blast had enough power to shatter every bone in Kas’im’s body and pulverize his flesh into a mass of pulpy liquid. But at the last possible instant he threw up a shield to protect himself from the attack.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t shield the Temple around him. The walls exploded into great chunks of rubble. The archway collapsed in a shower of stone, burying Kas’im beneath tons of rock and mortar. A second later the rest of the roof caved in, drowning out the Twi’lek’s dying screams with a deafening rumble.

Bane watched the spectacle of the Temple’s implosion from the safety of the ground at the foot of the stairs. Billowing clouds of dust rolled out from the wreckage and down the stairs toward him. Exhausted by the long lightsaber battle and drained by the sudden unleashing of the Force, he simply lay there until he was covered in a layer of fine white powder.

Eventually he struggled wearily to his feet. Reaching out with the Force, he sought some sign that Kas’im might still be alive beneath the mountain of stone. He felt nothing. Kas’im—his mentor, the only instructor at the Academy who had ever actually helped him—was dead.

Darth Bane, Dark Lord of the Sith, turned his back and walked away.

24

There was neither time nor reason to mourn Kas’im’s death. For all his use in the past, he had become simply an obstacle in Bane’s path. An obstacle that was now gone. Yet his arrival on Lehon had prompted Bane to action. For too long he had separated himself from the events of the galaxy, seeking wisdom, understanding, and power. With the Temple’s destruction there was no reason for him to remain on the Unknown World. And so he began the long trek through the jungle on foot, following the same path Kas’im had taken only hours before.

He could have used the Force to summon another rancor to speed him along, but he wanted time to think about what had happened … and how he would deal with the Brotherhood.

Kaan had perverted the entire Sith order, transforming it into a sickly assemblage of mewling sycophants. He had tricked them all into believing they could achieve victory over the Jedi through martial might, but Bane knew better. The Jedi were many, and they gained strength when united against a common foe: that was the nature of the light side. The key to defeating them wasn’t fleets or armies. Secrecy and deception were the weapons to bring them down. Victory could only come through subtlety and cunning.

Subtlety was something Kaan lacked. If he had been smart, he would have sent Kas’im to Lehon in the guise of a disgruntled follower. The Blademaster could have arrived with a tale of how he had turned his back on the Brotherhood. Bane would have accepted him as an ally. He would have been suspicious, of course, but over time his vigilance would have waned. Sooner or later he would have let his guard down, and Kas’im could have killed him. Assassination was quick, clean, and effective.

Instead, Kas’im had come and issued an open challenge, following the rules of some foolish code of honor. There was no honor in his end; there was no such thing as a noble death. Honor was a lie, a chain that wrapped itself around those foolish enough to accept it and dragged them down to defeat. Through victory my chains are broken.

Bane followed the rancor’s trail through the trees without incident; the denizens of the jungle steered well clear of him. He caught a brief glimpse of a pack of six-legged felines scavenging the corpse of a rancor along the path, but they scattered at his approach. They waited a long time after he was gone before slinking back to continue their meal.

By the time he arrived at the beach he had devised his plan. Kas’im’s ship was sitting on the sand beside his own, and he quickly stripped it of supplies, including the message drones. He lugged them over to his own vessel, then made a quick inspection of the Valcyn. Finding all systems in working order, he boarded. Before liftoff, he programmed a course into the message drone using coordinates he had downloaded from Kas’im’s ship. A few minutes later, the Valcyn launched from the Unknown World’s surface, climbing higher and higher until it broke through the atmosphere into the black void of space. Bane punched in the hyperspace coordinates of his destination, then discharged the message drone.

The drone would reach Ruusan within a few days, offering Kaan a truce and delivering a gift—a gift he suspected Kaan would be too foolish and vain to recognize for what it really was.

The Brotherhood would never defeat the Jedi. And as long as they existed, the Sith would be tainted, befouled like a well poisoned at the source. Bane had to destroy them. All of them. To do that, he’d have to use the weapons Kaan had been too proud or too blind to use against him: deception and betrayal. The weapons of the dark side.

“I don’t like splitting our squads like this,” Pernicar whispered, following closely at Lord Hoth’s heel. The general looked back along the ragtag line of soldiers trudging through the forest. Fewer than a score in total, half starved, most wounded and ill equipped, they looked more like refugees than warriors in the Army of Light. They were carrying supplies from the drop point back to the camp, as were two other caravans taking different routes.

“It’s too dangerous to travel in one large group,” Hoth insisted. “We need these supplies. Splitting us into three caravans gives us a better chance that at least some of them will make it back to camp.”

Hoth glanced back along the path they had come, wary of signs of pursuit. The rains had stopped nearly a week earlier, but the ground was still soft. The passing of his troops left deep impressions in the loamy ground.

“Even a blind Gamorrean could track us now,” he grumbled. Silently he wished for a return of the concealing rains he had so often cursed these past few months while sitting huddled and shivering beneath inadequate shelters fashioned from leaves and fallen branches.

Yet he knew it wasn’t trackers they had to worry about. He cast out with the Force, trying to sense hidden enemies lying in wait in the trees ahead. Nothing. Of course if there were any Sith, they would be projecting false images to conceal themselves for their—

“Ambush!” one of the points screamed, and then the Sith were upon them. They came from everywhere: warriors wielding lightsabers, soldiers armed with blasters and vibroblades. The clash of durasteel and the hiss of crossing energy blades mingled with the screams of the living and the dying: screams of rage and triumph; of agony and despair.

A volley of blasterfire ripped through his lines, taking down those Padawans too inexperienced to deflect the shots. A second volley tore through the melee. The bolts ricocheted wildly as Sith and Jedi alike batted them aside, doing little real harm but adding to the chaos. Lord Hoth stood in the thickest of the fighting, hewing down foes foolish enough to come in range of his fierce weapon. His nostrils were filled with the greasy-sweet stench of charred flesh, and a wall of bodies was mounting around him. And still they kept coming, swarming over him like carrion beetles on a fresh kill, seeking to drag him down by sheer numbers.

Pernicar vanished beneath the sea of enemies, and Hoth redoubled his efforts to reach his fallen friend. He was unstoppable in his fury, like the devastating storms of the Maw itself. When he reached him, Pernicar was already dead. Just as the rest of them soon would be.

An explosion on the edge of the battle briefly drew his attention skyward. One eager minion of the Sith lunged forward, seeking glory beyond her wildest expectations by trying to kill the mighty general while he was distracted. Hoth never even turned his gaze, but merely cast out with the Force, imprisoning her in a stasis field. She stood helpless, frozen in place until struck down by the careless follow-through from a vibroblade wielded by one of her own side.

Her death barely even registered in Hoth’s conscious thoughts. He was focused on the four swoopbikes barreling down on the battle, their heavy guns pounding into the enemy lines. The Sith ambush scattered, unable or unwilling to stand against heavy air support. It took all of Hoth’s Jedi training not to chase after them and hack them down from behind as they fled into the safety of the trees.

A moment later the swoops landed to cheers from the dozen or so Jedi still standing. Lord Valenthyne Farfalla, looking as fastidiously proper as ever, dismounted and bowed low before his general.

“I heard you were bringing supplies, my lord,” he said, rising with all the affected elegance of a Coruscant Senator. “We thought we’d come give you an escort.”

“There are two other caravans,” Hoth snapped. “Instead of standing here gloating, you should be heading out to help them.”

Farfalla pursed his lips in displeasure, a peevish, pouty expression. “We have other swoops escorting them already.” He hesitated, as if considering whether to say anything more. Hoth shot him an angry look that all but screamed at him to remain silent.

Despite this—or maybe because of it—he added, “I thought you’d be more welcoming to my reinforcements.”

“You’ve been gone for months!” Hoth snarled. “While you’ve been out playing diplomat, we’ve been stuck here in a war.”

“I did as I promised,” Farfalla responded coldly. “I’ve brought three hundred Jedi reinforcements. They’ll be in your camp as soon as we have enough fighters to break our transports through the Sith planetary blockade.”

“Little comfort to those who gave their lives waiting for you to arrive,” Hoth shot back.

Farfalla glanced at the corpses scattered on the ground. Seeing Pernicar among them, his expression fell. He crouched down beside the body and whispered a few short words, then touched the fallen soldier once in the center of his brow before standing up once more.

“Pernicar was my friend, too,” he said, his tone softer now. “His death pains me as much as it does you, General.”

“I doubt that,” Hoth muttered angrily. “You weren’t even here to see it.”

“Do not let your grief consume you,” Farfalla warned, the ice back in his voice. “That path leads to the dark side.”

“Don’t you dare speak to me of the dark side!” Hoth shouted, jabbing an angry finger in Farfalla’s face. “I’m the one who’s been here battling Kaan’s Brotherhood! I know its ways better than anyone! I’ve seen the pain and suffering it brings. And I know what it will take to defeat it. I need soldiers. Supplies. I need Jedi willing to fight the enemy with the same hatred they feel for us.” He let his finger drop and turned away. “What I don’t need is some prancing dandy lecturing me on the dangers of the dark side.”

“Pernicar’s death is not your fault,” Farfalla said, coming forward to place a comforting hand on Hoth’s shoulder. “Let go of your guilt. There is no emotion. There is peace.”

Hoth wheeled around and slapped his hand away. “Get away from me! Take your blasted reinforcements and run back to Coruscant like the mincing cowards you are! We don’t need your kind here!”

Now it was Farfalla who turned away, stomping angrily back to his swoopbike while the rest of the group watched in silent shock and horror. He threw one long leg over the seat and fired up the engines.

“Maybe the other Jedi were right about you!” he said, shouting to be heard over the roar of his swoop. “This war has consumed you. Driven you to madness. Madness that will lead you to the dark side!”

Hoth didn’t bother to watch as Farfalla and the other swoops sped off into the distance. Instead he crouched down beside the body of his oldest friend and wept at his brutal, senseless end.

When Githany finally arrived, Kaan had to keep himself from snapping at her. She had already seen him with his guard down: uncertain, unsure. He had to be careful when dealing with her now, lest he lose her allegiance. And he needed her more than ever.

Instead he spoke in a casual tone that held only a hint of icy disapproval beneath its surface. “I sent for you nearly three hours ago.”

She flashed him a fierce, savage smile. “There was a sortie going out against one of the Jedi supply caravans. I decided to go with them.”

“I haven’t heard the reports yet. What was the result?”

“It was glorious, Lord Kaan!” She laughed. “Three more Masters, six Jedi Knights, a handful of Padawans … all dead!”

Kaan nodded his approval. The tide of battle was ever changing on Ruusan, and with the end of the rainy season the pendulum had swung back in favor of the Sith. Of course he knew it was more than a change of weather that had restored the morale of his troops and brought them a string of resounding victories.

The Army of Light was fractured. Their numbers on Ruusan were dwindling. Valenthyne Farfalla was orbiting the world with reinforcements, but Kaan’s spies reported a rift between Hoth and Lord Farfalla that kept the newcomers from joining the fray. Without Master Pernicar to blunt their sharp animosity, the two Jedi Masters’ mutual antipathy was crippling the Jedi war effort.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Kaan. For a change it was the Jedi who were split by infighting and rivalries, while the Brotherhood of Darkness remained united and strong. Part of him found the strange reversal troubling. In the long nights when he couldn’t sleep, he’d often walk the floor of his tent wrestling with the seeming paradox.

Had the armies on Ruusan crossed a line where light and darkness meet? Had the endless conflict between the Army of Light and the Brotherhood of Darkness drawn them both into a void where the ideologies became hopelessly intertwined? Were they all now Force-users of the Twilight, caught between the two sides and belonging to neither?

However, the arrival of the morning sun would inevitably banish such thoughts with news of yet another Sith victory in the field. And only a fool questioned his methods when he was winning. Which was why he wasn’t sure what to make of the message he had recently received from Darth Bane.

“Kas’im is dead,” he told Githany, getting directly to the matter at hand.

“Dead?” Her shocked reaction affirmed Kaan’s decision not to share this news with the rest of the Brotherhood. He had been careful to keep the purpose of the Blademaster’s departure secret until he knew the outcome of the confrontation. “Was it the Jedi?” she asked.

“No,” he admitted, choosing his words carefully. “I sent him to parlay with Lord Bane. Kas’im thought he could convince him to join us. Instead, Bane killed him.”

Githany’s eyes narrowed. “I warned you about him.”

Kaan nodded. “You know him better than any of us. You understand him. That is why I need you now. Bane sent me a message.”

He reached over and flicked on the message drone sitting on the table. A tiny hologram of the heavily muscled Dark Lord materialized before them. Even though the details of his expression were difficult to make out at that size, it was clear he was troubled.

“Kas’im is dead. I … I killed him. But I’ve been thinking about what he said before … before he died.”

Githany gave Kaan a curious look. He shrugged and tilted his head toward the hologram as it continued to speak.

“I came here searching for something. I’m … I’m not even sure what it was. But I didn’t find it. Just like I didn’t find it in the Valley of the Dark Lords on Korriban. And now Kas’im is dead and I … I don’t know what to do …”

The projection bowed its head: lost, confused, and alone. Kaan could clearly see the scorn in Githany’s expression as she watched the spectacle before her. At last the figure seemed to compose itself, and it looked up once more.

“I don’t want Kas’im’s death to be in vain,” Bane said emphatically. “I should have listened to him in the first place. I … I want to join the Brotherhood.”

Kaan reached out and flicked the drone off again. “Well?” he asked Githany. “Is he serious? Or is this just a trap?”

She chewed at her lower lip. “I think he’s sincere,” she finally said. “For all his power, Bane is still weak. He can’t surrender himself fully to the dark side. He still feels guilt when he uses the Force to kill.”

“Qordis mentioned something similar,” Kaan said. “He told me Bane had a chance to kill a bitter rival in the dueling ring at the Academy, but he pulled back at the last moment.”

Githany nodded. “Sirak. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. And Kas’im was his mentor. If Bane was forced to kill him, it would have been even harder for him to deal with it.”

“So I should send an emissary to meet with him?”

She shook her head. “Bane is more trouble than he’s worth. He’s vulnerable now, but as his confidence returns he’ll become as headstrong as ever. He’ll bring dissension to the ranks. Besides,” she added, “we don’t need him anymore. We’re winning.”

“So how do you propose we deal with him? Assassins?”

She laughed. “If he could handle Kas’im, then I doubt anyone else will stand a chance against him. Anyone but me.”

“You?”

Githany smiled. “Bane likes me. I wouldn’t say he trusts me, exactly … but he wants to trust me. Let me go to him.”

“And what will you do when you find him?”

“Tell him I miss him. Explain that we’ve considered his offer, and we want him to join the Brotherhood. Then, when his guard is down, I’ll kill him.”

Kaan raised his eyebrows. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Unlike Kas’im, I know how to handle him,” she assured him. “Betrayal is a far more effective weapon than the lightsaber.”

She left the tent a few moments later, taking the message drone and the coordinates Bane had sent along for the meeting. Kaan had every confidence she’d get the job done. And he saw no reason to share with her the small package that had arrived in the message drone’s storage compartment.

Bane had sent it to Lord Kaan as a peace offering; a way to atone for Kas’im’s death. It wasn’t much to look at: text written on several sheets of flimsi, the writing cramped and hurried as if it had been recorded while listening to someone else speak. Yet within its pages it contained a detailed description of one of the most fearsome creations of the ancient Sith: the thought bomb.

An ancient ritual that required the combined will of many powerful Sith Lords, the thought bomb unleashed the pure destructive energy of the dark side. There were risks involved, of course. That much power was highly volatile, making it difficult to control even for those who had the strength to summon it. It was possible the blast could annihilate the entire Brotherhood along with Hoth’s Army of Light. The vacuum at the center of the blast could suck in the disembodied spirits of Sith and Jedi alike, trapping them side by side for all eternity in an unbreakable state of equilibrium at the heart of a frozen sphere of pure energy.

Kaan doubted he’d actually have need of such a weapon to finish off the Jedi here on Ruusan. After all, he was winning the war. Still, as he began his pacing for another long and sleepless night, he couldn’t help studying the ritual of the thought bomb over and over again.

25

From a distance, Ambria looked beautiful. An orange world with striking violet rings, it was easily the largest habitable planet in the Stenness system. Yet anyone landing on the world would quickly realize that the beauty faded soon after entering the atmosphere.

Many centuries earlier, the failed rituals of a powerful Sith sorceress had inadvertently unleashed a cataclysmic wave of dark side energy across the surface of the world. The sorceress had been destroyed, along with almost all other life on Ambria. What survived was little more than barren rock, and even now plots of fertile ground were few and far between. There were no real cities on Ambria; only a few hardy settlers dwelled on its surface, scattered so far apart they might as well have been living on the planet alone.

The Jedi had once tried to cleanse Ambria of its foul taint, but the power of the dark side had permanently scarred the world. Unable to purify it, they succeeded only in concentrating and confining the dark side in a single source: Lake Natth. The homesteaders brave enough to endure Ambria’s desolate environs gave the lake and its poisoned waters a wide, wide berth. Of course Bane had made his camp right on its shores.

Ambria was located on the fringes of the Expansion Region, only a quick hyperspace jump away from Ruusan itself. The evidence of several small battles that had been fought here between Republic and Sith troops during the most recent campaign was everywhere. Fallen weapons and armor littered the stark landscape; burned-out vehicles and damaged swoops were visible from kilometers away on the hard, cold plains. Apart from a few of the local settlers scavenging for parts, nobody had bothered to clean up the remains.

The ringed planet was an insignificant world: too few resources and too few people for the Republic fleets that now controlled the sector to worry about. Bane had heard that a healer of some skill—a man named Caleb—had come to the world once the fighting had ended. An idealistic fool determined to mend the wounds of war; a man not even worthy of Bane’s contempt. By now, even that man might have forsaken this world once he’d seen how little salvageable remained here. For all intents and purposes, the world was forgotten.

It was the perfect place to meet Kaan’s envoy. A Sith fleet would be quickly detected by the Republic vessels patrolling the region, but a small ship and a skillful pilot could sneak in without any trouble. Bane had no intention of setting up a meeting someplace where Kaan could send an armada to wipe him out.

He waited patiently in his camp for Kaan’s emissary to arrive. Occasionally he glanced up at the sky or looked out across the horizon, but he wasn’t worried about anyone sneaking up on him. He’d see a ship coming in to land from several kilometers away. And if they came to him in a ground vehicle—like the land crawler sitting on the edge of his camp—he’d hear the grinding of its engines or feel the unmistakable vibrations of its heavy treads as they churned their way over the uneven terrain.

Instead all he heard was the gentle lapping of Lake Natth’s dark waters against the shore not five meters from where he sat. And all the while, his mind wrestled with the only question he still had no answer for.

Two there should be; no more, no less. One to embody the power, the other to crave it. Once he had rid the galaxy of the Brotherhood of Darkness, where would he find a worthy apprentice?

The whine of a Buzzard’s engines pulled him away from his thoughts. He rose to his feet as the ship dropped from the sky and circled his camp once before touching down a short distance away. When the landing ramp lowered and he saw who came down, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Githany,” he said, rising to greet her once she had crossed the distance between them. “I was hoping Lord Kaan would send you.”

“He didn’t send me,” she replied. “I asked to come.”

Bane’s heart began to beat a little quicker. He was glad to see her; her presence awakened a hunger inside him he had almost forgotten existed. Yet he was troubled, too. If anyone could see through his ruse, it was her.

“Did you see the message?” he asked, studying her carefully to gauge her reaction.

“I thought you were over this, Bane. Self-pity and regret are for the weak.”

Relieved, he bowed his head to continue his charade. “You’re right,” he mumbled.

She stepped in closer to him. “You can’t fool me, Bane,” she whispered, and his muscles tensed in anticipation of what she would do next. “I think you’re here for something else.”

He held his ground as she leaned in slowly, poised to react at the first hint of threat or danger. He let his guard down only when she brushed her lips softly against his.

Instinctively his hands came up and seized her shoulders, pulling her in closer, pressing her lips and body hard up against his own as he drank her in. She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and neck, returning his insistence with her own urgency.

Her heat enveloped them. The kiss seemed to last for all eternity; her scent wrapped around their entwined flesh until he felt he was drowning in it. When she at last broke away he could see the fierce eagerness in her eyes and still taste the sweet fire of her lips. He could taste something else, too.

Poison!

Bedazzled by her kiss, it took him a second to realize what had happened. Whether Githany believed him or not hadn’t mattered. She’d asked Kaan to let her come here so she could kill him. For a brief second he was worried … until he recognized the faint tricopper taste of rock worrt venom.

He laughed, gasping slightly for air. “Magnificent,” he breathed. Secrecy. Guile. Betrayal. Githany may have been corrupted by the Brotherhood’s influence, but she still understood what made the dark side strong. Was it possible she could be his one true apprentice, despite her allegiance to the Brotherhood?

She smiled coyly at his compliment. “Through passion we gain strength.”

Bane could feel the poison working its way through his system. The effects were subtle. Had his growing strength in the dark side not made his senses hyperaware, he probably wouldn’t even have noticed its presence for several hours. Yet once again, Githany had underestimated him.

Rock worrt venom was powerful enough to kill a bantha, but there were far more rare—and lethal—toxins she could have chosen. The dark side flowed through him, thick as the blood in his veins. He was Darth Bane now, a true Dark Lord. He had nothing to fear from her poison.

The fact that she had thought he wouldn’t detect it on her lips—the fact that she thought it would even harm him—meant that she must have believed his performance. She suspected he had fallen away from the dark side again; she thought he was weak. He was glad: it made her decision to side with Kaan more forgivable. Maybe there was still hope for her after all. But he had to be sure.

“I’m sorry for abandoning you,” he said softly. “I was blinded by dreams of past glory. Naga Sadow, Exar Kun, Darth Revan—I lusted after the power of the great Dark Lords of the past.”

“We all crave power,” she replied. “That is the nature of the dark side. But there is power in the Brotherhood. Kaan is on the verge of succeeding where all those before him have failed. We are winning on Ruusan, Bane.”

Bane shook his head, disappointed. How could she still be so blind? “Kaan may be winning on Ruusan, but his followers are losing everywhere else. His great Sith army has crumbled without its leaders. The Republic has driven them back and reclaimed most of the worlds we conquered. In a few more months the rebellion will be crushed.”

“None of that matters if we can wipe out the Jedi,” she explained eagerly, her eyes blazing. “The war has taken a heavy toll on the Republic. Once the Jedi are gone, we can easily rally our troops and turn the tide of war. All we have to do is wipe them out, and the ultimate victory will be ours! All we have to do is win on Ruusan!”

“There are other Jedi besides those on Ruusan,” he replied.

“A few, but they are scattered in ones and twos across the galaxy. If the Army of Light is destroyed, we can hunt them down at our leisure.”

“Do you really believe Kaan will win? He has claimed imminent victory before, then failed to deliver on his promise.”

“For one who claims to want to join the Brotherhood,” she noted with some suspicion, “you don’t seem particularly devoted to the cause.”

Bane’s arm shot out and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her in close for another savage kiss. She gasped in surprise, then closed her eyes and gave in to the physical pleasure of the moment. This time it was she who finally pulled back with a faint sigh.

“You were right when you said I came back for something else,” he said, still holding her close. The treacherous poison on her lips tasted just as sweet the second time.

“The Brotherhood cannot fail,” she promised. “The Jedi are on the run, cowering and hiding in the forests.”

He let her go and stepped away, turning his back to her. He desperately wanted to believe she was capable of becoming his apprentice once he’d destroyed Kaan and the Brotherhood. But he still wasn’t sure. If she truly believed in what the Brotherhood stood for, then there was no hope.

“I just can’t accept what Lord Kaan preaches,” he confessed. “He says we are all equals, but if all are equal, then none can be strong.”

She stepped up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders, applying gentle pressure until he turned to face her once again. Her expression was one of amusement.

“Do not believe everything Kaan says,” she warned, and he could hear the naked ambition in her voice. One to embody the power, the other to crave it. “Once the Jedi are destroyed, many of his followers will discover that some of us are more equal than others.”

He swept Githany up in his mighty arms with a joyful roar, spinning her around and around as he gave her another long, hard kiss. This was what he wanted to hear!

When he finally set her down she stumbled back half a step, unsteady after his unexpected outburst. She regained her balance and gave a startled laugh. “I guess you accept,” she said with a sly smile on her poison-slicked lips. “You pack up your camp. I’ll go ahead to let Kaan know you’re coming.”

“I can’t wait to see the look on his face when you tell him about this meeting,” he replied, still pretending he was unaware of the poison raging unchecked through his blood.

“Neither can I,” she replied, her voice giving nothing away. “Neither can I.”

As the surface of Ambria fell away beneath her and the glorious rings came into view, Githany couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret. The passion she’d awakened in Bane had given him a sudden, surprising strength; she’d felt it in each of his kisses. But it was clear Bane was interested in her, not in joining the Brotherhood of Darkness.

She punched in the coordinates for the jump back to Ruusan and leaned back in her seat. Her head was spinning from the poison that had coated her lips. Not the rock worrt venom; that was only there to lull Bane into a false sense of security. But the synox she had mixed in with it—the colorless, odorless, tasteless toxin favored by the infamous assassins of the GenoHaradan—was having an effect despite the antidote she had taken. She had no doubt Bane would soon be feeling much, much worse than she did. A single kiss would have been enough to kill him, and he had received a triple dose.

She was going to miss Bane, she realized. But he was a threat to everything Lord Kaan was working for. She had to side with one or the other, so naturally she had chosen the one with an entire army of Sith at his command.

It was, after all, the nature of the dark side.

*  *  *

Bane watched the Buzzard until it disappeared in the sky before turning his attention to gathering up his camp. He would have to act carefully now. Githany would tell Kaan she’d tried to poison him. When he showed up at the camp still alive things could become … difficult.

He could simply stay away and let events run their course. The Jedi on Ruusan would rally, turning the tide of the battle once again. It was a given; Bane was counting on it. Desperate, Kaan would then turn to the gift Bane had sent him. He would unleash the thought bomb, unaware of its true nature. And then every Force-user on Ruusan—Sith and Jedi alike—would be destroyed.

This was the most likely scenario. But Bane had come too far to leave the end of the Brotherhood of Darkness to chance. When Kaan’s army faltered this time, there were those in his camp—like Githany—who might turn against him. They could flee Ruusan, scattering before the Jedi. And then Bane would have to deal with each of his rivals separately before he could become the unchallenged leader of the Sith.

Better to be on hand, guiding the events to the outcome he desired. That, however, meant he’d have to come up with a plausible story to explain his desire to join the Brotherhood even after a failed assassination.

He thought about it for nearly an hour, considering and discarding a number of ideas. In the end there was only one reason any of them would believe that he had come back. He had to make them all think he wanted to overthrow Kaan and become the new leader of the Brotherhood.

Bane smiled at the subtle beauty of the plan. Kaan would be suspicious, of course. But all his effort and attention would be focused on holding on to his position. He wouldn’t realize his rival’s true purpose: to exterminate the Brotherhood completely; to destroy every last Sith on Ruusan.

Plus, there was the added advantage of having another opportunity to convince Githany to join him. Once she understood what he had truly become—and how he had manipulated Kaan and the other so-called Dark Lords—she might actually accept his offer to become his apprentice. At the very least he would get a chance to see her face once she realized her poison had failed to—

“Ungh!” Bane let out a grunt and doubled over as a vicious pain ripped through his stomach. He tried to straighten up, but his body was suddenly racked with a prolonged coughing fit. He raised his hand to cover his mouth, and when he let it fall it was covered in frothy red flecks of blood.

Impossible, he thought, even as another stabbing pain through his guts dropped him to his knees. Revan had shown him how to use the Force to ward off poison and disease. No simple toxin should be able to affect anyone strong enough in the dark side to be a Lord of the Sith.

Another coughing fit paralyzed him until it passed. He reached up to wipe the sweat rolling down his face and felt something warm and sticky on his cheek. A thin trickle of crimson tears was leaking from the corner of his eye.

He rose shakily to his feet, turning his focus inward. The poison was still there. It had spread throughout his entire body, polluting and corrupting his system and damaging his vital organs. He was hemorrhaging internally, bleeding from his eyes and nose.

Githany! He would have laughed if he hadn’t been in such unbearable agony. He had been so confident, so arrogant. So convinced she was underestimating him. Instead he had underestimated her. A mistake he vowed never to make again … if he survived.

He had read enough about synox to recognize the symptoms. If he had detected it immediately, he would have been able to cleanse it from his system, just as he had done with the rock worrt venom that had concealed its presence. But synox was the subtlest of poisons; the insidious toxin had sapped his strength as it had spread unnoticed throughout his body.

Summoning all his resources, he tried to purge the poison from his body, burning it away with the cold fire of the dark side. The poison was too strong … or rather, he was too weak. The damage was already done. The synox had crippled him, leaving his power a mere shadow of what it had been only hours earlier.

He could dull its effects, slow its progress, and temporarily hold the most lethal symptoms at bay. But he couldn’t cure himself. Not now, weakened as he was.

There was power in Lake Natth, but it was power he couldn’t draw on. The ancient Jedi had been careful to lock the dark side safely away within its depths. The black, stagnant waters were the only evidence of the power that lay forever trapped beneath its surface.

Desperate to find some other way to survive, he staggered over to the land crawler on the edge of his camp. Ignoring the protests of his suddenly weary limbs, he clambered in behind the wheel and began to drive. He needed a healer. If the one called Caleb was still on this world, Bane had to find him. It was his only chance.

He headed for the nearest battleground, a barren plain several kilometers away where the remains of those who had fought and died still lay strewn about the ground. The rough rumble of the land crawler’s treads jarred him with each turn, and he gritted his teeth against the agonizing pain. As he drove, his world became a waking nightmare of darkness and shadow, all tinged with red. He was barely even conscious of where he was going, letting the Force guide him even as he tried to use it to keep his body from succumbing to the effects of Githany’s poison.

The fear of death wrapped itself around him, smothering his thoughts. His will began to falter; it would be so easy to just surrender now and let it all end. Just let it all slip away and be at peace …

Snarling, he shook his head, dragging his thoughts back from the brink by repeating the first line of the Sith mantra over and over: Peace is a lie. He reached back into his training as a soldier, taking his fear and transforming it into anger to give him strength.

I am Darth Bane, Dark Lord of the Sith. I will survive. At any cost.

Far ahead—at the very limits of his rapidly fading vision—he saw another vehicle moving slowly across the other side of the battlefield. Settlers. Scavengers, picking through the remains.

He pointed the nose of his land crawler at them, groaning with the effort required to simply turn the wheel. Reaching out with the Force, he tried to touch the spirits of those who had fallen at this site. Only a few months earlier, scores of beings had died here. He tried to drink in what remained of their tortured ends, hoping the agony of their final moments would bolster his own flagging power. But it wasn’t enough; their suffering was too distant, the echo of their screams too faint.

Glancing up, he noticed that his vehicle had begun to veer off course, listing hard to one side as his grip on the wheel weakened. His arms were numb and tingling; they had become almost completely unresponsive. He could feel his heart laboring with every beat.

The front tread struck a large rock and the land crawler suddenly turned over, dumping Bane out onto hard dirt and jagged stone. He tried to look up again to locate the people he had seen in the distance, but the effort to raise his head was too much. Exhausted, his world went black.

The heavy whump-whump-whump of a land crawler’s treads stirred him back to consciousness. The other vehicle was here. He doubted they would even see him: his body had fallen behind his tipped-over crawler and they had approached from the other side. Even if they did, there was nothing they could do to save him now. Yet there was something he could do to save himself.

The engines cut out and he heard the sound of voices: children’s voices. Three young boys scampered down from the back of the land crawler and began to hunt eagerly through the wreckage.

“Mikki!” came the voice of their father, calling after one of his sons. “Don’t go too far.”

“Look!” one of the boys shouted. “Look what I found!”

The weak must serve the strong. That is the way of the dark side.

“Wow! Is it real? Can I touch it?”

“Let me see, Mikki! Let me see!”

“Settle down, boys,” the father said wearily. “Let’s take a look.”

Bane listened to the crunching of his boots across the small stones as he approached. I am strong. They are weak. They are nothing.

“It’s a lightsaber, Father. But there’s something weird about the handle. See? It’s got a strange hook in it.”

He felt the sudden fear that gripped the father’s chest like a vise.

Survive. At any cost.

“Throw it away, Mikki! Now!”

Too late.

The lightsaber sprang to life in the boy’s hand, spinning in the air and striking him dead on the spot. The father screamed; his brothers tried to run. The blade leapt after the eldest, cutting him down from behind.

Bane, drawing strength from the horror of their deaths, rose to his feet, coming into view like an apparition disgorged from the bowels of the planet.

“Nooo!” the father howled, desperately clutching his youngest son to his chest. “Spare this one, my lord!” he begged, tears streaming down his face. “He’s the youngest. The last one I have.”

Those weak enough to beg for mercy do not deserve it.

Still too weak to even raise his arms Bane reached out once more with the Force, bringing the lightsaber up to hover over his helpless victims. He waited, letting their horror mount, then plunged the burning blade into the young boy’s heart.

The father clutched the corpse to his breast, his tortured laments echoing across the empty battlefield. “Why? Why did you have to kill them?”

Bane feasted on his anguish, gorging himself, feeling the dark side growing stronger in him. The symptoms of the poison receded enough so that he could raise his arm without the muscles trembling. The lightsaber sprang to his hand.

The father cowered before him. “Why did you make me watch? Why did you—”

One quick swipe of the lightsaber cut him off, sending the father to the same tragic fate as his sons.

26

Lord Hoth tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The creaking of his cot joined the whining buzz of the bloodsucking insect swarms that followed his army wherever they made camp. The noise was compounded by the whirring hum of small-winged night birds swooping in to feast on the insects that feasted on his soldiers. The result was a shrill, maddening cacophony that hovered on the edges of hearing.

But it wasn’t the noises that were keeping him awake, or the unrelenting heat that left him with a constant sheen of sweat on his brow, even at night. It wasn’t the military strategies and battle plans constantly running through his mind. It wasn’t any one of these things, but rather the sum of all of them together—and the fact that there seemed to be no end in sight to this blasted, cursed war. Minor annoyances that had been tolerable during the first months on Ruusan had been magnified by frustration and futility into unbearable torments.

With an angry growl he cast aside the thin blanket he slept under, tossing it into the far corner of his tent. He swung his legs over the side and sat up on the edge of the cot, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head clasped between his hands.

For two standard years he had waged his campaign against the Brotherhood of Darkness here on Ruusan. In the beginning many Jedi had rallied to his side. And many Jedi had died—too many. Under Lord Hoth’s command they had sacrificed themselves, offering up their own lives for the sake of a greater cause. Yet now, after six major battles—not to mention countless skirmishes, raids, minor clashes, and indecisive engagements—nothing had been decided. The blood of thousands stained his hands, yet he was no closer to his goal.

Frustration was beginning to give way to despair. Morale was the lowest it had ever been. Many of the soldiers grumbled that Farfalla was right: the general had let Ruusan become his mad obsession and was leading them to their doom.

Hoth no longer even had the strength to argue with them. Sometimes he felt as if he had forgotten the reasons he had come here in the first place. Once there may have been virtue in this war, but such nobility had long since been stripped away. Now he fought for revenge in the name of those Jedi who had fallen. He fought out of hatred of the dark side and what it stood for. He fought out of pride and a refusal to admit defeat. But most of all, he fought simply because he no longer knew anything else.

Yet if he gave up now, would it make any difference? If he ordered his troops to retreat, to evacuate the planet in Farfalla’s ships, would anything change? If he stepped aside and left the burden of battling the Sith—here on Ruusan or elsewhere in the galaxy—to another, would he finally find peace? Or would he simply be betraying all those who had believed in him?

To disband the Army of Light now, while the Brotherhood of Darkness still existed, dishonored the memory of all those who had perished in the conflict. To press on meant many more would surely die—and he himself might be lost to the light forever.

He lay back down and closed his eyes again. But sleep would not come.

“When all the options are wrong,” he muttered to himself in the darkness, “what does it matter which one I choose?”

“When the way before you is not clear,” an ethereal voice answered, “let your actions be guided by the wisdom of the Force.”

Hoth snapped his head up to peer through the darkness of the tent. A figure was just barely visible in the shadows, standing on the other side.

“Pernicar!” he exclaimed, then suddenly asked, “Is this real? Or am I actually sound asleep in my cot, and all this nothing but a dream?”

“A dream is only another kind of reality,” Pernicar said with an amused shake of his head. He crossed the tent slowly, moving closer. As he approached, Hoth realized he could actually see through him.

The apparition settled itself on the cot. The springs didn’t creak; it was as if he had no weight or substance at all.

This had to be a dream, Hoth realized. But he didn’t want to wake. Instead he clung desperately to the chance to see his old friend again, even if it was just an illusion conjured up by his own mind. “I’ve missed you,” he said. “Your counsel, your wisdom. I need them now more than ever.”

“You were not so eager to listen to me when I was alive,” the Pernicar of his dream replied, striking at the most secret guilt and regrets buried deep in Hoth’s subconscious. “There was much you could have learned from me.”

A funny thought struck the general. “Was I your Padawan all this time, Master Pernicar? So young and foolish that I didn’t even know you were trying to instruct me in the ways of the Force?”

Pernicar laughed lightly. “No, General. Neither one of us is young—though we both have had more than our share of foolish moments.”

Hoth nodded somberly. For a moment he said nothing, just enjoying Pernicar’s presence once again, even if he was only here in spirit. Then, knowing there must be some purpose to this elaborate charade his subconscious had created for him, he asked, “Why have you come?”

“The Army of Light is an instrument of good and justice,” Pernicar told him. “You fear you may have lost your way, but look to the Force and you will know what you must do to find it again.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Hoth said with a slight shake of his head. “Have I really fallen so far that I cannot even remember the most basic teachings of our order?”

“There is no shame in falling,” Pernicar said, standing up. “There is only shame if you refuse to rise once again.”

Hoth sighed heavily. “I know what I must do, but I lack the tools to do it. My troops are on the verge of collapse: exhausted and outnumbered. And the other Jedi no longer believe in our cause.”

“Farfalla still does,” Pernicar noted. “Though you had your differences, he was always loyal.”

“I think I’ve driven Farfalla away for good,” Hoth admitted. “He wants nothing more to do with the Army of Light.”

“Then why are his ships still in orbit?” Pernicar countered. “You drove him away with your anger, and he fears you may have fallen to the dark side. Show him this is not so and he will follow you again.”

Pernicar took a step back. Hoth could sense himself beginning the slow climb to consciousness again. He could have fought against it. He could have struggled to stay in the dream world. But there was work to be done.

“Good-bye, old friend,” he whispered. Slowly, his eyes opened, revealing the waking world and the empty darkness of his tent. “Good-bye.”

Sleep did not return to him that night. Instead he thought long and hard about what Pernicar had said to him in his dream. Pernicar had always been the one he’d turned to in times of confusion and trouble. It made sense that his mind would conjure up the image of his dearest friend to set him on the proper path again.

He knew what he had to do. He would swallow his pride and ask Farfalla’s forgiveness. They had to set aside their personal differences for the sake of the Jedi.

First thing in the morning he emerged from his tent, determined to send an envoy to Farfalla. But to his surprise he found that one of Farfalla’s people had come to speak with him.

“I wondered if I had made this trip in vain,” the messenger admitted once Lord Hoth had welcomed her into his tent. “I was afraid you would refuse to even see me.”

“Had you come a day earlier you probably would have been right,” he confessed. “Last night I had a … revelation that changed things.”

“I guess we’re lucky I came today, then,” she replied with a cordial tilt of her head.

“Yes, lucky,” he muttered, though part of him believed the timing of the dream had nothing to do with luck at all. Truly, the Force was a powerful and mysterious ally.

Bane could still feel the poison in his system as he drove the land crawler across Ambria’s vast and empty plains. The rumble of the engine couldn’t quite drown out the rattle and clank of the junk piled in the back. The clatter kept him from pushing the memories of the vehicle’s previous owners completely from his mind, but he felt no remorse over their deaths.

He’d left their bodies lying where they’d fallen—in the midst of the battlefield where they’d gathered their prizes. Their deaths had given him the strength to press on, but already the surge of power he had felt was fading. He had the strength to keep the synox at bay for a few more hours, but he needed to find a permanent cure.

He needed to find Caleb. If he could reach the healer, there was still hope. But the man’s dwelling was still many kilometers away.

It was only a matter of time until his body succumbed to the paralysis and his mind was swallowed by the fevered madness brought on by the toxin. For now, though, his anger allowed him to keep his thoughts clear.

He wasn’t angry at Githany. She had only acted as a servant of the dark side should. His rage was directed inward—toward his own weakness and misplaced arrogance. He should have anticipated the true depth of her cunning.

Instead he had let her poison him. And if he died now, his great revelation—the Rule of Two, the salvation of the Sith—would end with him.

Caleb felt the land crawler’s approach long before he saw or heard it. It was like a storm on the wind, a black sky rushing in to cover the sun. When the vehicle rolled to a stop before his hut he was already sitting outside waiting for it.

The man who climbed out was large and muscular, a sharp contrast with Caleb’s own thin and wiry frame. He wore dark clothing, and a hook-handled lightsaber dangled from his belt. His skin was gray as ash, and his features were twisted into an expression of cruelty and contempt. Even were he not sensitive to the ways of the Force, it wouldn’t have been hard for Caleb to recognize him as a servant of the dark side. What he might not have sensed was how powerful this grim visitor truly was.

But Caleb had dealt with powerful men and women before. Jedi and Sith alike had come to him in the past, and he had turned them all away. He was a servant of the common people, those who could not help themselves. He wanted no part of the war between light and darkness.

The man began walking toward him, moving stiffly. The foul stench of poison wafted out from the dying Sith’s pores, smothering the scent of the boiling soup hanging over Caleb’s fire. Jabbing a stick into the coals to stir up more heat, Caleb now understood his visitor’s unnatural complexion. The effects of synox were unmistakable. He figured the doomed man had at most a day before he died.

He didn’t speak until the man stood directly above him, looming like the specter of death itself.

“There is venom in your body,” Caleb said placidly. “You have come for the cure,” he continued. “I will not give it to you.”

The man didn’t speak. Not surprising, given his state. The poison would have left his tongue cracked and swollen, his mouth parched and blistered. But he didn’t need words to convey his message as his hand dropped to the hilt of his lightsaber.

“I am not afraid to die,” Caleb said, with no change in his voice. “You may torture me if you want,” he added. “Pain means nothing to me.”

To prove his point, he plunged his hand into the bubbling cauldron. The scent of seared flesh mingled with the smells of soup and poison. His expression never changed, even as he withdrew his hand and held it up to show the scalded flesh.

He saw doubt and confusion in the newcomer’s eyes, a look he had witnessed many times before. In the past his stoicism had served him well, usually thwarting the plans of those Sith or Jedi who had sought him out for one reason or another. They couldn’t understand him, and that was how he wanted it.

He cared nothing for their war or what either side valued. In fact, there was only one thing he cared about in all the galaxy. And this performance was his only hope of protecting it from the monster standing above him.

The implacable man before him puzzled Bane. His only hope for survival had just been denied him, and he wasn’t sure what he could do about it. He could sense the power in this man, but it wasn’t the power of either the dark side or the light. It wasn’t even the power of the Force in any normal sense of the word. He drew his strength from ground and stone; mountain and forest; the land and the sky. Despite this difference, Bane could sense that the man’s power was formidable in its own way. Bane found its strangeness disturbing, unsettling. Was it possible he was actually going to lose this battle of wills? Was it possible this simple man—a man with only the faintest flicker of the Force inside him—was actually able to defy a Dark Lord of the Sith?

Had the healer’s mind been weak Bane could have simply compelled him to do his bidding, but his will was as unyielding as the black iron of the pot he had plunged his hand into. He had demonstrated that pain and threat of death would be ineffective tools in convincing him to change his mind, as well. Even now Bane could sense his mind building up walls to block out the pain; burying it so deep it almost seemed to disappear. And there was something else he was burying as well. Something he was desperately trying to keep Bane from uncovering.

Bane’s eyes narrowed as he recognized what it was. He was trying to hide the presence of another, shielding whoever it was from the Dark Lord’s hazy, fevered perceptions. He turned his attention to the healer’s small, ramshackle hut. The man made no move to stop him. In fact, he had no reaction at all.

The door was blocked by nothing but a long curtain that flowed gently in the breeze. Bane stepped forward and flipped it aside to reveal a small, ramshackle room. A young girl, her eyes wide with terror, huddled silently against the far wall.

A grim smile of relief touched the corners of Bane’s lips as he realized the truth. Caleb had a weakness after all; he cared about something. All his strength of will was useless because of this one failing. And Bane was not above exploiting it to get what he needed.

With a single mental command he swept the terrified girl up into the air, carrying her out to suspend her upside down above the healer’s boiling pot.

Caleb leapt to his feet, showing real emotion for the first time. He reached out to her, then pulled his hand back, his eyes flicking between his daughter and the man who literally held her life in his grasp.

“Daddy,” she whimpered, “help me.”

The man’s head dropped in defeat. “All right,” he said. “You win. You will have your cure.”

The healing ritual lasted all through the night and into the next day. Caleb drew on all manner of herbs and roots: some cooked in the boiling waters of his pot; others ground up into paste; still others placed directly on Bane’s swollen tongue. Throughout the entire process Bane was wary, ready to unleash his vengeance against the healer’s child should the man try to betray him.

But as the hours went by he slowly felt the synox leaching from his body, drawn out by the medicines. By evening of the next day all traces of the poison were gone.

Bane returned to his camp and packed up. A few hours later he was ready to lift off and leave Ambria behind.

After the completion of the healing ritual he had briefly considered slaying both father and daughter for the crime of seeing him in his moment of weakness. But those were the thoughts of a man blinded by his own arrogance. His recent encounter with Githany had shown him the dangers of that path.

Neither Caleb nor his daughter presented any threat to him or his goals. And Caleb had a skill he might one day need again. For all its power, the dark side was weak in the healing arts.

So he had let them live. There was no purpose or advantage in their deaths. Killing without reason or gain was a petty pleasure of sadistic fools.

And Bane was determined—as he punched the coordinates for Ruusan into the nav computer—to cleanse the dark side of fools.

27

When the Valcyn arrived at Ruusan, Bane was surprised to find both Sith and Jedi fleets in the system. The Sith had formed a blockade around the planet, obviously trying to prevent the Jedi from bringing reinforcements to their fellows on the surface.

Yet to Bane’s eye it appeared that the Jedi were making no effort to run the blockade. Their ships seemed content to wait, lurking just beyond the range of enemy fire. And the Sith couldn’t attack without breaking formation and exposing their lines. The result was a tense stalemate, with neither side willing to make the first move.

Despite the blockade, Bane was able to land his ship on Ruusan without drawing the attention of either fleet. The Jedi weren’t concerned with ships going to the planet, and the Sith were patrolling in patterns designed to guard against large-scale incursions. The blockade was meant to stop troop transports, supply ships, and their escorts; it was all but useless against a single scout vessel or fighter.

His sensors picked up the Sith encampment soon after he breached the atmosphere, and he brought the Valcyn in on the far side of the world. The blockade patrols hadn’t spotted him, and he’d disabled the ship’s beacon before leaving Lehon. Nobody knew he was here. He planned to keep it that way for a while longer.

He set the ship down in the cover of a small range of foothills several kilometers from the encampment. He would draw less attention approaching on foot, and he wanted to keep the Valcyn’s location secret in case he needed it to make a quick escape. He disembarked and began the long hike to meet up with Kaan and his fellow Sith.

The feel of this planet was far different from any of the others he had been on. This was a tired world, weary and spent with the endless wars being waged across its surface. There was a malaise in the air, like some infectious disease of mind and spirit. The Force was strong on Ruusan—inevitable given the vast numbers of Sith and Jedi there. Yet he sensed it was in turmoil, a maelstrom of confusion and conflict. Neither the dark nor light held sway. Instead they collided and fused, becoming an obscene, indecisive gray.

Far to the east he could see the edges of Ruusan’s great forests. He could sense the Jedi hiding deep within them, though they used the light side to mask their exact location. The Sith encampment was to the west, several kilometers away from the forest’s borders. Between them stretched a vast panorama of gently rolling hills and plains: the site of all the major battles that had been fought on Ruusan so far. The constant fighting had been punctuated by six full-scale engagements, battles where each side had brought its full strength to bear in an effort to wipe out the enemy—or at least drive them from the world. Three times Hoth and the Army of Light had seized the upper hand; the other three had gone to Kaan and his Brotherhood. Yet none of the victories had been decisive enough to bring an end to the war.

From the pungent smell of death Bane suspected some smaller confrontation had been recently fought over this territory, as well. His suspicions were confirmed when he crested a rise and came across a scene of slaughter. It was hard to tell who had won: bodies clad in the garb of each side were everywhere, intermingled as if the combatants had remained locked together in hatred long after they had all been slain. Most of the dead were likely to be followers of the Jedi or minions of the Sith, rather than actual Jedi Knights or members of the Brotherhood, though he noticed dark Sith robes on a handful of the bodies.

Hovering above the killing field were the bouncers, a unique species native to Ruusan. There were at least half a dozen, spherical in shape and of various sizes, with most being between one and two meters across. Their round bodies were covered with thick green fur, as were the finlike appendages protruding from their sides and the long ribbonlike tails that streamed out behind them. They had no visible facial features other than dark, lidless eyes.

Reports indicated they were sentient, yet to Bane they looked like animals scavenging the remains of the battle. As he approached he realized they were communicating, though they possessed no mouths. Somehow they were projecting mental images of succor and comfort, as if they sought to heal the wounds of the scarred land beneath them.

They scattered at Bane’s approach, whisking themselves away like a bizarre school of fish capable of swimming through the skies. As he drew nearer, he realized they had been congregating over one of the fallen. The human man was not quite dead, though the gaping wound in his gut gave stark evidence that he wouldn’t live to see the night.

He wore the robes of the Sith, and the shattered remains of a lightsaber’s hilt lay near his outstretched hand. Bane recognized him as one of the lesser students from the Academy on Korriban: so weak in the dark side, it wasn’t even worth the bother of learning his name. Yet he knew Bane.

With a groan the man rolled onto his back and hauled himself up to a sitting position, leaning his head and shoulders against a nearby stone. His eyes—glazed and dilated—cleared momentarily and came into focus. “Lord Bane …,” he gasped. “Kaan told us … you were dead.”

There was no point in replying, so Bane said nothing.

“You missed the fight …,” the man mumbled, the words hard to hear through the choking bubbles of blood welling up in his throat. A coughing fit cut off what he was going to say next. He was too weak to even bring up his hand to cover his mouth as he spewed red spots over Bane’s dark boots.

“The battle was glorious,” he finally croaked out. “It’s an honor to … fall in such a splendid battle.”

Bane laughed loudly, the only appropriate response to such ridiculous stupidity. “Glory means nothing for the dead,” he said, though it wasn’t clear if the man could even hear him in his fevered state.

He turned to go, then paused when he felt a feeble tug on his heel. “Help me, Lord Bane.”

Lifting his boot free of the clutching hand, Bane answered, “My name is Darth Bane.” There was a sickening crunch as his boot slammed down, grinding the man’s skull into the rocks propping him up. His body convulsed once then lay still.

The purging of the Sith had begun.

Lord Kaan lay on his back on the small cot in his tent, eyes closed, gently massaging his temples. The strain of keeping his followers united in a common cause was taking a heavy toll, and his head constantly pulsed with a dull and relentless ache.

Despite their success in recent battles with the Jedi on Ruusan, the mood in the Sith camp was tense. They had been on Ruusan too long—far too long—and reports kept filtering in of Republic victories in distant systems. Even with his ability to manipulate and influence the minds of the other Dark Lords, it was becoming more and more difficult to keep the Brotherhood focused on their battle against the Army of Light.

He knew there was one sure way to end the war, and end it quickly. The thought bomb. He had spent many nights wondering if he dared to use it. If they lured the Jedi in and unleashed the thought bomb, its blast would completely obliterate their enemies. But would the combined will of the Brotherhood be strong enough to survive such power? Or would they get swept up in the backlash of the explosion?

Time and again he had dismissed it as too dangerous, a weapon so terrible that even he—a Dark Lord of the Sith—was afraid to use it. Yet each time he considered it for a few moments longer before backing away from the abyss.

A sound outside the tent caused him to open his eyes and sit up sharply. A second later Githany, now seen by many as his right hand, poked her head in. “They’re ready for you, Lord Kaan.”

He nodded and rose to his feet, taking a second to calm and compose himself. If he showed any weakness, the others might turn against him. He couldn’t let that happen. Not now, when they were so close to ultimate victory. That was why he had summoned the other Dark Lords: one final gathering to strengthen their resolve and assure their continued loyalty.

Githany led the way through the camp, and he followed her to the large tent where the other Sith Lords were waiting for him. He entered with conviction and purpose, projecting an aura of confidence and authority.

As was customary whenever he entered a room, those in the assemblage rose to their feet as a sign of respect. There was one, however, who remained seated, arms folded across his thick chest.

“Are you too heavy to rise, Lord Kopecz?” Githany asked pointedly.

“I thought we were all equals in the Brotherhood,” the Twi’lek snarled back, speaking more to Kaan than to her.

Kaan knew he had to tread carefully. This was not the first time Kopecz had been the voice of dissent, and many of the others took their cues from him. Unfortunately, he was also one of the most difficult to influence and control.

“Equals. Quite right, Lord Kopecz,” he said with a weary smile. “Remain seated. All of you. We have no need of these pointless formalities.”

The rest of the group did as he bade and found their seats once more, though it was clear everyone still felt the tension between the two of them. He let a wave of soothing reassurance ripple out across the room as he crossed over to the strategy table.

“The war against the Jedi is almost won,” he declared. “They are on the verge of collapse. They have retreated into the forests, but they are running out of places to hide.”

Kopecz snorted derisively. “We’ve heard that refrain one too many times.”

It took tremendous effort to maintain his composure, but somehow Lord Kaan managed to reply in a calm, even voice. “Anyone who has doubts about our strategy here on Ruusan is free to speak,” he offered. “As has already been pointed out in this meeting, we are all equals in the Brotherhood of Darkness.”

“It’s not just Ruusan I’m worried about,” Kopecz replied, accepting the bait and rising to his feet. “We’ve lost ground everywhere else in the galaxy. We had the Republic reeling. But instead of finishing them off, we let them regroup!”

“Most of our early victories came before the Jedi joined their cause,” Kaan reminded him. “The point of attacking the Republic in the first place was to draw the Jedi out. We wanted to force them into a battle of our choosing: this battle, here on Ruusan.

“Now we are on the verge of wiping them out. And with the Jedi gone, we can easily reclaim the worlds that have slipped back under the Republic’s control—and many more besides.”

Though Kopecz was silent, there were murmurs of agreement from the other Sith Lords. Kaan pressed his point even farther.

“Once we wipe out the enemy here on Ruusan our armies will sweep across the galaxy virtually unopposed. Conquering territory in every sector, we will encircle Coruscant and the other Core Worlds like a noose, drawing ever tighter until we choke the very life out of the Republic!”

There was a roar of approval from the crowd. When Kopecz spoke again, even he seemed to have lost some of his hostility.

“But victory here is not assured. We may have Hoth’s army surrounded and pinned down, but there’s a Jedi fleet with hundreds of reinforcements lurking on the edges of this system.”

“Their reinforcements are on the edge of the system,” Kaan admitted with a nod, not bothering to deny what every single one of them knew to be fact. “Just as they have been for the past week. And that’s exactly where they will stay: far away from the surface where they are needed.

“The bulk of our fleet is in orbit around Ruusan itself, and the Jedi lack the numbers or the firepower to break through our blockade. If they can’t unite their numbers with those here on the surface, Hoth and his followers will fall. And once we have finished them off we can mop up the tattered remnants of the Order at our leisure.”

Kopecz, mollified, sat down with one final comment. “Then let’s finish Hoth off quickly and get off this blasted rock.”

“That’s exactly the point of this strategy conference,” Kaan said with a smile, knowing he had once again averted a potential schism in the Brotherhood. “We may have lost a few skirmishes here and there, but we are about to win the war!”

Githany stepped up and handed him a holomap with the latest data from their reconnaissance drones. He gave her a nod of thanks and unfurled it on the table, then bent down for a closer look.

“Our spies indicate Hoth’s main camp is located here,” he said, jabbing a finger at a heavily wooded section of the map. “If we can flush them out of the forest we might be able to—”

He stopped short as a dark shadow fell across the map. “What now?” he demanded, pounding his fist on the table and snapping his head up to find the cause of this latest interruption.

An enormous mountain of a man stood in the doorway, blocking the light streaming in from outside. He was tall and completely bald, with a heavy brow and hard, unforgiving features. He wore the black armor and robes of the Sith, and a hook-handled lightsaber hung at his side. Though he had never met the man before, Lord Kaan had heard enough about him to know exactly who he was.

“Darth Bane!” he exclaimed. He cast a quick glance in Githany’s direction, wondering if she had betrayed him. From the expression on her face, it was obvious she was just as surprised as he was to see their visitor alive and well.

“We … we thought you were dead,” he began uncertainly. “How did—”

“I’m tired,” Bane interrupted. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Of course,” Kaan quickly agreed. “Anything for a Brother.”

The big man sneered as he settled into one of the nearby chairs. “Thank you, Brother.”

There was something in his tone that put Kaan’s guard up. What was he doing here? Did he know that Githany had tried to poison him? Did he know Kaan had sent her?

“Please continue with your strategy,” Bane urged with a casual wave of his hand.

Kaan’s hackles rose. It was as if he was being given permission to continue; as if Bane was the one in charge. Gritting his teeth, he looked down at the map again and resumed where he had left off. “As I was saying, the Jedi are hiding in the forests. We can flush them out if we split our numbers. If we deploy our fliers, we can flank their southern lines—”

“Bah!” Bane spat out, slapping his open palm down hard on the table. “Deploying fliers and flanking armies,” he mocked, rising to his feet and thrusting an accusing finger at Kaan. “You’re thinking like a dirt general, not a Sith Lord!”

A heavy silence had fallen across the room; even Kaan was left speechless. He could feel all eyes on him, watching intently to see what would happen next. Bane stepped in close, his face just centimeters from Kaan’s own.

“How did you ever find the guts to poison me?” he asked in a low, menacing whisper.

“I … that wasn’t me!” Kaan stammered as Bane turned his back on him.

“Don’t apologize for using cunning and trickery,” the big man admonished, moving over to the strategy table. “I admire you for it. We are Sith: the servants of the dark side,” he continued, bending down to study the troop positions and tactical layouts spread out before him. “Now look at this map and think like a Sith. Don’t just fight in the forest … destroy the forest!”

It was Githany who finally broke the ensuing silence, asking the question on everyone’s mind. “And just how do you propose we do that?”

Bane turned back to them with an evil grin. “I can show you.”

Night had fallen, but in the lights of the blazing campfires Bane could see the others scurrying to and fro, making the preparations as he had instructed. When he sensed Githany approaching from behind him, he turned. She was holding a bowl of steaming soup and wore a cautious, uncertain expression.

“It will be another hour before they are ready to begin this ritual of yours,” she said by way of greeting. When he didn’t reply she added, “You look tired. I brought you something to restore your strength.”

He took the bowl from her but didn’t raise it to his lips. He had discovered the ritual she spoke of while studying Revan’s Holocron: a way to unite the minds and spirits of the Sith through a single vessel so their strength could be unleashed upon the physical world. In many ways the process was similar to the one used to fashion a thought bomb from the Force, though this was less powerful than the ritual he had sent as a peace offering to Kaan—and far less dangerous.

He realized Githany was still studying him closely, so he tilted his head toward the soup. “Come to poison me again?” he asked. There was just a hint of playful teasing in his voice.

“You knew all along, didn’t you?” she said.

He shook his head. “Not until I tasted the poison on your lips.”

She raised a single eyebrow and gave him a coy smile. “But you came back for a second helping. And a third.”

“Poison should not harm a Dark Lord,” he told her. Then he admitted, “Yet it almost killed me.” He paused, but she didn’t say anything. “There are too many Sith Lords in the Brotherhood,” he went on. “Too many who are weak in the dark side. Kaan doesn’t understand this.”

“Kaan’s afraid you’ve come back to take over the Brotherhood.” After a moment she added, “I think he’s right.”

Not take over, he thought, but obliterate. He didn’t bother to correct her, though; it wasn’t the time yet. He still needed further proof that she was the right one to become his apprentice. Two there should be; no more, no less. One to embody the power, the other to crave it. It was a choice he wasn’t about to rush into.

“I can show you the true power of the dark side, Githany. Power beyond what any of these others can even imagine,” he said.

“Teach me,” she breathed. “I want to learn. You can show me everything … after you’ve taken Kaan’s place as leader of the Brotherhood!”

He couldn’t help but wonder if she was still trying to manipulate him. Did she want to play him and Kaan against each other? Or was she looking for him to usurp Kaan as proof of his newfound strength?

No, he admitted. She still doesn’t understand that the entire Sith order must be torn apart and rebuilt from scratch. Maybe she won’t ever understand.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Was it your idea to poison me? Or Kaan’s?”

With a slight laugh, she ducked beneath his arm holding the bowl of soup and came up close against his chest, looking right up into his eyes. “It was my idea,” she confessed, “but I was careful to make sure Kaan thought it was his.”

There might be hope for her yet, Bane thought.

“I know I made a mistake before,” she continued, moving away from him. “I should have gone with you when you left Korriban. I didn’t realize what you were after; I didn’t understand the secrets you were seeking. But I understand them now. You are the true leader of the Sith, Bane. I’ll follow you from now on. And so will the rest of the Brotherhood, after we use your ritual to destroy the Jedi.”

“Yes,” he agreed, keeping his voice carefully neutral and taking a sip of the steaming soup. “After we’ve destroyed the Jedi.”

Bane knew they couldn’t really destroy the Jedi. Not here on Ruusan. Not like this. Somehow the Jedi would survive. No ordinary war could completely eliminate the servants of the light. Only the tools of the dark side—cunning, secrecy, treachery, betrayal—could do that.

The same tools he would use to wipe out the entire Brotherhood of Darkness … beginning with the ritual tonight.

28

Kaan, Githany, and the rest of the Dark Lords had gathered atop a barren plateau overlooking the vast forests where Hoth and his army were hiding. They had come on their fliers: short-range, single-person, airborne vehicles front-mounted with heavy blaster guns. The fliers were parked at the edge of the plateau, fifty meters away from where the Sith sat in a loose circle. The ritual had begun.

They were communing with the Force, all of them slipping into a meditative trance as one. Their minds drifted deeper and deeper into the well of power contained within each individual, drawing on their strength and combining it through a single conduit. Bane stood in the center of the circle, urging them on.

“Touch the dark side. The dark side is one. Indivisible.”

The night sky filled with dark clouds and a fierce wind swirled across the plateau, tearing at the cloaks and capes of the Sith. The air shook with the thunder and crackle of a mounting electrical storm. Bolts of blue-white lightning arced through the air, and the temperature suddenly dropped.

“Give yourself over to the dark side. Let it surround you. Engulf you. Devour you.”

The Brotherhood slipped deeper into the collective trance, barely even aware of the storm now raging about their physical selves. Bane stood at the eye of the storm, drawing the bolts of lightning into himself, feeding on them. He felt his strength surge as he channeled and focused the dark side from the others.

This is how it should be! All the power of the Brotherhood in one body! The only way to unleash the full potential of the dark side!

“Do you feel invincible? Invulnerable? Immortal?”

He had to shout to be heard above the howling wind and thunder. A web of lightning spiraled out from his body, connecting him to each of the other Sith. He shivered then suddenly went stiff, arms spread out at his sides. Slowly, his rigid body began to rise into the air.

“Can you feel it?” he screamed, feeling as if the raw power of the Force roaring through him might rip his very flesh asunder. “Are you ready to kill a world?”

There was very little in the galaxy that could scare a man like General Hoth. Yet as he sat looking over the latest situational reports from his scouts he felt the first glimmers of real fear gnawing away at the base of his skull.

The rift between himself and Farfalla had been mended, but now there was no way to get the reinforcements down to Ruusan’s surface. Small messenger ships with a crew of one or two had been able to slip past the Sith blockade undetected, though on occasion even these vessels had been spotted and destroyed. Anything larger would never make it.

But his fear was more than the result of his frustration at having help so near yet so impossibly far away. There was something sinister in the air. Something evil.

Suddenly an image leapt unbidden to his mind: a premonition of death and destruction. He sprang to his feet and ran from his tent. Even though it was the middle of the night, he was only mildly surprised to see that most of the rest of the camp was up and about. They had felt it, too. Something coming for them. Coming fast.

They were looking to him for leadership, waiting for him to take command. He did so with a single, shouted order.

“Run!”

The storm rolled down from the plateau and rumbled across the forest. Hundreds of forks of searing lightning shot down from the sky—and the forest erupted. Trees burst into flames, the blaze racing through the branches and spreading out in all directions. The underbrush smoldered, smoked, and ignited; and a wall of fire swept across the planet’s surface.

The inferno consumed everything in its path.

Heat and fire. There was nothing else in Bane’s world. It was as if he had become the storm itself: he could see the world before him, swallowed up in red and orange and reduced in seconds to ash and embers by the unchained fury of the dark side.

It was glorious. And then suddenly it was gone.

There was a jarring thump as his body dropped from where it had been hovering five meters above the ground. For several seconds he was completely disoriented, unable to figure out what happened. Then he understood: the connection had been broken.

He rose to his feet slowly, uncertain of his balance. All around him were the forms of the Sith, no longer kneeling in meditation but collapsed or rolling on the ground, their minds reeling from the sudden end to the joining ritual. One by one they also regained their composure and stood, most looking as confused as Bane had been only seconds before.

Then he noticed Lord Kaan standing off to the side, over by the fliers.

“What happened?” Bane demanded angrily. “Why did you stop?”

“Your plan worked,” Kaan replied curtly. “The forest is destroyed, the Jedi have fled to open ground. They are exposed, vulnerable. Now we go to finish them off.”

Kaan had broken the connection, and somehow he had managed to drag the others out along with him, as if he had some hold over their minds. Perhaps he does, Bane thought. Further proof that they all had to be destroyed if the Sith were to be cleansed.

As the others regained their senses, Kaan was shouting out orders and battle plans. “The fire flushed the Jedi out into the open. We can mow them down from the sky. Hurry!”

They jumped at his command, rushing to their waiting vehicles and taking to the sky with battle cries and shouts of triumph.

“Come on, Bane,” Githany said, rushing past him. “Let’s join them!”

He grabbed her arm, pulling her up short. “Kaan is still trying to win this war through blasters and armies,” he said. “That is not the way of the dark side.”

“It’s more fun this way,” she said, the excitement obvious in her voice. She shook free of his grasp.

As he watched her run to join the others he realized that she had been corrupted by the teachings of Qordis and the Academy on Korriban. Despite her promise to follow Bane, she couldn’t see beyond the Brotherhood and its limitations. She was tainted—unfit to be his apprentice. She would have to die with all the others.

There was the faintest hint of regret as he made the decision, but the regret was hollow: the echo of a feeling, the last vestiges of an emotion. He snuffed it out quickly, knowing it could only make him weak.

“You frighten us, Bane,” a voice said from behind. He turned to see Kopecz studying him carefully.

“When we were focusing the Force through you, it felt as if you had your teeth on our throats,” the Twi’lek continued. “As if you were trying to suck us dry.”

“The power of the dark side is strongest if it is concentrated in one vessel,” Bane replied. “Not spread out among many. I did it for the sake of the dark side.”

Kopecz shook his head and climbed onto his flier. “Well, we know you weren’t doing it for us.”

Bane watched him soar off. Then he climbed onto his own flier, but instead of following Kaan to the battle he set a course back to the Sith camp. The first phase of his plan to destroy the Brotherhood was complete.

When he arrived back at the camp twenty minutes later, he wasn’t surprised to find it completely deserted. All the Dark Lords had been on the plateau for the ritual, and they had all flown off in Kaan’s wake to face the suddenly vulnerable Jedi. The soldiers, servants, and followers who made up the bulk of the Sith army had originally been left behind at the camp, but they had since received commed orders from Kaan and the others to join them at the battlefield.

Bane brought his flier in for a landing in the heart of the camp, right beside Lord Kaan’s tent. He killed the engine and was surprised to hear the distant whine of another flier approaching. He looked up, curious. When it swooped in low, he recognized the rider.

The vehicle was bearing down on him in a direct line. Bane let his hand drop to his lightsaber, ready to unclip it at a moment’s notice. The Force welled up within him, prepared to throw up a protective shield if the flier’s front-mounted blasters should open fire.

But the flier didn’t attack. Instead it swooped a few meters over his head, banked sharply, then came in for a landing beside his own.

“You have no need of your weapon,” Qordis said as he dismounted. “I’ve come with an offer.”

Realizing there was no immediate threat, Bane let his hand drop back to his side. “An offer? What could you possibly have to offer me?”

“My allegiance,” Qordis said, dropping to one knee.

Bane stared down at him, his expression a mixture of horror, amusement, and contempt. “Why would you give your allegiance to me?” he asked. “And why should I even want it?”

Qordis rose slowly to his feet, a cunning smile on his lips. “I am not blind, Lord Bane. I see you speaking with Githany. I see how you are undermining Kaan. I know the real reason you have come to Ruusan.”

Perplexed, Bane wondered if it was possible that Qordis—the founder of the Academy on Korriban, the most ardent proponent of all that was wrong with the Sith—had finally seen the truth.

“What exactly are you proposing?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“I know what happened to Kas’im. He sided with Kaan against you. He paid for that decision with his life. I am not so foolish. I know you’re here to take over the Brotherhood,” he declared. “I believe you will succeed. And I want to help you.”

“You want to help me take over the Brotherhood?” Bane laughed; Qordis was as blind and misguided as the rest of them. “Replace one leader with another, and you and the rest of the Brotherhood continue on as before? That’s your brilliant plan?”

“I can prove quite useful to you, Lord Bane,” Qordis insisted. “Many of the Brotherhood are former students of my Academy. They still look to me for wisdom and guidance.”

“And therein lies the problem.” Bane lashed out with the dark side, seizing Qordis in an immobilizing, crushing grip. His opponent tried to protect himself, throwing up a field to deflect the incoming assault, but Bane’s attack tore through the pitiful defense, wiping it away as if it hadn’t even been there.

There was a strangled cry of pain from Qordis as the Force tightened around him and lifted him up from the ground.

“Your wisdom has destroyed our order,” Bane explained casually, watching as Qordis struggled helplessly above him. “You have polluted the minds of your followers; you and Kaan have led them down the path of ruin.”

“I—I don’t understand,” Qordis gasped, barely able to speak as the breath was squeezed inexorably from his lungs.

“That has always been the problem,” Bane replied. “The Brotherhood must be purged. The Sith must be destroyed and rebuilt. You, Kaan, and all the others must be wiped from the face of the galaxy. That is why I have returned.”

Dawning horror spread across Qordis’s long, drawn features. “Please,” he groaned, “not … like this. Release me. Let me … draw my lightsaber. Let us fight … like Sith.”

Bane tilted his head to the side. “Surely you know I could kill you just as easily with my lightsaber as I could with the Force.”

“I … know.” Qordis’s skin was turning red, and his body was trembling as the pressure mounted. Each word he spoke took tremendous effort, yet somehow the dying man found the strength to make his final plea. “More … honor … in … death … by … combat.”

Bane gave an indifferent shrug. “Honor is for the living. Dead is dead.”

A final push with his mind tightened the invisible vise. Qordis let out a final scream, but with no air in his lungs it came out only as a rattling gasp that was lost beneath the snapping and crackling of his bones.

Had Bane still been capable of such emotions he might actually have pitied the man. As it was, he simply let the corpse fall to the ground then wandered into Kaan’s tent and the communications equipment inside. It was time to enact the second phase of his plan.

On the deck of Nightfall, great flagship of the Sith fleet, acting commander Admiral Adrianna Nyras responded to the hailing frequency coming from the private comlink on her wrist.

“This is Admiral Nyras,” she said into it. “I await your orders, Lord Kaan.”

“Lord Kaan is not here,” an unfamiliar voice replied. “This is Lord Bane.”

She hesitated for only a second before answering. Kaan rarely let anyone else use his personal transceiver, but on occasion it did happen. And with the security encryption on the equipment, it was virtually impossible for anyone else to tap into the frequency. The message had to be coming from the Sith camp, which meant she really was speaking to one of the Dark Lords.

“Forgive me, Lord Bane,” she apologized. “What are your orders?”

“Status report.”

“Unchanged,” she replied, her voice sharp with military precision and efficiency. “The blockade is intact. The Jedi fleet still hovers just beyond our range.”

“Engage.”

“Pardon?” she asked, so surprised that she momentarily forgot whom she was speaking to.

“You heard me, Admiral,” the voice on the other end snapped. “Engage the Jedi fleet.”

The order made no sense. The last time Kaan had spoken to her, he had ordered her to hold their position at all costs. As long as they maintained location in orbit, their blockade was virtually impenetrable. If they broke formation and attacked the Jedi fleet, however, they wouldn’t be able to stop drop ships from landing reinforcements on the surface.

Still, she had been given strange orders before during her service with the Sith. There were rumors that Kaan had some mystic power, some way to influence the outcome of a battle through the power of the Force that could make traditional strategies fall by the wayside. And if a Dark Lord was giving her a direct order, using the personal communications equipment in Lord Kaan’s tent, she wasn’t about to run the risk of refusing to obey.

“As you command, Lord Bane,” she answered. “We will engage the Jedi.”

The fire drove General Hoth and his army from the sheltering confines of the forest. Leaving most of their supplies and equipment behind, his troops ran through the trees, a mad scramble to escape the searing heat and flames. Those who stumbled or fell were instantly swallowed up by the conflagration. Somehow most managed to stay ahead of the deadly fires, eventually bursting out of the woods and into the rocky plains where so many battles had already been fought.

The Sith were there waiting for them.

The first wave of Hoth’s followers to emerge from the forest were mowed down by blasterfire. Those just behind were able to draw their lightsabers and deflect many of the deadly bolts as they raced out onto the plains, only to be swallowed up by the throngs of Sith soldiers rushing forward to engage them.

Though outnumbered, the Jedi more than held their own. They drove the Sith ranks back, breaking their lines and throwing them into chaos and disarray. But Hoth knew that the real trap had yet to be sprung.

Hewing down any foe foolish enough to come in range of his lightsaber, the general could sense these were not the true Sith. The Dark Lords were not among them: these were the faceless hordes, nothing more than a distraction.

Where are they? What is Kaan up to?

The answer came an instant later when a battalion of fliers swooped in over the horizon, unleashing a deadly barrage across the battlefield. Guided by the power of the dark side, the heavy guns were deadly in their accuracy, decimating Hoth’s troops and turning the tide of the battle back in favor of the Sith.

Hoth had faced impossible odds before and triumphed. Yet he knew this battle was fated to be his last.

But I will make a last stand worthy of story and song, he thought defiantly, even though there won’t be anybody left to sing it.

The world dissolved into the numbing fog of war. Screams and the sounds of battle became a dull, indistinguishable roar. The spray of dirt and stone from the blaster bolts exploding into the ground showered down on him from above, mingling with the sweat and blood of both friend and foe. He swung each blow as if it might be his last, knowing that sooner or later one of the fliers would lock in on him and swoop down to finish him off.

Lord Kaan’s flier carved a path back and forth above the milling soldiers on the battlefield below, soaring over the chaos like a grim bird of prey. From his vantage point it was clear the battle was theirs. Yet even though they were ill equipped, outnumbered, and badly outgunned, the Jedi fought bravely to the bitter end. There was no hint of retreat, no breaking of their ranks. He couldn’t help but admire such courage and such devotion to a cause even in the face of certain death. If his own troops had been so steadfast in their loyalty and purpose, he would have won this war long ago. It wasn’t that they lacked discipline: the Sith armies were just as well trained as those of the Jedi or the Republic. They simply lacked conviction.

Too often their morale had been held together only by the sheer force of Kaan’s will, his battle meditation strengthening their resolve whenever the situation seemed grim or desperate. But his battle meditation could only do so much. Against an entire army of Jedi on guard against the Force powers of the Sith, it could do little more than instill a vague sense of unease. A small advantage, but one easily overcome. Here on the surface of this wretched world, the Brotherhood of Darkness and its minions had been forced to fight on their own merits, without his intervention. And far too many times they had come up short.

There had been occasions when he’d questioned the ability of his followers to succeed on their own. There were instances when he wondered if the Sith troops had become so reliant on the enormous advantage of his battle meditation that they had forgotten how to fight effectively without it. But now, at last, the ultimate victory had been achieved. The Jedi were making a last, desperate stand—one glorious to behold—yet the outcome was inevitable. There was just one thing left for Lord Kaan to do before the fighting ended.

He continued to weave back and forth, firing sporadically at the enemy below as he searched for his real prey. Then at last he saw him: General Hoth, standing in the very center of the fray, surrounded by a bulwark of valiant allies and a relentless sea of Sith foes that broke against them again and again and again.

Locking his flier’s guns on his target he swooped in, intent on taking his rival’s life in a spectacular strafing run. But a mere second before he fired, a massive explosion rocked his flier, causing it to veer to the left. His shots carved a deep furrow in the ground several meters to the left of the general, leaving him miraculously unharmed.

Hoth continued fighting as if he hadn’t even noticed, but Kaan banked his vehicle around sharply to see what had happened. Before he completed the turn, another explosion shook the sky beside him, and he saw one of the other fliers careen out of control and crash into the ground.

He looked up, realizing they were under attack from above. A pair of massive gunships were descending on the battle, their batteries blasting the Sith fliers from the sky one by one. On the underside of each ship, the colors of Jedi Master Valenthyne Farfalla were clearly visible.

Impossible! Kaan cursed silently. There is no way they could have broken through the blockade! Not with ships like this! Yet somehow they had.

Another series of blasts took out three more of the small fliers, and Kaan realized it was his army that was now suddenly overmatched. The fliers were quicker and more maneuverable than the Jedi gunships, but their blasters wouldn’t even make a dent in the larger vessels’ heavily armored hulls.

For a brief second he thought he might be able to rally the other Dark Lords. If they concentrated their attacks, they might be able to bring the gunships down—though their own losses would be heavy. But he dismissed that idea as quickly as it had come.

He wasn’t the only one who had noticed the arrival of the Jedi reinforcements. Faced with overwhelming odds, the Dark Lords under his command had reacted in the only manner they understood: self-preservation through flight. Already most of the other fliers had broken off their strafing runs and were executing evasive maneuvers, intent only on escaping the battlefield alive. And with their Lords and Masters fleeing the engagement, the hordes of Sith soldiers on the ground would be quick to follow. Imminent victory was about to become disasterous defeat.

Swearing vile oaths against both the Jedi and his own people, Lord Kaan knew there was only one option left. Weaving and darting to avoid a pair of bolts intended to blow him from the sky, he joined the retreat.

29

General Hoth couldn’t help but offer the ragged hint of a smile despite the dead and wounded that lay scattered across the battlefield. The Sith had sprung their trap, and somehow the Army of Light had survived.

He recognized Farfalla’s colors on the gunships that were now circling the field, keeping the Sith stragglers pinned down under whatever cover they could find until the troops on the ground could surround them and demand their surrender. Most were quick to comply. Everyone knew the Jedi preferred taking prisoners over killing their enemies, just as everyone knew the Jedi treated their prisoners humanely. The same could not be said for the Sith, of course.

A small convoy of personal fliers was emerging from the gunships, flying down to join the survivors on the ground. The general recognized Farfalla aboard the lead flier, even as Farfalla caught sight of him and came in to land.

The younger Jedi stepped off his flier, not speaking but extending his hand by way of cautious greeting. He was dressed in clothes as bright and outlandish as ever, but for some reason it didn’t bother Hoth as it once had. Hoth stepped over to him and clasped him in a firm embrace, causing Farfalla to laugh in surprise. Hoth only released him from the fierce hug when Farfalla began to cough and sputter.

“Greetings, Lord Hoth,” Farfalla said once he was released, making a deep bow and a flourish. Standing up, he gazed out across the battlefield, and his expression became more serious. “My only regret is we couldn’t get here sooner.”

“It’s a miracle you’re here at all, Farfalla,” Hoth replied. “I’m afraid to even ask how you managed to run the blockade, in case this all turns out to be nothing more than the fevered dream of a doomed and dying man.”

“Rest assured, General, I am quite real. As to how we arrived, that is easy enough to explain: the Sith broke the ranks of their blockade to engage our fleet. With our capital ships drawing the focus of their cruisers and Dreadnaughts, we were able to send several gunships down to your aid.”

“What about the rest of our fleet?” Hoth asked in concern. “The Sith had nearly double the numbers of your ships.”

“They held their own long enough for us to get through the blockade, then disengaged and retreated with surprisingly few casualties.”

“Good.” The general nodded. Then he frowned. “But I still don’t understand why they would engage your fleet at all. It makes no sense!”

“I can only assume that they received orders to do so from someone here on the surface.”

“Kaan was on the verge of wiping us out,” Hoth insisted. “The last thing he would do is give the order to engage.”

Both Jedi were silent for a moment, pondering the implications of what had happened. Finally Farfalla asked, “Is it possible we have an unknown ally among the Brotherhood of Darkness?”

Hoth shook his head. “I doubt it. More likely the Sith are finally beginning to turn on each other. It was inevitable.”

Master Farfalla nodded his agreement. “It is the way of the dark side, after all.”

Kaan was fuming as his flier touched down back at the Sith camp. How could everything have gone so terribly wrong in such a short time? They had been on the cusp of victory, and now suddenly they were on the knife’s edge of defeat.

He stormed across the camp toward his communications tent, ignoring the questioning looks of Githany and the others. They wanted an explanation, but he didn’t have one to give. Not yet. Not until he got a status report from Admiral Nyras. How did Farfalla break through the kriffing blockade?

His anger was so great that he didn’t notice Qordis’s flier parked near his tent, or the droplets of blood scattered on the ground nearby. If he had, he might have searched the area and found the body stashed in the nearby undergrowth. But all of Kaan’s focus was concentrated on reaching his tent and the communications equipment inside.

He found Bane there waiting for him, standing still as stone.

“Back so soon, Kaan?” he asked. “What happened to your glorious battle?”

“Reinforcements,” Kaan snarled. “Somehow Farfalla found a way to break through our blockade.”

“I told your fleet to engage the Jedi,” Bane said, his words as casual as if he had been discussing the weather.

Kaan’s jaw dropped. He had suspected treachery, but he wasn’t prepared for the traitor to openly admit it! “But … why?”

“I wanted all the Jedi here on Ruusan at the same time,” Bane replied.

“You blasted fool!” Kaan shouted, waving his arms madly as if they were gripped by uncontrollable spasms. “Victory was ours! We had Hoth beaten!”

“That is your goal, not mine. I’m after a prize far greater than the death of General Hoth. He is but one man.”

Kaan barked out a harsh laugh. “We all know what prize you seek, Darth Bane. You’re here to take over the Brotherhood.”

Bane shrugged indifferently, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other to him.

He seemed so calm, so certain of what he was doing. It was all Kaan could do to keep himself from leaping at the larger man’s throat. Didn’t he understand what he had done? Couldn’t he see that he had doomed them all?

Kaan slumped wearily into a chair. “If you lead them against the Jedi, you lead them to their slaughter.”

Now it was Bane who laughed—a low, sinister chuckle. “How quickly you’ve fallen into despair, Kaan. It seemed only hours ago you were certain of victory.”

“That was before Farfalla and his reinforcements arrived,” Kaan shot back. “Back when we had the advantages of numbers and air superiority. All that is gone, thanks to you. We can’t possibly defeat them now.”

“I can,” Bane vowed.

Kaan sat up straighter in his chair. Again, there was that unwavering confidence. Bane knew something he didn’t. Some trick. “Another ritual like the last one?” he guessed.

“I know many rituals. Many secrets. And I have the strength to use them.”

Dread gripped Kaan. “The thought bomb,” he breathed.

“Your leadership has failed,” Bane declared. “Now I will take the Brotherhood down the path to victory.”

“And what of me?” Kaan asked, already knowing the answer.

“You can swear your loyalty to me with all the others,” Bane told him, “or you can die here in this tent.”

Lord Kaan knew he was no match for Bane, either physically or through the power of the Force. Yet he wasn’t about to surrender so easily. Not while he still had cunning, guile, and his unique talents of persuasion on his side.

“Do you really believe the others will follow you?” he asked, pushing out with the Force to plant the first seeds of doubt in his rival’s mind. “They are still wary of you after your last ritual.”

A flicker of uncertainty passed across Bane’s hard features. Kaan increased the pressure of his invisible compulsions and continued to speak. “The Brotherhood is about equality, not servitude. Asking the others to bow down before you will only drive them away—or turn them against you.”

He rose from his chair as Bane nervously stroked his chin, weighing the arguments. “How do you think the others will react when I tell them how you orchestrated the arrival of the Jedi reinforcements?”

Bane’s dark eyes flashed angrily, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his lightsaber.

“Killing me won’t keep your secret,” Kaan warned him. “The others know you weren’t at the battle when Farfalla’s ships arrived. More than a few of them probably already suspect you of betraying them.”

Kaan pushed even harder with the Force, trying to twist and warp Bane’s very thoughts. “You may be the strongest among us, but you can’t defeat us all. Not by yourself, Bane.”

The big man staggered and clutched at his head. He stumbled over to the chair and collapsed in it, the wood groaning under his massive frame. He hunched forward, hands pressing hard on his temples.

“You’re right,” he said through tightly clenched teeth. “You’re right.”

“There’s still hope, though,” Kaan said, stepping over and placing a reassuring hand on Bane’s broad shoulder. “Follow me and I will keep the others from turning against you. Join us in the Brotherhood!”

Bane nodded slowly, then turned his head to stare up at Kaan with a desperate, hopeless expression in his eyes. “What about the Jedi? What about their gunships?”

Kaan stood, slowly releasing his mental hold over the other man. “We can nullify their air superiority by retreating into the caves,” he said. “I know General Hoth; he will follow us. And there we will unleash the thought bomb against them.”

Bane leapt to his feet eagerly. Kaan was pleased to see that his powers of Force persuasion were as strong as ever. Even Bane was not immune to his manipulations. “I will do as you say, Lord Kaan!” he exclaimed. “Together we will destroy the Jedi!”

“Peace, Bane,” Kaan urged, extending tendrils of soothing calm. He had nullified the threat to his position that Bane represented, but he knew the effect was only temporary. In time Bane’s hostility would return, as would his dreams of usurping the mantle of leadership. Kaan needed to find a more permanent solution.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “there are still … complications.”

“Complications?”

“I can convince the rest of the Brotherhood to forgive your treasonous acts, but only after the Jedi are destroyed. Until then, you will have to remain hidden from the others.”

The confused and hurt expression on Bane’s face was pitiful, but Kaan was used to eliciting such naked emotion in those he manipulated.

“I will lead the Brotherhood to the caves,” he explained.

“I am strong enough to join their minds and unleash the power of the thought bomb without your help. You stay here in the tent until nightfall, then sneak out of the camp. Stay safely out of view until the deed is done.”

“And once the Jedi are destroyed you will return for me?”

“Yes,” Kaan promised, his voice solemn. “Once the Jedi are gone, I will return for you with the full strength of the Brotherhood.” That much, at least, was truth. He would leave nothing to chance; he wouldn’t underestimate his opponent anymore. Bane had already survived one assassination attempt. This time he would unleash the full numbers of his followers against his foe.

“I will do as you command, Lord Kaan,” Bane replied, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. Kaan turned and marched out into the camp, heading for his own tent where the pages containing the ritual of the thought bomb were hidden away.

Bane stayed in the position of supplication until the Dark Lord was well out of sight, then stood up and brushed the dirt from his knees with a grim scowl. He had felt Kaan’s efforts to dominate his mind, but they had had no more effect than a rusted knife scraping against the hide plates of a Halurian ice-boar. Yet he had seized on the opportunity and delivered a performance worthy of the greatest dramatist on Alderaan.

Kaan was convinced the thought bomb was the key to Sith victory, and he was about to ensnare the rest of the Brotherhood in his web of madness. The second phase of Bane’s plan was set in motion. By nightfall the next day it would all be over.

On the perimeters of the Jedi camp, patrols circled endlessly throughout the night, ever vigilant and watchful. It wasn’t just attacks from the Sith they stood guard against, but also the invasions of the floating, fur-covered bouncers.

The previously peaceful and docile native creatures of Ruusan had been driven mad by the cataclysm that had swept through the forest. Before, they had been a familiar and welcome sight: gathering in groups over the sick and wounded to project images of comfort and healing. Now they emerged from the night’s gloom in terrible packs, inflicting twisted nightmares that brought suffering, terror, and panic to all in the vicinity.

There was nothing the patrols could do but shoot the tormented creatures on sight, before they spread their madness among the Jedi. A grim task, but necessary—as so many other things here on Ruusan had been.

Fortunately, the patrols had managed to keep the bouncers at bay, and the mood within the confines of the Jedi camp itself was one of cautious optimism. After the hopeless despair of the past months their subdued enthusiasm almost felt like jubilant revelry to General Hoth.

They were no longer the hunted, cowering in the depths of the forest, surviving only as long as they remained hidden. The Jedi had gained the upper hand: their new camp had been set up on the open plains along the edges of the very battlefield where the war had turned. And now it was the Sith who had gone into hiding.

The general, though still exhausted by the desperate escape from the flames and the fighting that followed, refused to sleep. There were too many details to see to, too many things that needed his attention.

In addition to organizing the patrols to protect against the bouncers, he also had to oversee the distribution of fresh supplies. Farfalla’s ships had delivered desperately needed food, medpacs, and fresh power cells for blasters and personal shields. With most of their other stores lost to the unnatural wildfire that had devastated the forests, the general wanted to make sure all his troops were properly reequipped and tended to before he granted himself the luxury of rest.

He wove his way through dozens of dying campfires and scores of snoring bodies. They were still short on tents for the troops, but those without were more than content to spend the warm nights splayed out on the ground sleeping beneath the open sky.

“General,” a voice called out, surprisingly loud in the otherwise still night. Hoth turned to see Farfalla running toward him, sure-footed despite the darkness as he leapt nimbly over the slumbering soldiers in his way.

Pausing to let him catch up, Hoth returned his now customary—yet still extravagant—bow with a courteous nod. “Do you have news, Master Farfalla?”

The younger man nodded excitedly. “Our scouts have spotted the Sith on the move. Kaan is leading them east, toward the foothills.”

“Probably heading into the caves and tunnel systems,” Hoth guessed. “Trying to take away our advantage in the air.”

Farfalla smiled. “Fortunately, we’ve already done some reconnaissance on the area. We know most of the major access points to and from the surface. Once they go into the tunnels we can surround the exits. They’ll be trapped!”

“Hmmm …” Hoth stroked his heavy beard. “It isn’t like Kaan to make such an obvious tactical mistake,” he muttered. “He’s up to something.”

“I could instruct some of the scouts to follow them into the tunnels and keep an eye on them,” Farfalla suggested.

“No,” Hoth said firmly after only a moment’s consideration. “Kaan will be watching for spies. I won’t deliver any of our people into his hands for interrogation.”

“Maybe we could starve them out,” Farfalla offered. “Force them to surrender without any more bloodshed.”

“That would be the best solution,” the general admitted. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we can afford that kind of time.” He gave a deep sigh and a weary shake of his head. “I don’t know why Kaan’s heading into the caves … I just know we have to do something to stop him.” Resolve hardened his face. “Sound the reveille and assemble the troops. We’ll go in after him.”

“Not to question your orders, General,” Farfalla began, as tactfully as he could, “but is it possible Kaan is luring you into a trap?”

“I’m almost certain of it,” Hoth conceded. “But it’s a trap he’s going to spring sooner or later anyway. I’d rather not give him time to prepare. If we’re lucky we can catch him before he’s ready.”

“As you command, General,” Farfalla said with another of his grandiose bows. Then he added, “You, however, should get some sleep. You look as pale and drawn as one of the Sith yourself.”

“I can’t sleep now, my friend,” Hoth answered, placing a heavy hand on Farfalla’s delicate shoulder. “I was here at the start of this war. I was the one who led the Army of Light here to Ruusan to face Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness. I must see this out to the end.”

“But how much longer can you go without sleep, General?”

“Long enough. I get the feeling this will all be over by tomorrow’s end—one way or another.”

30

The caves were cool and damp, but they were far from dark. The rock walls and ceiling were laced with crystals that caught the dim light from the glow rods, reflecting and refracting their illumination throughout the cavern. Small pools shimmered on the floor, and enormous stalagmites jutted up toward the roof. An inverted forest of stalactites hung down, water dripping steadily from their tips to splash and ripple the pools far below. In some places the protrusions on the floor and ceiling had actually fused, joined by centuries of sediment deposits from the endless trickles of moisture. The enormous columns were magnificent: massive, yet at the same time delicate and fragile.

Kaan had no time to marvel at the natural beauty of their surroundings. He knew the Jedi scouts had marked their exodus to this underground refuge. And he knew General Hoth wouldn’t wait long before coming after him.

The cavern, though large, was crowded with the rest of the Brotherhood. Every surviving Sith Lord—with the notable exception of Darth Bane—was gathered with him here to make their final stand. The rest of his army was guarding the main entrances to the subterranean tunnels, with orders to hold off the inevitable Jedi attack for as long as possible.

Eventually those outside would be overwhelmed, but Kaan was confident their numbers would delay Hoth long enough for the ritual of the thought bomb to be completed.

“Gather ’round,” he called out to the others. “It is time.”

Githany knew there was something very wrong with Lord Kaan. She had suspected something was amiss when they had fled the arriving Jedi reinforcements. When they landed back at camp, Kaan had disappeared into the communications tent, then reappeared moments later and gone into his own tent without speaking a word. But when he emerged from his tent, the irresistible force of his charisma was back in place. He came to them then not as a defeated leader seeking to make amends but as a conquering hero, defiant and unbowed. He stood proud, the picture of might and glory.

He spoke to them, his voice strong and his words bold, radiating authority. He spoke of leading them in a joining of their minds, a ritual that would far surpass the one Bane had led them in only hours earlier. He told them of a terrible weapon they would unleash against their foes. He rekindled their faith and hope by revealing the existence of the thought bomb.

He had promised them victory, as he had done so many times before. And, as they had always done in the past, the Brotherhood had followed him once again. Followed him here to this cave, though Githany wasn’t sure if it was more accurate to say they had been led—or lured.

She had followed him along with everyone else, compelled by the passion of his words and the sheer magnitude of his personality and presence. All thoughts that he might be unstable or unfit to lead them had been forgotten in the heady pilgrimage through the night to the shelter of this cave. Once they reached their destination, though, the exhilarating rush had faded away, replaced by a stark and undeniable clarity. And she had finally seen the truth revealed in the illumination of the glow rods reflected in the crystals of the cavern walls.

Kaan’s appearance and garb weren’t unusual, apart from the dust, grime, and blood of the recent battle. But now Githany could see a crazed look in his eyes; they were wide and wild and shone with a fierce intensity, sparkling as brightly as the crystal shards all around them. Those eyes brought back memories of the night she had surprised Kaan in his tent. The night she had seen her vision of Bane’s return.

He had looked disheveled and frantic, lost and confused. For a brief moment she had glimpsed him as he truly was: a false prophet, unable to see past his own delusions. And then the flickering vision had disappeared, forgotten until this instant.

Now, however, the memory came flooding back, and Githany knew she was following a madman. The arrival of the Jedi reinforcements and the shocking defeat had caused something inside him to snap. Kaan was leading them to their doom, and none of the others could sense it.

She didn’t dare to speak out against him. Not here in this cave, surrounded by his once again fanatically loyal followers. She wanted to sneak away, slip quietly off into the darkness beyond the radiance of the glow rods, and escape this horrible fate. But she was caught up by the crush of bodies that surged forward at Kaan’s command.

“Gather in. Closer. Form a circle; a ring of power.”

She felt his hand grab her tightly by the wrist and pull her in so that her body pressed up against his. Even in the chill of the cave, his touch was freezing. “Stand beside me, Githany,” he whispered. “We will share in this moment of exaltation.”

Loudly he shouted, “Join your hands as we must join our minds.”

The fingers of his right hand wrapped around her left, seizing it in a grip cold as ice and unyielding as durasteel. One of the other Sith Lords took her other hand, and she knew all hope of escape was gone.

Beside her, Kaan began to chant.

Githany was not the only one who sensed something wrong with Lord Kaan. Like all the others, Lord Kopecz had been swept up in the excitement of the thought bomb. He had cheered with all the rest when Kaan described how it would obliterate the Jedi and imprison their spirits. And he had eagerly joined in the throng that had followed him to the cave.

Now, however, his zeal had faded. He was thinking rationally again, and he realized the plan was utter insanity. They were at ground zero of the thought bomb’s detonation. Any weapon powerful enough to destroy the Jedi would destroy them, too.

Kaan had promised them that the strength of their combined will would allow them to survive the blast, but now Kopecz had his doubts. The promise stank of wishful thinking birthed from a desperate mind that refused to admit defeat. If Kaan had had this thought bomb all along, why hadn’t he used it before?

The only logical answer was that he was afraid of the consequences. And though Kaan, in his madness, may have let go of that fear, Kopecz was still sane enough to cling to his.

The rest of the Sith pressed forward in response to Kaan’s command, but Kopecz fought against the momentum of the crowd and moved in the opposite direction. None of the others seemed to notice.

A wall of bodies surrounded Kaan, blocking much of the light from the glow rods. In the shadows the Twi’lek moved carefully toward the cavern’s main exit, surprisingly silent for such a large being. He didn’t turn or look back as he entered the tunnel to the surface, and picked up his pace only once he heard the Brotherhood begin a slow, rhythmic chant.

Escape was impossible, of course. By now the Jedi would already have the entire tunnel complex surrounded. Soon they would engage the Sith troops out on the surface, trying to break through their barricade to come after Kaan and end the last great battle of Ruusan. Kopecz didn’t know if they would make it in time. Part of him actually hoped they would.

In the end, though, he wanted to make sure it didn’t matter to him. He’d join the defenders on the surface in one last stand against the Jedi. Death was inevitable; he was willing to accept that fact. But he also knew he’d rather die from a lightsaber or a blaster shot than be caught by the thought bomb’s detonation.

The chant was simple, and after repeating it only once Kaan was joined by the rest of the Brotherhood. They recited the unfamiliar catechism in a steady, constant rhythm. Their voices bounced off the cavern walls, the ancient words mixing and mingling in counterpoint as they echoed throughout the cave.

Githany could feel the power beginning to gather in the center of the ring, like a fierce whirlpool spinning faster and faster. She felt the pull on her conscious thoughts as they were dragged down, her awareness, her mind, and even her identity swallowed up in the vortex. The cool dampness of the cave faded, as did the reverberation of their voices. She could no longer smell the mildew and fungus growing in the hidden corners, or feel the pressure of the hands that gripped her own. Finally, the shimmering of the reflective crystals and the pale light from the glow rods melted away.

We are one. The voice was Kaan’s, yet it was hers, as well. We are the dark side. The dark side is us.

Though she could no longer hear the sound of their chanting she could sense it, even as her mind slipped deeper and deeper into the center. Realizing she would soon lose both the ability and the desire to free herself from Kaan’s ritual, she tried to fight against what was happening to her.

It was like swimming against the relentless undertow of an ocean’s heart. She felt the words of their recurring mantra taking physical shape. They wrapped around their collective will, trapping it, shaping it, and binding it into a rapidly coalescing form.

Feel the power of the dark side. Surrender to it. Surrender to the unified whole. Let us become one.

From deep within herself Githany summoned her last reserves of resistance. Somehow they were enough, and she was able to wrench her mind free from the unholy conclave.

She staggered back with a gasp, her senses crashing over her like floodwaters bursting through a retaining wall. Sight, sound, smell, and touch returned all at once, overwhelming her frantic mind. The light from the glow rods had grown faint and dim, as if it, too, was being swallowed by the ritual. The chant continued, so loud now it actually hurt her ears. The temperature had dropped so sharply that she was able to see her breath, and tiny crystals of frost had begun to form on the stalactites and along the edges of the tiny puddles and pools.

Suddenly she realized that neither Kaan nor anyone else had a grip on her hands. They were all standing in the ring, arms raised toward its center, oblivious to the world around them. At first it looked as if they were grasping at nothing, but as her eyes adjusted to the gloom she caught sight of a strange distortion in the air.

Githany couldn’t bear to look at it for more than a moment. There was something terrible and unnatural about the wavering fabric of reality, and she turned away in horror.

Bane was right, she realized. Kaan has brought us to ruin!

There was a faint tug on her mind. A gentle pull that was quickly growing stronger, threatening to draw her in with the others. She stumbled away from the profane ceremony and its doomed celebrants, squinting to see her way along the uneven footing.

Bane tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen. Her thoughts were a chaotic jumble of regret, desperation, and fear. Even as one part of her brain chastised her for her mistake, another was forcing her to back away from the abomination being birthed by the Brotherhood.

Her retreat brought her to one of the cavern walls and she followed along it, looking for a way out. The compulsion of the ritual was growing stronger. She could feel it calling to her, inviting her to join the others and share their fate.

She had no plan, no sense of where she was going. She simply had to escape, flee, get out. Get away from here before she was sucked in once again. A small space opened in the stone: a narrow tunnel entrance just wide enough for her to sneak through. She squeezed her body into the crevice, the jagged stone slicing through cloth and skin.

The pain was nothing to her. The physical world was slipping away again. Desperately, Githany managed to throw herself forward, crashing to the ground, then crawled frantically on her hands and knees down the tunnel.

Away. She had to get away. Away from the ritual. Away from Kaan. Away from the thought bomb before it was too late.

*  *  *

The Sith soldiers guarding the entrance to the subterranean tunnels were strong in number but weak in spirit. They offered only token resistance to Farfalla and the rest of the Jedi advance units who came against them. The last battle of Ruusan quickly transformed into a mass surrender, with the enemy throwing down their weapons and begging for their lives.

Farfalla walked among his troops, surveying the scene. General Hoth was close behind with the bulk of the army. He’d be surprised to find the war already over when he arrived.

“How goes it?” Farfalla asked one of the unit commanders.

“The Sith troops have us outnumbered three to one,” the commander answered gruffly. “And they’re all trying to surrender at the same time. This is going to take awhile.”

Farfalla gave him a hearty laugh and slapped him on the shoulder. “Well said,” he agreed. “Sometimes I think people only follow the Sith because they know we will take them alive if they lose.”

“Don’t you dare take me alive, Farfalla,” a voice gurgled. Turning his head sharply, he saw a heavyset Twi’lek lying wounded on the ground.

The injured Twi’lek struggled to his feet, and Farfalla was surprised to see that he wore the robes of a Sith Lord. His face was so covered in blood and gore, most of it his own, that it took the Jedi a moment to recognize him.

“Kopecz,” he said at last, remembering him from days long gone, back when Kopecz had been a Jedi. “You are hurt,” Farfalla continued, extending his hand in an offer of friendship. “Lay down your weapons and we can help you.”

The Twi’lek’s meaty hand lashed out to slap him away. “I chose my side long ago,” he spat. “Promise me death, Jedi, and I will give you a warning. I will tell you Kaan’s plan.”

One look at the Dark Lord’s wounds told Farfalla his enemy didn’t have long to live in any case. “What do you know?”

Kopecz coughed, choking on the blood welling up in his throat. “Promise me, first,” he wheezed.

“I will grant you death, if that is what you truly seek. I swear it.”

The Twi’lek laughed, pink froth bubbling up on his lips. “Good. Death is an old friend. What Kaan has planned is far worse.” And he told Farfalla about the thought bomb, his words sending a chill down the Jedi Master’s spine. When Kopecz had finished he bowed his head and took a deep breath to gather his strength, then activated his lightsaber.

“You promised me death,” he said. “I wish to fall in combat. If you hold back at all, you will be the one who dies here today. Do you understand?”

Master Farfalla nodded grimly, igniting his own weapon.

Lord Kopecz fought valiantly despite his wounds, though he was no match for a fresh and uninjured Jedi Master. In the end, Farfalla fulfilled his promise.

31

The scene that greeted General Hoth as his army came upon the battlefield was as unexpected as it was welcome. He had braced himself for a vision of grim and bloody slaughter, fierce combat with neither side giving nor asking quarter. He had imagined the corpses of the dead would be strewn about, trampled beneath the feet of those still fighting desperately to hang on to their lives. He had come expecting to see a war.

Instead he was witness to something so unbelievable his initial reaction was one of suspicion. Was it a trick? A trap? His fears were quickly allayed when he recognized the familiar and smiling faces of other Jedi all around him.

As he surveyed the aftermath of the last battle of Ruusan, his own face broke into a smile. There were only a handful of dead, and from their dress it was clear that few of them had served in the Army of Light. Most of the enemy had been taken prisoner: they were sitting calmly on the ground in large groups, surrounded by armed Jedi. Yet even though the Jedi were keeping close watch on their captured foes, they were laughing and joking with one another.

He reached out with the Force, and he felt wave after wave of relief and joy washing out from Farfalla’s troops. The soldiers under his command were quick to feel it, too. Seeing the obvious victory, they broke ranks and ran cheering and laughing down to join their fellows in celebration. Hoth resisted the urge to shout out a command to regroup and simply let them go.

The endless war was over!

But as he walked through the milling throngs, accepting the salutes and congratulations of his followers, he realized something was wrong. The battlefield was full of placid, unarmed Sith … but he saw not a single Dark Lord among their numbers.

The sight of Master Farfalla running at full speed toward him from the far side of the field did little to soothe his unease.

“General,” Farfalla said, sliding to a stop and gasping for breath. He snapped off a quick salute. The lack of his typical over-the-top bow further fueled Hoth’s mounting concern.

“I must have taken longer to assemble my forces than I thought,” the general joked, hoping his disquiet was simply misplaced paranoia. “It seems you’ve already won the war.”

Farfalla shook his head. “The war isn’t over. Not yet. Kaan and the Brotherhood—the true Sith—have taken refuge in the caves. They’re going to unleash some kind of Sith weapon. Something called a thought bomb.”

A thought bomb? Hoth had heard mention of such a weapon long ago, studying at the feet of his Master back at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. According to legendary accounts, the ancient Sith had the ability to forge the dark side into a concentrated sphere of power and then unleash its energy in a single, devastating blast. All those sensitive to the Force—Sith and Jedi alike—would be consumed by the explosion, their spirits trapped in the great vacuum created at the epicenter of the detonation.

“Is Kaan mad?” he said aloud, though the very question was answer enough.

“We have to evacuate, General,” Farfalla insisted. “Get everyone away as fast as possible.”

“No,” Hoth answered. “That won’t work. If we retreat, Kaan and the Brotherhood will escape. It won’t take them long to rally support and begin this war all over again.”

“But what about the thought bomb?” Valenthyne demanded.

“If Kaan has such a weapon,” the general explained grimly, “then he will use it. If not here, then somewhere else. Maybe in the Core Worlds. Maybe on Coruscant itself. I can’t allow that.

“Kaan wants to witness my death. I have to go into the cave to face him. I have to force him to detonate the bomb here on Ruusan. It’s the only way to truly end this.”

Farfalla dropped to one knee. “Then I will go by your side, General. As will all who follow me.”

Reaching out with his strong, weathered hands, General Hoth took Farfalla by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. “No, my friend,” he said with a sigh, “you cannot walk this journey with me.”

When the other started to protest he held up a hand for silence and continued. “When Kaan unleashes his weapon, all within that cave will die. The Sith will be wiped out, but I won’t let that happen to our entire order. The galaxy will have need of Jedi to rebuild once this war is over. You and the other Masters must live so that you may guide them and defend the Republic as we have done since its foundation.”

There was no real argument against the wisdom of his words, and after a moment’s deliberation Master Farfalla dropped his head in mute acceptance. When he looked up again there were tears in his eyes.

“Surely you’re not going in alone?” he protested.

“I wish I could,” Hoth replied. “But if I do the Dark Lords will simply take me down with their lightsabers. That would solve nothing. Kaan has to see that his only choice is to surrender or …” He left the thought unspoken.

“You’ll need enough Jedi to convince the Brotherhood that a physical battle would be hopeless. At least a hundred. Any less and he won’t detonate the thought bomb.”

Hoth nodded. “Nobody will be ordered to go in with me. Ask for volunteers. And make sure they understand none of us will ever be coming out.”

Despite the danger, virtually every single member of the Army of Light volunteered for the mission. General Hoth realized that he shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, these were Jedi, willing to sacrifice everything—even their lives—for the greater good. In the end he did what he knew he would have to do all along: he himself chose who would accompany him to certain death.

He selected exactly ninety-nine others to go with him. The decision was agonizingly difficult. If he took less, the Sith might be able to fight their way out of the cave and escape, only to detonate their thought bomb somewhere else. But the more he took, the more Jedi lives he might be needlessly throwing away.

Choosing who would go with him was even more difficult. Those Jedi who had served at his side the longest, the ones who had joined the Army of Light at the very beginning of the campaign, were those he knew best. He knew how much they had already given in this war, and these were the ones he least wanted to lead to their doom. Yet these were the ones with the most right to stand by his side when the end finally came, and when all was said and done that was how he made his selection. Those with the most seniority would go with him; the others would fall back with Lord Farfalla.

The hundred Jedi—the ninety-nine chosen plus Hoth himself—stood anxiously at the entrance of the tunnels. The sky above was growing dark as night fell and ominous storm clouds rolled in. Still, the general did not give the command to advance. He wanted to give Farfalla and the others enough time to get clear. If it had been possible, he would have ordered all those not going into the cave to leave Ruusan. But there wasn’t time. They would simply have to get as far away as possible, then hope they were beyond the range of Kaan’s thought bomb.

As the first drops of rain began to fall, he realized he could wait no longer, and he gave the command to advance. They marched in an orderly fashion into the tunnel, down into the caverns far beneath the planet’s surface.

The first thing Hoth noticed as they descended was how cold the tunnel quickly became, as if all the heat had been sucked away. The next thing he felt was the tension in the air. It actually pulsed with vast, unimaginable power just barely held in check; the power of the dark side. He didn’t allow himself to think about what would happen when that power was released.

They advanced slowly, wary of traps or an ambush. They found none. In fact, they saw no sign of the Sith at all until they reached the large central cavern at the heart of the tunnel system.

General Hoth led the way, a glow rod in one hand and his drawn lightsaber in the other. As he stepped into the cavern, his glow rod suddenly flickered and went very dim. Even the illumination from his lightsaber seemed to die, becoming the thinnest sliver of incandescence.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the heavy shadows he was able to pick out the shapes of the Sith Lords, standing in a circle on the far side of the cave. They faced inward, their hands raised to its center. They stood without moving, their mouths hanging open, their features slack, their eyes blank. Cautiously, he approached the still forms, wondering if they were alive, dead, or trapped in some nightmare state in between.

Drawing closer he could make out a single figure standing in the center of the circle: Lord Kaan. He hadn’t seen him at first; the middle of the ring was darker than the rest of the cave. There seemed to be a black cloud hovering above him, tendrils of inky darkness extending down to wrap and twist around him in a sinister embrace.

One look at the leader of the Brotherhood and any hope the general had of convincing Lord Kaan to listen to reason died. The Sith Lord’s face was pale and taut; his features were stretched as if his skin had become too tight for his skull. A thin layer of ice coated his hair and lashes. His expression was one of cruel arrogance, and his left eye trembled and twitched uncontrollably. He stared straight ahead with a frozen intensity, unblinking and unmoving as Hoth and his Jedi slowly filled the cavern.

Only after all the Jedi were inside did he speak. “Welcome, Lord Hoth.” His voice was tight and strained.

“Are you trying to scare me, Kaan?” Hoth asked, stepping forward. “I do not fear death,” he continued. “I do not mind dying. I would not mind all the Jedi dying if it meant the end of the Sith.”

Kaan turned his head quickly from one side to the other, his eyes darting back and forth across the cave as if he were counting the Jedi who stood before him. His lip curled into a sneer, and he raised his hands up.

The general made his move, lunging forward to try to end Kaan’s life before he could unleash his ultimate weapon. He wasn’t quick enough. The Dark Lord clapped his hands together sharply—and the thought bomb exploded.

In an instant every living soul in the cave was snuffed out of existence. Clothing, flesh, and bone were vaporized. The stalactites, the stalagmites, even the massive stone columns were reduced to clouds of dust. The rumbling echo of the blast rolled down every tunnel, crevice, and fissure leading out of the cavern as the destructive wave of energy began to spread.

Githany was trapped in the labyrinth of subterranean passages. In fleeing Kaan’s ritual she had lost her bearings, and now she wandered aimlessly down kilometer after kilometer of natural tunnels as she searched in vain for an exit to the surface.

In the dim light of her glow rod she saw a small opening on her left and followed it for many meters before it came to a dead end. Shouting out a curse, she turned and made her way back again.

She was furious. Furious at Kaan for bringing the Brotherhood to the brink of destruction. Furious at herself for following him there. And furious at Bane. There was no doubt in her mind that he had somehow orchestrated all this. He had manipulated Kaan and the rest of the Brotherhood, driving them toward their own destruction. Yet that betrayal wasn’t what enraged her. Bane had abandoned her. He’d cast her aside with the others, leaving her to die while he went off to rebuild the Sith.

Ahead of her the tunnel branched in two directions. She paused, drawing on the Force to heighten her senses in the hope she might find some hint as to which path to take. At first there was nothing. Then she caught the faintest whisper of a breeze coming from the tunnel on the left. The air smelled fresh and clean: it led to the surface!

As she raced up the passage, her frustration and rage fell away. She was going to survive! The uneven ground began to slope sharply upward, and she could see a hint of natural light far in the distance. She redoubled her efforts, and her thoughts turned to how she would exact her revenge.

She would have to be subtle and cunning. She had underestimated Bane too many times in the past. This time she would be patient, not striking until she was certain the moment was right.

The first step was to find him and offer to be his apprentice. There was no doubt in her mind he would accept. He needed someone to serve him; it was the way of the dark side. She would learn at his feet, subjugating herself to his will. It might take years, maybe decades, but in time he would teach her everything he knew. Only then, after all his secrets were hers, would she turn on him. She would become the Master and take an apprentice of her own.

Escape was fewer than fifty meters away when Githany felt the first effects of the thought bomb. It began with a trembling in the ground. Her initial instinct was fear of a groundquake or cave-in that would bury her beneath tons of dirt and stones within sight of the surface. But when she felt the power of the dark side rushing up the passage toward her, she realized she was about to suffer a far more horrible fate. Those at the epicenter of the blast had been vaporized. Caught on the fringes of the thought bomb’s radius, Githany was not so lucky. The wave of pure dark side energy swept over her an instant later. It tore through her like some terrible wind, sucking the essence of life from her body and ripping her spirit from its corporeal shell. Her flesh withered and shrank, her beautiful features mummified before she even had time to scream. And then, as quickly as it had come, the wave had passed. For one frozen moment her lifeless husk stood in perfect balance, before it toppled and struck the ground, disintegrating into ash.

On the surface many kilometers away, Farfalla and the other Jedi felt the ground shake, and they knew their general was no more. A moment later their minds erupted with the tortured screams of the Jedi and Sith caught up in the blast, their life-force ripped away and sucked into the vacuum at the heart of the blast.

Many of the Jedi wept in anguish, understanding how great the sacrifice of their fallen comrades had been. The spirits of the dead were bound for all eternity, forever frozen in stasis.

Master Valenthyne Farfalla, now the leader of what remained of the Army of Light, felt the sorrow as deeply as any of them. But this was not the time for grief. With General Hoth’s passing, the burden of command was his to bear, and there were things that still needed to be done.

“Captain Haduran, assemble a team,” he ordered. “We’re going to search the area in and around the tunnels for survivors.” He knew no living creature could have withstood the power of the thought bomb, but it was possible a few of the Sith might have fled before the detonation. After all that had been sacrificed, he had no intention of letting any of the Brotherhood escape.

The captain gave him a quick salute and turned to go. Just before he left Farfalla added, “And have your troops keep an eye out for the bouncers. The last Sith ritual drove them to madness. Who knows what this one did to them.”

“And if we spot them, sir?”

“Shoot to kill.”

*  *  *

Many kilometers in the opposite direction, Darth Bane also felt the reverberations of the blast. He sensed the wave of dark side energy pass over him, strong enough to leave him shivering even at this distance. Once it was gone he reached out with the Force to seek out any who might have escaped. As he expected, he felt nothing. They were all gone: Kaan, Kopecz, Githany … all of them.

The Brotherhood of Darkness had been purged. As far as the Jedi knew, the Sith were now extinct. Bane intended to keep it that way.

He was the only Dark Lord of the Sith, the last of his kind. The burden of rebuilding the order would fall to him. But this time he would do it right. Instead of many there would be only two: one Master and one apprentice. One to embody the power, and one to crave it.

To survive, the Sith had to vanish, becoming creatures of myth, legend, and nightmares. Hidden from the eyes of the Jedi, they could seek out the lost secrets of the dark side until its full power was theirs to command. Only then—once victory over their enemies was certain—would they tear aside the veil of shadows and reveal themselves.

The path ahead would be long and difficult. It might take years or decades before they could strike at the light once more. Perhaps even centuries. But Bane was patient; he understood what was to come and what must be done. Though he himself might not live to see the triumph of the dark side, those who followed him would carry on his legacy. Someday in the distant future, the Republic would fall and the Jedi would perish, and the entire galaxy would bow down to a Dark Lord of the Sith. It was inevitable; it was the way of the dark side.

Satisfied that his work on Ruusan was done, he began the long hike to where he had hidden his ship. He knew the remaining Jedi would come looking for survivors, but by the time they arrived he would be long gone.

Still, one thing troubled him. In order for all this to come to pass he had to find a suitable apprentice. One strong in the Force, but not yet tainted by the teachings of the Jedi. Somewhere he needed to find a child worthy of becoming heir to all the power of the dark side.

EPILOGUE

Rain stirred in her sleep, yet didn’t wake. Someone was calling to her, but she didn’t want to answer. In her dreams she could imagine she was still back home with her cousins, enjoying a simple but happy life. If she woke, she knew she’d have to face the truth: that life was gone forever.

Wake, Rain …

It had vanished the moment that the Jedi—Master Torr, his name had been—had recruited them to join the Army of Light. She hadn’t even really wanted to join. But Bug and Tomcat, her cousins, were both going. They were her only family, and she didn’t want to be left behind. She was young—only ten—but she was strong in the Force. And so Master Torr had let her come, too.

He had told them he was taking them to Ruusan, where they would become Jedi. Only that never happened. Their shuttle had been attacked as soon as they entered the atmosphere. What occurred next was just a blur, but she remembered an explosion and screams. One wing of the ship had sheared away and suddenly she was falling. The smoking wreckage of the shuttle became a speck in the sky above her as it spiraled off out of control and she fell down, down, down until—

Rain, wake!

Laa! Laa had saved her, and it was Laa who was calling to her now. Slowly she opened her eyes and sat up, still groggy.

Rain slept long. Now Rain must wake.

“I’m up, Laa,” she said to the bouncer hovering above her. Laa had saved her from that fall, catching her as she plummeted from hundreds of meters above Ruusan’s surface.

Bad dreams, Rain.

“No,” she replied. “Not bad dreams, Laa. I dreamed I was back home.” Laa never actually spoke to her; she only heard the words inside her head. They communicated through the power of the Force, Laa had once explained to her. But whenever Rain answered, she always voiced the words aloud.

Bad dreams coming.

Rain frowned, trying to figure out exactly what Laa was trying to tell her. Sometimes when the bouncers talked about dreams they actually meant something else. Sometimes it was as if the bouncers had visions of the future. She remembered what Laa had said just before the entire forest had exploded in flames: Bad dreams, Rain. Death dreams.

The fires had killed most of the other bouncers. The survivors had all gone mad. All except Laa. Somehow Rain had saved her. She’d used the Force, shielding them both from the burning death and destruction, though she wasn’t quite sure how she’d done it. It had just sort of … happened. Now she and Laa had nobody left but each other.

Bad dreams coming, the bouncer repeated.

A few hours earlier she had felt something strange: the ground rumbling beneath her feet as if something had exploded far, far away. Was this what Laa was talking about? Was this the bad dream? Or was her friend trying to warn her about something that hadn’t happened yet?

“I don’t understand,” she said, looking around at the bushes surrounding the clearing where she had lain down to sleep. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Not yet, anyway.

Good-bye, Rain.

There was an aching sorrow in Laa’s words that stabbed through Rain’s heart like a knife, but she still didn’t know what the bouncer was talking about.

Before she could ask, there was a sound from the bushes. She spun around to see two men come crashing into the clearing. She could tell right away they were Jedi: they wore the same brown robes as Master Torr, and she saw lightsabers dangling from their belts. Each one also carried a large blaster rifle.

“Bouncer!” one shouted. “Look out!”

They reacted so quickly their motions were nothing but a blur as they opened fire. By the time the scream left Rain’s lips, her friend was already dead.

She was still screaming when the first Jedi ran up to her. “Are you okay, little one?” he asked, reaching down.

Instinctively, she lashed out at him. She didn’t know how she did it; it wasn’t even a conscious thought. She only knew he had shot her friend. He had killed Laa!

“What’s the mat—” His voice was cut short as she snapped his neck with the Force. The eyes of his companion went wide in horror, but before he could do anything else she had broken his neck, too.

Only then did Rain stop screaming. Instead she began to cry, great heaving sobs that racked her body as she crawled over to press herself against the soft green fur of Laa’s still-warm body where it had fallen to the ground.

Bane found her there: a young human child weeping over the remains of one of Ruusan’s native bouncers. The corpses of two young Jedi lay nearby, their heads twisted at obscene angles to their bodies. It took him only an instant to piece together what must have happened.

The girl looked up at him as he approached, her eyes puffy and red. He guessed she was nine, maybe ten at the most. He could feel the power of the Force burning in her, fueled by grief and rage and hatred. Even if he hadn’t sensed it, the broken Jedi at her feet gave mute testament to her abilities.

He didn’t speak, but stood silently. The girl’s sobbing stopped. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Then she rose to her feet and took a tentative step toward him.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice deep and threatening.

She didn’t retreat or flee, though her reply was hesitant. “My name is Rain … I mean Zannah. My cousins used to call me Rain, but they’re dead now. Zannah’s my real name.”

Bane nodded, understanding completely. Rain: a nickname, a name of childhood and innocence. An innocence now lost.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

She nodded and took another step forward. “You’re a Sith.”

“You’re not afraid of me?”

“No,” she insisted with a shake of her head, though Bane knew she wasn’t being completely honest. He could feel her fear, but it was buried beneath far stronger emotions: grief, anger, hatred, and the desire for revenge.

“I have killed many people,” Bane warned her. “Men, women … even children.”

She shuddered but held her ground. “I’m a killer, too.”

Bane glanced over at the Jedi corpses, then turned his focus back to the little girl standing defiantly before him. Was she the one? Had the Force led him along this route back to his ship? Had it brought him here at this exact moment simply so he could find his apprentice?

He asked the final, most important question. “Do you know the ways of the Force? Do you understand the true nature of the dark side?”

“No,” Rain admitted, never dropping her gaze from his own. “But you can teach me. I’m young. I will learn.”

Star Wars: Darth Bane: Rule of Two is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2008 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated.

All rights reserved. Used under authorization.

Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 2008.

eISBN: 978-0-307-79586-1
www.delreybooks.com
www.starwars.com
v3.1

To my parents, Ron and Viv,
and my younger sister, Dawn

———

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book came together in the space of only six months—an unbelievably short time to transform an idea into a finished work on the shelves. I’d like to thank everyone at Lucas Licensing Ltd. and Del Rey Books who was part of this incredible accomplishment, along with a special thanks to my wife, Jennifer. Without her help and understanding I don’t think this would have been possible given the deadlines I was working under. But most of all, I’d like to thank all the fans who bought Darth Bane: Path of Destruction. Without your support, this sequel never would have happened. You have my sincere and humble gratitude.

Contents

Master - Table of Contents

Darth Bane: Rule of Two

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

Darovit made his stumbling way through the bodies that littered the battlefield, his mind numb with grief and horror. He recognized many of the dead: some were servants of the light side, allies of the Jedi; others were followers of the dark side, minions of the Sith. And even in his dazed stupor, Darovit couldn’t help but wonder which side he belonged with.

A few months earlier he’d still gone by his childhood name, Tomcat. Back then he’d been nothing more than a thin, dark-haired boy of thirteen living with his cousins Rain and Bug back on the small world of Somov Rit. They had heard rumblings of the never-ending war between the Jedi and the Sith, but they never thought it would touch their quiet, ordinary lives … until the Jedi scout had come to see Root, their appointed guardian.

General Hoth, leader of the Jedi Army of Light, was desperate for more Jedi, the scout had explained. The fate of the entire galaxy hung in the balance. And the children under Root’s care had shown an affinity for the Force.

At first Root had refused. He claimed his charges were too young to go off to war. But the scout had persisted. Finally, realizing that if the children did not go to the Jedi, the Sith might come and take them forcibly, Root had relented. Darovit and his cousins had left Somov Rit with the Jedi scout and headed for Ruusan. At the time, the children had thought it was the beginning of a grand adventure. Now Darovit knew better.

Too much had happened since they’d all arrived on Ruusan. Everything had changed. And the youth—for he had lived through too much in the past weeks to be called a boy anymore—didn’t understand any of it.

He’d come to Ruusan full of hope and ambition, dreaming of the glory that would be his when he helped General Hoth and the Jedi Army of Light defeat the Sith serving in Lord Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness. But there was no glory to be found on Ruusan; not for him. And not for his cousins.

Rain had died even before their ship touched down on Ruusan. They’d been ambushed by a squadron of Sith Buzzards only seconds after they broke atmosphere, the tail of their vessel shorn off in the attack. Darovit had watched in horror as Rain was swept away by the blast, literally ripped from his arms before plunging to an unseen death hundreds of meters below.

His other cousin, Bug, had died only a few minutes ago, a victim of the thought bomb, his spirit consumed by the terrible power of Lord Kaan’s final, suicidal weapon. Now he was gone. Like all the Jedi and all the Sith. The thought bomb had destroyed every living being strong enough to wield the power of the Force. Everyone except Darovit. And this he couldn’t understand.

In fact, nothing on Ruusan made any sense to him. Nothing! He’d arrived expecting to see the legendary Army of Light he’d heard about in stories and poems: heroic Jedi defending the galaxy against the dark side of the Force. Instead he’d witnessed men, women, and other beings who fought and died like common soldiers, ground into the mud and blood of the battlefield.

He’d felt cheated. Betrayed. Everything he’d heard about the Jedi had been a lie. They weren’t shining heroes: their clothes were soiled with grime; their camp stank of sweat and fear. And they were losing! The Jedi whom Darovit had encountered on Ruusan were defeated and downtrodden, weary from the seemingly endless series of battles against Lord Kaan’s Sith, stubbornly refusing to surrender even when it was clear they couldn’t win. And all the power of the Force couldn’t restore them to the shining icons of his naïve imagination.

There was movement on the far edge of the battlefield. Squinting against the sun, Darovit saw half a dozen figures slowly making their way through the carnage, gathering up the fallen bodies of friend and foe alike. He wasn’t alone—others had survived the thought bomb too!

He ran forward, but his excitement cooled as he drew close enough to make out the features of those tasked with cleaning the battlefield. He recognized them as volunteers from the Army of Light. Not Jedi, but ordinary men and women who’d sworn allegiance to Lord Hoth. The thought bomb had only taken those with sufficient power to touch the Force: Non-Force-using folk like these were immune to its devastating effects. But Darovit wasn’t like them. He had a gift. Some of his earliest memories were of using the Force to levitate toys for the amusement of his younger cousin Rain, when they were both children. These people had survived because they were ordinary, plain. They weren’t special like he was. Darovit’s survival was a mystery—just one more thing about all this he didn’t understand.

As he approached, one of the figures sat down on a rock, weary from the task of gathering the dead. He was an older man, nearly fifty. His face looked drawn and haggard, as if the grim task had sapped his mental reserves along with the physical. Darovit recognized his features from those first few weeks he’d spent in the Jedi camp, though he’d never bothered to learn the old man’s name.

A sudden realization froze Darovit in his tracks. If he recognized the man, then the man might also recognize him. He might remember Darovit. He might know the young man was a traitor.

The truth about the Jedi had disgusted Darovit. Repulsed him. His illusions and daydreams crushed by the weight of harsh reality, he’d acted like a spoiled child and turned against the Jedi. Seduced by easy promises of the dark side’s power, he’d switched sides in the war and thrown himself in with the Brotherhood of Darkness. It was only now that he understood how wrong he’d been.

The realization had come upon him as he’d witnessed Bug’s death—a death for which he was partly responsible. Too late he had learned the true cost of the dark side. Too late he understood that, through the thought bomb, Lord Kaan’s madness had brought devastation upon them all.

He was no longer a follower of the Sith; he no longer hungered to learn the secrets of the dark side. But how could this old man, a devoted follower of General Hoth, know that? If he remembered Darovit, he would remember him only as the enemy.

For a second he thought about trying to escape. Just turn and run, and the tired old man still catching his breath wouldn’t be able to stop him. It was the kind of thing he’d once done all the time. But things were different now. Whether it was from guilt, maturity, or simply a desire to see it all end, Darovit didn’t run away. Whatever fate awaited him, he chose to stay and face it.

Moving with slow but determined steps, he approached the rock where the man was sitting, seemingly lost in thought. Darovit was only a few meters away when the man finally glanced up to acknowledge him.

There was no glint of recognition in his eyes. There was only an empty, haunted look.

“All of them,” the man mumbled, though whether he was talking to Darovit or himself wasn’t clear. “All the Jedi and all of the Sith … all gone.”

The man turned his head, fixing his vacant stare on the dark entrance to a small cave nearby. A chill went through Darovit as he realized what the man was talking about. The entrance led underground, through twisting tunnels to the cavern deep beneath the ground where Kaan and his Sith had gathered to unleash the thought bomb.

The man grunted and shook his head, dispelling the morbid state he had slipped into. Standing up with a weary sigh, his mind was once more focused on his duty. He gave Darovit a slight nod but otherwise paid him no further heed as he resumed the macabre task of rolling the corpses in cloth so they could be collected and given honorable burials.

Darovit turned toward the cave. Again, part of him wanted to back away and run. But another part of him was drawn to the black maw of the tunnel. Maybe there were answers to be found inside. Something to make sense of all the death and violence; something to help him see the reasons behind the endless war and bloodshed. Maybe he’d discover something to help him grasp some purpose behind everything that had happened here.

The air grew steadily cooler the deeper he descended. He could feel a tingling in the pit of his stomach: anticipation mixing with a sick sense of dread. He wasn’t sure what he’d find once he reached the underground chamber at the tunnel’s end. More bodies, perhaps. But he was determined not to turn back.

As the darkness enveloped him, he silently cursed himself for not bringing along a glow rod. He had a lightsaber at his belt; getting his hands on one of the fabled weapons was one of the temptations that had lured him over to the Sith. But even though he’d betrayed the Jedi just to lay claim to it, in the darkness of the tunnel, he no longer felt any desire to ignite it and use its light to guide him. The last time he’d drawn it had resulted in Bug’s death, and the memory had tainted the prize he had sacrificed everything to gain.

He knew that if he turned back, he might never gather enough courage to make the trip down again, so he pressed on despite the darkness. He moved slowly, reaching out with his mind, trying to draw on the Force to guide him through the lightless tunnel. Even so he kept tripping over the uneven ground, or stubbing his toes. In the end he found it easier just to run one hand along the rocky wall and use it to guide himself.

His progress was slow but steady, the tunnel floor becoming steeper and steeper until he was half climbing down it in the darkness. After half an hour he noticed a faint light emanating from far ahead, a soft glow coming from the distant end of the passage. He picked up his pace, only to trip over a small outcropping of stone jutting up from the rough-hewn ground. He fell forward with a cry of alarm, falling and tumbling down the sharp slope until he came to rest, bruised and battered, at the tunnel’s end.

It opened into a wide, high-ceilinged chamber. Here the dim glow that had drawn him forward was reflected from flecks of crystal embedded in the surrounding stone, illuminating the cavern so he could see everything clearly. A few stalactites still hung from the roof high above; hundreds more lay smashed on the cavern’s floor, dislodged when Kaan had detonated the thought bomb.

The bomb itself, or what remained of it, hovered a meter above the ground in the very center of the cavern—the source of the illumination. At first glance it appeared to be an oblong, metallic orb four meters from top to bottom, and nearly three meters across at its widest point. Its surface was a flat, dusky silver that projected a pale radiance but at the same time devoured all light reflected back to it by the crystals trapped in the surrounding walls.

Rising to his feet, Darovit shivered. He was surprisingly cold; the orb had sucked all the warmth from the air. He took a step forward. The dust and debris crunching below his foot sounded flat and hollow, as if the thought bomb were swallowing not just the heat of the cavern, but the noise as well.

Pausing, he listened to the unnatural silence. He couldn’t hear anything, but he definitely felt something. A faint, thrumming vibration running through the floor and up into his body, a steady, rhythmic pulse coming from the orb.

Darovit held his breath, unaware he was doing so, and took another tentative step forward. When nothing happened he let the air escape from his lungs with a long, soft sigh. Gathering his courage, he continued his cautious approach, reaching out a hand but never taking his eyes from the sphere.

He drew close enough to see dark bands of shadow slowly twisting and turning beneath the shimmering surface, like black smoke trapped deep within the core. Two more steps and he was close enough to touch it. His hand trembling only slightly, he leaned forward and pressed his palm against the surface.

His mind exploded with wails of pure anguish; a shrieking cacophony of voices rose from the orb, all the victims of the thought bomb screaming out in torment.

Darovit wrenched his hand free and staggered back, dropping to his knees.

They were still alive! The bodies of the Jedi and Sith had been consumed by the thought bomb, crumbling into dust and ash, but their spirits had survived, sucked into the vortex at the heart of the bomb’s blast only to be imprisoned forever.

He had only touched the surface for the briefest of seconds, but the keening of spirits had nearly driven him mad. Trapped inside the impregnable shell, they were condemned to an eternity of endless, unbearable suffering. A fate so horrible that Darovit’s mind refused to fully grasp the implications.

Still hunched over on the ground, he clasped his head in his hands in a gesture of helpless futility. He’d come here seeking answers and explanations. Instead he’d found an abomination against nature itself, one from which every part of his being instinctively recoiled.

“I don’t understand … I don’t understand … I don’t understand …”

He muttered the phrase over and over again, huddled on the ground, rocking slowly back and forth on his heels and still clutching his head in his hands.

1

Peace is a lie. There is only passion.

Through passion, I gain strength.

Through strength, I gain power.

Through power, I gain victory.

Through victory, my chains are broken.

The Code of the Sith

Darth Bane, the only Sith Lord to escape the devastation of Kaan’s thought bomb, marched quickly under a pale yellow Ruusan sun, moving steadily across the bleak, war-torn landscape. He was two meters tall, and his black boots covered the ground in long, sweeping strides, propelling his large, powerfully muscled frame with a sense of urgent purpose. There was an air of menace about him, accentuated by his shaved head, his heavy brow, and the dark intensity of his eyes. This, even more than his forbidding black armor or the sinister hook-handled lightsaber dangling from his belt, marked him as a man of fearsome power: a true champion of the dark side of the Force.

His thick jaw was set in grim determination against the pain that flared up every few minutes at the back of his bare skull. He had been many kilometers away from the thought bomb when it detonated, but even at that range he had felt its power reverberating through the Force. The aftereffects lingered, sporadic bursts shooting through his brain like a million tiny knives stabbing at the dark recesses of his mind. He had expected these attacks to fade over time, but in the hours since the blast, their frequency and intensity had steadily increased.

He could have called on the Force to keep the pain at bay, cloaking himself in an aura of healing energy. But that was the way of the Jedi, and Bane was a Dark Lord of the Sith. He walked a different path, one that embraced suffering, drawing strength from the ordeal. He transformed the pain into anger and hate, feeding the flames of the dark side until his physical aspect seemed almost to glow with the fury of a storm it could barely contain.

The terrifying image Bane projected contrasted sharply with the small figure that followed in his wake, struggling to keep up. Zannah was only ten, a waif of a girl with short, curly blond hair. Her clothing was simple and plain to the point of being rustic: a loose-fitting white shirt and faded blue coveralls, both torn and stained from weeks of continuous wear. Anyone who saw her scampering along after Bane’s massive, black-clad form would have been hard-pressed to imagine she was the Sith Master’s chosen apprentice. But looks could be deceiving.

There was power in the child. He’d seen ample proof of that at their first meeting, less than an hour earlier. Two nameless Jedi were dead by her hand. Bane didn’t know all the details surrounding their deaths; he had arrived after the fact to find Zannah crying over the body of a bouncer, one of the telepathic, green-furred species native to Ruusan. The still-warm corpses of the Jedi had been sprawled beside her, their heads lolling at grotesque angles atop broken necks.

Clearly the bouncer had been the child’s friend and companion. Bane surmised that the Jedi must have inadvertently killed the bouncer, only to meet a similar fate when Zannah exacted her revenge. Unaware of her power, they’d been caught off guard when the child—driven by mind-numbing grief and pure, abject hatred—had unleashed the full fury of the dark side on the men who’d slain her friend.

They were victims of cruel misfortune: in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet it would have been inaccurate to call their deaths pointless. In Bane’s eyes, at least, their sacrifice had allowed him to recognize the young girl’s potential. To some the series of events would have seemed preordained, as if the hapless Jedi had been inexorably drawn to their grim end with the sole purpose of uniting Bane and Zannah. No doubt there were even those who would profess that fate and the dark side of the Force had conspired to present the Master with a suitable apprentice. Bane, however, was not one of them.

He believed in the power of the Force, but he also believed in himself: He was more than just a servant of prophecy or a pawn of the dark side, subject to the whims of an inevitable, inescapable future. The Force was a tool he had used to forge his own destiny through strength and cunning. He alone among the Sith had truly earned the mantle of Dark Lord, which was why he alone among them still lived. And if Zannah was worthy of being his apprentice, she would eventually have to prove herself, as well.

He heard a grunt behind him and turned back to see that the girl had tumbled to the ground, falling in her haste to try to keep up with the relentless pace he’d set. She glared at him, anger etched across her features.

“Slow down!” she snapped. “You’re going too fast!”

Bane clenched his teeth as a fresh bolt of pain ripped through his skull. “I am not going too fast,” he replied, keeping his voice even but stern. “You are going too slow. You must find a way to keep up.”

She scrambled to her feet, swatting at the scuffed knees of her overalls to wipe away the most obvious traces of dirt. “My legs aren’t as long as yours,” she replied crossly, refusing to back down. “How am I supposed to keep up?”

The girl had spirit. That had been clear from the moment of their first meeting. She had recognized Bane instantly for what he was: one of the Sith, sworn enemy of the Jedi, a servant of the dark side. Yet she had shown no fear. In Zannah, Bane had seen the potential for the successor he needed, but she had obviously seen something she wanted in him, too. And when he had offered her the chance to be his apprentice, to study and learn the ways of the dark side, she hadn’t hesitated.

He wasn’t yet certain why Zannah had been so eager to ally herself with a Lord of the Sith. It could have been a simple act of desperation: She was alone, with nowhere else to turn for her survival. Or maybe she saw the dark side as a path to vengeance against the Jedi, a way to make them all suffer for the death of her bouncer friend. It was even possible she had simply sensed Bane’s power and lusted to claim it as her own.

Whatever her true motivations, Zannah had been more than willing to swear fealty to the Sith and her new Master. However, it was neither her spirit nor her willingness that made her worthy of being his apprentice. The Dark Lord had chosen her for one reason, and one reason only.

“You are strong in the Force,” he explained, his voice still betraying no hint of emotion or the agony he endured. “You must learn to use it. To call on its power. To bend it to your purpose. As you did when you killed the Jedi.”

He saw a flicker of doubt cross her face. “I don’t know how I did that,” she muttered. “I didn’t even mean to do it,” she continued, suddenly uncertain. “It just sort of … happened.”

Bane detected a hint of guilt in her voice. He was disappointed, but hardly surprised. She was young. Confused. She couldn’t truly understand what she had done. Not yet.

“Nothing just happens,” he insisted. “You called upon the power of the Force. Think back to how you did it. Think back to what happened.”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “I don’t want to,” she whispered.

The girl had already endured immeasurable pain and suffering since her arrival on Ruusan. She had no wish to revisit those awful experiences. Bane understood; he even sympathized with her. He, too, had suffered during his childhood, a victim of countless savage beatings at the hands of Hurst, his cruel and abusive father. But he had learned to use those memories to his advantage. If Zannah was to become the heir to the dark side’s legacy, she had to confront her past. She had to learn how to draw upon her most painful memories. She had to transform and channel them to allow her to wield the power of the dark side.

“You feel sorry for those Jedi now,” Bane said, his voice casual. “You feel regret. Remorse. Maybe even pity.” The easy tone fell away quickly as his voice began to rise in both volume and intensity. “But these are worthless emotions. They mean nothing. What you need to feel is anger!”

He took a sudden step toward her, his right fist clenched before him to punctuate his words. Zannah flinched at the unexpected movement, but didn’t retreat.

“Their deaths were not an accident!” he shouted as he took another step forward. “What happened was not some mistake!”

A third step brought him so close that the shadow of his massive frame enveloped the girl like an eclipse. She cowered slightly but held her ground. Bane froze, blocking out the pain in the back of his skull and reining in his fury. He crouched down beside her and relaxed his clenched fist. Then he reached out slowly with his hand and placed it gently on her shoulder.

“Think back to what you felt when you unleashed your power against them,” he said, his voice now a soft, seductive whisper. “Think back to what you felt when the Jedi murdered your friend.”

Zannah dropped her head, her eyes closed. For several seconds she was still and silent, forcing her mind to relive the moment. Bane saw the emotions crossing her face: grief, sorrow, loss. Beneath his massive hand on her frail shoulder, she trembled slightly. Then, slowly, he felt her anger begin to rise. And with it, the power of the dark side.

When the girl looked up again her eyes were open wide; they burned with a fierce intensity. “They killed Laa,” she spat. “They deserved to die!”

“Good.” Bane let his hand fall from her shoulder and took a step back, the hint of a satisfied smile playing across his lips. “Feel the anger. Welcome it. Embrace it.

“Through passion, I gain strength,” he continued, reciting from the Code of the Sith. “Through strength, I gain power.”

“Through passion, I gain strength,” she said, repeating his words, responding to them. “Through strength, I gain power.” He could sense the dark side building within her, growing in intensity until he could almost feel its heat.

“The Jedi died because they were weak,” he said, taking a step back. “Only the strong survive, and the Force will make you strong.” As he turned away, he added, “Use it to keep up. If you fall behind again, I will leave you here on this world.”

“But you still haven’t told me what to do!” she shouted after him as he marched away.

Bane didn’t reply. He’d given her the answer, though she didn’t know it yet. If she was worthy of being his apprentice, she’d figure it out.

He felt a sudden surge of power rushing toward him, concentrated on the heel of his left foot as she tried to trip him up to slow him down. Bane had braced himself for some kind of reaction the moment he’d turned his back on her. He’d pushed her to the edge; he’d have been disappointed if she had done nothing. But he’d been expecting a broader, more basic assault—a wave of dark side energy meant to hurl him to the ground. A focused strike against a single heel was much more subtle. It showed intelligence and cunning, and though he was ready for it, the strength of her attack still surprised him.

Yet even with as much power and potential as Zannah had, she was no match for a Dark Lord of the Sith. Bane drew upon his own abilities in the Force to absorb the impact of her attack, catching it and amplifying its strength before firing it back at his apprentice. The redirected blow struck Zannah in the chest, hard enough to knock her to the ground. A grunt of surprise escaped her lips as she landed hard on her backside.

She wasn’t injured; Bane had no intention of harming her. The constant beatings inflicted on him by his father throughout his childhood had helped transform Bane into what he was today, but they had also caused him to hate and despise Hurst. If this girl was to be his apprentice, she had to respect and admire him. He could not teach her the ways of the dark side if she was not willing—even eager—to learn from him. The only thing Hurst’s beatings had ever taught Bane was how to hate, and Zannah already knew that lesson.

He turned back and fixed his cold gaze on the girl still sitting on a hard, bare patch of dirt. She glared back up at him, furious at the way he had humiliated her.

“A Sith knows when to unleash the fury of the dark side,” he informed her, “and when to hold back. Patience can be a weapon if you know how to use it, and your anger can fuel the dark side if you learn how to control it.”

She was still fuming with rage, but he saw something else in her expression now: a guarded curiosity. Slowly she nodded as the meaning of his words became clear, and her expression softened. Bane could still feel the power of the dark side within her; her anger was still there, but she had hidden it below the surface. She was nursing it, feeding it for a time when she could unleash it.

She had just learned her first lesson in the ways of the Sith. And she was wary of him now—wary, but not afraid. Just as he wanted. The only thing he needed her to be afraid of was failure.

He turned away from her again and resumed his march, suppressing a shudder as a fresh phalanx of blades carved their way through his thoughts. Behind him he felt Zannah gather the Force once more. This time, however, the girl directed it inward, using it to refresh and rejuvenate her exhausted limbs.

She sprang up and scurried after him, moving almost effortlessly at a full run. He quickened his pace as his apprentice fell into step beside him, easily able to keep up now that she was propelled by the awesome power of the Force.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“The Sith camp,” he answered. “We need supplies for the journey.”

“Are the other Sith there?” she wondered. “The ones the Jedi were fighting?”

Bane realized he hadn’t yet told her what had happened to Kaan and the Brotherhood.

“There are no other Sith. There never will be, except for us. One Master and one apprentice; one to embody the power, the other to crave it.”

“What happened to the others?” she wanted to know.

“I killed them,” he replied.

Zannah seemed to think about this for a moment before shrugging indifferently. “Then they were weak,” she said with simple conviction. “And they deserved to die.”

Bane realized he had chosen his apprentice well.

2

The great warship of Lord Valenthyne Farfalla—leader of the Jedi Army of Light since the loss of General Hoth—maintained a slow orbit high above Ruusan’s surface. Fashioned so that her exterior resembled an ancient sailing barge, the vessel had an archaic elegance, a grandeur that some felt was a sign of vanity unbecoming in a Jedi.

Johun Othone, a young Padawan in the Army of Light, had once shared that opinion. Like many of Hoth’s followers, he had initially regarded Lord Valenthyne as nothing but a prancing fool concerned only with brightly colored shimmersilk shirts, the long flowing curls of his golden hair, and the other trappings of garish and gaudy fashion. Yet in battle after battle against the Brotherhood of Darkness, Farfalla and his followers had proved their worth. Slowly, almost grudgingly, Johun and the rest of Hoth’s troops had come to admire and even respect the man they once had scoffed at.

Now General Hoth was gone, destroyed along with the Sith in their final confrontation, and in his absence it was Lord Valenthyne who had taken up the banner of leadership. Following Hoth’s orders, Farfalla had organized the mass evacuation of Ruusan before the detonation of the thought bomb, saving thousands of Force-sensitive Jedi and Padawans from its devastating effects by loading them onto the ships of his orbiting fleet.

It was mere chance that Johun had ended up here on the Fairwind, Valenthyne’s flagship. The vessel was large enough to hold a crew of over three hundred comfortably, but crammed into the hold with nearly five hundred other evacuees, the young man was anything but comfortable. They were packed in so tightly, it was difficult to move; Jedi Masters, Jedi Knights, and Padawans were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder.

The other ships were just as full. In addition to the Jedi, the vast majority of the non-Force-sensitive troops who had joined Hoth’s cause had also been taken off-world. One of the ships had even been loaded up with several hundred prisoners, the non-Sith followers of Lord Kaan who had quickly surrendered to the Jedi when their dark leader had abandoned them to embark on his final mad plan to destroy the Jedi. There wasn’t any real danger for these ordinary soldiers; the thought bomb only affected those most attuned to the Force. But in the haste to evacuate it had been simpler to just take everyone.

Here on Valenthyne’s personal galleon, however, Johun recognized nearly every face. He had fought beside them for many months, through ambushes, skirmishes, and full-scale battles. Together they had borne witness to death and bloodshed; tasted glorious triumph and endured crushing defeat. Each of them had seen many foes—and too many friends—die as they had waged a seemingly endless campaign against the forces of the dark side.

Now, as they huddled together in this ship, the war was finally over. Victory was theirs at last. Yet every being aboard wore a grim and somber mask. The extinction of the Sith had come with a terrible price. There was no doubt about what had happened, no hope that any of the Jedi still down on the surface had survived. Orbiting high above Ruusan, they had been safely outside the blast radius of the thought bomb. But through the Force they had heard the agonized screams of their fellow Jedi as their spirits were torn apart and swept up in the swirling vortex of dark side energy. Many of the survivors had wept openly. Most simply endured the suffering in stoic silence, reflecting on the sacrifice others had made.

Johun—like Farfalla and virtually every other member of the Army of Light—had volunteered to stay behind with General Hoth. But the general had refused. Knowing that those who stayed with him faced certain death, he had ordered all but a hundred of his Jedi followers off the world. None of the Padawans had been allowed to remain. Yet even though he was only following orders, Johun couldn’t help but feel he had betrayed his general by fleeing the planet.

Across the densely packed hold he could just make out Farfalla, his bright red blouse standing out like a beacon among the sea of mostly brown-clad bodies. He was organizing the rescue parties that would be shuttled back down to Ruusan’s surface to deal with the aftermath of the thought bomb, and Johun was determined to be among them.

It was difficult to move through the mass of Jedi, but Johun was small and slight. He was nineteen, but he had yet to fill out, and with his slender build, fair skin, and shoulder-length light blond hair—twisted into a tight braid, as was the custom for a young Jedi still in training—he looked at least two years younger. It could be frustrating to be mistaken for a kid, but now, as he twisted and slithered through the throng, he was grateful for his slim physique.

“Lord Valenthyne,” he called as he drew near. He raised his voice further to be heard above the din. “Lord Valenthyne!”

Farfalla turned, trying to pick out the owner of the voice from the wall of bodies and faces, then gave a nod of recognition as the young man finally burst into view. “Padawan Johun.”

“I want to join the rescue teams,” Johun blurted. “Send me back down.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that,” the Jedi Master replied with a sympathetic shake of his head.

“Why not?” Johun demanded. “Do you think I’m too young?”

“That is not—” Farfalla began, but Johun cut him off.

“I’m not a kid! I’m nineteen—older than those two for sure!” he insisted, waving his hand in the direction of the nearest rescue team: a group consisting of a middle-aged man with a short beard, a woman in her twenties, and two boys in their early teens.

“Be aware of your anger,” Farfalla cautioned him, his voice stern.

Johun was about to reply, but instead bit his tongue and merely nodded. There was no point in getting upset; that would not convince Lord Valenthyne to let him go along.

“Your age has nothing to do with my decision,” the older Jedi explained once he was assured that Johun had brought his emotions under control. “Fully a third of our forces are younger than you.”

It was true, Johun realized. The mounting casualties of the Ruusan campaign had forced the Army of Light to accept younger and younger recruits into its ranks. His youth was not the issue; there had to be some other explanation. But instead of asking why he could not go, Johun simply remained silent. Patience would win him more from General Hoth’s successor than incessant, thoughtless questions.

“Take a closer look at who I am sending down,” Farfalla instructed. “These are brave volunteers, valuable allies in our battle against the Sith. But none of them is attuned to the Force.”

Surprised, Johun took a second look at the shore party as they made their final preparations. The woman had dark skin and short black hair, and the Jedi realized he had met her once before. She was a Republic soldier named Irtanna, and she had joined their cause a little over a standard year earlier. It took him a moment longer to place the others, until he noticed the resemblance between the bearded man and the two teenagers. They were natives of Ruusan. The man was a farmer named Bordon who had fled before the advancing armies of Lord Kaan during the latest Sith offensive. The two boys were his sons, though Johun couldn’t recall their names.

“We do not know the full extent of the thought bomb’s effects,” Farfalla continued. “There may be aftershocks that could harm or even kill a Jedi or Padawan. That is why you cannot go.”

Johun nodded. It made sense; Valenthyne was just being cautious. But sometimes it was possible to be too cautious. “There are other risks on the surface,” he noted. “We don’t know that all the Sith are dead. Some of them may have survived.”

Farfalla shook his head. “Kaan had some spell, some power, over his followers. They were enthralled to his will. When he led them down into the cave, they all followed him willingly. He had them convinced they could survive the thought bomb if they united their power … but he was wrong.”

“What about the Sith minions?” Johun pressed, unwilling to let the matter drop. Like the Jedi, the Sith had their share of followers who were not attuned to the Force: soldiers and mercenaries who had allied themselves with the Brotherhood of Darkness. “We didn’t capture them all,” the young Padawan pointed out. “Some of them fled the battle. They’ll still be down there.”

“That’s what this is for,” the woman soldier assured him, patting the blaster on her hip. She gave a fierce smile, her gleaming white teeth contrasting sharply with her dark complexion.

“Irtanna knows how to take care of herself,” Farfalla agreed. “She’s seen more combat than you and me put together.”

“Please, Lord Valenthyne,” Johun begged, dropping to one knee. A vain and foolish gesture, but he was desperate. He knew Farfalla was right, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about logic or reason or even the dangers of the thought bomb. He just couldn’t sit by doing nothing! “Please! He was my Master.”

Farfalla reached out with his hand and placed it tenderly on Johun’s forehead. “Hoth warned me that his decision to send you away would not rest easily on your shoulders,” he said softly. “But your Master was a wise man. He knew what was best for you, as do I. You must trust my judgment in this, even if you do not fully understand it.”

Removing his hand from the young man’s brow, the new leader of the Army of Light took Johun by the arm and helped him to his feet.

“Your Master made a great sacrifice to save us all,” he said. “If we give in to our emotions now, if we allow ourselves to come to needless harm, then we dishonor what he has done. Do you understand?”

Johun nodded, a Padawan acquiescing to the greater wisdom of a Jedi Master.

“Good,” Farfalla said, turning away to focus his attention on one of the other rescue teams. “If you want to help, give Irtanna a hand loading up their supplies.”

Johun nodded again, though Farfalla didn’t notice. He was already gone, whisked away by the responsibilities of his position.

Working in silence, Johun helped load the last few supplies into the shuttle: field kits filled with rations and water capsules; medpacs in case they came across any wounded; electrobinoculars and a sensor pack for scouting and recon; glow rods for when night fell. And, of course, spare power packs for the blasters Irtanna and the others carried in case they encountered any surviving minions from Kaan’s army.

“Thank you,” Irtanna said once they were done.

Trying to appear casual, Johun took a quick look around. Farfalla was nowhere to be seen.

“Did you want to fly us down, or should I?” he asked her. The words were easy, but as he said them he reached out with the Force to touch her mind. He did it gently, being careful not to cause her any harm as he planted the seed of a suggestion.

Her eyes glazed over momentarily and a look of blank confusion crossed her face. “Uh … I’ll fly us down, I guess. You can take the copilot’s chair.”

“You’re coming with us?” Bordon, the middle-aged father, asked. From his tone, it was obvious he had doubts.

“Of course,” Johun replied amicably. “You all heard him say I should help you load up the supplies, right? Why else would he say that if I wasn’t going with you?”

As he had done with Irtanna, he gave another slight push, adding the mind-altering power of the Force to the half-truth. Normally he would have abhorred the idea of manipulating friends or allies in this fashion, but in this case he knew the ragtag rescue team would fare better if he accompanied them.

“Yeah. Right,” Bordon agreed after a moment. “Good to have you along.”

“Makes sense to have a Jedi with us,” Irtanna added. “Just in case.”

Persuading someone through the Force was always easier when it was something they wanted to be convinced of, Johun noted. Still, he felt a slight twinge of guilt as he climbed into the small ship-to-surface shuttle.

That’s only because you’re disobeying Farfalla, he reassured himself. You’re doing the right thing.

“Everyone strap in,” Irtanna ordered, speaking over the pressurized hiss as the air locks sealed.

The shuttle’s engines flared to life, lifting them off the docking platform.

“Back home to Ruusan. Or at least what’s left of it,” Bordon muttered glumly as they drifted through the cargo hold doors and out into the upper reaches of the planet’s atmosphere.

3

Darth Bane felt them long before he saw them.

Those ignorant in the ways of the Force saw it as only a weapon or tool: It could strike out against a foe in battle; it could levitate nearby objects and draw them into a waiting palm or fling them across a room. But these were mere wizard’s tricks to one who understood its true power and potential.

The Force was a part of all living things, and all living things were a part of the Force. It flowed through every being, every animal and creature, every tree and plant. The fundamental energies of life and death coursed through it, causing ripples in the very fabric of existence.

Even distracted by the agonizing flashes of the blades slicing apart the inside of his skull, Bane was sensitive to these ripples. They gave him an awareness that transcended space and even time, granting him brief glimpses into the always shifting possibilities of the future. That was how, still two kilometers and several minutes away from where Kaan and his army had made their camp, he knew others were already there.

There were eight in total, all human—six men and two women. Mercenaries who had signed on with the Brotherhood for credits and a chance to strike at the hated Republic, they had survived the final battle with Hoth’s troops. They had most likely fled the confrontation the instant Kaan had descended into the bowels of the planet’s surface to lay his trap for the Jedi, displaying the loyalty of all followers bought and paid for. And now, like blood beetles picking the rotting meat off a bantha’s corpse, they had come to scavenge whatever remnants of value they could find from the deserted Sith camp.

“There’s someone up ahead,” Zannah whispered a minute later. Less attuned to the subtle nuances of the Force than her Master, it had taken her longer to sense the danger. But given her lack of training, the fact that she had noticed anything at all was testament to her abilities.

“Wait here,” Bane ordered, holding out a hand to freeze Zannah in her place. Wisely, she obeyed.

He didn’t look back as he broke into a full run. The ground rushed by beneath his feet, a blur of motion as he called on the Force to drive him forward. The pain in his head vanished, swept away by the anticipation of battle and the physical exhilaration of his charge.

Within sixty seconds the Sith camp came into view, the outlines of the doomed mercenaries clearly visible as they argued over which objects were worthy of plunder. Six of the looters were gathered in the small clearing at the center of the camp, dividing up the spoils. The other two were on point: sentries stationed near the outskirts of the tents to watch for signs of trouble. Their posts were mere formality, however. The sentries should have been stationed on opposite sides of the camp to guard against assault from either direction. Instead the two men were standing less than twenty meters apart, more interested in having someone to pass the time with than in securing the perimeter.

Bane surveyed the scene with contempt as he bore down on them, the Force allowing him to take in every detail in one quick glance. The men on point were oblivious to his approach, their attention drawn by the angry shouts of disagreement coming from the other six bickering over their ill-gotten gains.

Altering his course slightly so his arrival would be hidden by a large supply tent until the last possible instant, Bane gave a final burst of acceleration and descended upon the camp in a storm of ruin. He drew and ignited his lightsaber in one smooth motion. The keening hum of the crimson blade preceded him, betraying his position a few precious seconds before his arrival. The advance warning gave just enough time for the nearest sentry to draw his blaster, but not nearly enough time to save him from the coming slaughter.

Bane materialized from behind the supply tent and fell on his first victim like a dark wind, slicing him diagonally from shoulder to hip. The man wore battle armor made up of composite plates stitched together on an interwoven padded underlay to allow for flexibility. The vest covering his chest was capable of absorbing several high-powered blaster shots from inside thirty meters, but Bane’s blade sliced through the protective layers and carved a fatal five-centimeter gash through the flesh and bone beneath.

As the first victim toppled over, Bane leapt high in the air toward his next foe, instantly closing the ten meters between them and simultaneously evading the hastily fired shot from the second sentry’s blaster pistol. As he came down virtually on top of his enemy, he delivered an overhead, two-handed descending chop—a classic move from Djem So, the fifth and most powerfully aggressive form of lightsaber combat. The heavy strike perfectly bisected the unfortunate man’s helmet and drove deep into the skull beneath.

The gruesome ends of the first two mercenaries gave the others time to recognize what was happening. They drew their weapons and fired a full volley of blaster bolts at Bane as he turned to face them from across the camp. Smoothly transitioning from the attacking style of Form V to the more defensive style of Form III, Bane deflected the incoming bolts with two-handed parries of his lightsaber, flicking them aside with almost casual disdain.

Twirling his weapon in his right hand, Bane paused to relish the hopelessness and terror emanating from the half a dozen surviving mercenaries as they recognized the inevitable fact of their own deaths. Clustered together in the clearing between the tents, they did the only thing that gave any of them a chance of survival—they broke and ran.

They scattered in all directions: one of the women ran off to the left, two men ran off to the right; the other three turned and fled in a direct line away from the deadly interloper. Still twirling his lightsaber, Bane thrust his empty hand out before him, palm extended as he unleashed the Force in a wave of concussive power at the woman fleeing to his left. The wave cut a swath of devastation through the camp. Tents were uprooted from the ground, their material torn and shredded. Wooden supply crates exploded into kindling, the shattered contents spraying out in a shower of splintered shrapnel.

The Force wave slammed into the woman’s back, pulverizing her spine and snapping her neck as it drove her facedown into the dirt and pinned her against the ground. Her corpse twitched once, then went forever still.

Clenching the fingers of his left hand tight against his open palm, Bane wheeled toward the two men on his right and thrust his fist up into the air. A dozen forks of blue lightning arced out from above his head to envelop the screaming soldiers, cooking them alive. Shrieking in agony, they danced and twitched like marionettes on electric strings for several seconds before their smoking husks collapsed on the ground.

In the few seconds it had taken to dispatch the others, the surviving three mercenaries had reached the far side of the Sith camp. A few meters beyond the edge of the tents a line of trees marked the start of the thick Ruusan forests. The concealing branches taunted them with offers of safety, giving even greater haste to their terror-filled flight. Bane watched them retreat with idle disinterest, savoring their fear.

A handful of steps from freedom, one of the men made the fatal mistake of glancing back over his shoulder to see whether their adversary was following. On a whim, Bane sent his lightsaber hurtling toward him with a casual toss. The spinning blade sliced through the air in a tight loop, crossing the expanse of the camp in a fraction of a second before swooping back to be caught in the waiting hand of its Master.

Two of the mercenaries vanished into the forest, crashing through the underbrush. The third—the one who had paused to look back—stood still as stone. A second later his head toppled forward from his shoulders to bounce and roll across the ground, severed from the cauterized stump of his neck by the crimson blade of Bane’s thrown lightsaber. As if the fallen head were a signal, the rigid limbs of the decapitated corpse went suddenly limp, and it fell over sideways.

Bane extinguished his lightsaber, the blade vanishing with a sharp hiss. For a brief instant he reveled in his victory, drinking in the last lingering remnants of his victims’ emotions, drawing power from their fear and suffering. And then the moment was gone, fleeing like those who had escaped his wrath. He could have pursued them, but as much as he yearned to taste their panic, he understood the purpose of letting them live.

“You let them get away.”

He spun around in surprise to see Zannah standing just inside the perimeter of the camp. Engrossed in the slaughter, he hadn’t sensed her approach. Either that, or his young apprentice had taken pains to shield her presence from him.

Don’t underestimate her, Bane reminded himself. She has the power to one day surpass you.

“You let them get away,” Zannah repeated. She didn’t sound angry, or disappointed, or even pleased. She just seemed puzzled.

“I told you to wait for me,” Bane admonished her. “Why did you disobey?”

She didn’t answer right away, weighing her words carefully until she could find an answer that would appease her Master. “I wanted to see the true power of the dark side,” she admitted finally. “Can you teach me to …?” She trailed off, unable to find the words to describe what she had just witnessed. Instead she simply waved her hand, indicating the totality of the carnage he had unleashed.

“You will learn,” Bane assured her, attaching the hooked handle of his lightsaber back onto his belt.

She didn’t smile, but there was an eager expression in her gaze, a hunger her Master knew well. He’d seen the same raw ambition in the eyes of Githany, his former lover and one of Kaan’s doomed followers. He knew that if Zannah did not learn to temper and control her ambition, it would lead her down a path of destruction, just as it had with Githany.

“Prowess in combat is the simplest display of the dark side’s power,” her Master cautioned her. “Brutal and quick, it serves a purpose. Yet it is often less effective than subtlety and cunning. Ultimately letting those mercenaries live may prove more useful than killing them.”

“But they were weak,” his apprentice protested, throwing his own teachings back at him. “They deserved to die!”

“Few beings in the galaxy ever get what they truly deserve,” he noted, choosing his words with care. The dark side was not easily understood; even he was still learning to work his way through its complexities and contradictions. He had to be careful not to overwhelm his young apprentice, yet it was important that she grasp the essence of what he had done here. “Our mission is not to bring death to all those unfit to live. We answer to a greater calling. All I have done on Ruusan, and all that we will do from this day forward, must serve our true purpose: the preservation of our Order and the survival of the Sith.”

After a moment’s consideration, Zannah shook her head. “I’m sorry, Master,” she admitted, “I still don’t get why you didn’t just kill them.”

“As servants of the dark side we revel in the vanquishing of our enemies. We draw power from their suffering, but we must balance this against greater gains. We must recognize that killing for sadistic pleasure—killing without reason, need, or purpose—is the act of a fool.”

A frown of confusion crossed the young girl’s face. “What purpose is there in letting scum like that live?”

“The Jedi believe the Order of the Sith died here on Ruusan,” he explained patiently. “There are followers of the dark side on many other worlds: the Marauders of Honoghr and Gamorr, the Shadow Assassins of Ryloth and Umbara. But those with the greatest power—all those individuals with the potential to become true Sith Masters—had gathered together in Kaan’s Brotherhood. As one they followed him into this war, and as one they followed him into death.

“But there will be those who doubt the totality of the Sith extinction. There will always be whispers that the Sith survive, hints and rumors that somewhere in the galaxy a Dark Lord lives. And if the Jedi ever find proof of our existence, they will be relentless in hunting us down.”

He paused to let the implications of his last statement sink in before continuing. “We cannot live in isolation, cut off from the rest of the galaxy while cowering in fear. We must work to grow our power; we will need to interact with individuals of many species across many worlds. It is inevitable that some among them will recognize us for what we are, no matter our disguise. Eventually word of our existence will reach the ears of the Jedi.”

Zannah was studying him closely, absorbing every word, seeking enlightenment in the murky logic of the dark side.

“Since we cannot hide the fact of our survival,” Bane continued, “we must obscure it with half-truths. We must encourage the rumors, spreading them so thick they blind our enemies until they cannot separate myth from reality.”

A glimmer of understanding illuminated Zannah’s face. “A rumor is only as reliable as its source!” she exclaimed.

Bane nodded in satisfaction. “The survivors will spread the tale, but who will believe the likes of them? Everyone will know they are self-serving mercenaries who fled the final battle to save themselves, then came to loot the camp of their former allies. They will be spit upon as traitors and thieves. Nobody who hears their story will believe it, and the truth will be dismissed as a worthless rumor.

“And if there are any other witnesses to our presence on Ruusan,” Bane added, spinning out the final thread of the convoluted tapestry of deception, “their accounts are now less likely to be believed. They will be tainted by their similarity to the so-called lies spewing from the mouths of cowardly looters.”

“No use or purpose in their deaths,” Zannah muttered, half to herself. She didn’t say anything else, seemingly lost in thought as she mulled over all that she had been told.

Bane turned his attention away from his apprentice and focused on the items the looters had gathered in the center of the camp. He was the last of the Sith. If there was anything here of value, then by rights it should belong to him.

Most of what they had collected held no interest for Bane. Some of Kaan’s Brotherhood had hoarded items of immense value, believing that the greed and envy they inspired in others could feed the power of the dark side. The mercenaries had grabbed these trinkets—ornate rings and necklaces fashioned from precious metals and set with glittering stones; ceremonial daggers and knives, their hilts inlaid with gleaming gems; intricately carved masks and small statues of remarkable skill shaped from rare and delicate materials—and thrown them haphazardly in a pile.

Surveying the invaluable treasures that were worthless to his purpose, Bane felt another jolt of pain at the back of his head. In the same instant he saw a figure flicker at the corner of his right eye, then vanish from his field of vision.

He snapped his head around in the direction of the movement, but saw nothing. It hadn’t been Zannah; this figure was much taller. He reached out with the Force, but felt only himself and his apprentice within the perimeter of the camp.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, noting his sudden unease. “Is someone coming?”

“It’s nothing,” Bane replied. Was it nothing? he wondered. Or is this another side effect of the thought bomb?

Zannah made her way over to where he was standing, her eye drawn by the sun reflecting off the jewelry dumped on the ground. “What’s this?” she asked, stooping to dig out something almost completely buried at the bottom of the pile.

She emerged with a thin, leather-bound manuscript. She turned it over curiously, examining it from all angles until Bane extended his hand. In response, she came dutifully forward and presented him with her find.

He recognized the style of the manuscript. There had been several similar volumes in the library at the Brotherhood’s Academy on Korriban, though Bane had never seen this particular work before. The volume was thin, a few dozen pages at most, and the cover inscribed with arcane words traced in blood-red ink. Bane recognized the language. He had become familiar with the tongue of the ancient Sith during his studies at the Academy, turning to the wisdom of Masters long dead rather than trusting the fools who sought to instruct him in the tarnished “New Sith” philosophy of the Brotherhood.

He opened the volume and found that the same blood-red ink had been used to fill the pages with delicate script and elaborate illustrations. As with the words on the cover, the language inside was that of the ancient Sith. However, the margins of each page were filled with handwritten notes in Galactic Basic. He recognized the handwriting as that of Qordis, the former head of the Academy on Korriban and one of the many so-called Sith Lords serving under Kaan. Unlike the rest of the Brotherhood of Darkness, however, Qordis hadn’t perished in the thought bomb’s blast. He’d actually died several hours earlier when Bane had used the Force to crush the life out of his former teacher.

Why did Qordis bring this manuscript with him to Korriban? Bane wondered. Qordis had always been more concerned with hoarding wealth than studying the ancient texts. He wore only the finest silks and most expensive jewelry; each of the long, cruel fingers on both hands had been adorned with rings of incredible value. Even his tent on Korriban had been decorated with rare woven tapestries and ornate rugs. If he had carried this manuscript with him all the way from the Academy, Bane realized, it must contain knowledge of tremendous value

“What’s it say?” Zannah asked, but Bane paid her no attention.

He flipped quickly through the manuscript, skimming both the original text and Qordis’s notes. It seemed to be a compilation of the history and teachings of Freedon Nadd, a great Sith Master who had lived over three thousand standard years ago. Bane had read previous accounts of Nadd, but this one had something the other versions lacked: the location of his final resting place!

For many centuries the tomb of Freedon Nadd had been lost, hidden by the Jedi so that the followers of the dark side could not seek to gain guidance or power from the Sith artifacts sealed inside. But on the last page of the manuscript Qordis had made one final note, underlined for emphasis: Seek the tomb on Dxun.

How Qordis had come by this information signified little to Bane; all that mattered was that he now knew the location, too. The war on Ruusan had prevented Qordis from attempting to find Nadd’s tomb on Dxun. Now that the war was over, there was nothing to keep Bane from making the journey and claiming Nadd’s legacy as his own. But first he had to get off Ruusan.

The all-too-familiar jolt of pain shot through his skull, and once again he caught the flicker of a figure from the corner of his eye. This time the image seemed to sustain itself for nearly a full second. Tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in the robes of the Sith, it was a figure Bane recognized—Lord Kaan! And then, as before, it vanished.

Is this real? Was it possible that the leader of the Brotherhood of Darkness had, in some form, survived the thought bomb? Was it possible his spirit now haunted the world of his death?

He closed the volume and looked down at Zannah. She gave no indication that she had seen or sensed anything. Just a trick of the mind, Bane thought. It was the only explanation that made sense. Zannah would have felt the manifestation of a dark side spirit so close by, yet she had been oblivious.

The realization brought him an odd mix of relief and concern. When he had seen Kaan looming beside him, Bane had thought for an instant—just an instant—that he had failed in his quest to destroy the Brotherhood. But the affirmation of his mission’s success was tempered by the awareness that the thought bomb had done even more damage than he’d first suspected. Hopefully the delusions and agonizing headaches were only temporary.

Zannah was still staring up at him, barely able to contain the flood of questions she had about what he had discovered inside the pages of the treasure she had found. Her expression of expectant curiosity turned to disappointment when he slid the manuscript into the folds of his clothes without offering any explanation. In time Bane would share all his knowledge, present and future, with her. But until he had a chance to explore Nadd’s tomb himself, he was reluctant to tell anyone—even his apprentice—of its existence.

“Are you ready to leave this world?” he asked.

“I’m sick of this place,” she answered, a hint of bitterness in her voice. “Things have gone bad ever since I got here.”

“Your cousins,” Bane asked, remembering a remark she had made earlier about the two boys with whom she had first arrived. “Do you miss them?”

“What’s the point?” she replied with a shrug. “Tomcat and Bug are dead. Why waste time thinking about them?”

Her words were indifferent, but Bane recognized her callousness as a defense mechanism. Beneath the surface he could feel her passions burning: She was angry and resentful over their deaths; she blamed the Jedi for what happened, and she would never forgive them. Her rage would always be a part of her, simmering below the surface. It would serve her well in the years to come.

“Come with me,” Bane said, reaching a decision.

He led her over to an abandoned swoop bike near one of the tents. He climbed aboard, and she clambered up onto the seat behind him. Her slim arms wrapped tightly around his waist as the swoop’s engine roared to life and it lifted up into the air.

“Why are we taking the swoop?” she asked, shouting into his ear to be heard above the thrusters.

“We will travel faster this way. Time grows short,” Bane called back over his shoulder. “Soon the Jedi will return to claim their dead and seek out the survivors of Kaan’s army. But there is still one last lesson you must learn before we go.”

He didn’t say any more; some things could not be explained, but had to be witnessed to be understood. Zannah needed to see the remains of the thought bomb. She needed to see the true scope of Kaan’s madness. She needed to grasp the finality of what Bane had accomplished here. And he needed to assure himself that the figure he had seen was nothing more than an aftereffect of his exposure to the thought bomb. He wanted to see with his own eyes undeniable proof that Kaan was truly destroyed.

4

Darovit lay huddled on the cold cavern floor, bathed in the eerie light emanating from the egg-shaped silver orb hovering in the center of the underground chamber. He hadn’t moved for nearly two hours, paralyzed with the wonder and horror of it all. It was as if time had no meaning here at the epicenter of the thought bomb; as if Darovit himself were now suspended between life and death, trapped like the tormented spirits of Kaan’s followers and the Jedi who had dared to face them.

Eventually, however, his shock began to fade. Slowly sanity crept back in, dragging the reality of the physical world with it. The air in the cave was damp and chilled; his body was shivering almost uncontrollably. His nose was running, and he reached up to wipe it away with a shaking hand, his fingers clumsy with the numbing cold.

“Come on, Tomcat,” he said to himself. “Time to get moving. Up and at ’em.”

With a great effort he managed to get to his feet, then fell back down with a cry as his calves and thighs cramped beneath him. The pain helped break the last lingering vestiges of the spell he was under, snapping him back to the present and focusing his mind on the here and now.

Frantically he massaged each of his legs, trying to restore the blood flow. He was anxious to leave this place now, desperate to get away from the evil presence of the silently pulsing bomb. Glancing up at it made his skin crawl, yet as repulsive as it was, he found it strangely compelling.

“Don’t look at it,” he berated himself in a sharp whisper, redoubling his efforts to ease the pain and tightness in his lower limbs. After another minute he dared to stand up again. Pins and needles shot through the soles of his feet, and his knees buckled briefly, but he stayed standing.

He looked from side to side, scanning the cavern by the light of the orb. There were at least half a dozen entrances leading out from the chamber, and Darovit swore when he realized he had no idea which would lead him back up to the surface.

“You can’t stay here,” he muttered.

Picking a tunnel at random, he made his way with slow, uneasy steps out of the cavern. The darkness quickly enveloped him once he entered the passage, until he drew out the lightsaber the Sith had given him. Using the faint glow of its ruby blade, he was able to pick his way along the uneven terrain.

It didn’t take him long to realize he’d made the wrong choice. He remembered the sharp incline he had tumbled down on his arrival, but the floor here was relatively flat. It would have been a simple matter to head back and take one of the other exits. But the thought of returning to the main chamber—and the orb of trapped spirits—prevented him from turning around.

“This tunnel’s gotta come out somewhere,” he told himself. “Just follow it to the surface.”

The plan sounded simple, but it became more complicated when he reached a fork in the passage. He hesitated for several moments, studying the branch heading off to his left and then the one heading off to his right. Neither offered any clue as to which—if either—would lead him to freedom. With a resigned sigh and a shake of the head, he chose the one on the left.

Forty minutes and three more branches later he was regretting his decision. He couldn’t go back to the cavern now even if he’d wanted to; he had become hopelessly turned around in the subterranean labyrinth. His stomach grumbled, and the realization that he might never find his way out began to creep into the corners of his mind.

He pushed on, his pace increasing with his rising panic. He was running now, his eyes darting from side to side, hoping that the dim illumination of the lightsaber’s blade would reveal something—anything—that might show him the way. He darted down another side tunnel, stumbling along in his haste until he tripped and fell.

As he threw his hands forward to break his fall, the lightsaber flew from his grasp. It scored a gash along the wall, then bounced away from him across the uneven floor, extinguishing itself and casting all into total darkness.

Darovit had hit the ground hard. He lay facedown in the utter blackness of the tunnel, surrendering to the hopeless despair that crashed in on him. There was no point in going on; he would never find his way out. Better to just die here, forgotten and alone.

He rolled over onto his back, blind eyes staring up at the ceiling. And then he heard a sound. It was faint but unmistakable. A voice coming from a great distance, cutting through the oppressive silence.

Now you’re hearing things, Tomcat, he thought. But a second later he heard it again, echoing through the tunnel. Someone else was down here!

He didn’t know if it was a Jedi come to witness the fate of his fallen comrades, a minion of the Sith who had fled the final battle, or someone allied with a completely different group. He had no idea if whoever it was would welcome him, take him prisoner, or kill him on sight. But he didn’t care. Even the fear of going back to the chamber and the unnatural, unholy silver orb didn’t hold him back this time. Anything was better than dying of exposure or starvation in these dark tunnels beneath the planet’s surface.

Crawling forward through the gloom, he felt around with his hands until his fingers closed around the hilt of the lightsaber. He thrust it triumphantly up in the air as it ignited, allowing him to see once more.

He had no way of knowing how far away the owner of the voice was. The acoustics of the tunnel were strange and unfamiliar. Sounds and echoes were unnaturally distorted as they bounced across the irregular stone walls of the underground maze. But he was certain the voice had come from somewhere up ahead, in the direction he had been going.

With the glowing blade to guide him, he moved with an eager confidence. Every minute or so he would catch another snatch of conversation coming to him from somewhere up ahead. He could tell there were two speakers now, each with a distinct voice: one a deep bass, the other a much higher pitch. Each time he heard the voices, they were slightly louder, and he knew he was headed in the right direction.

He noticed that the darkness of the tunnel was fading; he no longer needed his lightsaber to see his surroundings. But it wasn’t the yellow light of the sun streaming in as he neared the surface; it was a cold silver glow. With a start he realized he had somehow circled back and was once more approaching the chamber of the thought bomb. Whoever the voices belonged to—friend or foe—he’d find them there.

The chamber was close, so close he could make out the words the next time the voices spoke.

“The Sith are only two now—one Master and one apprentice,” the deeper one said. “There will be no others.”

“What happens if I fail?” the other replied.

Sounds like a woman, Darovit thought, too focused on following the voices to pay much attention to the actual words. No, not a woman, he corrected himself a second later. A girl.

“Will you destroy me, too?” the girl asked.

With a shock, Darovit realized that he knew the voice! He didn’t know how it was possible, but there was no doubt in his mind who this was.

“Rain!” he shouted, breaking into a run to meet the cousin he had thought was dead. “Rain, you’re alive!”

The trip to the cave was quick and uneventful. Bane had noticed a few shell-shocked survivors of the final battle of Ruusan staring at him and Zannah as they roared past on their swoop, but he paid them little heed. He doubted any of them would recognize him for what he truly was. And even if they did, their tales of a surviving Sith Lord racing past them with a young girl in tow would seem as ludicrous and unreliable as the accounts of the mercenaries he had let escape back at Kaan’s camp.

He brought the swoop to a stop outside the dark and forbidding tunnel that would lead them down to the chamber of the thought bomb. Small pebbles crunched loudly beneath the hard soles of his heavy black boots as he dismounted. Zannah was too small to simply step off the vehicle, but she leapt down from her seat without any sign of fear or hesitation, landing nimbly on the ground beside him.

Neither of them spoke as they made the descent, their way lit by one of the glow rods Bane had found in the supplies back at the Sith camp. The air grew colder and Zannah shivered beside him, but she didn’t complain. They moved quickly down the rough-hewn passage; even so it took nearly twenty minutes for them to reach their destination due to the length of the tunnel. And for the first time Darth Bane actually saw what his manipulations of Kaan and his followers had wrought.

The pale, glowing orb floating in the center of the chamber was nearly four meters tall. It pulsed with raw power; it made the flesh on Bane’s neck crawl and the hair on his arms stand on end. Dark veins of shadow swirled on the shimmering metallic surface in slow, hypnotic rhythms. There was something grotesquely compelling about it, something fascinating yet repulsive at the same time.

Beside him Zannah gasped, drawing a sharp breath in wonder then releasing it in a slow hiss of fear. He glanced down at her, but she didn’t return his gaze—her wide eyes were transfixed by the remnants of the thought bomb. Turning his attention back to the orb, Bane stepped forward into the chamber. Zannah took a single step to follow him, then held back.

Approaching the globe, he reached out with his bare hand and pressed it firmly against the surface. It seared his palm with cold fire, but he was oblivious to the pain, enthralled by the object’s mesmerizing call. Beneath his touch the dark swirling shadows within coalesced into a single mass. The thoughts of those trapped inside rushed up to meet him: faint whispers in the dark recesses of his mind, the words unintelligible but full of hate and despair.

Instinctively Bane’s consciousness recoiled. He resisted, fighting the urge to pull his hand back. Instead he thrust his awareness forward, penetrating the surface of the orb to plunge into the unfathomable depths of its black heart. The hateful whispers erupted into shrieks of torment. But these were not the screams of sentient beings: they were bestial howls of primal, mindless fury. The identities of those the thought bomb had consumed—Lord Kaan, General Hoth, all their Sith and Jedi followers—had been destroyed, ripped apart by the thought bomb’s explosion. Only torn bits remained, broken pieces of what once had been spirits, no longer capable of conscious thought, wailing in the shared suffering of their eternal madness.

They swarmed over Bane’s consciousness, cleaving to his still-whole identity like parasites attaching themselves to a fresh host. The keening spirits enveloped him, clutching and clawing at his sanity as they tried to drag him down with them into their dark abyss.

Bane tore free with contemptuous ease, shredding the already frail and tattered spirits as he cast them aside, and let his mind drift back to the surface. An instant later he was free, leaving behind the prison from which the others would never escape.

He let his hand drop from the oblong sphere as he took a step back, satisfied at what he had learned. There were no ghosts haunting him; Kaan was no more. Not in any real sense. The figure he had seen at the Sith camp had been nothing but a delusion conjured up by his own wounded psyche.

“Are they trapped in there?” Zannah asked. She was staring at Bane with an expression of both awe and terror.

“Trapped. Dead. It makes no difference,” he answered with a shrug. “Kaan and the Brotherhood are gone. They got what they deserved.”

“Were they weak?”

Bane didn’t answer right away. Kaan had been many things—ambitious, charismatic, stubborn, and in the end a fool—but he had never been weak.

“Kaan was a traitor,” he said at last. “He led the Brotherhood away from the teachings of the ancient Sith. He turned his back on the very essence of the dark side.”

Zannah didn’t reply, but she looked up at him expectantly. The role of mentor was a new one for Bane; he was a man of action, not words. He wasn’t used to taking the time to share his wisdom with another desperate to learn it. But he was smart enough to understand that the lessons would have far more meaning if his apprentice could figure out some of the answers for herself.

“Why did you choose to become my apprentice?” he asked, challenging her. “Why did you choose the way of the dark side?”

“Power,” she replied quickly.

“Power is only a means to an end,” Bane admonished her. “It is not an end in itself. What do you need power for?”

The girl furrowed her brow. Her Master already recognized this expression as a sign she was struggling to come up with an answer.

“Through power I gain victory,” she said when she finally spoke, reciting the final lines of the Sith Code she had learned only a few hours earlier. From her tone it was clear she was trying to work through her limited understanding of the dark side to arrive at the answer Bane wanted.

“Through victory my chains are broken …,” she continued, slowly searching for an answer just beyond her reach. A second later she exclaimed, “Freedom! The dark side sets us free!”

Bane nodded his approval. “The Jedi shackle themselves in chains of obedience: obedience to the Jedi Council; obedience to their Masters; obedience to the Republic. Those who follow the light side even believe they must submit themselves to the Force. They are merely instruments of its will, slaves to a greater good.

“Those who follow the dark side see the truth of their enslavement. We recognize the chains that bind us and hold us back. We believe in the power of the individual to break these chains. That is the path to greatness. Only if we are free can we reach our full potential.

“The belief that an individual must not bow down before anyone or anything is the dark side’s greatest strength,” Bane continued. “But it is also our ultimate weakness. The struggle to rise above those around you is often violent, and in the past the Sith were constantly at one anothers’ throats.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Zannah interjected. “The strong will survive and the weak will die.”

“Weak does not mean stupid,” Bane countered. “There were those with less power, but more cunning. Several apprentices would band together to take down a powerful Master, hoping to elevate their own position among the Sith. Then they would turn on one another, making and breaking alliances until only one remained—a new Master, but one weaker than the original. This survivor would then be taken down in turn by another band of lesser Sith, further weakening our Order.

“Kaan recognized this. But his solution was far worse than the problem. Kaan declared all the followers of the dark side—all the members of the Sith Order—as equals in the Brotherhood of Darkness. In doing so, he betrayed us all.”

“Betrayed you?”

“Equality is a lie,” Bane told her. “A myth to appease the masses. Simply look around and you will see the lie for what it is! There are those with power, those with the strength and will to lead. And there are those meant to follow—those incapable of anything but servitude and a meager, worthless existence.

“Equality is a perversion of the natural order!” he continued, his voice rising as he shared the fundamental truth that lay at the core of his beliefs. “It binds the strong to the weak. They become anchors that drag the exceptional down to mediocrity. Individuals destined and deserving of greatness have it denied them. They suffer for the sake of keeping them even with their inferiors.

“Equality is a chain, like obedience. Like fear or uncertainty or self-doubt. The dark side will break these chains. But Kaan could not see this. He did not grasp the true power of the dark side. The Brotherhood of Darkness was nothing but a twisted reflection of the Jedi Order, a dark parody of the very thing we stood against. Under Kaan the Sith had become an abomination.”

“And that’s why you killed him,” Zannah said, thinking the lesson had come to an end.

“That is why I manipulated Kaan into killing himself,” Bane corrected. “Remember: power alone is not enough. Patience. Cunning. Secrecy. These are the tools we will use to bring down the Jedi. The Sith are only two now—one Master and one apprentice. There will be no others.”

Zannah nodded, though something still seemed to be troubling her. “What happens if I fail?” she asked, glancing toward the thought bomb. “Will you destroy me, too?”

Bane’s answer was cut off by a shout coming from one of the nearby passages.

“Rain! Rain, you’re alive!”

A boy sprinted out of the shadows, no more than a year or two older than Zannah. He had dark hair and wore the black armor of the Sith. A lightsaber hilt was clutched tightly in his right hand. Despite these warrior’s trappings, it was immediately obvious to Bane that this child posed no threat. The Force was barely alive in him. The power that burned so brightly inside Zannah was nothing but a dying ember of gray ash in this one.

“Tomcat!” Zannah shouted, her face lighting up with joy. She took a step forward, extending her arms as if she wanted to hug him. Then, as if suddenly remembering the presence of her Sith Master, she pulled up short and clutched her hands to her chest.

Oblivious, the boy kept coming. He didn’t register her sudden change in mood; he hadn’t even noticed the two-meter-tall figure looming in the shadows behind her. There was something pathetic about him, a desperate loneliness in his voice and his eyes that turned Bane’s stomach.

“I’m so glad, Rain,” the boy gasped as he skidded to a stop in front of Zannah, reaching forward to hug her. “So glad you’re—”

She stepped back and shook her head, causing his words to catch in his throat. The happiness in his face vanished, replaced by a look of hurt bewilderment.

“I … I am not Rain,” Bane’s apprentice said, rejecting her childhood nickname and all it symbolized. “I am Zannah.”

“Zannah?” A look of confusion crept across the boy’s face. “Your real name? But why?”

Fumbling for answers, he finally tore his gaze away from the young girl and noticed Bane standing motionless in the background. His bewilderment became comprehension, and quickly turned into righteous rage.

“You!” he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Bane. Then, as if suddenly remembering the weapon in his hand, he ignited his lightsaber. “You stay away from her!” he screamed. “I will fight you!”

The boy knew he was overmatched. He knew he had no chance to win a battle against a Dark Lord of the Sith. Yet he chose to stay and fight anyway—the actions of a complete and utter fool.

Darth Bane regarded his doomed adversary with contemptuous indifference. This boy was nothing to him—an inconsequential speck he would wipe away. If the boy wanted the vain and empty glory of a so-called courageous death, Bane would grant it.

He dropped his hand casually to his lightsaber, but before he could ignite his weapon, Zannah reacted. Just as she had done when she had broken the necks of the unfortunate Jedi who had accidentally killed her friend, the girl unleashed a wave of unstoppable dark side energy. She acted on pure instinct, drawing on her natural affinity for the Force with no forethought, preparation, or even training.

It happened so quickly Bane never even had a chance to put up his guard … but the attack wasn’t directed at him. The right hand of the boy she had called Tomcat—her cousin and childhood friend—disintegrated. With a mere thought she obliterated everything below his wrist: flesh, bone and tendon vanished in a bloody explosion, leaving only a ragged stump.

With nothing left to grip it, the hilt of his lightsaber clattered to the floor, the blade extinguished. Howling in pain, the boy fell to his knees, clutching his mutilated limb to his chest. Small spurts of blood pumped out of the wound and splattered onto the cavern floor.

The Master glared down at his apprentice. “Why?” he demanded.

“Because there would be no use or purpose in his death,” she answered, echoing his own explanation for letting two of the mercenaries survive.

Bane was smart enough to recognize what was happening. Zannah was trying to save her cousin’s life. He knew that the emotions driving her—sentimentality, mercy, compassion—were weaknesses from which she must learn to free herself. But he didn’t expect his apprentice to learn the ways of the dark side in a single day.

He looked down at the injured boy crumpled on the ground. The blood spurting from his stump had slowed; the blast that had taken his hand had also partially cauterized the wound. The flow was further stanched by dust and grime from the cavern floor as he rolled back and forth at Zannah’s feet. Tears poured from his eyes and mucus ran from his nose to clog his mouth and throat, turning his cries into thick, blubbery whimpers. She regarded him with a cold and calculating eye, feigning disinterest.

The risks from letting this wretched creature live were small, Bane decided. Like the mercenaries, no one would believe his tales of surviving an encounter with a Sith Master. It was obvious that Zannah wanted the boy alive. But she hadn’t begged or bargained for his life. Instead she had taken charge of the situation, unleashing the dark side and then defending her actions with Bane’s own teachings. She had shown not only her power, but also her intelligence and cunning. It was important to reward such behavior—to encourage her when she displayed the gifts and talents that would allow her to one day take the mantle of Dark Lord from her Master’s shoulders. More important than ending the life of one miserable, insignificant boy.

“Leave him,” Bane said, turning on his heel. “He is nothing to us.”

Zannah quickly fell into step beside him as they made their way from the chamber and began the long, slow climb through the tunnels back to Ruusan’s surface. Bane noted with satisfaction that even though Tomcat’s pitiful sobs echoed after them, his apprentice never once glanced back.

5

“Prepare for reentry turbulence,” Irtanna warned them from the pilot’s seat of their shuttle. With a crew of only five, she had no need to use the shipboard intercom. She simply spoke loud enough for everyone aboard to hear.

Although the Envoy-class shuttle carried only a handful of passengers, she was capable of comfortably transporting four times that many. The ship had been absorbed into the Jedi fleet sometime during the last few weeks of the Ruusan campaign, donated by an anonymous benefactor from Coruscant who had been charmed by Farfalla’s urgent plea for resources to support the war effort. Christened the Star-Wake, she was a product of Tallaan Shipyards, a basic transport vessel capable of both suborbital flight and interstellar travel, thanks to her Class Twelve hyperdrive.

The fact that she had been pressed into service was proof of just how desperate the Army of Light had become. Envoy-class shuttles were known for being practical and affordable, making them a favorite choice of independent merchants and wealthy recreational travelers. Their most distinguishing feature was an easy-to-use navigation and autopilot system, allowing users to plot and engage hyperdrive routes to hundreds of known worlds across the Republic with a simple push of a button. Unfortunately they lacked heavy shielding or any significant armament, and were neither particularly fast nor maneuverable.

Johun would have preferred something in a more military vein; he doubted the autonav would be any use should a Sith Buzzard suddenly appear on the horizon. Logically, he knew this was highly unlikely. Every Buzzard in Kaan’s fleet had been accounted for: either shot down, captured by the Army of Light, or seen fleeing the system at the tail end of the final battle. But scores of danger-filled flights through enemy-controlled airspace in the months before their ultimate victory had trained his mind to be on constant alert when approaching the planet’s surface. From the way Irtanna was white-knuckling the shuttle’s steering column, he knew he wasn’t alone in his irrational fears.

There was the faintest bump as they passed from the cold vacuum of space into the upper layers of Ruusan’s atmosphere and began their descent. Irtanna worked the controls with a confident hand, making subtle adjustments to their course as Johun studied the scanners skimming the ground below them, looking for signs of life. Four other craft were visible on the ship’s monitors. Like the Star-Wake, each was crewed by a four- to six-person rescue team sent by Farfalla to help clean up the aftermath of the war.

“We’ve got movement on the ground,” Johun called out as unidentified blips popped up on his screen. “Transmitting coordinates.”

“Give me details,” Irtanna ordered, banking the shuttle around in a wide arc that brought them in line with the people on the ground.

“Two walkers on foot,” Johun informed her. “Can’t tell if they’re friendly from up here.”

“Taking us down,” Irtanna replied.

Locating and helping injured survivors was the team’s first priority; providing reconnaissance reports to Fleet Command came second, and accepting the willing surrender of enemy troops was a distant third.

The shuttle nose dipped, and the acceleration pushed Johun back into his seat as they dived in to get a closer look at the figures. Irtanna took them in low and fast, a military maneuver that pushed the civilian vessel to her limits.

“I’ve got a visual,” Johun reported as a pair of tiny, indistinct shapes on the ground became visible through the shuttle’s cockpit viewpoint.

Bordon lifted himself up out of his seat and leaned forward over the back of Johun’s chair to get a view as the shuttle plunged toward the rapidly growing figures. As it drew closer the details came into focus: a man and a woman, each wearing light armor and running hard.

The roar of the rapidly descending shuttle’s engines caused the two on the ground to stop running and turn back to look up at them. An instant later they threw themselves face-first to the dirt as the shuttle swooped in less than ten meters from the ground and buzzed them.

Cursing under her breath as she struggled with the clumsy controls, Irtanna veered around sharply and brought them in to land less than fifty meters away from their quarry. Through the window Johun saw the pair slowly climb back to their feet as the pilot cut the engines. The woman said something to the man, who nodded in agreement. Then they raised their hands and began marching slowly toward the vessel.

They were dressed like members of Kaan’s Brotherhood. But Johun didn’t feel the presence of the dark side about them.

“Minions of the Sith,” he said. “Mercenaries, probably.”

“Could be a trap,” Bordon warned. “Kriffing mercenaries have no honor.”

“I don’t think so,” Johun replied. If there was any danger here, he would have felt some kind of disturbance in the Force. “I think they just want to surrender.”

“Slag-sucking scum,” Bordon spat. “Fire the engines up and run them over!”

“No!” Johun exclaimed when he saw Irtanna reaching for the ignition switch. “We need to question them,” he reminded her. “See what they know.”

“Then what?” Bordon demanded darkly.

“Then we take them to Farfalla and lock them up with the rest of the prisoners.”

Bordon slammed his hand against the cockpit wall. “These schutta-spawn came to my world—my home—to kill my people for profit!”

“They’d cut our throats without a second thought if they had the upper hand,” Irtanna agreed.

“We’re not like them,” Johun said. “We don’t kill prisoners.”

“My wife died fighting munk-whelps like these!” Bordon shouted. “Now you want to show them mercy?”

“Hate leads to the dark side,” Johun replied, reciting the wisdom of the Jedi. But the words lacked power coming from the mouth of a nineteen-year-old Padawan, and even as he said them he knew how empty they sounded.

Bordon threw his hands up in frustration, then let himself fall back angrily into his seat. “Is that why you’re here?” he grumbled in disgust. “To keep us in line? To make sure we don’t stray from your precious light-side ways? Is that why Farfalla sent you along?”

He didn’t send me. I came on my own, Johun thought. He turned in his seat to look back at Bordon, who stared intently at the floor, refusing to meet his gaze. His two sons, however, glared at the young Jedi with venom in their eyes. He understood their anger. The Sith had brought war to Ruusan, a war that had taken everything they knew and cared about: their homes, their livelihoods … and, of course, their mother.

What Bordon and his sons didn’t see was that these nameless soldiers couldn’t be held responsible for all the horrors and tragedies that had brought their world crashing down. Whatever their crimes, these two didn’t deserve to be made accountable for the actions of Kaan and his Brotherhood. It was the Sith Masters, the followers of the dark side, who were truly to blame. Yet as he looked into the boys’ hate-filled stares, he knew there was no hope of making them understand. Not while all that they had suffered was still fresh in their minds.

Johun had come to Ruusan to hunt down any members of the Brotherhood who might have survived the thought bomb. He intended to continue the work of General Hoth—his Master and mentor—and eliminate the Lords of the Sith, ending the threat of the dark side forever. Now, however, he recognized a greater mission: He had to save Bordon and his sons from themselves.

These were honest, decent people. But driven by hate and anger, they would butcher their helpless foes in cold blood if he didn’t stop them. Johun knew that once their anger faded, the memory of their bloody vengeance would haunt them. Guilt and self-loathing would eat away at Bordon and his boys until it eventually destroyed them. Johun wasn’t about to let that happen.

Turning his attention back to Irtanna, he saw hate in her eyes as well. However, hers was a cold, calculated emotion—a professional soldier regarding an enemy. He recognized she wouldn’t kill prisoners on her own, but she also wouldn’t do anything to stop the others. And he knew what he had to do.

“This isn’t why Farfalla sent you,” he reminded the pilot in a low voice. “You’re supposed to be helping the survivors.”

Irtanna eyed him suspiciously but didn’t say anything. Johun was reluctant to use the Force to bend her will to his own again. Subconsciously she might be more aware of his interference a second time and more likely to resist. Besides, it was important that she truly believe in what he was telling her. Compelling her obedience was a temporary solution, and one that could ultimately cause her to resent or mistrust him and the rest of the Jedi.

“Let me out and I’ll take the mercenaries into custody,” Johun said, offering up a plan. “Contact the fleet, and they’ll send another ship to pick up the three of us.”

The words weren’t easy for him to say. He’d defied Farfalla—a Jedi Master—to come to this world. The last thing he wanted was to leave Ruusan now, so soon after arriving. Yet he was willing to make that sacrifice if it would prevent Bordon and his sons from giving in to their rash and reckless emotions. It was his duty as a Jedi to protect their lives, even if it meant abandoning his own personal crusade.

“You and the others should take the shuttle and head south to the battlefield,” he continued. “Go help the injured. That’s what you’re here for.”

Irtanna hesitated, then gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. Johun was barely more than a boy; the long thin braid in his hair clearly marked that he had not yet completed his Padawan training. But he was still a member of the Jedi Order. That counted for a lot among the Republic troops. He’d been relying on that to help her see the wisdom of his words.

Confident that Irtanna would keep Bordon and his sons out of trouble, Johun got up from his chair and made his way to the rear of the Star-Wake. He did his best to ignore the accusing eyes of the two angry young men as he waited for the shuttle’s exit hatch to open. When it finally did, he leapt out and landed nimbly on the ground, then made his way quickly toward the pair standing patiently nearby, their hands still raised high above their heads. Once he was clear of the vessel, the engines roared to life and the ship lifted into the air and took off … much to the dismay of the two mercenaries.

“Where are they going?” the woman demanded, her voice a high-pitched squeak of panic. “No! They can’t leave us here!”

Her arms dropped back to her sides, as did her companion’s. For a second Johun worried that they might make a move for their weapons, but then he realized they were too distraught over the Star-Wake’s exit to even think about attacking him.

“Don’t let them go!” the man shouted, turning away from Johun to watch as the craft flew off and out of sight, then whirling back to implore the young Jedi once more. “Make them turn around! Tell them to come back!” There was a desperate urgency in his voice that mirrored the tone of his companion.

“Don’t worry,” the young Jedi assured them. “Another ship is on the way.”

“We can’t stay here,” the woman insisted. “There’s no time. He’ll find us. He’ll find us!”

“It’s okay,” Johun explained, holding up a calming hand. “I can protect you. I’m a Jedi.”

The woman raised an eyebrow and gave him a skeptical glance. The slight young man widened his stance, placed his hands on his hips, and thrust out his chest, hoping it would make him appear noble and impressive. He tried to project the image of confident self-assurance he’d often admired in Hoth and the other Masters.

The man grabbed Johun by the arm, tugging it like a child clinging to his mother’s apron. “We have to get off this planet,” he said, the words coming out in a terrified whisper. “We have to go now!”

Johun shook free of the man’s grasp with only minor difficulty. There was something unsettling about this whole encounter. From the way these two were dressed, it was clear they were experienced soldiers for hire. He suspected they were deserters from the recent battle—minions of the Sith who had fled the instant the Army of Light had broken their ranks. But their flight would have been an act of opportunistic preservation rather than fear or cowardice. Still, these combat veterans, accustomed to facing death and bloodshed, were acting like traumatized villagers after a slaver raid.

“Even if you are a Jedi, you can’t save us,” the woman muttered with a slow shake of her head. “You can’t protect us from him.”

“Who?” Johun wanted to know. “Who are you talking about?”

The man glanced around quickly, as if he was afraid someone might be listening. “A Dark Lord of the Sith,” he hissed.

“One of the Brotherhood?” Johun asked, barely able to contain his eagerness. “Are you saying a Sith Master survived the thought bomb?”

The man nodded. “He killed Lergan and Hansh. Fried them with lightning from his fingers.”

I knew it! Johun thought triumphantly. I knew it!

“He had a lightsaber, too,” the woman added. “Sliced Pad and Derrin wide open.” She hesitated for a moment, shuddering at the memory. “Rell got his head cut clean off.”

Johun was about to ask for more details, but the sound of a rapidly approaching ship momentarily distracted him. He glanced up to see a Bivouac troop transport swooping in for a landing. Seconds after it touched down, three Republic soldiers jumped out, weapons at the ready. He recognized the senior officer in the trio: Major Orten Ledes, one of the highest-ranking non-Jedi in the Army of Light’s Second Legion.

“These the prisoners?” the major asked gruffly, pointing his blaster rifle at the mercenaries.

Johun nodded. Ledes gave a tilt of his head, and his subordinates moved in quickly to slap restraints on the enemy soldiers. Neither made any attempt to resist. Once their wrists were secured they were frisked and stripped of their weapons, then marched off toward the vessel. The whole encounter was conducted with the efficiency and competence that were the hallmarks of all troops serving under Major Ledes’s command.

“You picked up Irtanna’s message?” Johun asked as he watched the Sith minions being led away.

“We were in the area,” the officer replied. “Farfalla sent me to come get you.”

Something in his tone caught the young Jedi’s attention. “Am I in trouble?”

The officer shrugged. “Hard to say. You Jedi tend to keep a tight rein on your emotions. But I bet the general wasn’t too happy when he found out you disobeyed a direct order and snuck down here.”

“Don’t worry,” Johun replied confidently. “He’ll change his tune when he hears what those prisoners have to tell him.”

Bane throttled back the swoop bike’s engine as they approached the small clearing that served as the Valcyn’s landing site. Originally presented as a gift to Lord Qordis, the vessel had been commandeered by Bane when he left the Academy on Korriban to seek out the knowledge of the ancient Sith. Qordis had never dared to try to take it back, and his cowardice had simply confirmed Bane’s decision to abandon his studies and turn his back on the Brotherhood.

He brought the swoop to a stop twenty meters from the ship. Zannah released her grip on his waist and jumped off, then stood staring at the vessel.

Bane wasn’t paying attention to her; the last ten minutes he’d had trouble focusing on anything but the pain carving up his skull. He’d hoped delving into the depths of the shimmering orb left behind by the thought bomb might somehow relieve the headaches, but if anything they’d gotten worse since their visit to the cave.

At least he’d been able to confirm that Kaan was truly dead. That made it easier for him to dismiss the ghostly form that materialized just then on the far side of the clearing. Pale beneath the late-afternoon sun, it was undeniably the image of the man who had founded the Brotherhood of Darkness.

Bane knew it was nothing but a hallucination, yet there was something compelling about the figure as it crossed the clearing to stop a meter or so away from the ship. The spirit turned and fixed him with a steady gaze, then reached out a beckoning hand.

“She’s beautiful,” Zannah breathed. Darth Bane snapped his head around in surprise. But his apprentice was staring raptly at the Valcyn herself. When Bane turned his attention back to where Kaan had been standing, the specter had vanished once again.

“I never thought I’d be leaving Ruusan in a ship like this,” Zannah said.

“You aren’t,” Bane said as he stepped off the swoop. There was nothing he could do about the hallucinations other than act as if they didn’t exist.

The young girl turned to look back at him, confused. “We’re not taking your ship?”

“I am,” her Master replied. “But you must find your own way off this world.”

It took a moment for his words to register with the girl. When they did, her expression became one of utter shock. “I … I can’t come with you?”

The big man shook his head. Spurred on by Zannah’s discovery of the ancient tome in the Sith camp, he’d come up with a plan. He was heading to Dxun, Onderon’s oversized moon, to seek out the lost tomb of Freedon Nadd. But he had other ideas for his apprentice.

“But … why not? What did I do?” the young girl choked out, clearly on the verge of tears. “Why are you leaving me?”

“This is part of your training,” Bane explained. “To understand the dark side you must suffer through hardship and struggle.”

“You don’t have to abandon me to make me suffer,” she countered. “Take me with you.”

“The strength of the dark side lies with the power of the individual,” he reminded her. “The Force comes from within. You must learn to draw on it yourself. I will not always be there to teach you.”

“But you said there were always two,” Zannah insisted. “One to embody the power, the other to crave it!”

She learned quickly, and Bane was pleased to see she had already committed so many of his lessons to memory. But reciting the words meant nothing if she didn’t understand the truth behind them.

“Why do you follow me?” he asked, posing a question to lead her down the path of wisdom.

Zannah thought about her answer for several seconds, carefully considering everything he had already taught her. “To unleash my full potential,” she said at last. “To learn the ways of the dark side.”

Bane nodded. “And when I no longer have anything to teach you? What will happen then?”

Her brow furrowed in concentration, but this time the answer wouldn’t come. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted.

“There will come a time when your training ends,” he told her. “There will come a day when you have learned all the lessons, when all my knowledge of the dark side will be yours. On that day you will challenge me for the title of Master, and only one of us will survive the encounter.”

The girl’s eyes opened wide. Then they narrowed as she focused intently on what he was saying.

“You have the potential to surpass me,” he continued. “If you achieve your potential I will cease to be of use to you. You will need to find new sources of knowledge. You will have to seek out a new apprentice so that you may pass on the secrets of the Sith Order to another.

“When your power eclipses mine I will become expendable. This is the Rule of Two: one Master and one apprentice. When you are ready to claim the mantle of Dark Lord as your own, you must do so by eliminating me.

“The confrontation is inevitable,” he concluded. “It is the only way the Sith can survive. It is the way of the dark side.”

Zannah didn’t say anything. From her expression Bane saw she was still struggling to comprehend why her Master would train her knowing that she would ultimately betray him. But she didn’t need to understand. Not yet. Right now she needed only to obey him.

“Make your way to Onderon,” Bane instructed her. “I will meet you there in ten standard days.” After I find Nadd’s tomb on Dxun.

“How am I supposed to get there?” she protested.

“You are the chosen one, the anointed heir to the legacy of our order. You will find a way.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you will have proven yourself unworthy of being my successor, and I will seek out another apprentice.”

There was nothing more to say. Bane turned his back on her and headed for his ship. Zannah merely watched him go, not speaking. As he walked away, he could feel her anger building, becoming a raging inferno of hate as he climbed into the cockpit. The heat of her fury brought a grim smile to Bane’s lips as he fired up the engines.

The Valcyn took to the air, leaving Zannah behind—a tiny figure on the planet’s surface staring after the ship, standing motionless as if she had been carved from cold, hard stone.

6

“This is all just a misunderstanding,” the man insisted from inside his cell.

“You’re making a mistake,” the woman with him agreed.

Johun took a deep breath, then let it out in a long, weary sigh. He’d arrived back on the Fairwind with his two prisoners over an hour earlier. His request for an immediate audience with Farfalla had been denied, as the acting general had been otherwise preoccupied with the cleanup efforts on Ruusan. So Johun had taken his prisoners down to the flagship’s lower deck and placed them in a holding cell to wait. With nothing better to do, he’d decided to take a seat in a nearby chair and wait with them.

The young Jedi was now strongly regretting that decision.

“We were never part of Kaan’s army,” the woman called out to him from behind the bars of their cell. “We’re just farmers.”

“Farmers don’t wear battle armor and carry weapons,” Johun said, pointing to the corner of the room where the clothing and equipment confiscated from the mercenaries had been piled atop a small table.

“That stuff’s not ours,” the man explained. “We … we just found it. We were out for a walk this morning and … we came across this deserted camp. We saw all this equipment lying around and, uh, we thought it would be fun to dress up like soldiers.”

The Republic guard standing watch over the prisoners with Johun barked out a laugh at the pathetic lie. Johun just closed his eyes and reached up to rub his temples. Back on Ruusan the prisoners had been all too eager to confess to their crimes. Fresh from their encounter with the unnamed Sith Lord, they had been temporarily scared straight. Now that they were safely away from the planet’s surface, however, the sobering reality of a five-to-ten-year sentence on a Republic prison world was making them recant their earlier testimony.

“What about the others?” Johun asked, hoping to catch them in their own web of lies. “Your friends who died in the attack. Were they farmers, too?”

“Yes,” the man replied, even as the woman said, “We didn’t really know them.”

“Well,” the young Jedi asked coolly, “which is it?”

The two mercenaries gave each other a long, sour look, but it was the woman who finally answered. “We just met them this morning. At the Sith camp. They said they were farmers like us, but they might have been lying.”

“Lying? Really?” Johun asked sarcastically. “Hard to imagine why anyone would do that.”

The guard gave another short laugh. “You two should take this act on tour,” he said. “You know … if you survive prison.”

The man in the cell seemed about to say something biting in reply, but he held his tongue when his companion gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs. At that moment one of Farfalla’s envoys poked her head into the room.

“The general can see you now,” she said to Johun.

Johun leapt from his chair to follow her.

“Hey, tell him to let us out of here,” the man called out after him. “Don’t forget about us!”

No chance of that, Johun thought. To the guard he said, “Keep an eye on them. And don’t believe anything they say.”

The envoy led him on a long, winding journey through the various levels of the Fairwind. The holding cells were located in the bottommost depths of the great ship’s hull; he was meeting Farfalla on the command deck at the top. Along the way they passed hundreds of faces Johun recognized, fellow Jedi and soldiers who had fought by his side during the campaign. Most gave a curt nod or a quick wave as they went by, too busy with their own duties to engage in any kind of conversation.

There were also many faces Johun didn’t recognize: refugees from Ruusan. Many were evacuees brought here in the mad rush to escape the thought bomb, preparing to head back down to the surface to try to rebuild their lives. Others were men and women whose homes or families had been completely destroyed by the war; for them there was nothing to go back to but the painful memories of what they had lost. Farfalla had arranged for those people who didn’t wish to return to Ruusan to be given transport back to the Core Worlds of the Republic, where they could find a fresh start away from the horrors they had witnessed.

So many people, Johun thought as he silently followed his guide. So much suffering. And it will all be for nothing if any of the Sith manage to escape.

When they reached the command deck, the envoy led him to Farfalla’s personal quarters. She knocked once on the closed door, and a voice from the other side said, “Come in.”

She placed a hand on the console and the door slid open, then she nodded at Johun. He stepped forward and into the room, and he heard the door whoosh closed behind him.

The room was larger than he had expected, and decorated in the lavish style for which Valenthyne Farfalla was famous. A brightly colored rug of crimson and gold lay spread across the floor, and the walls were hung with works that would not have seemed out of place in the finest art galleries of Alderaan. On the far side of the room was an enormous four-poster bed, the frame fashioned from the timber of a wroshyr tree—a gift from Wookiee tribal leaders on Kashyyyk. The covers and pillows were woven from shimmering silks of yellow and red, and each of the massive bedposts was emblazoned with a hand-painted mural depicting a major event from Farfalla’s life: his royal birth, his acceptance into the Jedi Order, his ascension to the rank of Master, his famous triumph over the Sith forces on Kashyyyk.

The general was sitting at an oversized desk in the corner, reviewing reports on a monitor built into the surface. “You disappoint me, young Padawan,” he said as he flicked off the screen and turned in his seat to face Johun.

“I am sorry I disobeyed you, Master Valenthyne,” he replied.

Farfalla stood up and crossed the room, his feet padding softly on the luxurious carpet. “That is the least of my concerns,” he said, placing a heavy hand on the young man’s shoulder. His eyes were dark and sunken, and his normally joyful expression was hidden under a mask of worry and fatigue.

“Irtanna,” Johun said, hanging his head in shame at the memory of how he had used the Force to trick the pilot into allowing him to join her crew.

“A Jedi does not use his powers to manipulate the minds of his friends. Even if your motives are pure, it is an abuse of your position and a betrayal of the trust others put in us.”

“I know what I did was wrong,” Johun admitted.

“And I will accept whatever punishment you feel is necessary to atone for what I did. But there is something more important that we need to talk about first.”

Farfalla gazed into Johun’s eyes, then let his hand drop. The Padawan thought he saw a flicker of disappointment cross the Master’s face as he did so.

“Yes, of course,” Farfalla said, turning and walking back to his desk. He reached down and flicked the monitor back on. “The report from those prisoners you captured.”

“You’ve seen it?” Johun asked in surprise.

“I read all the reports,” he answered. “It is a leader’s responsibility to know what his followers are doing. More important, he must stop them from making rash or misguided decisions.”

“You still don’t believe any of the Sith survived the thought bomb,” Johun guessed.

“I lack faith in the credibility of your sources,” Valenthyne replied. “These mercenaries are, to put it bluntly, the scum of the galaxy. How do you know they aren’t just telling you what you want to hear?”

“Why would they do that?”

Farfalla shrugged. “Maybe they think you will stand up for them. Get them better treatment as prisoners. A lesser sentence for their crimes. These people are opportunists. They will seek every advantage they can find. Lying is second nature to them.”

“I don’t think they were lying, Master,” Johun said with a shake of his head. “If you saw them on the surface … they were terrified! Something terrible happened to them.”

“This is war. Terrible things are a matter of course.”

“What about the details of their account?” Johun pressed. “The red-bladed lightsaber? The Force lightning? These are the weapons of the dark side!”

“If they were soldiers in Kaan’s army, they would be well versed in the tools the Sith use against their enemies. It would be easy for them to add these elements to any story they wanted to tell.”

Clenching his jaw in frustration, Johun spat out a harsh accusation. “You just want to believe the Sith are gone forever! That’s why you refuse to see what’s right in front of us.”

“And you want to believe the Sith still exist,” Farfalla countered, though his voice echoed none of the anger in the Padawan’s challenge. “You want to strike out against those who killed your Master. Your desire to avenge him has blinded you to the facts. If you were thinking clearly, you would see that there is one part of the story that calls the entire account into question.”

Johun blinked in surprise. “You have proof they’re lying?”

“It’s right there in the report you filed,” Farfalla informed him. “They claim that a Dark Lord of the Sith slaughtered their friends. But somehow they survived the encounter. How is that possible?”

“They … they escaped into the trees,” Johun stammered, knowing how foolish the words sounded even as he said them.

“You are a Jedi,” Farfalla admonished him. “You know the power of the Force. Do you really believe they could have escaped the wrath of a Sith Master simply by running into the forest?”

He would have hunted them down and butchered them like zucca pigs, Johun admitted to himself. “Maybe he wanted to let them live for some reason,” he suggested, still unwilling to surrender the point.

“Why?” Farfalla asked. “If a Sith Lord survived the thought bomb, why would he leave witnesses behind who could expose him to his enemies?”

Johun had no answer for this. It didn’t make any sense. But somehow he knew—he knew—the mercenaries were telling the truth.

“Johun,” the general said, sensing his inner conflict. “You must be completely honest with yourself. Do you really believe we can trust these mercenaries?”

Johun thought back to the prisoners in the cell and the endless string of lies pouring from their mouths. He thought about his own warning to the guard watching over them: Don’t believe anything they say. And Johun finally realized what a fool he’d been.

“No, Master Valenthyne. You are right. They can’t be trusted.” After a moment he added, “I … I would like to speak with Irtanna and Bordon when they get back. To apologize for what I did to them.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Johun,” Farfalla said with a wan smile. “We Jedi are not infallible. It is important that we stay humble enough to admit when we make a mistake.

“Unfortunately, apologizing in person will not be possible,” he continued. “I have been summoned to Coruscant to meet with Chancellor Valorum. Since you obviously cannot be trusted to follow my instructions in my absence, you will be accompanying me as my aide.”

The proclamation had been framed as a punishment, but Johun’s heart leapt at the words. In effect, Master Valenthyne was offering to take him on and mentor him.

“I … thank you, Master,” was all he could say. Not sure what else to do, he gave a short bow.

“It’s what Hoth would have wanted for you,” Farfalla said softly. Then, louder, “We’ll leave as soon as I finish making the arrangements for others to take over command of the fleet while I’m gone.”

“Why does the Chancellor want to meet with you so urgently?” Johun asked, suddenly curious.

“Now that the Brotherhood of Darkness has been defeated, the Galactic Senate wants to put an official end to this war. There is important legislation on the table that could change the face of the Republic forever. Valorum wants to discuss it with me before the Senate votes.”

“And this legislation will affect the Jedi as well?”

“It will,” Farfalla answered grimly. “In ways you cannot even begin to imagine.”

Zannah’s feet hurt. Her calves ached. Her thighs burned with every step. Yet somehow she ignored the pain and pushed herself to go on.

She’d been walking ever since Darth Bane’s ship had disappeared over the horizon, leaving her alone once again. Her mission was clear: make her way to Onderon. To do that, she had to find a ship to get her off Ruusan. That meant finding other people. But Zannah had no idea where any other people might be, and so she had simply chosen a random direction and started walking.

She was too small to pilot the swoop bike Bane had used to whisk them across the landscape. At first that hadn’t mattered: She’d used her newfound talents in the Force to propel herself along, running so fast that the world passed by her in a blur of wind and color. But while the Force may have been infinite, her ability to draw upon it was not. Her skills were still developing, and fatigue had set in quickly. She had felt her pace slowing as her strength ebbed, and though she tried to summon the power of the dark side again by tapping into her deep reserves of anger and hate, her exhausted will could only call up the faintest flicker of a response.

Now she’d been reduced to a tired little girl plodding across the war-torn Ruusan landscape. Yet she refused to surrender to despair, instead focusing all her energy on putting one foot in front of the other. It was impossible to say how long she continued her forced march—how many hours or kilometers she endured—before she was rewarded with what she sought: the sight of a shuttle in the distance.

Hope gave new life to her weary limbs, and she managed a clumsy, limping run toward the vessel. She could see people milling about the craft: a young woman, an older man, and two teenage boys. As she drew nearer the woman noticed her and called out to one of her companions.

“Bordon! Tell the boys we’ve found someone who needs help.”

Minutes later Zannah found herself inside the vessel’s cargo hold, sitting on a supply chest while wolfing down nutrition bars from a ration kit and chasing them with a piping-hot cup of chav. One of the boys had thrown a thick blanket over her shoulders, and the entire crew was now hovering protectively around her.

“I’ve never seen someone so small eat so much,” the woman said with a laugh.

She didn’t look like she’d come from Ruusan originally. She had dark skin and short black hair, and she wore a bulky padded vest under her jacket. There was also a blaster pistol strapped to her hip, making Zannah fairly certain she was a soldier of some type.

“What did you expect, Irtanna?” the older man said. In contrast to the woman, he looked like he was probably a native of Ruusan. He had broad shoulders, leathery skin, and a short brown beard. He reminded Zannah of Root, the cousin who had raised her as a little girl back on her homeworld of Somov Rit. “The poor thing’s nothing but skin and bones. When was the last time you had a decent meal, girl?”

Zannah shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said around a mouthful of food.

She’d only accepted their offer of a meal out of politeness. Ever since she had arrived on Ruusan she’d been living on roots and berries, her body constantly on the edges of starvation. She’d been doing it for so long that she’d gotten used to the pangs of a perpetually empty stomach, adapting to the point that she was barely aware of her hunger. But the moment that first bite of real food hit her tongue, she remembered her appetite, and now her body was determined to make up for weeks of poor nutrition.

“Where are your parents?” the woman called Irtanna asked.

“They’re dead,” Zannah answered after a moment’s hesitation, setting down what remained of the ration kit. The food was delicious; the simple physical pleasure of eating was a glorious sensation. But she couldn’t allow herself to be distracted by it right now. She had to be very careful with what she told these people.

The man crouched beside her, bringing himself down to her eye level. When he spoke, his voice was soft and sympathetic. “Any other family? Brothers or sisters? Anyone?”

She answered with another shake of her head.

“A war orphan,” Irtanna muttered sadly.

“My name’s Bordon,” the man told her. “This is Irtanna, and these are my sons Tallo and Wend. What’s your name?”

Unwilling to reveal her true name, she hesitated for a second. “I’m … Rain,” she finally offered, giving them her childhood nickname.

“Rain? That’s a funny name. Never heard one like that before,” the older boy, Tallo, said. He looked to be about sixteen.

“There are lots of names you’ve never heard,” Bordon chided his son sharply. Then, in a softer voice, he asked Zannah, “Are you hurt, Rain? Or sick? We have medicine if you need it.”

“I’m okay. I was just hungry is all.”

“Should we take her with us?” Irtanna asked.

Bordon kept his eyes on Zannah as he replied, “Why don’t we ask her. Rain, do you want to come with us?”

“I have to go to Onderon,” Zannah replied without thinking. As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them.

“Onderon? Nothing on that rock but monsters and beast-riders,” Tallo chimed in. “You must be pretty stupid if you want to go there.”

“Hush, boy,” Bordon snapped. “You’ve never been off Ruusan, so how would you know?”

“I heard people talking,” Tallo replied. “Around the camps and stuff.”

“You can’t believe every tale you hear around a campfire,” his father reminded him. “Now take your brother and go wait up in the front of the ship.”

“Come on,” Tallo grumbled, grabbing his younger sibling by the arm.

“That’s not fair!” Wend protested as he was led away. “I didn’t do nothing!”

“Why do you want to go to Onderon?” Irtanna asked once the boys were gone. “It’s a very dangerous world. Not the kind of place for a little girl on her own.”

“I won’t be on my own. I … I have family there,” Zannah lied. “I just need to find them.”

Bordon rubbed his hand over his chin, tugging slightly at his beard. “It might be pretty hard finding them on a place like Onderon,” he said. “Is there someone else we could contact for you? A family friend on Ruusan, maybe?”

“I have to go to Onderon,” Zannah insisted.

“I see,” the man said, then he stood up and turned to Irtanna. “Our young guest seems mighty determined to get off this world.”

“We can’t take you to Onderon,” Irtanna said, “but we can take you with us when we leave Ruusan.”

“Take me where?” Zannah asked, suspicious.

“We’ve got a whole fleet of ships orbiting the planet, Rain. You’ll be safe up there. We’ll find someone to get you cleaned up and look after you.”

“I can look after myself,” she answered defiantly.

“Yes, I can see that,” Bordon interjected. “But I bet it’s lonely being all by yourself.” When Zannah didn’t answer he continued, “Tell you what—it’s getting dark outside. Why don’t we take you with us up to the fleet for now? Then tomorrow we can figure out what to do next.

“If you still want to go to Onderon, we’ll see if we can help. But if you change your mind, maybe you could stay here on Ruusan with me and my boys for a while. At least until we find your family.”

Zannah’s mouth dropped open at his offer.

Bordon reached down and patted her gently on the shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to answer right now. Just something to think about.”

Managing a slight nod, Zannah resumed eating her meal, her mind still reeling.

“I’ll go get us ready for takeoff,” Irtanna said as she left, heading up toward the front of the vessel.

Bordon grunted his agreement, then spoke to Zannah once more. “I have to go up front to help Irtanna. You just stay back here and finish eating, okay?”

Zannah nodded again. There was something comforting about the way Bordon spoke to her. He made her feel safe and important at the same time. She watched him disappear through the door separating the supply hold from the cockpit.

“You just holler if you need anything,” Bordon’s voice called back to her.

A minute later the engines roared to life and the shuttle lifted up into the air, but Zannah barely noticed. Her brain was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Part of her was silently screaming that she couldn’t just sit there—she had to do something now! She couldn’t let them take her back to the fleet. There were too many people there. Too many Jedi. Someone was bound to notice her special gifts and start asking questions. They’d find out about Darth Bane, and everything he had promised her—all the knowledge and power of the dark side—would be lost.

Yet another part of her wanted to go back to the fleet. Bane had warned that her apprenticeship would be a long and difficult struggle. She was tired of struggling. And Bane had abandoned her. Bordon, on the other hand, had offered her his home; he’d offered to let her be part of his family. What would be so wrong about simply accepting his offer? Bane had said she was the chosen heir to the legacy of the ancient Sith, but was that really what she wanted?

Before she could come up with an answer she heard a noise, and looked up to see Wend, the younger of Bordon’s two sons, coming in from the cockpit to talk to her. She guessed he was somewhere around thirteen—only a few years older than she was.

“Papa says you don’t have any family,” he said by way of greeting.

Zannah didn’t know what to say, so she only nodded.

“Did they die in the war?” Wend asked. “Did the Sith kill them?”

She shrugged, unwilling to elaborate in case she inadvertently gave away some detail that would expose her façade.

“My mother was a soldier,” Wend told her. “She was very brave. She went to fight the Sith when they first came to Ruusan.”

“What happened to her?” She only asked the question because it was expected and it would have seemed odd if she hadn’t. She didn’t want to do anything to draw unwanted attention to herself.

“She died at the Fourth Battle of Ruusan. Killed by the Sith. Papa says—”

“Wend!” came Bordon’s voice from the cockpit. “Get back up here. Let Rain have some peace and quiet.”

The boy gave her a shy smile, then turned and left her alone again with her thoughts. Thanks to his words, however, she’d made her decision.

Bordon had offered to take her in. He’d offered to make her part of his family. He was tempting her with a simple but happy life. But his words offered nothing except empty promises. Peace is a lie.

What good were family or friends if you didn’t have the strength to protect them? Bordon had lost his wife, and Tallo and Wend had lost their mother. When the Sith came they’d been powerless to save the one they most loved.

Zannah knew what it was like to feel powerless. She knew what it was like to have the things she valued above all else taken from her. And she had vowed to never let it happen again.

Bordon and his family were victims—slaves bound by the chains of their own weakness. Zannah refused to be a victim any longer. Bane had promised to teach her the ways of the dark side. He would show her how to unleash the power within and free herself from the shackles of the world.

Through power I gain victory. Through victory my chains are broken!

The realization of what she was—the acceptance of her destiny—spurred Zannah into action. She tried to call upon the Force to give her strength, but she was still too exhausted from her previous exertions to use her talents. Undaunted, she began to rummage through the supply crates in the cargo hold, looking for something she could use to stop the shuttle and her crew from bringing her to the rest of the fleet.

She found what she was looking for just as Tallo entered the hold, catching her red-handed.

“Papa wanted me to see if you—Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

Zannah wrapped her hand around the grip of the blaster a split second before Tallo crashed into her, tackling her to the ground.

“You kriffing little thief!” the boy swore at her, trying to pin her to the ground and pull the weapon from her hand. He outweighed Zannah by thirty kilos, but she fought with a savage desperation that kept him from getting a firm grip on her as they wrestled on the floor.

Drawn by the sounds of their struggle, Bordon came running into the room.

“What the blazes is going on here!” he shouted.

In that exact instant the blaster discharged. It was impossible to say whose finger had been on the trigger; Tallo and Zannah were each clutching at the pistol with both hands in their efforts to wrest possession of it from the other. But through ill luck or dark fate, when the bolt was fired the barrel of the weapon was pointed squarely at Tallo. The impact left a gaping wound in the center of his chest, killing him instantly.

The young man’s hands went limp and fell away from the blaster. His body toppled forward, pinning Zannah’s legs beneath its weight. Across the room Bordon’s eyes flew wide in horror. With a scream of anguish he lunged forward to help his son.

Seeing the father of the boy she had just killed rushing toward her, Zannah acted on instinct and fired the weapon again. The bolt caught Bordon just above the belt, cutting off his cry and knocking him to his knees. He let out a low grunt of pain as he clutched at the smoking hole in his gut, then reached a bloody hand out toward Zannah. She cried out in fear and disgust and fired again, ending Bordon’s life.

“Bordon!” Irtanna’s voice came over the shipboard intercom. “I heard blasterfire! What’s happening back there?”

Moving quickly, Zannah squirmed out from under Tallo’s corpse and ran up to the cockpit. She arrived to find Wend still harnassed into his passenger’s seat, trying to turn around to see what was going on. Irtanna was just rising from her chair to go help Bordon. She’d had to engage the autopilot before she could leave her seat, and the delay had given Zannah the precious seconds she’d need to gain the upper hand.

“Sit back down and don’t move!” Zannah shouted, pointing the blaster at Irtanna. Her voice sounded thin and hollow in the tight confines of the cockpit—the voice of a panicky child.

Irtanna hesitated, then obeyed.

“What happened?” the woman asked, her tone carefully neutral. “Is anybody hurt?”

“Plot a course for Onderon,” Zannah ordered, refusing to answer the question. She could barely hear herself speak above the deafening thump of her racing heart.

“Okay,” Irtanna said slowly, reaching up to punch the coordinates into the ship’s command console. “I’ll do what you want. Just stay calm.” The ship’s autonav chimed to acknowledge the new destination, and the woman half turned in her seat so she could look the young girl holding her hostage square in the eye. “Rain, put the blaster down.” There was a cool self-assurance in her words, and a grim determination on her face.

“I’m not Rain,” the girl retorted through clenched teeth. “My name is Zannah!”

“Whoever you are,” Irtanna said, standing up slowly, “you’re going to give me that blaster.”

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot!” Zannah warned, her voice rising shrilly. How can she be so calm? she thought, even as she struggled to slow her own breathing down. She was the one with the blaster, but somehow she felt like she was losing control of the situation.

“No,” the young woman replied calmly, taking a single step toward her. “You won’t shoot me. You’re not a killer.”

The memory of the two dead Jedi back on Ruusan flashed through Zannah’s mind, followed quickly by the image of Bordon and his son lying lifeless in the cargo hold.

“Yes, I am,” she whispered as she pulled the trigger.

Irtanna managed a faint gasp of surprise, then collapsed to the ground—a quick and clean death. Zannah waited a second to confirm she was gone, then turned to point the blaster at Wend. He had watched the encounter unfold as if paralyzed, not even bothering to undo the buckle of his safety harness.

“Don’t kill me!” he begged, squirming beneath the chair’s restraints.

She could actually sense the fear emanating from him. She felt the familiar heat of the dark side flare to life within her, responding to the plight of her victim, feeding itself on his terror. It flowed through her like a wave of liquid fire, burning away her guilt and uncertainty and strengthening her resolve.

Zannah’s mind was filled with a great and sudden realization: fear and pain were an inevitable part of existence. And it was far better to inflict them on others than to suffer them herself.

“Please don’t shoot,” Wend whimpered, making one last plea for his life. “I’m just a kid. Like you.”

“I’m not a kid,” Zannah said as she pulled the trigger. “I’m a Sith.”

7

Bane could hear the whine of the Valcyn’s engines as the ship sliced through the upper layers of Dxun’s atmosphere, protesting as he pushed the vessel to her very limits. Normally the trip from Ruusan to Onderon’s oversized moon would have taken a T-class cruiser like the Valcyn between four and five days. Bane had covered the distance in just over two.

Within hours of leaving Ruusan—and Zannah—behind, he had been cursed with the return of the almost unbearable headaches. And with them had come an unwanted and most unwelcome companion. The spectral shade of Lord Kaan loomed over him in the cockpit for the entire first day of the trip, a visible manifestation of the damage Bane’s mind had suffered from the thought bomb. The spirit never spoke, merely watched him with its accusatory gaze, a constant presence on the edges of Bane’s awareness.

The ghostly apparition had driven Bane to adopt an irresponsible, even dangerous, pace for the journey. He had pushed the Valcyn far beyond the recommended safety parameters, as if part of him was trying to use the speed of the ship to outrun his own madness. He was desperate to reach Dxun so he could find the tomb of Freedon Nadd and hopefully discover some way to rid himself of the torturous hallucinations.

Kaan had disappeared toward the end of the first day of his journey, only to be replaced by an even worse visitation. It wasn’t the founder of the Brotherhood of Darkness that hovered beside him now, but Qordis—the former head of the Sith Academy on Korriban. Pale and semi-translucent, the figure was otherwise an almost perfect replica of what the Sith Lord had looked like at the time of their final meeting, when Bane had killed him. Tall and gaunt, Qordis had skeletal features that seemed more at home on a spirit than they ever had on a being of flesh and blood. Unlike Kaan, however, Qordis actually spoke to him, spewing forth an endless litany of blame, denouncing everything Bane had accomplished.

“You betrayed us,” the phantom said, extending a long, thin finger topped with a talonlike nail. Bane didn’t need to look at it to know the finger would be adorned with the heavy bejeweled rings Qordis had worn in life. “You destroyed the Brotherhood, you brought victory to the Jedi. And now you flee the scene like a craven thief in the night.”

I’m not a coward! Bane thought. There was no point in voicing the words aloud; the vision was all in his mind. Speaking with it would only be a sign that his mental condition was further deteriorating. I did what had to be done. The Brotherhood was an abomination. They had to be destroyed!

“The Brotherhood had knowledge of the dark side. Wisdom that is lost forever because of you.”

Bane was growing weary of the all-too-familiar refrain. He’d had this conversation with himself before he decided to destroy Kaan and his followers, and now he was reliving it again and again through the delusions of his wounded mind. Yet he refused to allow any doubts or uncertainties to weaken his resolve; he had done what was necessary.

The Brotherhood had lost its way. They had fallen from the true path of the dark side. All the study and training Qordis put prospective students through at the Academy was worthless.

“If that was true,” the apparition countered, answering his unspoken arguments, “then how do you explain your current mission? Your claim to reject my teachings, yet I was the one who discovered the location of Freedon Nadd’s lost tomb.”

You didn’t discover anything. You’re just a hallucination. And Qordis may have stumbled on this information, but he didn’t know what to do with it. A true Sith Master would have left Ruusan to seek out Nadd’s tomb. Instead he decided to stay and help Kaan play army with the Jedi.

“Excuses and justifications,” the spirit replied. “Kaan was a warrior. But you would rather hide from your enemies than fight them.”

Bane gritted his teeth as the Valcyn hit the turbulence of Dxun’s heavy cloud cover. The ship was still going too fast, forcing him to clutch the steering yoke so hard to keep his craft on course that his knuckles turned white. He heard the creaks and groans as the over-stressed hull sliced through the thick atmosphere.

“You betrayed us,” Qordis said again.

Bane swore under his breath, doing his best to ignore the ramblings of the image conjured up by his own mind. How many times had he heard this exact conversation in the past day? Fifty? A hundred? It was like listening to a busted holoprojector repeating the same message over and over.

“You destroyed the Brotherhood, you brought victory to the Jedi. And now you flee the scene like a craven thief in the night.”

“Shut up!” Darth Bane screamed, no longer able to contain his rage. “You’re not even real!”

He lashed out with the Force, releasing an explosion of dark side energy inside the cockpit, determined to blast the offending vision into oblivion. Qordis did vanish, but Bane’s victory was short-lived. Emergency lights began flashing inside the ship, accompanied by the shrill whooping of a critical failure alarm.

The ship’s console had been fried by the burst of power he’d unleashed. Cursing Qordis and his own reckless display of emotion, Bane began a desperate struggle to somehow bring the vessel in for a safe landing. From all around him he could hear the ghostly, mocking laughter of Qordis.

The Valcyn was in free fall, plummeting straight down toward Dxun’s heavily forested surface. Bane yanked back on the yoke with all the strength of his massive frame, managing to redirect the ship into a shallower angle of approach. But if he didn’t find some way to decelerate, it wasn’t going to matter.

He punched at the controls, trying to restart the engine thrusters with one hand while the other still struggled to keep the yoke steady. Getting no response, he closed his eyes and reached out with the Force, digging deep into the burned-out circuits and melted wires of the ship.

His mind raced through the labyrinth of electronics that controlled all the Valcyn’s systems, reassembling and rerouting them to find a configuration that would restore power to the dead ignition switch. His first attempt resulted in a shower of sparks shooting up from the control panel, but his second effort was rewarded with the roar of the thrusters coming to life.

Bane managed to get the engines into full reverse only a few hundred meters above Dxun’s surface. The ship’s descent slowed, but didn’t even come close to stopping. A split second before the Valcyn slammed into the forest below, Bane wrapped himself in the Force, creating a protective cocoon he could only hope would be strong enough to survive the unavoidable collision.

The Valcyn hit the treetops at a forty-five-degree angle. The landing gear sheared off on impact, tearing loose with a thunderous crack. Wide gashes appeared in the sides of the ship, the hull hurtling into thick branches and boughs with enough force to tear through the reinforced sheets of metal and peel them away from their frame.

Inside the cockpit Bane was flung against walls and ceiling. He was spun, tossed, and slammed against the sides of the cockpit as the vessel careened through the trees. Even the Force couldn’t fully shield him from the devastating crash as the ship carved a kilometer-long swath of burned and broken foliage before slamming into the soft, muddy ground of a swamp and finally coming to rest.

For several seconds Bane didn’t move. His ship had been reduced to a smoking pile of scrap, but miraculously he had survived, saved by the dark side energies enveloping his form. He hadn’t escaped unscathed, however. His body was covered with painful bruises and contusions, his face and hands cut from fragments of shattered glass that had pierced his protective cocoon; his right bicep was bleeding heavily from a deep five-centimeter gash. His left shoulder had been dislocated and two ribs were broken, but neither had punctured a lung. His right knee was already swelling up, but there didn’t seem to be any cartilage or ligament damage. And he tasted blood in his mouth, oozing from the gap where two of his teeth had been knocked out. Fortunately, none of his wounds was life threatening.

Bane rose to his feet slowly, favoring his injured knee. What was left of the Valcyn had come to rest on her side, turning everything in the cockpit at a disorienting ninety-degree angle. Moving gingerly, Bane made his way to the emergency exit hatch, his left arm dangling all but useless from his side. Given the ship’s position, her exit hatch was now above him, facing the sky.

Strong as he was, Bane knew he wouldn’t be able to pull himself to freedom with only one good arm. A Jedi might have been able to use the Force to heal his wounds, but Bane was a student of the dark side. Even if his ability to call upon the Force hadn’t been temporarily exhausted in surviving the crash, healing was not a skill the Sith were familiar with. Before he became a Sith Master, however, Bane had served as a soldier, where he had received basic medical field training.

The Valcyn was equipped with an emergency medpac under the pilot’s seat. Inside it were healing stims he could use to treat the worst of his injuries. But when he made his way over to look under the seat, the kit was gone.

Realizing it must have jarred loose during the crash, he rummaged around the cockpit until he found it. The outside of the kit was dented and slightly bent, but otherwise it appeared undamaged. It took him three tries to open the latch with only one good hand. When he finally succeeded, he was relieved to see that several of the health stims had survived intact.

He removed one and injected it directly into his thigh. Within seconds he could feel his body’s own natural healing properties beginning to kick into overdrive in response to the healing shot. The blood flowing from his cuts began to clot. More important, the shot helped dull the pain from his swollen knee and broken ribs, allowing him to walk and breathe more freely.

His dislocated shoulder, however, required more direct treatment. Grabbing his injured left wrist with his right hand and gritting his teeth against the pain, Bane pulled with all his might, hoping the shoulder would pop back into place. Thanks to his size and strength, he’d been recruited more than a few times by field medics to help resocket the dislocated limbs of fellow soldiers during his military days. A simple procedure, it required a tremendous amount of torque to work effectively, and Bane soon discovered he simply couldn’t get the leverage he needed to perform the maneuver on himself.

Grunting and sweating from his exertions, he realized he’d have to take more extreme measures. Lowering himself to a sitting position on the floor, he stretched forward and bent his knees so he could grip the wrist of his injured arm securely between his ankles. He took a deep breath, then thrust his legs straight while throwing his torso backward.

He screamed as the shoulder snapped back into the socket with an audible pop. The sudden jolt of pain was excruciating; it took every bit of strength he had left to keep from passing out. As it was he simply lay on his back, pale and shivering from the ordeal. He was rewarded a few seconds later by the pins and needles of sensation rapidly being restored to the fingers of his left hand.

A few minutes and another healing injection later, he was able to use both arms to haul himself up through the exit hatch and clamber down the side of the Valcyn’s wreckage to stand, battered but not beaten, on Dxun’s surface.

He wasn’t surprised to find Qordis waiting there for him.

“You’re trapped, Bane,” the spirit mocked. “Your ship is destroyed beyond all hope of repair. You won’t find another vessel here—there are no intelligent or civilized creatures on Dxun. And you can’t wait for a rescue party. Nobody knew you were coming here. Not even your apprentice.”

Bane didn’t bother replying, but instead made a final check of his gear. He’d grabbed a pack of basic supplies from the ship and strapped it to his back. It contained food rations, glow rods, a handful of health stims, and a simple hunting blade that he slid into his boot. The pack and its contents, plus the lightsaber dangling at his belt, were the only things worth salvaging from the wreckage.

“The jungles of Dxun are filled with deadly predators,” the spirit continued. “They will stalk you day and night, and the moment you let your guard down they will strike. And even if you survive the terrors of the jungle, how are you going to get off this world?

“There is no escape,” the ghostly Qordis taunted. “You will die here, Bane.”

“It’s Darth Bane,” the big man said with a grim smile. “And I’m not dead yet. Unlike you.”

The reply seemed to satisfy whatever part of his subconscious was conjuring up the image, because Qordis abruptly disappeared.

With the distraction gone, Bane was free to examine his environment more closely. The thick forest canopy above blocked out most light; even though it was midday he found himself bathed in twilight. Still, he didn’t need his eyes to see clearly.

Reaching out with the Force, he took closer stock of his surroundings. He was in the very heart of the forest; the trees went on for hundreds of kilometers in every direction. And as he probed the surrounding foliage for signs of life, he realized that the apparition had been right about one thing: the forests of Dxun teemed with a host of deadly and voracious beasts. Bane wondered how long it would be before one of the jungle denizens decided to figure out where he fit in on the food chain.

Yet he wasn’t afraid. Even before Nadd’s tomb had been hidden here, the ancient Sith had been drawn to Dxun. The Jedi had condemned it as a place of evil, but Bane recognized it for what it really was: a world infused with the power of the dark side. He felt strong here, rejuvenated … though he was smart enough to understand that the creatures prowling the wilderness would be drawing on that same power.

And then his mental explorations came across what he was looking for. Many kilometers away he sensed a concentration of power. He’d located the source of the dark side energy that permeated the forest around him, radiating power like a beacon emitting a homing signal.

It had to be Nadd’s tomb, and now that he was here, Darth Bane felt the place calling to him. Leaving the wreckage of the Valcyn behind, he made his way toward the source. He marched in a perfectly straight line, taking the most direct route possible to his destination, using his lightsaber to hack and hew a path through the thick undergrowth that barred his way.

Keeping one corner of his mind focused on following the route to Nadd’s tomb, Bane focused the rest of his awareness into a state of hypervigilance. As in most forest ecosystems, the creatures that had evolved on Dxun were masters of their environment. More than a few had quite likely developed the ability to camouflage themselves, blending not only into the branches and trees but into the ever-present hum of the dark side that hung over the forest, as well.

Even with his caution, Bane was almost caught unawares when the attack came. An enormous feline creature dropped down from above, silent save for the faint hiss of its forepaw slashing the air where its prey’s throat had been a mere second before.

Bane had sensed the beast at the last possible instant, his Force awareness giving him a precognitive warning that allowed him to duck clear of the lethal claws. Even so, the massive body of the beast slammed into Bane, sending him reeling.

The Dark Lord of the Sith would have died right there had the creature not been momentarily stunned by the unexpected failure of its ambush. The beast’s confusion gave Bane the second he needed to roll clear of his enemy and fall into a fighting stance.

With the beast no longer concealed by Dxun’s forest, Bane got his first good look at the thing that had nearly killed him. It studied him with luminous green eyes that were definitely feline, though its fur was a metallic gray coat flecked with tiny bronze plates that shimmered as the muscles moved beneath the skin. It stood a meter and a half at the shoulder, easily weighing three hundred kilograms. It had four thick, muscular legs that ended in razor-sharp retractable claws. But the feature that drew Bane’s immediate attention was the serpentine twin tails, each tipped with a deadly barb that dripped glowing green venom.

Bane retreated slowly until his back came up against the gnarled trunk of a tall tree. The nameless monstrosity advanced, then with a low growl that made Bane’s skin crawl, it leapt at him again, twin tails whipping wildly. Bane lunged to the side, wanting to gauge his opponent’s tactics before he engaged it in direct combat. He saw the front claws slashing and flailing through the suddenly empty air, and he watched as the twin tails arced up over the beast’s back to stab at the space he had been standing in a moment before. The barbs slammed into the tree Bane had been backed up against with enough force to split the trunk, injecting their corrosive venom into the wood and leaving two smoking black circles.

The creature landed on all four feet simultaneously and spun to face Bane again before he had a chance to strike at its unprotected flank. Once more it began a slow advance. But this time when it pounced, Bane was ready.

The beast acted on instinct; it was a mindless brute that relied on strength and speed to defeat its enemies. Its methods of attack had evolved over countless generations until they were second nature, and it was inevitable it would use the exact same sequence of movements to bring Bane down a second time.

It came in high, leading with its claws just as he had expected. The natural reaction of most prey would be to retreat from those claws by leaping backward—only to be impaled by the deadly barbed tails lashing forward. Bane, however, ducked down under the claws and then stepped up to meet the creature’s attack, his lightsaber held high above his head.

The blade sliced through the beast’s underbelly, carving flesh and sinew and bone. Bane twisted the blade as it ran the length of the creature, redirecting it into a slightly diagonal stroke sure to cleave several vital organs. The move was simple, quick, and deadly.

The feline’s momentum carried it over Bane’s head and it crashed to the ground behind him, its body split open from midchest all the way to its still-twitching tails. The body shuddered once, the tails went motionless, and a milky film spread out to dull its luminous eyes.

Bane’s heart was pounding from the thrill of combat. He stepped away from the corpse of his defeated foe, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. With a triumphant laugh, he threw his head back and shouted, “Is that all you’ve got, Qordis? Is that the best you can do?”

He looked around, half hoping to see the ghostly image of his former Master materialize. But it wasn’t Qordis who appeared to him this time.

“You again,” Bane said to the spectral image of Lord Kaan. “What do you want?”

Kaan, as usual, didn’t speak. Instead the figure turned and walked away into the depths of the forest, its incorporeal form passing effortlessly through the branches and undergrowth. It took Bane a second to realize it was headed in the direction of Nadd’s tomb.

“So be it,” he muttered, using his lightsaber to hack a path in pursuit.

His illusory guide stayed with him the rest of the way, always just far enough ahead that Bane had to struggle to keep up. It took him nearly four hours of slogging through the jungle to reach his destination—a small clearing in the forest in which no vegetation grew. An irregular pyramid of flat, gray metal rose up to a height of twenty meters from the heart of the clearing.

Bane stopped at the edge. The ground ahead was nothing but dirt and mud; no living organism could flourish in the shadow of Nadd’s crypt. Even the plants and trees bordering the clearing were stunted and deformed, corrupted by the dark side power that clung to the remains of the great Sith Master in death. The tomb itself was a disconcerting shape; the walls of the pyramid were set at odd and jarring angles, as if the stone of the crypt had been warped and twisted over the centuries.

There was a single entrance to the structure, a door that had once been sealed but looked as if it had been smashed open many centuries earlier by someone seeking the secrets of Nadd’s final resting place. The ghostly figure of Kaan stood by the entrance, beckoning to Bane before disappearing inside.

Bane came forward slowly, senses attuned to any traps that might still be lying in wait. His mind flashed back to the ancient tombs in the Valley of the Sith on Korriban. Just before leaving the Academy, he’d ventured into those dark and dangerous crypts in search of guidance. He’d read accounts of Sith spirits appearing to share the secrets of the dark side with powerful apprentices who sought them out. But all Bane had found on Korriban was dust and bones.

He slid the backpack off his shoulders so it wouldn’t encumber him. From inside he took half a dozen glow rods and crammed them into his belt, then left the pack on the ground near the crypt’s entrance.

The ceiling inside the pyramid was low, and Bane had to duck as he went in. Using a glow rod for illumination, he found himself inside a small antechamber, with passages leading off in three different directions. Choosing the one on the left, he began his explorations. Room by room he searched the pyramid, finding nothing of value. Several of the chambers showed evidence that another had already been there, and Bane recalled the tales of Exar Kun, a Dark Jedi from a time long forgotten who was also rumored to have located Nadd’s final resting place. According to the legends, Kun had emerged with power beyond his wildest imagining. Yet as Bane continued his fruitless explorations, doubt began to creep into his mind. Was it possible that this crypt—like the ones he’d searched on Korriban—was nothing but an empty, worthless tomb?

With mounting frustration he continued his search, winding his way through the passages until he reached an apparently insignificant chamber, almost buried at the very heart of the temple. Both Kaan and Qordis were there waiting for him.

They stood a meter apart, each on one side of a small doorway carved in the back wall. The door was only a meter high, and was blocked by a tightly fitted slab of black stone, giving Bane hope once more. The stone seemed to have been undisturbed by whoever had been here before him. It was possible no one had found this room, hidden at the end of the twisting maze of passages. Or maybe someone had found it but had been unable to move the stone slab. It was even possible that the small entrance had once been hidden by the lost arts of Sith sorcery, and the spell obscuring it had gradually faded over the centuries, making it visible only now.

Glancing quickly at the twin manifestations on either side of the small doorway, Bane crouched down to examine the slab. Its surface was smooth, and it extended only a few centimeters out from the passage, making it impossible to get a firm grip. Of course, there was one other way to move it.

Summoning his strength, Bane reached out with the Force and tried to pull the stone toward him. It barely moved. The stone was heavy, but it was more than sheer mass that held it in place. There was something fighting his power, resisting him. Bane took a deep breath and tilted his head from side to side, loudly cracking his neck as he gathered himself for another attempt.

This time he went deep, plunging into the well of power that dwelled within his core. He reached back into his past, dredging up memories buried deep in his subconscious: memories of his father, Hurst; memories of the beatings; memories of the hatred he bore for the man who had raised him. As he did so, he felt his power building.

It started, as it always did, with a single spark of heat. The spark quickly became a flame, and the flame an inferno. Bane’s body trembled with the strain as he fought to contain the power, letting the dark side energy build to a critical mass. He forced himself to endure the unbearable heat as long as he could, then thrust his fist forward, channeling everything inside him toward the stone blocking him from his destiny.

The heavy slab flew across the room and struck the far wall with a heavy thud. A long vertical crack appeared in the wall, though the dark stone block itself was undamaged. Bane dropped to his knees, panting from the exertion. He looked up to see the ghostly watchers still keeping their vigil beside the entrance. With a shake of his head, he crawled to the now-open doorway and peered in.

The room beyond was dark, so Bane pulled one of the glow rods from his belt and tossed it through the opening. It landed on the floor, illuminating the room. From what he could see, it was a circular, high-ceilinged chamber about five meters in diameter. A stone pedestal stood in the very center. Atop it was a small crystal pyramid Bane instantly recognized as a Sith Holocron.

The ancient Masters of the dark side had used Holocrons to store all their wisdom, knowledge, and secrets. A Holocron could contain ancient rituals of devastating power, or the keys to unlocking the magics of ancient Sith sorcerers, or even avatars that simulated the personality of the Holocron’s original creator. The information inside was so valuable that for many centuries Holocrons had been the single most valuable tool in passing on the legacy of the great Sith Lords to future generations.

Unfortunately, the art of making Sith Holocrons had been lost several millennia past. And over the years the Jedi had scoured the galaxy to find all the known Sith Holocrons, then hidden them away at their library on Coruscant so no one could delve into their forbidden knowledge. To actually find a Holocron like this, one that might contain the teachings of Freedon Nadd himself, was good fortune beyond anything Bane had even imagined.

Crouching down, he squeezed his massive shoulders through the tight doorway. Not surprisingly, Kaan and Qordis were already waiting for him inside. Bane glanced over at them, then up at the five-meter-high ceiling. By the light of the glow rod he could make out movement, as if a carpet of living creatures was crawling across the surface above his head.

He stood motionless, his ears picking up wet slurping sounds. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light he was able to make out a colony of strange crustaceans clinging to the roof. They were almost flat, and somewhat oval in shape—a circular shell that tapered to a point near either end. They varied in size from slightly smaller than a fist to as broad across as a large dinner plate, and their coloring ranged from bronze to a reddish gold. The slurping came as they dragged themselves along the ceiling, crawling over one another and leaving glistening trails of slime in their wake.

As he studied them, one of the creatures fell away from the others and dropped down toward him. Bane swatted it aside disdainfully with one hand, sending its hard shell bouncing and skittering across the cavern floor.

A second later another broke free and tumbled down. Bane ignited his lightsaber and slashed at it. The blow batted the creature away, sending it flipping end-over-end into a far corner of the room. Bane stared in amazement—the lightsaber should have sliced the creature clean through. But his weapon hadn’t even left a scratch on its hard, gleaming shell.

Suddenly realizing he was in grave danger, Bane made a lunge for the Holocron. As his hand closed around it, the colony of crustaceans broke free en masse and cascaded down on him in a chitinous swarm. With one hand clutching the Holocron, he swiped at them with his lightsaber and deflected others with the power of the Force. But there were too many to keep them all at bay; it was like trying to ward off raindrops in a storm.

One struck him on the shoulder and latched on, instantly burning through his armor and clothing with an acidic secretion before fastening itself to his skin. Bane felt a thousand tiny teeth burrowing into the thick meat of his back, followed by the searing pain of the acid secretion melting his flesh.

He screamed and slammed his back up against the wall hoping to jar the creature loose, but it held fast. As he struggled to dislodge it, a second struck him square in the chest. He screamed again as the burning acid and tiny teeth dug through clothes, skin, and even his thick pectoral muscles to fasten directly to his breastbone.

Bane staggered under the onslaught of pain, but managed to strike out with the Force. The rest of the creatures were sent hurtling away from him like leaves swept up by a fierce wind; they clacked and clattered as they struck the walls of the room. The brief reprieve gave Bane a chance to drop to his knees and scamper through the cramped opening and back into the small room from which he had originally entered.

Ignoring the agony of the two creatures still attached to him, he reached out with the Force and hoisted the stone block on the far side of the room up into the air. His powers were enhanced by both pain and a desperate urgency, and the block moved easily for him this time, flying across the chamber to plug the entrance before any more of the strange crustaceans could scuttle out after him.

For a second he just lay there panting, clutching the Holocron and trying to ignore the pain coming from the two parasitic organisms feeding on his body. He could hear the rest of the colony on the other side of the wall, the wet gurgles of their grasping mouths mingling with the sharp clacking of their hard shells as they crawled up the walls back to their roosts on the ceiling.

He imagined he heard another sound, as well: the harsh, mocking laughter of Qordis and Kaan echoing off the walls of Freedon Nadd’s tomb.

8

“Chancellor Valorum will see you now,” the Twi’lek assistant said from behind her desk.

Seeing Farfalla rise, Johun did the same, tugging awkwardly to reposition the unfamiliar ceremonial robes his new Master had insisted he wear for the meeting. Johun had protested that his wardrobe had nothing to do with who he was or why they were here, but Farfalla had merely replied, “On Coruscant, appearance matters.”

Johun had never been to Coruscant before—or any of the other Core Worlds, for that matter. He’d been born and raised on Sermeria, an agriworld in the Expansion Region between the Inner and Mid Rims of the galaxy. His family had worked a farm a few kilometers outside of Addolis, one small cog in the great Sermerian agricultural complex that produced an overabundance of food and sold it to more developed worlds that lacked enough arable land to support their own populations.

He’d left Sermeria at the age of ten to begin his Jedi training. In the decade since he had accompanied General Hoth to dozens of worlds, though his former Master had preferred to stay on the Outer Rim, far from the politicians and urban culture of the Republic’s capital. The planets they visited tended to be less developed rural worlds, much like Sermeria itself. As a result, Johun had never seen anything even remotely resembling the planetwide metropolis that was Galactic City.

On their initial approach to the world, Farfalla had tried to point out to him the location of important structures, like the Senate’s Great Rotunda and the Jedi Temple. But to Johun’s provincial eye everything blended into one unbroken ocean of permacrete, durasteel, and brightly colored flashing lights.

Upon landing, they had disembarked and boarded an airspeeder that had whisked them off toward their meeting with Chancellor Valorum. Johun had simply sat and gawked at the spectacle as they raced along the skylane, their speeder weaving in and out among skyrises so tall, the ground wasn’t even visible beneath them. Occasionally they would dive down or swoop back up as their journey led them under and over pedestrian walkways, hovering billboards, and even other vehicles.

By the end of the trip, Johun’s already bedazzled senses had been completely overwhelmed by the constant stream of traffic and the mind-boggling numbers of people who chose to live and work on Coruscant. The overall impression he took away from the experience was a sickening blur of motion set against a deafening cacophony of sound … all too much for a simple farm boy to handle.

Farfalla, on the other hand, was in his element. Johun had noticed his new mentor coming to life when they touched down, as if he were feeding on the energy of the great metropolis. The frantic pace and the madding crowds seemed to revitalize Valenthyne, the city washing away the weariness of a long military campaign on a dreary little frontier world. Farfalla even looked different here; set against the vibrant, cosmopolitan backdrop of the galactic capital, the clothes that had seemed so vain and garish back on Ruusan now looked to be the height of fashion and style.

Even at the center of the halls of power, Farfalla looked completely at ease. He gave a gracious bow of acknowledgment to the Chancellor’s assistant, eliciting a flirtatious smile from the young woman, then moved with a confident yet purposeful stride through the doorway into Valorum’s inner sanctum. Johun gave a bow of his own, stiff and forced, then scurried off after him.

The Chancellor’s office was less ornate and more functional than Johun had expected. The walls, carpet, and furnishing were all a deep, dark brown, giving the room an air of significance. There was a large window in one wall, though much to the young Jedi’s relief the coverings had been drawn for this meeting. In the center of the room were half a dozen comfortable-looking chairs set around a circular conference table; several monitors lined the walls, flickering with updates from various HoloNet news programs.

Tarsus Valorum was seated behind a large desk facing the doorway, and he rose to greet them. He was a tall man in his early fifties, though he looked ten years younger. He had dark hair; bright, piercing eyes; a straight, slightly pointed nose; and an almost perfectly square chin—a face many had called “honest and determined.” It was these traits, along with his exemplary record of public service, that had led to Valorum being appointed the first non-Jedi Chancellor in over four centuries.

Johun had heard rumors that Farfalla had actually been the one in line for the position but had declined it, so that he could join the Army of Light on Ruusan. The young man wondered if his Master approved of the man who had been chosen to replace him.

“Master Valenthyne,” Valorum said, clasping Farfalla’s hand in an efficient, well-practiced gesture of welcome. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“You didn’t leave me a lot of options, Your Excellency,” Valenthyne noted.

“I apologize for that,” the Chancellor replied, even as he turned and extended his hand to Johun. “And this must be your apprentice,” he said, taking note of the long braid that marked the young man as one who had not yet completed his initial Jedi training.

“I am Padawan Johun Othone, Your Excellency.”

Valorum’s grip was firm but not overpowering—the perfect politician’s handshake. He pumped Johun’s arm twice, then pulled his hand free and indicated the chairs around the conference table.

“Please, noble Jedi. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Farfalla took the end seat on the near side of the table. Johun sat down in the chair directly across from him, leaving the Chancellor the lone seat at the head of the table, between the two Jedi. Once everyone was in position it was Farfalla who initiated the discussion, turning slightly to better face Valorum.

“The message you sent me was most unexpected, Your Excellency. And the timing was somewhat inconvenient. We are still dealing with the aftermath of the thought bomb on Ruusan.”

“I understand your position, Master Valenthyne. But you must also appreciate mine. News of the Brotherhood’s defeat has reached the HoloNet. As far as the public is concerned, the war is over. And the Senate is eager to put this unpleasantness behind us.”

“As are the Jedi,” Farfalla replied. “But this motion you plan to put forward—the so-called Ruusan Reformation—calls for some rather extreme measures.”

“That is why I brought you here to discuss the recommendations before we vote on them,” Valorum answered. “I wanted you to understand why this has to be done.”

Johun had not seen the details of the message Farfalla had received, nor had his Master spoken of it to him during their journey to Coruscant. As a result, he was having difficulty piercing their political double-talk. Fortunately, Farfalla chose to cut through the diplomatic niceties and address the issue directly in his next response.

“Do you realize the ramifications of what you are asking, Tarsus? Your proposal calls for the Jedi to renounce their military ranks and completely disband all our military, naval, and starfighter forces. You are asking us to destroy the Army of Light!”

“The Army of Light was created as a reaction to the Brotherhood of Darkness,” Valorum countered. “With the Brotherhood gone, it no longer serves a purpose.”

Johun couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Its purpose is to protect the Republic!” he burst out, unable to contain himself.

“Protect it from who?” the Chancellor challenged, snapping his head around to address him. “The Sith are gone.”

“The Sith are never truly gone,” Johun said darkly.

“And therein lies the problem,” Valorum replied. “Over the past four centuries we have seen the Jedi declare war on the agents of the dark side time and time again. It is a struggle that never ends. And with each conflict, more civilians are swept up in your web of war. Innocent beings die as armies align with you or your enemies. Worlds loyal to the Republic break away, fracturing a once united galaxy. It is time to put a stop to this cycle of madness.”

Farfalla held up his hand, cutting Johun off before the young man could say anything else. He waited for Valorum to turn his attention away from the Padawan, then asked, “Tarsus, do you really believe the changes you have proposed will do that?”

“I do, Master Valenthyne.” There was undeniable conviction in his voice. “There are many good people who fear the Jedi and what they are capable of. They see the Jedi as instigators of war. You claim your actions are guided by the Force, but to those who cannot feel its presence it appears as if your order is not accountable to anyone or anything.”

“And so you want the Jedi to answer to you.” Farfalla sighed. “The Chancellor and the Senate.”

“I want you to answer to the elected officials who represent the citizens of the Republic,” Valorum declared. Then he added, “This is not an attempt to grab power for myself. The Jedi Council will still oversee your order. But they will do so under the supervision of the Senate’s Judicial Department. It is the only way we can heal the scars left by your wars against the Sith.

“The Republic is crumbling,” he continued. “For the past thousand years it has slowly been decaying and rotting away. A rebirth is the only way to reverse this process.

“Many of the measures proposed in the Ruusan Reformation are symbolic, but there is power in that symbolism. This will be the beginning of a new era for the Republic. We will enter a new age of prosperity and peace.

“Let the Jedi show their commitment to this peace. Cast aside the trappings of war and assume your rightful place as counselors and advisers. Instead of this endless battle to hold back the dark side, you should help to guide us toward the light.”

Valorum finished his speech and looked expectantly at Farfalla. Johun held his breath, waiting for his Master’s outburst of righteous indignation. He wanted to watch as Valenthyne expertly and eloquently refuted the Chancellor’s arguments. He couldn’t wait to witness the impassioned defense of all that the Jedi stood for and believed in that would justify everything General Hoth had done.

“I will speak to the Jedi Council and see that our order complies with your demands, Your Excellency,” Farfalla said, his voice heavy. “And I will send the order to begin the dissolution of the Army of Light as soon as the Senate passes your proposal.”

Johun’s draw dropped, but he was too stunned to say anything.

“Your cooperation is greatly appreciated, Master Valenthyne,” Valorum replied, rising to his feet. “Now if you will excuse me, I must call the Senate to session.”

At first it seemed as if he was about to escort them from the room. But when he glanced at Johun, he obviously sensed the young man was not quite ready to let the matter rest. The Chancellor hesitated, giving him a chance to speak.

Johun, however, remained stubbornly silent. Valorum exchanged a brief look with Farfalla, then nodded in deference to the Jedi Master.

“Please see yourselves out when you are ready,” the Chancellor said, before giving them each a cordial nod and leaving them alone in the room.

“How could you?” Johun demanded angrily the moment Valorum was gone, leaning across the table toward Farfalla.

The older man sighed and leaned backward, his hands clasped together and his fingers forming a steeple just below his chin.

“I know this is difficult to understand, Johun. But the Chancellor was right. Everything he said was true.”

“General Hoth would never agree to this!” Johun spat at him.

“No,” Farfalla admitted. “He never could understand the value of compromise. That was his great fault.”

“And what’s yours?” Johun shouted, slamming his fist on the table and jumping up so swiftly he knocked over his chair. “Betraying the memory of your friends?”

“Watch your anger,” Farfalla said softly.

Johun froze, then felt his face flushing in shame and embarrassment. He took several deep, cleansing breaths—a Jedi ritual to calm and focus the mind. Once he had his emotions under control he turned and righted his chair, then took his seat again.

“I’m sorry, Master Valenthyne,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “But this feels as if we are dishonoring him.”

“Your Master was a man of great strength and steadfast conviction,” Farfalla assured him, still sitting with his steepled hands clasped beneath his chin. “No other could have led us through our time of crisis. But the galaxy does not exist in a state of perpetual crisis.

“The Jedi are the sworn servants of the Republic,” he continued. “We will fight to defend it in times of war, but when war is over we must be willing to set aside our weapons and become ambassadors of peace.”

The younger man shook his head. “This still doesn’t feel right.”

“Since the earliest days of your training, you have known nothing but war,” Farfalla reminded him. “It can be difficult for you to remember that violence should only be used when all other methods have failed.

“But you must always remind yourself that a Jedi values wisdom and enlightenment over all else. The great truths we seek are often difficult to find, and sometimes it is easier to seek out an enemy to do battle with … especially when we hunger to avenge those who have fallen. This is one of the ways even good people can fall to the dark side.”

“I’m sorry, Master,” Johun whispered. The words seemed to catch in his throat, even though his apology was sincere.

“You are still a Padawan. You are not expected to possess the wisdom of a Master,” Farfalla consoled him. “That is why I brought you here: so that you could learn.”

“I will do my best,” Johun vowed.

“That is all I can ever ask,” his Master replied.

* * *

Thanks to the Holocron he had discovered in Nadd’s tomb, Bane now knew that the strange crustaceans that had attached themselves to him were called orbalisks. He had also discovered, through his own trial and error, that they could not be removed.

In the moments after his escape from the orbalisk chamber, he’d tried prying the one on his chest loose with the hunting knife from his boot, to no avail. Failing that, he had tried to dig it out by carving away the surrounding flesh. He’d drawn the knife across his chest in a long, straight line, feeling the agony of the blade slicing deep enough to cut through skin and muscle. And then he’d watched in amazement as the wound healed itself almost instantly, the creature having somehow caused his tissue to regenerate.

Bane had tried the Force next, probing deep inside to better understand what was happening to him. He could sense the creatures feeding on his power, gorging themselves on the dark side energies coursing through every fiber and cell of his being. But though they were parasites, they were also giving something back. As they fed, they pumped a constant stream of chemicals into his body. The alien fluids burned like acid as they were absorbed into his circulatory system; it felt as if every drop of blood were boiling … but the benefits were too powerful to be ignored. In addition to his miraculous healing abilities, he felt stronger than he ever had. His senses were keener, his reflexes quicker. And on his chest and back where the creatures had latched on, their virtually impenetrable shells would serve as armor plates capable of withstanding even a direct strike from a lightsaber.

The relationship, he had finally realized, was symbiotic—as long as he could endure the constant searing pain of the alien fluids being absorbed and metabolized in his bloodstream. A small price to pay, Bane had decided before turning his attention to the Holocron. Sitting cross-legged on the hard floor of the antechamber inside Nadd’s crypt, he reached out tentatively with the dark side and brushed his hand against the small, crystal pyramid. Responding to his caress, it began to glow.

For the next four days and nights he lost himself in the secrets of the ancient artifact. As he suspected, it had been created by Freedon Nadd. Bane delved into the Holocron’s secrets with the aid of the gatekeeper: a miniature hologrammic projection of the long-dead Sith Master responsible for its creation. The gatekeeper guided and directed his studies, serving as a virtual mentor to those who sought out Nadd’s lost secrets inside the sinister pyramid.

Though Nadd had been human, his avatar was the image of a man who had succumbed to the physical corruption that sometimes affected those who delved too deeply into the power of the dark side. His skin was pallid, the flesh withered and sunken, and his eyes were glowing yellow orbs devoid of iris or pupil. Despite this, he still appeared as a formidable warrior: broad-shouldered, clad in heavy battle armor and the helm that had doubled as his crown when he had proclaimed himself king over the nearby world of Onderon.

Through the gatekeeper, Bane learned of the Dark Master’s experiments with the orbalisks, and his only partly successful efforts to control their power. He discovered not only what they were called, but also all the details of their ecology. Some of the information merely confirmed what he already knew: once attached to a host the orbalisks could not be removed. But he also learned that, in addition to boosting a host’s physical abilities, it was possible to tap into the parasites’ ability to feed on the dark side to greatly increase one’s own command of the Force.

However, Nadd’s research also warned of several dangerous side effects of infestation that went beyond the constant physical pain. Should one of the organisms somehow be killed, it would release rapidly increasing levels of toxins, killing its host in a matter of days. The orbalisks would also grow over time, slowly spreading until they covered his entire body from head to toe. Fortunately, along with this disturbing revelation, Bane discovered blueprints for a special helmet and face guard designed to keep the parasites from growing over his eyes, nose, and mouth while he slept.

But the orbalisk research was only the beginning. Freedon Nadd had been a Jedi who turned to the dark side as the apprentice of Naga Sadow, the former ruler of the ancient Sith Empire. Sadow’s power had been so great, it had allowed him to survive for six centuries, fueled by the energies of the dark side. As his apprentice, Nadd had absorbed all his knowledge and teachings, transferring them into the Holocron before murdering Sadow and taking his place.

Not surprisingly, most of the information inside the Holocron was hidden, locked away in the depths of its crystalline structure where it could be accessed only through time, meditation, and careful study. It would take many months, maybe even years, before Bane could lay claim to its greatest secrets. And right now there were more immediate concerns he needed to deal with.

Storing the Holocron safely away, he ventured forth from the crypt to find a way to escape the surface of Dxun. The specters of Kaan and Qordis were waiting for him outside.

“You are trapped here,” Qordis said, falling immediately into his litany of failure and despair. “What good is the Holocron if you can never leave this moon?”

Bane reached inward to call upon the dark side, drawing it not only from himself but also from the orbalisks fastened to his chest and back. Feeling an incredible surge of power beyond any he had known before, he released it in a burst of energy. The hallucinations that had plagued his wounded mind ever since the detonation of the thought bomb vanished, instantly and utterly annihilated by his newfound power. He was stronger now than he ever had been, and he knew the visions of the dead Sith would haunt him no more.

Liberated from his tormentors, he still had to find a way off of Dxun. When he stared up into the sky he could see Onderon looming large above him, the planet so close to its moon that their atmospheres had occasionally passed through each other in centuries past. For a brief window of time, this had allowed the great flying beasts of Dxun to migrate to the other world, where some had been tamed and trained to become the fearsome mounts of Onderon’s fabled beast-rider clans.

Staring up at the world that was almost near enough to touch, Bane could sense Zannah’s imminent arrival there. Soon she would touch down on the dangerous and often deadly planet, and if her Master wasn’t there with her, it was unlikely she would survive.

As he continued to gaze up he noticed an enormous winged creature circling high above, hunting for food. At the same time, the hunter noticed him. Folding its wide leathery wings tight against its body, it dropped into a dive headed straight for Bane.

He regarded the creature with a cool, analytical precision as it plummeted toward him. From the Holocron he knew it was called a drexl, one of the reptilian predators that ruled the skies of Dxun. Their appearance resembled that of a winged lizard: scaled, violet skin; a long, thick tail; and heavily muscled body and legs. A blunt, oversized head sat atop an extended, sinewy neck. It had tiny avian eyes; a flat, pushed-in snout; and a wide jaw full of jagged yellow teeth. Bane estimated this particular specimen to be ten meters in length from nose to tail with a wingspan of nearly twenty meters—a full-grown male easily large enough to suit his needs.

An instant before the beast swooped in to snatch him up with its razor-sharp talons, he reached out with the Force and touched the drexl’s mind, attempting to dominate the brute’s will with his own. He had done this once before, to a rancor on the dying world of Lehon. But the drexl’s mind was stronger than he anticipated, and the beast shrugged off his efforts as it let loose a bloodcurdling shriek and slammed into him.

One of the drexl’s feet lunged forward to impale him with its enormous claws, only to be deflected by the impenetrable orbalisk carapace on his chest. Instead of being skewered and carried away, Bane was sent flying backward by the momentum of the creature’s dive. He hit the ground and rolled several times before springing back to his feet, uninjured thanks to his newfound physical prowess.

He saw the drexl swooping back up toward the sky, readying itself for a second attempt to dive down and seize its prey. Bane reached out to touch its mind again, bringing his will down with the crushing force of the sledgehammers he’d used in the mining tunnels of Apatros.

The drexl’s body shuddered under the impact of his mental assault, and it screamed a piercing cry of protest that split the sky and reverberated over the treetops. This time, however, Bane succeeded in his efforts to subjugate the beast’s thoughts to his own.

It circled twice more before coming in to land beside him. At an unspoken command from its new Master, it crouched and allowed Bane to climb atop its back. An instant later it spread its wings and took to the air, climbing higher and higher.

Bane pushed his mount, urging it into the uppermost reaches of the breathable atmosphere. Above them the nearby world of Onderon grew in size until it completely filled the horizon. Only a few hundred kilometers separated Dxun from its neighbor, an insignificant sliver of distance on the scale of worlds and solar systems.

Already he could feel the faint gravitational pull of Onderon trying to draw them in, the larger planet’s mass battling for dominance with that of its slightly smaller satellite. Driven by Bane’s relentless will, the drexl pumped its wings furiously, gaining speed and elevation with every beat.

Bane began to summon the Force, letting it build until the last possible instant. Then, gathering the dark side around him and his mount like a protective cloak, he spurred the drexl forward, and a second later they broke free of Dxun’s atmosphere and plunged into the frozen vacuum of space that separated him from Onderon and freedom.

9

The sound of the Star-Wake’s autonav update jarred Zannah awake from a restless slumber. She had curled herself awkwardly into the pilot’s chair, and now her neck was stiff from sleeping in an uncomfortable position. There were plenty of places to lie down and stretch out properly in the cargo hold at the back, but Zannah couldn’t sleep in there. Not with all the bodies.

She had removed Wend and Irtanna from the cockpit in the first few minutes after their deaths. It had been a struggle getting Wend out of his chair, but her adrenaline levels had still been high from the confrontation with Irtanna and she had managed to drag him down the hall to the cargo hold where his father and brother lay.

Relocating Irtanna had been more difficult. She had a soldier’s physique, lean and muscular, and easily weighed twice what Zannah did. At first the girl hadn’t even been able to budge the corpse. By the time she realized she would have to call upon the Force to aid her, the excitement of the moment was gone. In the aftermath she’d found it much more difficult to summon the dark side; each time she tried to draw upon her inner anger, her conscience had fought against her. Instead of the familiar heat of power, she’d felt only guilt and doubt. Images of Bordon and his sons lying side by side on the cargo room’s floor had clouded her thoughts, making it difficult for her to concentrate.

Zannah had tried to block the images and allow the dark side to flow through her, but she’d been only partly successful. In the end she had relied more on determination and sweat than the power of the Force. Grunting and straining, she had eventually managed to drag Irtanna for half a meter before having to stop and catch her breath. She had repeated the process again and again, slowly pulling the body down the ship’s corridor until Irtanna lay beside the others.

There had been very little blood; apart from the first glancing shot to Bordon’s gut, all the wounds had been cauterized by the heat of the blaster bolts. Yet the lack of gore had done nothing to make the bodies’ appearance any less unsettling. Their lifeless eyes had stared up at nothing, compelling Zannah to bend forward and close the lids, her hand trembling as she brushed against the clammy skin. Still not satisfied, she’d hunted around until she found several large blankets to drape over the corpses. Even under the sheets, the profiles of her victims were still somewhat recognizable, but there was nothing more she could do about that. She had only come back to the cargo hold one other time since then, grabbing as many ration kits as she could carry and taking them up to the front, trying not to look at the shrouded bodies at her feet.

In the ensuing seven days she had been both praying for and dreading an end to her journey, when she would be reunited with her Master and begin her training in the ways of the Sith. She never left the cockpit except to use the ship’s refresher. Whenever she tried to sleep, she could never manage more than a fitful doze plagued with nightmares in which she relived her killing spree over and over.

Each time she woke she would tear open a ration kit and pick at the food, her body slowly replenishing what it had lost during her weeks on Ruusan. But the rations were meant for a full-grown adult, and she could never finish them. When she was done, she would toss the uneaten portion along with the container down the hall toward the cargo hold. After a few days the smells of a dozen half-finished meals began to mingle into a sickly sweet aroma that hung like a thin curtain in the air. Zannah actually welcomed the cloying scent of rotting food; it covered up the mounting stench of the decaying bodies in the back.

To fight the boredom, she’d tried to imagine what her future would be like as Bane’s apprentice. She would focus on everything he’d promised her: the ability to call upon and command the Force at will; the mysterious secrets of the dark side; the power to reach her true potential and fulfill her destiny. Her mind, however, kept returning to the Star-Wake’s dead crew. And each time it happened she wondered what her Master would think about such weakness.

The autonav chimed again. Zannah glanced at the readout: The ship would be entering atmosphere in five minutes. She was being prompted to select landing coordinates.

Zannah sat up straight in the pilot’s chair, furrowing her brow as she studied the onscreen display. She’d been hoping that the automated systems that had carried the vessel from Ruusan to Onderon would also be programmed to land. Unfortunately, it seemed that task now fell to her … and she had no idea how to bring the ship down safely.

She punched a button on the screen labeled LANDING ZONES. A long list of unfamiliar locations and coordinates began to scroll across the display. She had no clue what any of the numbers meant, and no idea how to select one anyway.

As she stared at the readout—they were entering atmosphere now—Zannah felt the familiar bump of turbulence. Caught between frustration and panic, she reached out and began randomly poking buttons. She stopped only when the autonav beeped twice: Destination accepted.

Heaving a sigh of relief, she collapsed back into her seat and buckled up for touchdown. She tried to peer over the console to get a view through the cockpit window of where she was headed, but she was too short to see clearly. All she could make out was kilometers of thick, green canopy stretching out in every direction. Evidently she had selected a landing zone in a less civilized part of the world.

A sobering question crossed her mind. Does the autopilot know how to land in the middle of a forest? Or will it smash me to bits against the treetops?

As if reading her thoughts, the autonav chimed angrily. Zannah read the update: “Suboptimal conditions detected at selected landing zone. Seeking nearest available alternative site.”

She felt the ship bank slightly, veering and leveling off to skim the forest in search of a large-enough clearing to land in.

“Alternative landing zone located,” the screen assured her a few moments later, and she felt the nose dip as the vessel began her final descent.

She heard a loud bang and the heavy, staccato pounding of branches striking the exterior of the hull as the Star-Wake plowed through a thin layer of branches en route to her chosen destination on the surface. A second later the ship rocked hard to one side, deflecting off a tree trunk too thick to smash through. Next came a series of heavy, jarring thumps as the ship skipped and skidded across the ground before finally coming to a stop.

Shaken but uninjured, Zannah undid her safety harness and opened the exit hatch. As she descended the vessel’s loading ramp, she noticed she was on one end of a large clearing that had been carved from the forest to create a circle nearly two hundred meters in diameter. Much to her surprise, someone was in the middle of the clearing waving her over.

“Whoever’s flying that ship of yours must be the worst pilot in the galaxy,” the man said, eyeing her up and down as she approached him and stopped a few meters away.

He looked to be in his late twenties, though it was hard to tell because of his scrawny and somewhat scraggly appearance. His long copper-colored hair was full of mats and tangles, and his red beard was patchy and uneven across his grimy face. He wore loose pants and a torn shirt that might have been white beneath the mud and other unidentifiable stains. Over the shirt he wore a short leather vest that was fraying at the edges, and a pair of heavily scuffed boots. He gave off a sour odor.

“What’s the matter, girlie?” he asked. “You don’t speak Basic? I said whoever’s flying your ship is the worst pilot I ever saw.”

“Nobody’s flying it,” Zannah answered carefully, glancing back at the ship that was now a good thirty meters behind her. “She was set on auto.”

“That explains it,” he said with a nod. “Auto’s only good at landing on a permacrete runway. Not worth bantha poodoo out here.”

The man took a step toward her, and Zannah instinctively took a step back. There was something very wrong about finding this man waiting for her at the heart of a clearing in the middle of the forest. But she wasn’t worried about the strangeness of the situation. Instead her mind was desperately trying to think of a way to keep him from discovering the bodies in the Star-Wake’s cargo hold.

“Why you using the autopilot out here, girlie? You don’t got a pilot on that ship with you?”

Zannah shook her head. “No. There’s nobody else on board. Just me.”

“Just you?” he said with an arched eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“I stole it,” she said defiantly. Maybe if she could convince him she had been alone on the vessel, he wouldn’t go in and find the bodies.

The man let out a low chuckle. “Stole it, you say?” Then, in a louder voice he called out, “Looks like we got ourselves a thief!”

A dozen men and women stepped out from the thick trees on the edges of the wide clearing the Star-Wake had landed in. They were all human, and most of them seemed to be about the same age as the redhead Zannah had first spoken with. Like him, they were clad in a motley assortment of soiled, ragged clothing. Several of the new arrivals had appeared from behind the redhead, but more than a few had emerged from the trees on the other side of the clearing behind Zannah, effectively cutting her off from her ship. And, unlike the man who had first greeted her, the newcomers were all armed with vibroblades or blaster rifles.

“How … how did you find me?” she demanded, glancing from side to side as she began to realize she was surrounded.

“Scouts saw your ship flying over our territory,” the redhead answered. “Figured if you were looking for a place to touch down, you’d end up here on our landing pad.”

“Landing pad?” Zannah repeated in surprise, momentarily distracted from her dangerous situation. “You made this place so ships could land here?”

“Who said anything about ships?” the man answered with a sly grin. He put two fingers to his lips and gave a sharp whistle so loud and shrill it made Zannah wince.

The air above was filled with the sound of a great roaring wind, and a dark shadow blotted out the sun. Zannah looked up in amazement as four enormous winged reptiles swooped down from the sky to land on the far side of the clearing. The creatures were outfitted with bridle and reins, and each wore a large saddle on its back that looked big enough to carry up to three people at once.

“You’re beast-riders,” she gasped, remembering Tallo’s warning when she’d first mentioned Onderon.

“Skelda clan,” the man said. “And like I already told you, you’re in our territory.”

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Zannah said. “I didn’t know.”

The man shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if you knew or not. You want to use a Skelda clan landing pad, you got to pay us for the privilege.”

From the corner of her eye Zannah noticed his companions slowly drawing in tighter around her.

“I don’t have any money,” she said, taking a half step backward.

“That’s okay,” the man replied nonchalantly. “We’ll just take your ship.”

Zannah spun on her heel and tried to run for the forest as the man lunged for her. He’d been expecting her to make a break for it, and he was quick. He was on her after only a few steps, tackling her from behind. He knocked her to the ground, his weight slamming her to the hard dirt. And the next instant he was flying backward through the air.

He hit the ground with a hard grunt, the wind knocked out of him as he landed on his side five meters away. Zannah scrambled back to her feet. The other members of his clan had rushed forward when she started to run; now they all took a quick step back, weapons raised high above their heads. They were staring at her with wide-eyed expressions of fear and disbelief.

She turned back to the leader when she heard him laughing. He picked himself up off the ground and winked at her.

“Looks like we got ourselves a little Jedi in training,” he said, loud enough for his companions to hear. “What brought you to Onderon, little Jedi? Decided to run away from your Master?”

“I’m not a Jedi,” Zannah said in a cold whisper.

“That’s right,” he agreed. “You don’t know how to control your power, do you? It only comes out when you’re mad or afraid. Isn’t that right?”

Zannah clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes, but didn’t say anything.

“Listen, little Jedi,” he said, pulling a small blade from his boot and beginning to walk slowly toward her. “There are twelve of us and only one of you. You really think you can take us all on?”

“Maybe,” Zannah said, thrusting out her chin.

“What about them?” he asked, tilting his head in the direction of the flying beasts as he continued his cautious advance. “One command from any of us and the drexls will rip your pretty little blond head clean off your body. Do you really think your powers will be enough to stop them?”

“No,” Zannah admitted. In the back of her mind she felt something twitch, almost as if someone was calling out to her.

“It’s time for you to give up, girlie,” the redhead told her with a cruel grin. He was only a few steps away from her now, his blade held out before him. “You’re all alone.”

Zannah smiled back at him. “No, I’m not.”

As the words left her lips a dark shadow fell across the two of them. The man had just enough time to look up before he was plucked from the ground by the swooping talons of a drexl far larger than any of the four he had called down earlier. It let loose a scream that shook the ground beneath Zannah’s feet as it arced back up toward the sky. Astride the great beast’s neck sat the familiar figure of Darth Bane.

The drexl climbed to a height of thirty meters, then released its deadly grip on the redheaded man. His limp body plunged to the ground below, landing with a dull thud and the sharp crack of bones.

The sight of their leader’s mangled corpse dropping from the sky spurred the rest of the clan into action. With whooping cries and shrill whistles, they raced to their mounts to take the battle to the air, all thoughts of the little girl on the ground forgotten.

The first drexl off the ground had only two riders. The woman in front handled the reins, focusing all her attention and energy on the difficult task of steering and controlling the mount. The man seated behind her served as her eyes and strategist, shouting out instructions she followed without question—when to climb, when to dive, when to bank, and when to strike. The empty seat behind them was no doubt where the redheaded man would have sat had he not been killed.

The remaining drexls each carried a full complement of three riders—one to work the reins, one to give the orders, and one armed with a large blaster rifle. The bolts would have little effect against a drexl’s thick hide, but a well-placed shot could bring down an enemy rider from long range. However, the offensive advantage of the third rider was offset by the extra weight that made the mount slower and less maneuverable.

With only two passengers, the first drexl was able to quickly outdistance the others. It climbed into the clear blue sky where Bane and his new pet circled defiantly, issuing a challenge that could not be ignored.

As this first opponent drew near, the Dark Lord’s flier screamed its war cry and veered to intercept it. From the ground Zannah watched as the two reptavians clashed, the beasts seeming to throw themselves at each other in midair. Grappling together, they plunged planetward in a short but savage confrontation. The two great bodies twisted and writhed against each other, buffeted by wings and slashed by claws that glinted in the sun. Tails lashed out, attempting to blind the enemy flier or dislodge a rider. Jaws bit and snapped as the drexls’ oversized heads danced and weaved atop the serpentine necks.

The beast-riders had counted on their skill and experience in aerial combat to carry them to victory against a lone rider overwhelmed by the struggle to control a flier by himself. They didn’t realize that the Force gave Bane complete and total command of the creature. Without this advantage, their defeat was never in doubt. Bane’s mount was larger and stronger, it carried the weight of a single rider, and it had no reins, bridle, or saddle to encumber its movements.

Less than twenty meters above the ground, Bane’s drexl twisted, ducked, and tore out the throat of its enemy. Ten meters above the ground it disengaged from its foe, pulled out of the deadly free fall, and soared victoriously upward. The other drexl, mortally wounded, crashed to the dirt, a landing that killed the mount and both riders instantly.

The entire sequence had taken less than ten seconds, yet it had allowed the other Skelda clan flier teams to get high above their quarry, giving them a tactical advantage. With powerful flaps of its mighty wings, Bane’s mount rose up to meet them. They responded with a barrage of blasterfire aimed at the mysterious lone rider, only to see the Sith Master ignite his lightsaber and deflect the incoming bolts.

One of the enemy fliers swooped in toward him, a feint meant to draw Bane’s attention from the other two. The beast dived past him, a few meters too distant to actually engage in combat, then banked away sharply as the rider yanked hard on the reins. As they flew by, Bane reached out with the Force and ripped away the harness securing the saddle to the drexl’s back. There was a trio of startled and then terrified screams as the saddle broke free and the riders plummeted hundreds of meters to the ground below. The mount, oblivious to their plight, continued to circle upward in preparation for another dive.

Bane didn’t take the time to revel in the fear of his fallen enemies. Before they even hit the ground he’d turned his attention to the third opponent, unleashing a storm of Sith lightning that reduced the riders to ash and the drexl into a hunk of charred and smoking flesh that dropped from the sky.

With a single thought Bane directed his mount’s attention to the lone remaining flier team … a tactical error on his part. For even though its riders had been slain, the second drexl was still alive. Acting on primal instinct, it had veered back to attack the unfamiliar male invading its territory.

The riderless drexl slammed into Bane’s flier the exact instant he engaged the final team. The three beasts intertwined with one another, becoming a single, screaming mass of flesh, claws, and teeth hurtling toward the ground below. A spray of hot, foamy blood splashed across Bane’s face as the creatures ripped one another apart. For a brief instant he glimpsed one of the other riders through the flailing wings and limbs of their mounts, her features frozen as she realized they were all tumbling toward a gruesome and inescapable end.

Bane released his hold on the drexl’s mind and concentrated his awareness on the terror of the other three riders. He drank in their fear, using it to fuel his own emotions. He focused his power and channeled it through the orbalisks, letting them gorge themselves on the dark side. In return they pumped a fresh dose of adrenaline and hormones into his blood, allowing him to generate even more power in a cycle he repeated over and over until the moment before impact.

Zannah saw the last three flying creatures lock onto one another. As they dropped from the sky, spiraling down faster and faster, she watched them, waiting for one to break free and mount back up to the heavens. None ever did.

She screamed in horror as they all slammed into the ground together. The sound of the crash was like an explosion; the shock wave knocked Zannah off her feet and launched a great cloud of dust and debris into the air. The cloud rolled quickly over the ground to envelop her.

The would-be Sith apprentice struggled to rise, coughing and choking as small chunks of dirt and stone rained down on her. Through the haze she stared in wonder at the twenty-meter-wide, two-meter-deep crater left behind. In the center was a gore-covered mountain of pulverized flesh: the individual bodies of mounts and riders compacted into a single pulpy, quivering mass. And walking toward her from the carnage was the blood-soaked form of her Master.

He was limping and hunched over, with one arm clutched at his side. Yet even through the obscuring dust Zannah recognized him immediately. She could only stare in utter disbelief as he drew nearer, his gait becoming more sure and steady with every stride. With each step he stood taller and straighter, and when he let his arm fall away from his side, her heart began to pound with excitement.

Darth Bane was alive! And the power that had let him survive this incredible ordeal—the power of the dark side—would one day be hers to command! Overcome with emotion, she stepped forward to embrace her Master … only to recoil when she saw the alien growth protruding from his chest.

“They are called orbalisks,” Bane said, offering an explanation rather than a greeting. “Creatures that feed on the power of the dark side. Without them I could never have survived what you just witnessed.” He gasped faintly as he spoke, though whether from pain or the recent exertion of using the Force—or possibly both—she couldn’t tell.

He stopped in front of her, and Zannah reached out slowly to touch the cold, hard shell. She pulled her hand back with a start when she felt it twitch beneath her fingers.

“They feel the power of the dark side within you,” Bane said, speaking like a proud father.

“How do you get them off?” Zannah asked, her question an equal measure of curiosity and revulsion.

“I don’t,” Bane replied. “This armor is permanent.”

“Will I have to wear them, too?” she asked softly.

Bane considered before replying. “The orbalisks give me great power, but there is a cost. The physical demands can be … taxing. It would be too much for you to bear as a child. Maybe too much for you to ever bear.”

Relieved, Zannah only nodded. Her Master seemed to be almost fully recovered now, though his face and armor were still drenched in blood.

She noticed him looking past her at the Star-Wake on the far edge of the clearing.

“I stole a ship,” she told him. “I … I had to kill the crew.”

“You did what was necessary to achieve your goal,” Bane said. “You showed the power and the strength of will to destroy those who stood in your way. You saw what you wanted and you took it, no matter what the cost.

“You acted like a Sith.”

The young girl felt a surge of pride well up within her. “What happens now, Master?”

“Now your real training will begin,” Bane said, marching off toward the Star-Wake.

She quickly fell into step behind him. The doubts and fears she had experienced during her time alone on the ship were gone, swept away by the words of her Master and the display of raw power she had witnessed. No longer was she afraid or uncertain about her future; she finally accepted who and what she truly was. She was the chosen apprentice of Darth Bane. She was the heir to the legacy of the dark side. And she was the future Dark Lord of the Sith.

“You sent for me, Master Valenthyne?” Johun said as he entered Farfalla’s private quarters.

It was three days after the Senate had passed the Ruusan Reformations, and they were still on Coruscant. Johun was eager to leave the city-world behind them, but after his shameful outburst in Chancellor Valorum’s chambers, he was determined to show that he could control his emotions and that he trusted in the wisdom of his Master. As long as Farfalla felt they were needed here, he would serve without further complaint.

“Sit down, Johun,” the Jedi Master said softly, pointing to a nearby chair. From his tone it was clear he had bad news to deliver.

Johun did as he was instructed, dreading what was to come.

“We’ve located the Star-Wake.”

For a brief instant Johun’s heart leapt. Sometime after he had left Irtanna and her crew, their ship had gone missing. Search parties had been sent out but had come back with nothing. Now, nearly two weeks after she disappeared, she had been found!

Then Johun’s elation vanished when he realized that his Master had specifically said the ship had been located; he’d made no mention of those aboard.

“What happened?” Johun asked, almost too afraid to get the words out.

“We think it may have been mercenaries,” Farfalla explained. “The ship was discovered floating in the Japrael sector, abandoned. Everything of value had been taken. Everyone aboard was dead, shot with a blaster at close range.”

“Everyone? Irtanna? Bordon? Even his sons?”

Farfalla could only answer with a solemn nod.

There is no emotion, Johun thought, reciting the Jedi Code as he fought to control the sudden burst of anger that flared at their senseless deaths. There is only peace.

“I know this is difficult for you to accept,” Farfalla said, taking a seat across from Johun so he could face him. “But there is nothing we can do for them now. And whatever happens, you must not take it upon yourself to try to avenge their deaths.”

“I understand, Master,” Johun said, choking back tears. “Yet I cannot stop myself from grieving for their loss.”

“Nor should you, my young Padawan,” Farfalla said, giving him a reassuring pat on the knee before rising to stand. “It is only natural that you feel sorrow over what has happened. Grief alone holds no danger.”

Farfalla stepped away to the far side of the room and studied a painting on the wall, giving the young man some privacy and allowing him time to collect himself. When Johun stood a few minutes later, his Master turned to face him again.

“This news sits heavy upon my heart, Master Valenthyne,” the young man offered. “But I understand that it is not my place to seek out their killers. And I am grateful you brought me here to tell me.”

“That is not the only reason I sent for you,” Farfalla admitted. “I have a mission for you.”

“Tell me, Master. I am ready to serve.” Johun thought that truer words had never been spoken. He was desperate for something, anything, to take his mind off thoughts of Irtanna and her crew.

“The Senate has passed the Ruusan Reformations. You already know what this means to our order, but there are many other aspects to this legislation. As Chancellor Valorum has said, the Republic must be reborn.”

Johun nodded to show he understood.

“There will be many people across the galaxy who are opposed to this new legislation,” Farfalla continued. “Some see Valorum’s efforts to reunite the Republic as an attempt to reestablish Senate control over worlds that have declared their independence … or worlds that were just about to.”

“You fear for the Chancellor’s life,” Johun guessed.

“Precisely. And I also feel it is important for the Jedi to show our support for the Chancellor and the Ruusan Reformations. We must take a leading role in protecting him from those who would do him harm.”

Johun struggled to keep his emotions under control. Farfalla had said he had a special mission for him. Maybe he was sending him to the Outer Rim Territories to infiltrate a radical separatist movement, or deploying him to the front lines of a battle against some dangerous rebel faction!

“I have chosen you to serve as the Jedi representative among Chancellor Valorum’s personal guard,” Farfalla continued, and Johun felt as if he had been punched in the gut.

The last thing he wanted was to stay on Coruscant, and now he had been condemned to remain here until the end of the Chancellor’s term. Plus four more years, if the Chancellor won his bid for a second term.

“You seem upset, Johun.”

“Not upset, Master,” the young man answered carefully. “Disappointed. This was not what I was hoping for.”

“Our order is sworn to serve. Often we must sacrifice what we most value for the good of others. This is what it means to be a Jedi.”

Johun felt no desire to argue the point. As usual, his Master was right. If this was his duty, if this was the role he was asked to serve, then he would not only accept it but embrace it.

“Master Valenthyne, I humbly accept this great honor you have given me. I will serve Chancellor Valorum with all my heart and spirit, to the best of my abilities.”

“It gives me great pleasure to hear you accept your fate so willingly, Johun,” Farfalla answered with a mischievous smile. “But there is still one more small matter.

“I will have to leave Coruscant in the next few days to attend to other business. As you can imagine, this is a difficult time for our order.”

“Of course, Master.”

“But you must understand that I cannot leave a Padawan here on Coruscant unsupervised.”

It was true. All Padawans were required to be under the constant care and watchful eye of a Jedi Master until they completed their training. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. If you are leaving, then what new Master will I serve?”

“I think your period of service is over, my young Jedi.”

For a moment Johun just stood there, unable to wrap his mind around what he had been told. Only when he realized Farfalla had used the honorific Jedi instead of Padawan did it become clear.

“You mean … I am to be knighted?”

“That is precisely what I mean,” Farfalla confirmed. “I have met with the Council and they agree that you are ready.”

Involuntarily Johun’s hand dropped to brush against the hilt of his lightsaber. He had constructed it on Ruusan at Hoth’s insistence only weeks before his first Master’s death. He realized the general must have been preparing him for this moment even then. However, building a lightsaber was only one step on the path to Jedi Knighthood.

“What about the trials?” Johun asked, trying to contain himself. “I must still pass the final tests of the Council.”

“I have spoken with them about this, too, and they agree that you have already proven yourself many times over during your service on Ruusan. Assigning you to Valorum’s guard was your final test. In accepting the position as you did, you have demonstrated beyond all doubt that you are willing to sacrifice your own wants and desires for the greater good.”

“I … I don’t know what to say, Master,” the young man stammered.

“You earned this, Johun,” Farfalla assured him. “General Hoth would be proud.”

The Jedi Master’s lightsaber appeared in his hand, igniting with a clean, crisp hum. Johun bowed his head and turned it slightly to one side. Farfalla flicked his wrist, and the lightsaber sliced away the dangling apprentice’s braid. The young man felt the weight of it tumbling away as it fell to the floor, then raised his head with tears in his eyes.

He was unable to speak, his mind still swirling with all that had happened: his ascension to the rank of Jedi Knight; his posting to Valorum’s guard; the tragic news of Irtanna and her crew.

“You will forever look back on this day as one of great joy, but also one of great sorrow,” Farfalla told him, offering one final piece of advice. “It will help you to remember that, in life, the two are often closely linked.”

“I will remember, Master,” Johun vowed, realizing that for the first time he was offering his word not as a Padawan, but as a true Jedi Knight.

Darovit moved with a slow but steady pace across the cracked soil of the sunbaked field. His left hand clutched a walking stick while the stump where his right had been was wrapped in heavy bandages. A hovering bouncer matched his pace on either side; their round bodies bobbed along like a pair of furry green balloons tethered to his shoulders. They had wide, soulful eyes but no visible nose or mouth. Their long, flat tails streamed out behind them like ribbons fluttering on the breeze.

The bouncers had first come to him in the cave, where he had lain for days in a near-catatonic state. Huddled and clutching at his maimed limb, he had given up all hope. When they found him, he had wanted nothing more than to die.

The compassionate, telepathic creatures had circled above him, speaking directly to his mind, offering words of comfort and assurance. They had soothed his troubled spirit, and though they could not heal his wounds they were able to ease his physical pain.

They had guided him safely out of the underground tunnels and back up to the bright sun and fresh air of the surface. They had led him to a grove where he found cool water to slake his thirst and sweet berries to sate his ravenous hunger. They’d even shown him where to find an abandoned cache of medical supplies, so he could properly clean and dress his amputated stump to stave off infection.

For several days the young man had stayed hidden at the bouncers’ grove, gathering his strength and recovering from his terrible wound. He was too afraid of being recognized as one of the Sith to seek out others of his own species, too ashamed by his actions and his mutilated limb to face others of his own kind. But more powerful than either his fear or his shame was his rage—Rain had taken his hand! His own cousin had betrayed and maimed him! Thoughts of vengeance and retribution consumed him; images of hunting her down and destroying her filled his restless dreams.

Yet as his body began to heal, his anger began to fade. Desperate to cling to his hatred, he had replayed the encounter with Rain over and over in his mind … only to have the truth suddenly dawn on him. Rain had been trying to save him!

Surrounded by the gentle bouncers and their calming presence, Darovit was finally able to understand what she had done. The Sith at his cousin’s side would have killed him without a second thought. By crippling him, Rain had spared his life; a final act of mercy before she fell under the sway of her new dark side Master.

And with understanding came acceptance, Darovit’s hand was gone. Rain was gone. His dreams of joining the Jedi—or the Sith—were gone. All he had left were the bouncers.

Darovit was grateful for their kindness, but he couldn’t understand why they had helped him. Perhaps it was because everyone else was gone: The Sith were destroyed, their minions had fled the world or been taken away as prisoners of war. The Jedi and Republic soldiers serving in the Army of Light were all gone. Two nights earlier he’d seen the telltale flicker of ships making the jump to hyperspace in the starry sky as their fleet had left orbit. Even those who lived on Ruusan had gone back to their farms and villages, abandoning the site of the great battle between the darkness and the light. For several days now he had seen no living creature other than the bouncers who had saved him.

He understood that they had given him a second chance at life. He could put his past behind him and start again. But to what purpose? To what end? The bouncers spoke often of the future, as if they had some ability to see glimpses of what was to come. Like most oracles, however, they used words that were couched in vague riddles and generalities, words that offered him no clue to his own fate.

Darovit sad, one of the creatures projected into his mind, a statement more than a question.

“I just don’t know what I should do now,” he answered out loud. While the bouncers could project their thoughts and empathically sense broad emotion in others, they weren’t able to read minds. It was necessary to actually speak to carry on a conversation with them.

“What kind of future is there for me?” he continued, giving voice to the problem he had been struggling with internally. “I failed as a Jedi. I failed as a Sith. What could I hope to become now?”

Man?

The answer actually made him stop short. “A man?” he repeated.

Not a Sith, not a Jedi. Not a mercenary, not a soldier. Not anything but a simple, ordinary man. He nodded and resumed his march across the empty, open field, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from him.

“Just a man. Why not?”

10

Ten Years Later

The Outer Rim world of Serenno was one of the wealthiest planets in the Republic. It was also a breeding ground for anti-Republic sentiment and radical separatist movements, often secretly funded by the vast wealth of various Serenno noble families eager to free themselves from the political yoke of the Galactic Senate.

Yet despite the dangerous revolutionary undercurrents of its culture, or perhaps because of them, the great outdoor market of the planetary capital of Carannia had become renowned as a hub of interstellar mercantilism. Shoppers of two dozen different species mingled freely beneath the tents and awnings of a thousand vendor stalls. From dawn to dusk the cries of merchants hawking goods imported from every corner of the galaxy mingled with the shouted bids of haggling customers. Even the affluent and privileged braved the masses of the crowded plaza, willingly reducing themselves to part of the unruly mob pushing and shoving its way through the stalls in search of rare or valuable treasures that could be found nowhere else.

Zannah stood motionless in a secluded corner of the market square, trying to avoid notice. It wasn’t easy for her to blend in with a crowd; although she was of average height, she was a strikingly attractive young woman. It was necessary for her to take precautions when she didn’t wish to draw the appreciative stares of males, or the envious glances of other females. In this particular instance she had donned a loose black cloak that covered her from head to toe, obscuring her lean, athletic figure. The hood was pulled up to conceal her flowing mane of long, curly blond hair, and the shadows it cast across her features hid her bright, fierce eyes.

She had also wrapped herself in a faint aura of insignificance, an illusion of the dark side that allowed her to hide in plain sight when she ventured out in public. It wouldn’t shield her from the eyes of anyone looking for her, but as long as she didn’t draw attention to herself she would remain unnoticed and unremembered by the vast majority of weak-minded common folk.

Even with these precautions, she would occasionally notice someone giving her a second glance. There was something about her, a hard edge to the way she moved and even the way she stood, that set her apart from others. Yet it was far easier for her to remain inconspicuous than it was for her Master. Over the past decade, the orbalisks that had attached themselves to Bane’s torso had spread until they covered virtually his entire body. Only his feet, hands, and face remained free of the infestation, and only because he took extreme precautions: He wore special gloves and boots at all times, and when he slept he donned a special helmet that resembled a cage, meant to keep the parasites from growing over his face.

Cloaks and thick layers of clothing couldn’t fully hide what he had become. Anyone who happened to catch a glimpse of the shiny carapaces beneath his garments would definitely remember. As a result, Bane rarely left their camp on Ambria. He relied on his apprentice to be his eyes and ears to the outside world. He counted on her to act as an agent of his will, to coordinate and oversee the intricate plans he orchestrated from behind the scenes.

That was why she was here now, waiting for a young Twi’lek she knew as Kelad’den. It was unlikely that was his actual name, however. After all, he didn’t know her real name … despite the fact that they were lovers.

Kel was a political revolutionary—a self-styled freedom fighter battling tyranny as a high-ranking member of a small extremist group determined to bring down the Republic. It had taken Zannah several months to win his trust, but he had finally succumbed. Last night, as they had lain intertwined in the rough sheets of the small bed in Zannah’s rented apartment, the Twi’lek had promised to meet her at midday in the plaza to bring her to one of his organization’s clandestine meetings.

From the height of the sun in the afternoon sky it was obvious Kelad’dan was late. Still, Zannah continued to wait. She had learned the value of patience early on in her studies …

“Secrecy. Cunning. Patience. These are the weapons of the Sith,” her Master told her.

They had left Onderon eight days before, abandoning the Star-Wake and acquiring another vessel from a Neimoidian merchant to bring them to Ambria. It was here on this remote world that Bane would begin her training.

“Act in haste and you give the advantage to your enemy,” Bane explained. “Sometimes the proper, and more difficult, course is not to act. Even the greatest warrior often fails to wait until the moment is right before striking out. That is a mistake we cannot afford to make.”

She nodded, absorbing his words and committing them to memory. But words were only part of her training. Her Master also gave her a task—a test that would prove she had truly learned her lesson.

In one of the caves near the shore of Lake Natth, a few kilometers from their camp, lived a small family of neeks: small, reptilian herbivores native to Ambria. Only a meter in height, they stood upright on their hind legs, using their tails for balance and support. Their forelimbs were short and underdeveloped, good only for digging up shallow roots or carrying small nuts back to their nests. They had long necks and tiny heads with small, toothless jaws that resembled beaks.

The first day she and Darth Bane had arrived on the world, Zannah had noticed them scurrying and darting about on the hot sands of the beach. As the first part of her training, Bane had tasked her with bringing one of the neeks to him, alive and unfettered.

The mission proved to be much harder than she first imagined. A common food source for the large carnivores that often prowled the shores of Lake Natth, neeks were skittish by nature. They would flee at the sight of her, scampering off to disappear into the small cracks and crevices in the rocks surrounding the caves where they made their home.

She couldn’t simply set a trap for one; Bane’s instructions required her to bring him one that came of its own free will. At first Zannah had tried luring them back to the camp by leaving a trail of food, but the creatures were mistrustful and spurned her offerings. Next, she tried dominating one’s mind as she had seen Bane do with the drexl. But at Lake Natth an ancient Jedi had once bound the dark side power of his enemies. That same power had emanated from the depths of the poisonous waters over the centuries, mutating the neeks and making them immune to her clumsy efforts to control them with the Force.

In the end she realized she would have to tame one, training it to grow accustomed to her presence. So early each morning she made her way down to the entrance of the cave, where she would sit cross-legged and practice the meditation exercises Bane was teaching her.

She would stay motionless for hours, then calmly get up and return to the camp in the late afternoon, only to repeat the process the next morning. For the first three days she was completely alone, but on the fourth day the neeks began to show themselves. Cautious at first, they would dart out into view and scamper past her, well beyond her reach. By the middle of the second week they began to grow used to her presence, and would sit and stare at her, only a few meters away. Occasionally one would bark out a squeaking yip in her direction, or emit a low, tremulous chirping from the back of its throat. By the third week one particularly curious youngling, not even as tall as Zannah’s knee, came close enough to her that she was able to reach out and touch it.

After that she started bringing food to her vigil, letting a small morsel sit in the open palm of an upturned hand at her side. The same bold little neek would approach her with trepidation each time, balancing its fear against the alluring scent of the nuts wafting up from the young girl’s hand. She would coo to it softly, and eventually it would gather its courage enough to rush in and snatch the morsel away before scurrying off to the safety of its cave, peeping with excitement.

Zannah started positioning herself farther from the cave for her meditations. Each day the neek would come looking for her, ranging beyond the familiar borders of its territory in its quest to find her. Bit by bit she drew it closer and closer to the camp until one day, when she got up to leave, the neek began to follow her.

She made a point of taking soft, slow steps so as not to startle it. Moving with small strides so she wouldn’t lose her balance, she gingerly shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she led the tiny creature all the way back to her Master.

It was near nightfall when she arrived, her pace turning the relatively short distance from the lake back to the camp into a four-hour journey. There were several tents in the camp; in addition to the ones she and Bane slept in, there was one for storing food, another for clothing and equipment, and still others for weapons and fuel for their starship and land half-track. The tents were arranged in a three-quarter circle, facing inward toward the cooking fire.

Bane was sitting by the blaze waiting for her, stirring at a bubbling pot of bland-smelling stew. He had taken off his shirt in the summer night’s heat. In the flickering glow of the flames, his apprentice could see that the orbalisks were beginning to spread. The one on the back of his shoulder had traced its way across his bicep to the elbow of his heavily muscled arm, while the organism on his chest now extended halfway down his abdominal muscles and partway up his throat. Several narrow, dark bands of softer-looking flesh bisected each shell vertically, and the girl realized that in addition to growing, the creatures were about to split apart and multiply.

Suppressing a shudder, Zannah called out softly to him. “I have completed my first lesson, Master.”

Bane glanced down at the small neek trailing into the camp behind her, visible proof that his apprentice had fulfilled the task he had given her. Zannah followed his gaze, turning toward the tiny creature. It looked up at her and chirped expectantly. She bent down to pet it, and Bane reached out with the Force and snapped its long, thin neck.

“You have done well,” he muttered as she stared in horror at the tiny body twitching at her feet. “Now toss it in the stew.”

Zannah took a moment to steel herself, pushing away the grief that threatened to well up inside her. When Bane had first given her this task, she realized, he must have known she would develop a fondness for the little neek. If she had been wiser she would have foreseen this, and viewed the creature simply as a tool—something to be used then tossed aside—rather than allowing herself to become emotionally attached. The pain she felt now over its death was a warning—a reminder that her only allegiance was to her Master.

She picked up the body and carried it over to the bubbling pot. Tossing it in, she looked Bane square in the eye.

“I see you decided to teach me two lessons today, Master.”

His only response was a grim smile.…

“Rainah,” she heard a voice shouting above the din of the market, using the false name she adopted for all her missions. After a moment she was able to pick Kelad’den out of the crowd, motioning her to come over and join him on the far side of the square.

Twi’lek complexions came in a wide variety of colors, but Kel was of the extremely rare red-skinned Lethan race. Like most Lethans, he was undeniably gorgeous. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a hard, flat stomach and perfectly proportioned limbs. He wore tight black pants and a loose-fitting tan tunic that hung open at the front to expose the lean muscles of his chest and abdomen. He had sensuous, perfectly symmetrical features: soft, full lips and dark, smoldering eyes that seemed to draw you in if you stared at them too long. His firm, shapely lekku coiled around his neck and shoulders, winding their way suggestively down the front of his open tunic and exposed chest.

“Rainah!” he cried out a second time, causing more than a few people to stop and look at him curiously. Zannah cursed under her breath, and moved quickly through the crowd to his side.

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed when she got close. “Everybody’s staring at us!”

“Let them stare,” he said defiantly, though he did lower his voice to match hers. “They’re commoners. Their opinion means nothing to me.”

Kel was a child of position and privilege. In addition to being of Lethan stock, he came from a family that ranked among the nobility of the Twi’lek warrior caste. His entire life he had been told by all those around him how special he was; it was only natural he would grow up believing others to be beneath him.

At times Zannah admired his haughty arrogance. It was a sign of power: He knew he was a superior specimen, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. But it was also his great weakness. She had discovered early on that Kel was easily manipulated through flattery or challenges to his pride and ego, and she wasn’t afraid to exploit that knowledge in the pursuit of her mission.

“You’re late,” she told him. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I shouldn’t even be doing this,” he snapped back at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pressing herself close and wrapping her arms around his neck and shoulders. “I was beginning to think you were with another lover,” she purred. “If I ever find you with another female, I will cut her heart out.”

Kel pulled her even tighter against his body. “You are more than enough for any male,” he whispered into her ear, sending a shiver down Zannah’s spine.

She kissed him on the lips, then broke the embrace. “We don’t have time for this,” she protested. “Your friends are waiting for us.”

Licking his lips as if he could still taste her, Kel nodded and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go,” he said, pulling her through the crowd of shoppers.

* * *

As dusk fell over the camp on Ambria, Darth Bane reached out toward the tiny crystal pyramid he had carefully positioned on the small pedestal in the center of the otherwise empty tent. Moving slowly, he brushed his fingers gently against its cold, dead surface, then pulled his hand back when he saw it tremble. An instant later his fingers started twitching spasmodically as tingling jolts of sharp pain laced their way from his elbow down to his wrist. Swearing a silent oath, he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, trying to ride it out.

Because of the orbalisks that encased his body, he was used to living in constant pain. It was always there, a dull throbbing just above the level of subconscious awareness. Normally he could shut it out, bearing the torments of his infestation with no visible effects. However, if he wasn’t careful—if he pushed himself too far—the physical demands could overwhelm him. The tremor had been a warning, the first sign that he was reaching the edges of his endurance.

Three times before he had attempted to create his own Sith Holocron, and each time the project had ended in failure. He wasn’t about to fail this time. He knew that one false move at this stage and all his work, literally years of preparation, would be undone. Yet he also knew that he had no choice but to find a way to deal with the pain and continue his work.

He had made his first attempt five years before. Using Freedon Nadd’s Holocron as a blueprint, he had recreated the intricate matrix of lattices and vertices that were the key to storing nearly infinite amounts of knowledge in a data system small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. It had taken months to gather and fashion the rare crystal into the filaments and fibers of the interlaced network, followed by weeks of delicate and painstaking adjustments. The matrix had to fall within highly exacting specifications, and Bane had spent hundreds of hours making thousands of precise, subatomic alterations through the power of the Force to ensure that each crystalline strand was properly in place.

Once the crystal matrix inside the Holocron was ready, he had carefully transcribed the ancient symbols of Sith power onto the pyramid’s surface. The markings were part of a powerful ritual that was critical to maintaining the stability of the matrix after it was infused with the energies of the dark side. Unfamiliar with the exact purpose or meaning of the arcane glyphs, Darth Bane had once again used Nadd’s Holocron as his guide, studying the markings etched on the surface, then copying them exactly on his own creation.

But when he tried to activate the Holocron by channeling his power through it, the matrix imploded, collapsing in on itself and reducing the artifact to a pile of glimmering dust in a crackling white flash.

He had tried again several months later, only to be met with the exact same result. Forced to admit that the secret of crafting Holocrons was still beyond him, Bane had begun a campaign to discover everything he could about the powerful talismans. With Zannah’s aid, he accumulated a vast wealth of knowledge on the subject.

He devoured every datacard, historical account, and personal memoir he could find that theorized on the steps needed to create one of the fiendishly complex pyramids. He came across thousands of veiled references to, and hundreds of theoretical speculations on, the art of crafting a Holocron. However, he was unable to find a single source that explicitly set out the spells and rituals required, and their secrets still eluded him.

Bane refused to give up. He continued his research, seeking out rare tomes, hidden documents, and forbidden works of lore. It took three more years until he learned the purpose and meaning behind the glyphs … and in doing so he found an answer to why his first efforts had failed. He discovered that each Holocron was emblazoned with symbols that were uniquely tied to the Sith Lord responsible for the artifact’s creation. The miniature pyramids were far more than a simple collection of raw data. Learning was imparted through the wisdom of a gatekeeper—an advanced simulated personality that mimicked the creator’s own identity. The right combination of symbols, applied in conjunction with specific sorceries and spells of the ancient Sith, would allow Bane to capture his appearance, knowledge, and cognitive processes. Within the structure of the Holocron they would be transformed into a three-dimensional hologram to guide and direct anyone who used the artifact. The cognitive network that fueled the gatekeeper also stabilized the interwoven lattices and vertices of the matrix, keeping it from collapsing as it had done on Bane’s previous attempts.

Armed with this new understanding, Bane had made a third attempt to create his own Holocron two years ago. He had proceeded carefully; the Rituals of Invocation required to divine and inscribe the proper symbols onto the pyramid’s surface were mentally and physically exhausting. Ever wary of making a mistake, he had drawn the process out over two long weeks. Ironically, his caution proved to be his undoing. As he began manipulating the inner structures of the crystal matrix during the final phase of the project, he sensed that the power of the symbols had faded. The cognitive network of the gatekeeper had degraded to the point that it lacked the ability to support and stabilize the matrix.

In desperation, he had sought some way to restore it, only to realize his efforts were futile. Enraged at yet another failure, he had crushed the useless pyramid to dust with his bare hands.

Before beginning his fourth and most recent attempt, Bane had vowed that he would not fail again. Time was the real key. He had to finish aligning the matrix and infuse it with his dark side energies within a few days, before the cognitive functions of the gatekeeper began to degrade. Now, after months of gathering the rare materials, weeks of meditations to focus his power, and three straight days and nights of intense focus and concentration, he was finally nearing the end. Only a few dozen minor adjustments still needed to be made, but Bane was keenly aware that time was running out.

Three days of constantly drawing upon the Force without food or respite had left him exhausted in body, mind, and spirit. He was particularly vulnerable to the orbalisks in this state. Normally they fed off the dark side energies that naturally flowed through him, but the creation of the Holocron demanded that he channel all his power directly into his work. The parasites were slowly starving, and in response they were flooding his bloodstream with chemicals and hormones intended to drive him into a mindless fury so they could gorge themselves on the dark side as he unleashed his rage.

The spasming muscles of his hand and fingers were a direct result of their efforts, and there was nothing Bane could do but wait for the tremor to pass. He had only a few hours left to complete his work, yet he couldn’t risk making a mistake and damaging the delicately interwoven crystal fibers of the Holocron’s internal structure.

Slowly he was able to reassert control over his convulsing digits, ruing each precious second that slipped away as he did so. When his hand at last became still, he took a slow, deep breath to refocus his mind, then reached out with the Force to touch the matrix once more.

A ribbon of electric blades raveled itself around the muscles and nerves of his spine, causing him to arch backward as he screamed in agony. The pain momentarily broke his concentration, and an uncontrollable surge of dark side energy shot through him and into the Holocron. An instant later it exploded, spraying Bane with a shower of crystal fragments and dust.

For several seconds he simply stared at the empty pedestal, feeling the pulsing hunger of the orbalisks and his own gathering rage. A red veil fell across his vision, and Darth Bane surrendered himself to the fury.

11

“Who’s this?” the man at the door demanded, eyeing Zannah with suspicion. He was human, though his face and shaved head were covered with green and purple tattoos that made it difficult to pick out his features. He wore a light blue shirt and dark blue pants. He was shorter than Kel, but much thicker through the waist and chest.

“She’s with me, Paak,” Kel replied, pushing him aside and passing through the door, pulling Zannah along with him.

The unfurnished room beyond was small and dark. Music and loud laughter could be faintly heard from the cantina on the floor above them, but those gathered in the cellar spoke only in low, conspiratorial whispers. Inside the room were four others gathered in a tight circle: two more young men, a woman only slightly older than Zannah, and a blue-skinned, red-eyed Chiss female.

Paak trailed after them, unwilling to let the matter drop. “You can’t bring her here!” he insisted.

“She works at the embassy,” Kel assured him, relaying the false backstory Zannah had offered at their first meeting. “She can help us.”

The heavier man grabbed Kel by the elbow and spun the Twi’lek around to face him. “You don’t get to make that decision! Hetton is our leader, not you!”

“Hetton put me in charge of this mission,” Kel reminded him angrily.

“Only because you offered to purchase those forged passes to get us past the embassy guards!” Paak snapped back. “He put you in charge because he needed your credits!”

“Hetton doesn’t need anyone’s credits,” the red-skinned Twi’lek replied contemptuously. “He put me in charge because he was tired of dealing with oafish thugs like you.”

Paak’s lips curled up in a menacing snarl, but Kel had already turned away, dismissing his underling. Zannah waited to see if the tattooed man would go after Kel, but he only shook his head and went back to his position guarding the door.

Kel marched over to the others, who widened their circle to accommodate him. Zannah hung back slightly, noting the others regarding her with curious stares. She stared back, though she was already well aware of everything she needed to know about them.

Like Kelad’den they were revolutionaries: young, idealistic, and pitiful. Easily swayed and manipulated by fiery speeches and impassioned rhetoric, they had been recruited by the mysterious “Hetton” into joining the Anti-Republic Liberation Front—one of a hundred small, insignificant separatist movements scattered across the galaxy.

For a small radical group, however, the ARLF was particularly well funded, and the membership included an inordinate percentage of highly skilled and dangerous individuals. Elite warriors like Kel, or beings with advanced military training, were the norm rather than the exception. For one reason or another, they had all sworn allegiance to Hetton and his organization.

Zannah imagined they believed themselves to be heroes or even eventual martyrs to their glorious cause. Yet she felt nothing but disdain for them. Despite their martial backgrounds, they were little more than overgrown children gathering in tiny, dark rooms to whisper secret plans and plot petty terrorist actions against a galactic government that didn’t even know they existed.

Even Kel wasn’t above her contempt. Still, she did have to admit that there was something appealing about him. Allowing him to fall in love with her hadn’t been necessary to complete her mission, yet she had been willing—even eager—to have his attention. The attraction went beyond his mere physical appearance. There was a wild energy about him. He burned with a savage arrogance; its fire enveloped her whenever they were together.

She knew she was drawn to his warmth in part because her Master was always so cold. Bane had served as her guardian for ten years; he had raised her and protected her and trained her in the ways of the Sith. Yet she didn’t think of him as a father figure. While he hadn’t been cruel or abusive, neither had he shown any affection toward her, not even a trace of empathy or compassion. He valued her not as a person but as his heir; she was nothing but a mechanism to continue the Sith legacy after his death.

Encased in his orbalisk armor, Bane was barely even human anymore. Anger, hate, love, desire—they were nothing to him now but a means to fuel his power. Yet Zannah still needed to feel. She hungered for the raw passion of real emotions. She craved them.

She had found them in Kel. He had given her the one thing her Master could not. But she never considered betraying or abandoning Darth Bane. She had seen his absolute command of the Force; she had tasted the power of the dark side in him. He was the Dark Lord of the Sith, and Zannah would one day tear the mantle from his shoulders and seize it for her own. Nothing—not fanciful notions, not the temptation of emotional fulfillment or even love—would keep her from claiming her rightful destiny.

Compared with this, Kel and the other separatists gathered in the room were tiny, insignificant people leading small, meaningless lives. Their only worth was that Bane saw a potential use for them, and it was her duty to make sure that whatever they had planned fit into her Master’s grand design.

Kel had revealed their intended scheme to her during a romantic dinner: They planned to kidnap minor local officials and hold them for ransom. They actually believed the media interest generated by their actions would be the catalyst that would unite the people of the Outer Rims to rise up as one and overthrow the Senate.

They were pathetic in their naïveté; fools Zannah had chosen to become pawns in her own mission. They were tools to be used and then discarded once they had served their purpose … and that purpose was to die so that she could fulfill the directive of her Master.

“My fellow patriots,” Kel began, his voice rising in the manner of a professional orator giving a public performance. “We are united in a single cause—the complete and utter destruction of the Republic. Yet what have we done so far to accomplish this?

“We speak of revolution yet we are afraid to do what is necessary to make it happen. But that will soon change. In three days, we will force the Republic to stand up and take notice of us!”

“Three days?” Cyndra, the Chiss protested. “What are you talking about?”

“Hetton wants us to strike during the Armistice Celebrations,” Paak added. “It will draw more attention if we act on the anniversary of the Ruusan Reformations.”

“Why wait months when the perfect opportunity is right before us?” Kel asked, using the same arguments Zannah had used to persuade him. “Nobody will care about the fate of a single ambassador. We must find a target that will make the entire galaxy sit up and take notice!”

“Who?” one of the young men demanded.

“Chancellor Valorum.”

“Chancellor Valorum’s term ended two years ago,” Paak spat out from over by the door.

“He still serves the Senate as a diplomatic emissary. And it was his so-called Unification Policies that have drawn so many worlds back into the web of Republic influence. He is responsible for everything we are fighting against, the symbol of everything we wish to destroy. He is the perfect target.”

“How do we get to him?” Cyndra asked.

“He has scheduled a secret meeting with the heads of Serenno’s most powerful noble families. We believe he is going to try to persuade them to take steps to put down the separatist movements on this world—movements like our own.”

“How did you find out about this?” the young woman asked.

Kel nodded in Zannah’s direction, his head-tails twitching slightly. She stepped forward and began to speak.

“My name is Rainah. I’m an administrative assistant at the Republic embassy.”

This was the lie she had first used to draw Kel’s attention, and it was a convenient cover for the information she had purchased from one of Bane’s mysterious underground contacts …

“Everything is in place, Lord Eddels,” the Muun croaked, handing a datapad to her Master. “Everything you will need is in here.”

Zannah had never seen a Muun before, and she found something inherently off-putting about this one’s appearance. He was tall enough to look Bane in the eye, but his head, body, and limbs were elongated and thin, as if he had been horribly stretched to reach his current height. His skin was pale, pasty white with a disconcerting hint of a sickly pinkish hue. His features were flat, his eyes and cheeks appeared sunken, the corners of his mouth turned down in a perpetual frown, and he didn’t appear to have a nose. His head was hairless, and he wore drab, brown clothing. He looked extremely uncomfortable beneath Tatooine’s twin suns, but he was too professional to give voice to his complaint.

Earlier, Bane had explained that this meeting in the sandy wasteland of the Dune Sea was the culmination of a plan set in motion nearly a year before, shortly after they had first touched down on Ambria. A plan she had inadvertently been the catalyst for. Scribbled in the back cover of the manuscript she had discovered and presented to her Master at the Sith camp on Ruusan had been a long list of cryptic numbers: anonymous accounts with the InterGalactic Banking Clan.

Lord Qordis, Bane told her, had been a collector of rare and expensive treasures. Over the years he had siphoned off an incredible fortune from the combined wealth of Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness and secreted it away, drawing on it whenever he purchased another item to feed his avarice. With the Brotherhood gone, Bane was the only one left who knew about, and could lay claim to, those accounts. But material wealth had no appeal to her Master beyond what use he could put it to.

“Information is a commodity. It can be traded, sold, and purchased. And in the end, credits are only as valuable as the secrets they can buy.”

Over the past year Bane had begun to spend the credits. Key administrative officials were bribed to gain access to classified files. Government spies and well-connected criminal figures were hired to be his agents. Using his newfound wealth, he carefully built a network of informants to be his eyes and ears across a hundred different worlds.

However, Bane never had any direct contact with any of these people. As the last of the Sith, it was vital that he remain shrouded in anonymity. Everything he’d accomplished had been through the use of a broker—the Muun who now stood before them.

“You followed my instructions exactly?” Bane asked the Muun.

“Precisely, Lord Eddels. All payments will be made through tertiary accounts, completely untraceable to the source,” the Muun assured him. “In return you will receive regular dispatches and a constant stream of legal and illegal information. Any instructions you wish to pass on to your agents will be delivered through secure messaging services. Completely anonymous.”

“And no one else knows I am involved?”

“You are well aware of my reputation,” the Muun reminded him. “I pride myself on discretion. That is why people like you come to me, Lord Eddels.”

“Then our business here is done.”

Glancing briefly down at Zannah, the Muun turned and made his way slowly across the sand toward his waiting ship. The young girl watched, eagerly anticipating the manner of his death. The idea that her Master would allow the Muun to leave this meeting alive never entered her mind. He alone knew the identity of the individual responsible for creating the galaxywide web of spies and informants. He alone had seen Bane’s face.

The Muun reached his ship without incident and climbed aboard. She continued to watch as the engines flared to life and the vessel began to climb in the sky. When it disappeared beyond the horizon unharmed, she turned to her Master in disbelief.

“You let him live?”

“He still has value to us,” Bane answered.

“But he’s seen you! He knows who you are!”

“He knows only as much as he needed to: a wealthy man using the name Lord Eddels hired him to set up an anonymous information network. He has no knowledge of who I really am or what my true purpose might be. And he has no knowledge of where or how to find me unless I contact him with a location for another meeting.”

Zannah recalled a story her Master had once shared with her about a healer on Ambria named Caleb. Bane, near death, had come across the healer and ordered the man to help him. But Caleb, sensing the power of the dark side in her Master, had refused. Ultimately Bane had compelled Caleb’s obedience by threatening the life of his daughter. Once the Dark Lord was healed, he had taken no action against the man who had dared to defy him. The healer had power, and her Master knew that the value of letting him live outweighed the risks—and petty pleasure—of ending his life.

“No purpose in his death,” Zannah muttered, chewing her lip thoughtfully.…

“Rainah can provide us with the exact times and locations of Chancellor Valorum’s schedule,” Kel explained to the rest of the small group. “When his shuttle touches down, we’ll be there waiting for him.”

“He’ll have guards,” Paak warned.

“Only his personal security detail,” Zannah countered. “Anything more would draw unwanted attention.”

“He wants to keep his arrival here secret,” Kel added. “The Senate refuses to officially acknowledge that separatist movements even exist, so his mission has been classified as a personal visit.”

“Three days is too soon,” Cyndra objected. “We need more time to prepare.”

“Everything we need is right here,” Kel replied. “We have the weapons, and we’re all trained to use them. We know where and when the Chancellor is coming. What else is there?”

“An order from Hetton,” Paak muttered.

Kel turned on him angrily. “Do we really need Hetton’s permission? Are we children? Are we incapable of acting on our own?”

“He’s our leader,” Paak muttered sullenly. “He tells us what to do.”

“So does the Republic Senate,” Zannah chimed in. “Isn’t this the very thing you’re fighting against? Obedience to a master—any master—is still slavery.”

She said the words with utter conviction even though she didn’t believe them. At the same time, she reached out with the Force to touch the minds of everyone in the room. It was possible to use the dark side to dominate another’s will, but that would not serve her purpose here. The effects of mental domination would begin to fade after a few hours. By the time of Chancellor Valorum’s arrival, any direct influence she exerted over Kel and his friends would be completely gone.

Zannah preferred a more subtle and insidious approach. Instead of using the Force to bend them to her will, she was gently prodding their collective psyche, pushing their thought patterns to make them more emotional, more aggressive. By itself the process was useless, but combined with persuasive words to further stir the blood, the effects could be more powerful—and more permanent—than the brute force of simple mind control.

However, the words couldn’t come from her. She was a stranger here; they didn’t trust her. Their natural instincts would be to reject her arguments; in their artificially induced hyperaggressive state they would quickly turn against her. They needed to be convinced by someone they knew. Someone like Kel.

“You say you want independence,” the handsome Twi’lek told them. “You say you will fight for your freedom. Yet when I offer you this chance, you want to slink away like a Kath hound banished from its pack.”

“We should wait for the Armistice Celebrations,” Cyndra insisted. “We need to stick to the original plan.”

“A plan is nothing until you act on it,” Kel replied. “We talk about what we will do in the future, but when the Armistice Celebrations come, how easy will it be to find another excuse to wait yet again?

“Secret meetings will not bring change to the galaxy. Plans alone will not make the Senate tremble or bring the Republic to its knees. We must take action, and the time for action is now!”

Zannah recognized her words being spoken with Kel’s voice. She had fed them to him over weeks of intimate conversations, planting the seeds of ideas, then watching them grow. Now he spoke the words with passion and fire, delivering them as if he truly believed they were his own.

Bane would be pleased. This was true power: to twist another to your purpose, yet have him believe he was in control. Kel was her puppet, but his pride and ego had blinded him to the strings she used to make him dance.

“We stand on the precipice of a momentous event,” he continued. “In three days we will strike a great blow against the tyrants of the Republic, the first step in our long and glorious march to independence and true freedom!”

A spontaneous cheer of assent rose up from the room, and Zannah knew Kel had won them over. Only Paak and Cyndra showed any signs of reluctance, but as the rest of the group began working on the details of the plan to capture Chancellor Valorum, even they set aside their hesitations.

The meeting lasted long into the night, and when it was over she and Kel went back to the small apartment she had rented as part of her cover story.

“You were magnificent tonight,” she breathed.

“This is the last time I can see you until all this is over,” Kel warned. “The others are counting on me. I can’t have any distractions.”

As an answer she reached out and grabbed his wrist, then pulled him close in a tight embrace.

He left the next morning. Zannah kissed him goodbye and went back to sleep. Later, she rolled out of bed and began to gather her things. Her mission here was over; she knew she would never see Kel alive again. It was time to return to Ambria.

The camp was in ruins. The tents were leveled, their canopies shredded and torn. Wooden supply crates had been smashed into sawdust and splinters, their contents tossed and scattered on the wind. Hundred-kilogram fuel cells lay strewn about the campsite, some thrown fifty meters from where they had been stored.

The ground was littered with debris and marred by dozens of still-smoldering black scorch marks Zannah recognized as the remnants of a terrible storm of unnatural lightning. The air still crackled with the power and energy of the dark side that made her tingle in fear and anticipation.

It was easy enough to guess what had happened. Bane had failed yet again in his attempt to create a Holocron, then in a blind rage lashed out at the world around him with all the power of the Force.

If she had been here when it happened, Zannah wondered, could she have stopped him? Would she even have been able to survive?

She saw Bane seated on the far side of the camp, his back to her as he stared out to the horizon, meditating on his failure. He turned to face her as she approached, rising up to his full two-meter height so that he towered above her. His clothes had been torn and burned away, revealing the full scope of the orbalisk infestation. Hundreds of the creatures clung to him; except for his face and hands, his body was now completely covered. He looked as if he were wearing a suit of armor fashioned from the hard, oblong shells of dead crustaceans. Yet she knew that beneath the shells, the parasites were still alive, feeding on him.

Bane claimed the orbalisks enhanced his power, granting him unnatural strength and healing abilities. Yet witnessing the aftermath of his failure with the Holocron, Zannah wondered at what cost those abilities came. What use was greater power if it could not be controlled?

To her relief the fury seemed to have passed, and Zannah knew better than to ask him about it. Instead she offered news of her mission.

“It’s done. When Chancellor Valorum’s shuttle lands, Kel and his followers will be waiting for him.”

“You have done well,” Bane answered.

As always, she felt a surge of pride and accomplishment at her Master’s praise. But her satisfaction was tempered by memories of Kel, and the knowledge that he was lost to her forever.

“Is there any chance they will succeed?” she asked.

“No,” Bane said after a moment’s consideration.

“Then what purpose do they serve?” she demanded, finally giving in to her frustration. “I don’t understand why you send me on missions like this! Why waste all this time and effort if we know they’re going to fail!”

“They don’t need to succeed to be of value to us,” Bane answered. “The separatists are only a distraction. They draw the attention of the Senate, and blind the eyes of the Jedi Council.”

“Blind them?”

“The Jedi have surrendered themselves to the will of the Senate. They have let themselves sink into the morass of politics and bureaucracy. The Republic seeks a single, unified government to maintain peace throughout the galaxy, and the Jedi have been reduced to nothing more than a tool to make it happen.

“Each time radicals strike against the Republic, the Jedi Council is called upon to take action. Resources are wasted on quelling rebellions and uprisings, keeping their focus away from us.”

“But why must the separatists always fail?” Zannah asked. “We could help them succeed without risking exposure!”

“If they succeed, they will gain support,” Bane explained. “Their power and influence will grow. They will become harder to manipulate and control. It is possible they might even become strong enough to bring down the Republic itself.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Zannah asked.

“The Republic keeps the Jedi in check. It maintains control and imposes order across thousands of worlds. But if the Republic falls, a score of new interstellar governments and galactic organizations will rise. It is far easier to manipulate and control a single enemy than twenty.

“That is why we must seek out radical separatist groups, identify the ones that have the potential to become true threats, then encourage them to strike before they are ready. We must exploit them, playing them off against the Republic. We must let our enemies weaken one another while we stay hidden and grow strong.

“One day the Republic will fall and the Jedi will be wiped out,” he assured her. “But it will not happen until we are ready to seize that power for ourselves.”

Zannah nodded, though her mind was reeling as she tried to comprehend the true complexity of her Master’s intricate and convoluted political machinations. She thought back to all her past missions, trying to see how each one played a part in his plans.

“You have never questioned your missions before,” Bane noted. He didn’t sound angry, but rather curious.

She didn’t want to tell him about Kel. Even though she had accomplished everything Bane had demanded of her, she knew he would view her feelings for the Twi’lek as a sign of weakness.

“Even if I didn’t understand the purpose behind my missions, I never had reason to doubt your wisdom, Master,” she answered, realizing she could turn his question to her advantage.

“Yet you doubt me now?”

She took a long, slow look around, letting her eyes linger over the wreckage of the camp surrounding them.

“I’ve never seen you lose control of your power like this before,” she whispered, shrouding her deceit in a kernel of truth. “I feared the orbalisks could be impairing your judgment. I feared they might have finally driven you mad.”

Bane didn’t answer right away, and when he did his voice was short and gruff. “I control the orbalisks. They do not control me.”

“Of course, Master,” she apologized. But she knew from his reaction that she had successfully planted the seed of doubt. Attempting to manipulate her Master was a dangerous game, but it was a risk she had to take. If the orbalisks drove him into another rage, he might kill her. Convincing Bane to seek out some way to rid himself of the infestation was a matter of self-preservation.

“Clean up the camp,” Bane commanded. “Then head back to Serenno. We need more supplies.”

She acquiesced with a bow and began gathering up debris as Bane resumed his meditations. As she slowly restored some semblance of order to their camp, Zanbah began to see that the doubts she had planted in Bane’s mind could have one other valuable, long-term benefit.

It was inevitable she would one day challenge him for the title of Sith Master, but Bane was incredibly strong—both physically and in the Force. Encased in a suit of living armor that augmented his powers and protected him from virtually all known weapons, he was nearly invincible.

Convincing Bane to shed his orbalisk coat, Zannah realized, might be the only real hope she had of defeating him and achieving her destiny.

12

Johun shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position and thinking how much easier it had been to bear the burden of starship travel in his youth. But he was no longer a teenager on the cusp of manhood. He was taller, for one thing—a full 1.85 meters in height. And his slight frame had become corded with taut, wiry muscle. The only remnant of the young man he had been was the blond hair that still hung down to his shoulders—a sharp contrast with the scruffy black beard that covered the line of his jaw.

He shifted again and glared pointedly at Tarsus Valorum, resting easily in the seat across from him. The Chancellor was in his sixties now, though apart from a slight graying of his hair around the temples he looked very much as he had the first day Johun had met him. Tarsus met the Jedi’s fierce gaze with a smile and a shrug … the closest thing Johun would ever get to an apology for having to endure the long interstellar flight aboard this second-rate vessel.

The New Dawn was an Emissary-class shuttle—serviceable, but far from luxurious. It would have been a simple matter for Tarsus Valorum, former Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic, to request a more extravagant ship for his personal use: one of the new Cygnus Theta-class shuttles, or possibly even the magnificent Consular space cruisers so popular among the diplomatic community. Given his previous position, there was little doubt the Senate would have approved the funds for the purchase. But Valorum had insisted that the tiny New Dawn, with her two-person crew, passenger seating for six, and Class Six hyperdrive, was more than adequate for his needs now that he had officially stepped down from his position.

It was a small gesture of modesty and practicality that spoke volumes about the man himself. Over the years Johun had observed the Chancellor in public and in private, and the more he got to know him the more respect he had for him. But that wasn’t to say the man couldn’t be stubborn and even obstinate, as he’d proved when he refused the Senate’s offer of an honor guard accompaniment for his diplomatic missions.

A retired politician is no threat to anybody, he’d argued. And I’m certainly not important enough anymore for others to put themselves in harm’s way for my sake.

Johun still traveled at his side, but that was by his choice, not the Chancellor’s. He knew how valuable Valorum remained to the Republic, and he knew there were enemies who would do him harm if given the chance. He had tried several times to convince Tarsus to travel with more security, with no success. So until his stubborn friend agreed to a personal guard detail, Johun was determined to accompany him on every mission.

“I hope we get there soon,” Johun muttered, giving voice to his discomfort.

“You could always enter one of your meditative trances to pass the time,” the Chancellor said jokingly. “You’re not one for idle conversation anyway.”

Tarsus only permitted Johun to accompany him because of the long-standing relationship between them. The Jedi had been a member of the Chancellor’s Guard through most of Valorum’s first four-year term and the entirety of the second. Now his official position was Jedi adviser, though Johun would never presume to “advise” the Chancellor about anything.

Tarsus Valorum was known throughout the galaxy as the man who saved the Republic. Spearheading the Ruusan Reformations through the Senate, he had ushered in a new age of peace, prosperity, and expansion. Yet it wasn’t what he had accomplished that made him a great man in Johun’s eyes; it was how he had done it.

Serving at the Chancellor’s side, the Jedi had seen the true power of words and ideas. Tarsus Valorum was a man of deep conviction—that rare breed of politician who truly believed his own words. Determined to create a Golden Age for the citizens of the galaxy, he had pursued with tireless vigor his dream of a reborn and reunited Republic. Hundreds of worlds that had fallen away during the last few centuries of war and galactic turmoil were brought back into the Republic fold during his reign. And when his term of service ended and the time came for him to pass his position over to his successor, he made sure everything was in place for her to continue his work.

Most amazingly, the great reunification had been accomplished with a minimum of bloodshed and battles. Relying on ambassadors and treaties, he had accomplished what could never be done through armies and war. To win a world, you must win the hearts and minds of its people, the Chancellor had once explained, shortly after Johun had been assigned to him. Now, after a decade of witnessing all Valorum had achieved, he knew truer words had never been spoken.

“Estimated arrival in five minutes,” the voice of the pilot crackled over the shipboard intercom. “Prepare for landing.”

Johun gave an exaggerated sigh of relief, and the Chancellor chuckled softly. It was a familiar routine to both men. Even though he was retired, Tarsus was not a man to simply step aside from the realm of politics. He remained a vigorous advocate for the Republic. In the two years since his term of office had ended, Johun had accompanied him on over fifty personal diplomatic missions … like the one they were on now.

The planet of Serenno was an important world to the Republic. The ruling noble families were among the wealthiest individuals in the galaxy. In addition to donating enormous sums to highly visible charitable and political organizations, they had the financial capital to help underwrite massive government infrastructure projects.

More important, their vast resources also enabled them to fund groups that were opposed to the Republic, should they so choose. Separatist factions often sought out wealthy benefactors in Carannia, Saffia, and Fiyarro, Serenno’s three largest cities.

Valorum had come to meet with the heads of the six most powerful families on the world. He hoped to convince them to use their influence to persuade the other families to cut off all funding to anti-Republic factions. It was a difficult mission, as the Counts of Serenno were not known for acceding to the demands of outsiders.

To make negotiations easier, the visit was being conducted through unofficial channels. Valorum had once explained to Johun that many rulers and politicians behaved quite differently when their actions were exposed to the public eye. Too often they would simply give the appearance of meeting expectations, a tactic Tarsus personally despised. In a public forum officials would frequently offer promises of support to a cause they did not believe in, only to reverse their position once public awareness of the issue faded.

Conversely, rulers might oppose or reject an idea they supported so as not to appear weak-minded or easy to manipulate. Such was the case on Serenno. If it was widely known that a representative of the Republic was coming to pressure them into action, they would oppose him on mere principle.

Never trust a promise made in front of a holoprojector, the Chancellor often warned. If you want to get anything done, you need to meet behind closed doors and look a person right in the eye.

“Making final approach,” the pilot announced, and Johun felt their shuttle bank slightly to port.

They were scheduled to touch down at the private spaceport of Count Nalju, head of one of Serenno’s six Great Houses and a staunch ally of the Republic. Landing at a secluded location on the Nalju family estate, they would take a landspeeder to prearranged meetings with representatives from each of the Great Houses in turn so Valorum could plead his case.

They felt the slight bump of touchdown and heard the whoosh of the exit ramp descending. Eager to get out and stretch his legs, Johun jumped to his feet.

“Shall we disembark, Your Excellency?” he asked, using the honorific to which the Chancellor was still entitled even in retirement.

Valorum rose from his chair, then made one last check of his appearance. Johun was dressed in the traditional brown-and-tan garments of his Order, but Tarsus was wearing an elaborate outfit in the custom and fashion of Serenno royalty. He had been fitted with dark blue trousers and a loose white shirt, both handmade by master tailors. Draped over his shoulders was a silken cape of midnight black—a gift from Count Nalju. The edges of the cape, along with the collar and cuffs of his shirt, were embroidered with a repeating pattern of three overlapping white circles set against a blue background, the emblem and colors of House Nalju.

The entire outfit had been fashioned from only the finest and most expensive materials; Johun shuddered to imagine what it had cost. Yet the garment was a symbol of the unwavering support House Nalju gave to the former Chancellor’s cause. Without the sponsorship of a powerful and long-standing House, the nobility would simply dismiss Valorum as an outsider or inferior.

Johun knew that Tarsus could have asked the Senate to reimburse him for the expense. However, as was his nature, Valorum had chosen to pay for it himself.

They disembarked to find themselves on a small landing pad constructed atop a tall outcropping of stone rising up like a pillar from the ocean. Fifty meters away stood the towering cliffs of the shoreline, their tops the same height as the landing pad. A single two-meter-wide durasteel walkway connected the landing pad to the clifftops. Halfway along the walkway, perfectly centered between the cliffs and the landing pad, was a wider five-by-five-meter platform, supported underneath by a crisscrossing skeleton of reinforced girders.

There were no railings on either the landing pad or the catwalk. Johun knew the lack of railings—like so many other aspects of Serenno’s culture—were symbolic. There was a long-standing tradition of fierce independence among the nobility. Railings on the walkway or the landing pad would have been a sign of weakness, an admission of frailty and mortality that would have undermined House Nalju’s pride and position. Even so, the Jedi couldn’t help but worry about the Chancellor’s safety when he contemplated the fifty-meter fall off the edge to the cold waters below.

The sole purpose of their arrival was to avoid fanfare and attention, so it was no surprise that there were only a handful of people waiting to meet them. Johun guessed they were servants from Count Nalju’s household retinue, as they wore clothing similar to Valorum’s custom-made cape.

Four figures were huddled together on the platform in the middle of the walkway waiting for them, buffeted by the stiff ocean breeze that tugged at their clothes and made their capes flutter out behind them. Three of them were human—two men and one woman. The fourth was a male Twi’lek with bright red skin; Johun wondered if it was some type of status symbol for the nobles to employ a Lethan among their household staff.

Waiting on the clifftops beyond the platform were two more servants, standing beside the landspeeder that would whisk them away to their appointed meetings. Unlike those on the platform, they were too far away for Johun to make out any details that might indicate species or gender.

The New Dawn’s engines shut down, only to be replaced by the crashing rhythm of the surf as it pounded itself relentlessly against the face of the cliffs.

“Not my first choice of places to touch down,” Johun noted, raising his voice loud enough that Tarsus could hear him over the waves and wind.

“Well, I did ask Nalju to let us land someplace remote,” Tarsus shouted back with a laugh. “I see they only came out halfway to meet us,” he added, nodding his head in the direction of the four figures waiting on the platform.

“Would you go any farther out on this walkway than you had to?” Johun asked.

“I guess not,” the Chancellor admitted, then put his head down against the rising wind and made his way out onto the walkway.

Johun followed a moment later, though he felt a sudden uneasiness about the entire situation.

“Be careful,” he called ahead to Valorum. “If you go over the edge I can’t promise I’ll catch you.”

The other man either didn’t hear him or was too busy concentrating on making his way safely across to respond.

They were only a few meters away from the platform’s edge when Johun was hit with a powerful premonition, an undeniable disturbance in the Force that warned him something terrible was about to happen. To this point his attention had been focused on Valorum’s progress across the treacherous walkway. Now he opened up his awareness and allowed the Force to flow through him, painting a perfect picture of their entire surroundings.

The four figures waiting for them on the platform were armed with blasters and vibro-weapons. The two by the landspeeder—a short, heavyset man whose arms and neck were covered in green and purple tattoos and a Chiss female—were also armed. More alarmingly, the Chiss seemed to be concealing something in her hand.

Even without turning around, his heightened awareness allowed him to see the New Dawn resting on the landing pad behind him. Around the circumference of the pillar, just below the edge and carefully hidden from view, he sensed something explosive. He guessed that what the Chiss held in her hand was a remote detonator.

Johun took in every detail of the scene in the blink of an eye. Even so, he wasn’t fast enough to save the New Dawn or her crew. The Chiss flipped the switch in her hand, and the charges wired around the landing pad exploded. The blast ripped through the ship’s exterior, leaving great smoking holes in her unarmored hull. The shrapnel fragments shredded the pilot and navigator inside, killing them instantly.

The top half of the landing pad’s stone column crumbled away, sending the New Dawn tumbling down. It ricocheted off the pillar’s jagged rock face then hit the water with an echoing smack, sending a spray of foam shooting skyward; it sank almost instantly beneath the cold, frothing surface.

As the landing pad fell away the durasteel walkway buckled and bent, sending Valorum toppling over the edge. Empowered by the Force, Johun leapt forward and landed on his stomach, his arm shooting out over the edge to catch Valorum by the corner of his cape an instant before he plunged to his death. The Chancellor dangled there for a second before Johun heaved him up with one hand, swinging him by the cape so he dropped safely on the listing walkway behind the Jedi.

Johun ignited the green blade of his lightsaber just in time to deflect a blaster bolt fired at him by the woman on the platform, then scrambled to his feet to face his attackers. They hesitated at the sight of his trademark weapon, considering their chances against a Jedi.

Their delay gave Johun a chance to evaluate the situation. Retreat was impossible: the section of the durasteel walkway they stood on now jutted out at a descending angle from the platform where their enemies gathered; the far end had been sheared away and now dropped off into empty sky. The only escape was to go forward toward the cliffs—even if it meant going through his enemies.

“Don’t move!” he shouted to Valorum as he leapt forward, landing on the platform even as the woman and both men drew their vibroswords and attacked. Only the Twi’lek held back.

All three wielded weapons laced with cortosis, allowing their blades to clash with Johun’s lightsaber without being sliced in two. It only took the first pass for him to realize each one was a highly skilled opponent. Deflecting a quick slash intended to disembowel him by the first man, Johun wheeled to intercept a hard swipe at his neck from the woman. He delivered a spinning round kick to her side, sending her reeling even as he reached behind his back with his lightsaber to parry a savage thrust by the third man at his unprotected flank.

Johun’s training in lightsaber combat was limited to the strikes and parries of Form VI, Niman, the most balanced of all the styles. Colloquially known as the Diplomat’s Form, Niman had no specific strengths or weaknesses. Its general versatility had served him well during the unpredictable grand melees of the Ruusan battlefields. But over the past decade he had made only the most basic efforts to maintain his skill with the blade. Instead he had focused his attention on developing diplomatic talents. Yet he was still a Jedi, and a formidable foe for anyone to face.

He may have been outnumbered, but his enemies attacked as individuals, unable to coordinate the timing of their strikes. The woman regained her balance and rushed in, but Johun spun to the side and shoved her toward the first man. Her momentum sent her crashing into her partner, both of them tumbling to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs.

Knowing that the other two were momentarily incapacitated, he focused all his attention on the second man. Attacking as a trio, they had forced Johun onto the defensive. One-on-one, however, he was able to press the action. He came at his lone opponent aggressively, holding nothing back, knowing he was fighting to save not just himself but the Chancellor, as well. His blade danced and sizzled, moving too swiftly for the eye to follow.

The man fell back under the assault, frantically parrying the blows and retreating until he felt his heels dangling over the platform’s edge. In desperation he lunged forward with a clumsy stab at Johun’s chest. The Jedi simply slapped his blade aside and ended the assassin’s life with a single cut of the lightsaber across his chest.

The other two were back on their feet now. The woman rushed toward him recklessly yet again. This time Johun stood his ground, ducking under the wide, flat arc of her blade sweeping in from the side. He reached out with his left hand and seized her wrist as he rolled onto his back, using the momentum of her own charge against her. Pulling hard on her wrist, he tumbled backward and brought both feet up, planting them in the middle of her stomach. He completed the move by kicking out with both legs, sending her flying up and over the platform’s edge. She screamed all the way down, her cries ending abruptly when she struck the water and rocks below.

Johun was already back on his feet, bracing for the first man’s next attack. But rather than face him alone, his remaining adversary turned to flee, making a break for the walkway leading from the platform back to the shore.

He passed the Twi’lek at a dead run, then stopped as his body went rigid and his hands flew to his throat. He turned around slowly so he was facing Johun, clutching the bloody gash just beneath his jaw as he toppled forward and fell facedown on the platform.

It happened so fast it took a moment to register on Johun. Then he noticed the small, crescent-shaped blades clutched in each of the Twi’lek’s hands. They looked like miniature sickles; the one in his left hand was a bright silver, the one in the right dripped with red.

The Chiss and the tattooed man had been making their way toward the platform to join the battle. Seeing the Twi’lek cut their escaping accomplice down, they abruptly reconsidered. Faced with a wrathful Jedi Knight and an ally who would kill them if they tried to flee the confrontation on the platform, they made the only logical choice and raced back up the walkway to their waiting vehicle. Piling in, they fired up the engines and sped away, wanting no part of a plan that had gone so wrong.

Stepping over the still-gasping body of the accomplice he had just killed, the Twi’lek dropped into a fighting crouch. He didn’t seem to know or care that the other two had abandoned him. His lekku hung down behind him like twin tails, the tips twitching and curling in anticipation.

“I’ve always wanted to test my skills against a Jedi,” he said, issuing the challenge.

Johun was more than willing to accept. He leapt forward, moving with the blinding speed of the Force as he stabbed his lightsaber squarely at the Twi’lek’s chest to put a quick end to their confrontation. With an almost casual grace, the red-skinned Twi’lek merely leaned backward and twisted out of the way, slashing out with the strange crescent blades at Johun’s throat.

The Jedi turned his body at the last second, avoiding the first blade completely, but catching the other with the meat of his right shoulder. It sliced deep into the muscle, eliciting a grunt of pain from Johun.

He wheeled back around to see the Twi’lek in the same low crouch, holding the crescent blades up in front of him like a boxer. Johun approached more cautiously this time, recognizing that this opponent was far more dangerous than the other three put together.

Using tight slashes and quick cuts, he probed his enemy’s defenses with his lightsaber, trying to learn the patterns and rhythms of his foe’s unfamiliar weapons. The Twi’lek slapped each blow aside with contemptuous ease, alternating hands so he could always leave one of the crescents up in a defensive position.

The unusual weapons sacrificed reach for speed and maneuverability, Johun realized. He was vulnerable if he let the Twi’lek get in close, but if he could keep him at a distance he had the advantage. The Twi’lek seemed to realize this, too, and began to move in slowly.

Johun tried to force him back with a sequence of aggressive attacks, but he was unable to penetrate the Twi’lek’s defenses. No matter what he tried, his enemy was always able to keep at least one of the crescent blades back to parry his blows.

Frustrated, Johun overextended on one of his strikes, bringing the lightsaber in a fraction of a centimeter too high and wide and putting too much weight on his front foot. The mistake nearly proved fatal.

The Twi’lek swatted Johun’s blade aside and stepped forward, closing the distance between them to less than a meter as he slid inside the arc of the lightsaber’s effective range. The sickle of his left hand sliced down in a high vertical strike as the one in his right carved a low horizontal slash. Johun was able to backpedal and avoid the initial blows, but he wasn’t so lucky when his opponent reversed his attack, allowing the crescent blades to retrace their original paths in the opposite direction.

One of the blades sliced upward, opening a gash in Johun’s cheek and narrowly missing his eye. The other left a long, shallow cut along the left side of the Jedi’s ribs—painful but not debilitating.

His enemy was in too close for Johun to bring his lightsaber to bear effectively; all he could do was butt with his head, sending his brow smashing hard into the Twi’lek’s face. There was a wet crunch as the cartilage of his enemy’s nose crumpled beneath the impact. The Twi’lek staggered back, then dropped once more into his fighting crouch. Blood flowed freely from his nostrils, the dark crimson flow visible even against his bright red complexion.

Johun tried to gather the Force to hurl his opponent off the platform’s edge. But gathering the Force required concentration, and for a fraction of an instant it drew his focus away from the battle. His enemy sensed his momentary lapse and sprang forward, the sickles carving deadly semicircular arcs through the air.

Johun threw himself backward at the last instant, the power he’d accumulated disappearing harmlessly as he fell into a full retreat to avoid the lethal assault. Dropping low to the ground, he tried to swipe the feet out from under the Twi’lek. His opponent anticipated the move and leapt nimbly over his outstretched foot, bringing his knee up to strike Johun square in the jaw.

Seeing stars, Johun rolled clear, narrowly avoiding decapitation, as the crescent blades swooped in again. He regained his feet and took a wild swipe at his opponent. Dodging the blow, the Twi’lek swooped in close, and Johun was forced to give ground yet again to survive another series of lightning-fast blows.

The Twi’lek pressed the attack, staying close enough to Johun that the Jedi’s only options were blocks and parries. Darting from side to side he cut off Johan’s paths of retreat, slowly backing him up until he was balanced on the platform’s edge.

Johun knew he couldn’t beat the Twi’lek. His opponent was faster, his skills honed by years of intense training. He could continue to fight, but the outcome was inevitable—he was going to die on this platform. He could not escape his fate—yet he could still sacrifice himself to save the Chancellor.

There is no death; there is only the Force.

The Twi’lek had braced himself in preparation for a desperate counterattack, expecting Johun to try to fight his way clear of the platform’s ledge. Instead the Jedi dropped his weapon and both hands shot forward to clutch tightly onto the front of his opponent’s shirt. The handle of Johun’s lightsaber clattered on the platform’s durasteel surface, the blade extinguished the moment it fell from his hand.

The unexpected move caught the Twi’lek completely off guard, and he hesitated for a split second before his eyes went wide with fear and dawning comprehension. He slashed frantically at Johun’s wrists and forearms, carving deep gashes into the flesh. But the Jedi’s grip never faltered.

With his heels already dangling over the precipice, Johun simply had to let himself fall backward, dragging his enemy with him. The Twi’lek screamed as they plunged toward the deadly rocks jutting up from the waves fifty meters below; Johun felt nothing but a serene inner peace.

They seemed to fall forever, the world moving in slow motion as Johun surrendered himself fully to the power of the Force. It flowed through him, stronger than he had ever felt it before. The instant before they hit the water he looked into the terrified eyes of his foe and smiled. He had never felt more at peace than he did in that moment.

Dropping from fifty meters into the ocean was nothing like diving into a pool; the surface tension of the water struck them with the impact of a sledgehammer. During the fall they had turned slightly, so the impact took Johun on the right side. He felt his ribs crack, and then a cold shock as the freezing waters enveloped them.

It took Johun several seconds to realize he wasn’t dead. Even missing the rocks, a fall from that height should have been lethal. Yet somehow he had survived, though he was now sinking quickly into the ocean’s angry depths. The Force, he thought in amazement. He had given himself over to its power during the fall; in return it had spared his life.

He realized he was still clutching tightly to the front of the Twi’lek’s shirt. Through the murky waters he could see his opponent’s head lolling to the side at an unnatural angle, his neck broken when they had slammed into the unyielding ocean surface.

Releasing his grip he swam toward the surface, pulling with powerful strokes. Just as his lungs threatened to give out, he breached, gasping and swallowing huge gulps of air. The girders supporting the platform rose up out of the water before him, only a few meters away. He kicked his legs and reached out to grab the slick, wet durasteel with hands already going numb in the chill waters, then began the long slow climb back to the top.

Blood poured freely from the cuts to his forearms. But though the wounds were deep, they hadn’t struck any critical nerves or tendons, and he was able to use his hands to help him along as he clambered up the girders.

He had reached the halfway point when he paused to rest, shivering in the wind. A voice called his name; looking up, he saw the face of Chancellor Valorum staring down at him. Knowing he needed to save his breath for the rest of the climb, Johun’s only response was a weak wave of acknowledgment.

Half a meter from the top Valorum’s arm reached down over the edge to clasp his own. The exhausted Jedi was grateful for the aid as the Chancellor helped him clamber up and back onto the safety of the platform. Johun tried to stand, but his limbs betrayed him. All he could manage was to roll onto his back and stare up at the sky, panting and wheezing as he tried to catch his breath.

“You saved my life,” the Chancellor said, sitting down beside him to wait for the Jedi to recover from his ordeal. “I can never repay you for what you have done, but if there is ever anything you want of me you need only ask.”

“There is one thing.” Johun gasped from his back, still too tired to even try to sit up. “Hire yourself a kriffing security team.”

13

Zannah made her way slowly through Carannia’s market square, purchasing supplies to replace those Bane had inadvertently destroyed. Only a week had passed since she’d last been here, but in that short time a great many things had changed.

Kel was dead, for one. The HoloNet was buzzing with the news of the failed attempt to kidnap Chancellor Valorum, and all the accounts made specific mention of the red-skinned Twi’lek and his end at the hands of a Jedi Knight named Johun Othone.

Three of the others from the small group were dead as well, though reports indicated that two of the terrorists had fled the scene. From the descriptions given it was obvious to Zannah that Paak and Cyndra were the two surviving fugitives.

The attack had prompted immediate condemnation from the Senate and the rest of the Republic. More important, the Counts of Serenno had promised swift and decisive action to stamp out the separatist organizations that plagued their fair world. Based on the enormous rewards being offered for information leading to the capture of those involved in the attack, it seemed the nobles intended to keep their promise.

Even had Kel and his friends succeeded, Zannah now realized, the reaction of the Counts would have been the same. In the aftermath of the violence, the bodies of several members of Count Nalju’s household staff were discovered near the landing site. They had been sent to greet Chancellor Valorum on his arrival, only to be murdered by the radicals who had set the ambush.

The deaths of several long-serving followers was a great tragedy for House Nalju, but it paled in comparison with the horror elicited by the attack itself. The Count had personally sponsored the Chancellor’s visit; an assault upon his esteemed guest was an insult to family honor, and a crime tantamount to attacking the Count himself. Always willing to protect their own, the other Great Houses had rallied to the Nalju cry, vowing to hunt down and exterminate those responsible for this atrocity.

No doubt Darth Bane had foreseen this outcome. For the next several years the eyes of the Republic would be focused intently on Serenno and its campaign to snuff out the separatist elements that had infiltrated its culture.

“Don’t move,” a familiar female voice hissed in her ear, and Zannah felt the muzzle of a blaster press itself hard into the flesh of her lower back.

“I’m surprised you’d dare to show your face in public,” Zannah whispered without turning around to face the Chiss standing close behind her. “There’s a lot of credits being offered for your head.”

“Thanks to you,” Cyndra snapped back, jabbing her painfully with the weapon. “Now start walking. Slowly.”

There were a dozen ways Zannah could turn the tables on Cyndra, but each of them involved a display of dark side power she wasn’t willing to make in the crowded market square. So she did as ordered, making her way past the vendor stalls as she waited for the right moment to make her move. Cyndra followed close, pressing tight up against her to shield the blaster at Zannah’s back with her own body.

“Where are you taking me?” Zannah asked her.

“We’re going to see Hetton,” Cyndra snarled. “He’s got some questions for you.”

How convenient, Zannah thought. I’ve got some questions for him, too.

Cyndra took her down a narrow alley leading away from the market square to a deserted side street.

“Stand still or I shoot,” she warned Zannah, then pulled a comlink from her belt. “I’ve got her,” she said. “Come pick us up.”

In less than a minute an airspeeder swooped down to land on the far side of the street. Zannah wasn’t surprised to see Paak sitting in the pilot’s seat. He jumped out as the Chiss marched her prisoner over to the vehicle.

“Told you she’d come back,” he said to his companion.

“Just search her for weapons,” she answered.

Paak leered at Zannah as he roughly patted her down. “What have we here?” he exclaimed, discovering her only weapon and holding it up for inspection.

The handle of Zannah’s lightsaber was slightly longer than normal to accommodate the twin crystals required to power the blades that extended from either end. However, while most traditional double-bladed weapons had blades each measuring a meter and a half or more, those of Zannah’s lightsaber were slightly under a meter in length. This small but significant difference was critical to the way in which she used her weapon …

“The smaller blades give you greater speed and maneuverability,” her Master explained as the fourteen-year-old Zannah twirled her newly constructed lightsaber in her left hand, focusing on mastering the feel of its unique balance and weight.

“Grip the handle lightly in your fingers. Control the weapon with your wrist and hand rather than the muscles of your arm. You will sacrifice reach and leverage, but you will be able to create a shield of impenetrable defense.”

“Defense will not slay my enemy,” Zannah remarked, smoothly transferring the spinning crimson blades from her left hand to her right and back again.

“You lack the physical strength required for the powerful attacking strikes of Djem So or the other aggressive forms,” her Master explained. “You must rely on quickness, cunning and, most of all, patience to best your enemies.”

He ignited his own lightsaber and took a long, looping swing in her direction. Zannah intercepted the blow with her own weapon, easily deflecting it to the side.

“Form three allows you to parry incoming attacks with minimal effort,” he told her. “Your opponent must expend precious energy with each blow, slowly tiring while you remain fresh and strong.”

Bane seized the hook-handled grip of his own lightsaber with both hands and raised it high over his head, then brought it straight down in a fierce chop. Using the techniques he had made her practice for two hours each day over the past year, Zannah met her Master’s blade with one of her own. Had she tried to meet it head-on, the strength of his attack would have driven her own weapon back into her, or knocked the lightsaber from her hand. Instead she clipped his blade with a glancing contact, rerouting it so that it continued its downward arc at an angle, passing harmlessly a few centimeters from her shoulder.

“Good,” Bane said approvingly, winding up for another heavy-handed swipe. “Do not block. Redirect. Wait for opponents to become weary or frustrated. Let them make a mistake, then seize the opening and make them pay.”

To illustrate his point Bane took a wild swipe that she easily picked off. The momentum of his swing caused him to lean too far forward, exposing his shoulder and back to her counterattack. With a flick of her wrist Zannah directed her own weapon toward the opening. She scored a direct hit, one of her twin blades tracing a ten-centimeter-long slash across his shoulder that would have severed the arm of any other opponent.

In Bane’s case, however, the blade only cut through the cloth of his shirt and left a small scorch mark on the impregnable shell of the orbalisk beneath.

“You’re dead!” she exclaimed triumphantly, still twirling her blade so that it never lost momentum.

Bane nodded in approval. But it was early, and the day’s lesson had only just begun.

“Again,” he commanded in the stern taskmaster’s voice he always used during their drills and practice sessions.…

“What is this? A lightsaber?” Paak muttered, turning the handle over in his hands. “Where’d you get this? You steal it off a Jedi or something?”

Zannah didn’t bother to answer. There was nobody else in view; the three of them were alone in the deserted street. She could easily have ended their lives right there and escaped. But they had said they were taking her to Hetton, and she was most eager to meet the founder of the Anti-Republic Liberation Front.

“Hetton’s going to be very interested in this,” he remarked. “Very, very interested.”

“Come on. Let’s get moving,” Cyndra told him. “I don’t want to keep Hetton waiting. He’s mad enough at us already.”

Paak tossed the lightsaber onto the passenger seat in the front, then climbed into the pilot’s chair.

“Get in the back,” Cyndra ordered Zannah, waving the blaster’s nose threateningly.

She did as she was told, and a second later Cyndra climbed in beside her, still keeping her weapon trained on Zannah. The airspeeder lifted off the ground, whisking them through the city and out to the countryside beyond.

“How long until we get there?” Zannah asked.

“Shut your kriffing mouth,” Cyndra answered. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk when you explain to Hetton why you betrayed us.”

“Kel always was a sucker for a pretty face,” Paak said, glancing back at her over his shoulder. “Always knew it would be the death of him. If he was smart he would have just stuck with you, Cyndra.”

Cyndra’s red eyes narrowed angrily. “Shut up and drive, Paak.”

“You and Kel?” Zannah said, legitimately surprised. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Neither did Cyndra,” Paak said with a laugh. “At least not until you showed up at our meeting. She wanted to kill you right there. Lucky for you she’s a professional.”

The rest of the ride passed in silence as they made their way farther and farther from the city. Soon they passed into the country estates of the noble families, confirming Zannah’s suspicion that Hetton was a member of a powerful Serenno house. She wondered what would happen to him now that the political climate of Carannia had turned so strongly against the separatists.

The speeder continued on, passing over lavish rose gardens that stretched for acres, the irrigation provided by exquisite fountains while armies of staff clipped and pruned to keep each individual flower in a perfect, pristine state.

An enormous mansion loomed in the distance; in truth it looked more like a castle than a home. The flag flying from one of the many turrets was a bright red, emblazoned with a single eight-pointed star of gold. Zannah suspected it was derived from the five-pointed star of the Demici Great House. Apparently Hetton’s family were distant relations of the Demicis that had earned the right to create their own variation on the family crest.

When they landed they were met by six guards clad in long red robes. Each wore a full helmet that completely covered the head and face, and they all carried force pikes. The meter-and-a-half-long metal poles were equipped with stun modules at the tip, capable of discharging an electrical current to stun or incapacitate opponents … or even kill if set to a high enough power. She recognized the exotic weapon from Bane’s teachings; it had been a favorite of the Umbaran Shadow Assassins, though the members of the group had gone into hiding with the fall of Kaan’s Brotherhood.

“Get out,” Cyndra demanded, gesturing once again with her blaster. A small part of Zannah pitied the Chiss—Kel had used her then tossed her aside—while another part of her resented her blue-skinned romantic rival. But she was not about to let either emotion affect her thoughts or actions in any significant way.

She did as she was told, exiting the vehicle and submitting to another search by one of the red-robed guards before passively holding her hands out before her and allowing them to slap a pair of binder cuffs on her wrists. Only then did Cyndra finally put away her blaster, stuffing it into her belt and grabbing Zannah by the arm to pull her along after Paak and the guards.

The procession made its way through a high archway and into the marble-lined hall beyond. Paintings and sculptures lined the walls; floating holographic artworks hovered near the ceiling. The display of wealth would have impressed or even intimidated most visitors, Zannah suspected. She, however, saw the collection as nothing but a waste of funds that could have been better spent elsewhere.

The mansion was enormous, and it took them five full minutes to pass from the airspeeder landing pad to the reception chamber where Hetton awaited them. Zannah knew they were near their destination when they stopped before a pair of towering doors, closed and barring their progress. Two of the guards stepped forward, one on each door, and pushed them open.

The room beyond was thirty meters long and twenty meters wide. Like the halls, the walls were lined with art, and a long red carpet led to a small staircase and a raised dais at the far end. The room was devoid of furniture except for a large chair atop the dais, though Zannah thought it could more properly be described as a throne.

Sitting there, flanked by two more of the red-robed guards, was a man who could only be Hetton himself. He was small in stature, and older than she had suspected; he looked to be in his late fifties. She had expected him to be garbed in the colors of his house, but instead he wore black pants, a black shirt, black boots, and black gloves. Crimson striping trimmed the tops of his boots and the cuffs of his gloves. A hooded cape, also black with crimson trim, was draped across his shoulders, though the hood was thrown back to reveal his face.

He had fine gray hair, cropped very short. He had a long, pointed nose, and his pale blue eyes seemed small and too close together. There was a cruel tilt to his thin lips that made it almost appear as if he was sneering. As they entered, he leaned forward in his seat and clutched at the arms of his oversized throne; he looked hunched, sinister.

Although he was not conventionally attractive or physically imposing, there was an undeniable air of importance about him. Zannah suspected it was a natural confidence born of wealth and privilege, but as she was marched down the red carpet toward him, she realized it was something far more impressive: Hetton radiated with the power of the dark side!

They approached until they were ten meters from the steps leading up to Hetton’s seat, then stopped at a signal from one of the guards flanking the throne. Their escort stepped to the side, leaving Zannah, Paak, and Cyndra alone before Hetton.

“And who are you, my dear?” Hetton asked, his words sharp and clipped as they echoed thinly off the walls of the great room.

“My name is Rainah,” Zannah answered. “I am—I was—a friend of Kel’s.”

“Of course,” Hetton said with a knowing smirk. “Kelad’den had many female friends.”

“She’s the one who betrayed us to the Republic!” Cyndra said angrily, shaking the still-cuffed Zannah by her elbow as she spoke.

“I didn’t betray anyone,” Zannah protested, stalling for time as she tried to gauge Hetton’s power.

During the war between the Brotherhood of Darkness and the Army of Light, both sides had actively sought to recruit those with power into their ranks. But it would have been a simple enough matter for a family as obviously rich and powerful as Hetton’s to shield one of their own from both the Jedi and the Sith.

“You knew every detail of our plan,” Cyndra insisted. “Who else could it have been?”

“You and Paak seem to have survived somehow,” Zannah remarked, letting the unspoken accusation hang in the air as she continued her subtle probing of Hetton.

His power didn’t have the raw, untamed feel of one who had never been trained. Was it possible he’d once had a tutor or mentor? Had someone knowledgeable in the Force taught him the ways of the dark side, then abandoned him to follow Kaan? Or was there some other explanation?

“I am not a traitor!” the Chiss shouted angrily.

“Calm down, Cyndra,” Hetton said, sardonically amused at her outrage. “Chancellor Valorum had a Jedi Knight with him. Your mission was doomed to failure from the start.

“And even if you had succeeded,” he added, his voice dropping to a low and dangerous whisper, “you still would have brought the wrath of the Great Houses crashing down on us.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded with a sudden shout that made both Paak and Cyndra jump. Zannah could feel the air crackle as the small man called upon the Force, gathering the energies of the dark side. His power was undeniable, yet as she felt it building she was confident his abilities would be no match for hers.

“Hetton, wait!” Paak shouted, sensing the peril they were in. “We’ve got something for you.”

He held up Zannah’s lightsaber, waving it above his head so Hetton would be sure to see it. The effect was immediate and instantaneous; the building power of the dark side vanished as Hetton froze, his eyes riveted on the hilt. After a moment he seemed to regain his composure and sat back down, signaling for one of his guards to bring the treasure to him.

When it was placed in his hand he studied it carefully for a full minute before setting it reverently in his lap.

“Where did you find this?” he asked softly, though there was a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

“On her,” Paak said. “She wouldn’t tell us how she got it.”

“Is that a fact?” Hetton muttered, suddenly staring at Zannah with renewed interest, running the fingers of one hand idly over the lightsaber’s handle. “I would be most interested to learn how she acquired this particular specimen.”

“Give me five minutes alone with her,” Cyndra said. “I’ll get her to talk.”

Zannah decided that the game had gone on long enough. It would have been a simple matter to snatch the lightsaber back to her shackled hands using the Force, but she had other weapons at her disposal …

“The Force manifests itself in many different ways,” Darth Bane told her. “Every individual has strengths and weaknesses—talents they excel at and others that are more difficult.”

The twelve-year-old Zannah nodded. Several months before, Bane had unlocked a new data bank of information in Freedon Nadd’s Holocron. Though he wouldn’t tell her what he had uncovered, he had added a new element to her training shortly after his discovery. Every two or three days he would put her through a series of rigorous tests and challenges designed to evaluate her command of different aspects of the Force.

Until today he had refused to discuss the results of his experiments with her, and Zannah was beginning to fear she had somehow failed him.

“Some possess raw elemental power; they can unleash storms of lightning from their fingertips, or move mountains with their mere thoughts. Others are more gifted in the subtle intricacies of the Force, blessed with the ability to affect the minds of friend and foe alike through the arts of persuasion or battle meditation.”

He paused and fixed her with a long stare, as if considering whether to say more.

“A rare few have a natural affinity for the dark side itself. They can delve into the depths of the Force and summon arcane energies to twist and warp the world around them. They can invoke the ancient rituals of the Sith; they can conjure power and unleash terrible spells and dark magics.”

“Is that my gift?” Zannah asked, barely able to contain her excitement. “Am I a Sith sorcerer?”

“You have the potential,” Bane told her. From inside his robes he produced a thin leather-bound manuscript. “Hidden deep inside the Holocron, I discovered a list of powerful spells. I transcribed them into this tome. They will help you focus and channel your power for maximum effect … but only if you study them carefully.”

“I will, Master,” Zannah promised, her eyes gleaming as she reached out to take the book from his hands.

“My ability to guide and teach you in the ways of sorcery are limited,” Bane warned her. “My talents lie in another direction. To unleash your full potential you will have to do much of the study and research on your own. It will be … perilous.”

The thought of exploring the dark and dangerous secrets of Sith sorcery alone filled her with dread, but the chance to achieve a power beyond the abilities of her Master to comprehend was a temptation she could not resist.

“I will not disappoint you, Master,” she vowed, clutching the tome tightly against her chest.

“And if you ever try to use one of your spells against me,” Bane added as a final caution, “I will destroy you.”

Zannah shook her elbow free of Cyndra’s grasp and raised her shackled hands before her face. Weaving her fingers in a complex pattern in the air, she reached out with the Force and plunged deep inside the Chiss woman’s mind to find her secret, most primal fears. Buried in her subconscious were nameless horrors: abominations and creatures of nightmare never meant to see the light of day. Drawing on the power of Sith sorcery, Zannah plucked them out and brought them to life one by one.

The entire process took less than a second. In that time Cyndra had drawn her weapon, but instead of pointing it at Zannah she suddenly screamed and aimed it high in the air above her, firing wildly at demons conjured from her own mind that only she could see.

The illusions grew more real and more terrifying the longer the spell continued, but Zannah had no intention of ending it yet. The Chiss shrieked and threw her weapon to the ground. She flung her head wildly from side to side, covering it with her arms and screaming “No!” over and over before collapsing on the floor. Weeping and sobbing, she curled up into a tight little ball, still muttering “No, no, no …”

Everyone else in the room was staring at her in horror and bewilderment. Some of the guards took a step back, afraid they might somehow become infected by her madness.

Zannah could have ended it then, dispelling the illusion and allowing Cyndra to fall into unconsciousness. She would wake hours later with only the most basic recollection of what had happened, her mind instinctively recoiling from the memories of what it had witnessed. Or Zannah could push the illusion even farther, driving her victim to the edge of insanity and beyond. An image of the Chiss romantically entangled with Kel sprang unbidden to her mind—and Zannah pushed.

Cyndra’s cries of terror became animal howls as her sanity was ripped apart by the ghastly visions. Her hands scratched and clawed at her own eyes, tearing them out. Blood poured down her cheeks, but even blindness couldn’t save her from the nightmares crawling through what was left of her mind.

Her howls stopped as her body went into seizure; her mouth foamed as her limbs convulsed wildly on the floor. Then, with a final bloodcurdling shriek, she fell suddenly limp and lay still. Her conscious mind completely and irrevocably obliterated, her catatonic body was now nothing more than an empty shell.

The body shivered once, and Zannah knew that somewhere in the deepest core of Cyndra’s subconscious a small part of her still existed, silently screaming, trapped forever with the horrors inside her own mind.

Though everyone had borne witness to the Chiss’s gruesome and terrifying end, Zannah was the only one who knew what had really happened. Yet even she was never quite certain just what her victims saw. Based on their reactions she figured it was probably better not to know. She coolly regarded Cyndra’s body on the floor, still trembling occasionally, then glanced up to see Hetton staring at her intently.

She turned away when she heard Paak shouting at her from across the room.

“You did this!” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “Stop her or she’ll kill us all!” he cried.

Several of the guards took a step toward her, only to pull up at a slight shake of the head from Hetton.

“She’s not dead,” Zannah announced. “Though whatever’s left of her mind surely begs for death.”

The answer did nothing to calm Paak’s mounting hysteria. Reaching into his boot, he pulled out a short vibroblade and rushed at Zannah with a scream.

The spell she had unleashed on Cyndra was powerful but exhausting. Zannah doubted she’d be able to effect a similar reaction in Paak before he ran her through with his blade. So instead of sorcery, she turned to more conventional means to dispatch him.

Extending her shackled hands, she used the Force to draw the lightsaber from Hetton’s lap, sending it flying across the room and into her waiting palm. As the blades ignited she casually snapped her restraints with a single thought.

Paak had come in expecting to skewer a helpless prisoner; he wasn’t ready to face an armed foe. She could have slain him right then and there, but she noticed that Hetton was still sitting passively in his seat, observing the action. Zannah decided she’d give him a show.

Instead of decapitating her overmatched opponent, she simply toyed with him, twirling and spinning the lightsaber through intricate, hypnotic patterns as she easily parried his ham-fisted blows. Paak was a brawler, all muscle and no technique, making it ridiculously simple for her to repulse his attacks. He came at her three times, hacking and slashing as he tried to bowl her over. Each time she would nimbly skip to one side and redirect his blade with her own, turning their combat into a dance where she was most definitely taking the lead.

After three failed passes, the tattooed man threw his blade down in frustration and scooped up Cyndra’s fallen blaster. He took aim and fired twice from point-blank range, but Zannah didn’t even flinch.

Using the precognitive awareness of the Force, she was easily able to anticipate the incoming shots and intercept them with the crackling crimson blades of her lightsaber. The first bolt ricocheted harmlessly up into the ceiling; the second she sent back at Paak.

It struck him square between the eyes, leaving a smoking hole in his forehead. His body went rigid, then toppled over backward.

Still twirling her weapon, Zannah turned to face Hetton again. He had not moved from his throne; nor had he made any signal to his guards. As she stared at him he rose slowly to his feet and walked down the stairs of the dais until he was standing only a few meters in front of her. Then he dropped to his knees before her and bowed his head.

In a trembling voice he whispered, “I have been waiting for someone like you my entire life.”

14

Johun walked with long, quick strides down the dormitory corridors of the great Jedi Temple. He passed halls and staircases leading to the various wings that had been constructed to house the Jedi Knights and Padawans who chose to dwell here on Coruscant, making his way toward the base of the Spire of the High Council and the private chambers reserved for the Masters-in-residence.

He nodded curtly to those who waved or called out to him as he marched briskly past, but Johun had no time to stop and exchange pleasantries. He had received a summons from Valenthyne Farfalla immediately after landing, and Johun had a pretty good idea what his old Master wanted to talk to him about.

When he arrived at his destination he was surprised to find the door to Farfalla’s private quarters standing open, the Jedi Master seated at a desk inside, deep in study.

“You wanted to see me?” Johun said by way of greeting, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

The room was decorated much as Farfalla’s private cabin had been aboard the Fairwind, the flagship of the now disbanded Jedi fleet. Fine art adorned the walls, and expensive rugs covered the floor. In one corner sat the four-poster bed depicting the key stages of Valenthyne’s rise to the rank of Jedi Master.

“Johun,” Farfalla said with mild surprise. “I did not expect to see you so soon.” He turned in his seat and motioned to one of the other chairs in the room, indicating that his guest should sit.

“Your summons sounded urgent,” Johun answered. He spread his feet and stood stiffly, refusing the offer of a chair.

“I need to speak with you,” Farfalla said with a weary sigh.

“As my friend, my Master, or a representative of the Jedi Council?”

“That depends on what you have to say,” Farfalla answered, ever the diplomat. “I have heard that Chancellor Valorum intends to petition the Senate for funds to create a memorial to Hoth and the other Jedi who fell on Ruusan.”

“No doubt he believes this to be a fitting tribute to the people who gave their lives to keep the Republic safe,” Johun remarked. “A tribute some would say is long overdue.”

Farfalla raised an eyebrow. “So you had nothing to do with this request? Valorum came up with this idea on his own?”

“I never said that,” the Jedi Knight replied. The truth, as both he and Valenthyne were well aware, was that Valorum had agreed to do this to show his gratitude toward Johun for saving him during the attack on Serenno.

“As I suspected,” the Master said with another sigh. “The Jedi Council does not approve of this, Johun. They see it as an act of pride and arrogance.”

“Is it arrogant to honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice?” Johun asked, staying calm. He was a Jedi Knight now; the Padawan who would fly off the handle at the slightest provocation was long gone.

“Requesting a memorial to honor your former Master smacks of vanity,” Farfalla explained. “In elevating the man who first trained you, you in effect elevate yourself.”

“This is not vanity, Master,” Johun explained patiently. “A memorial on Ruusan will serve as a reminder of how one hundred beings willingly marched off to face certain death so that the rest of the galaxy might live in peace. It will be a powerful symbol to inspire others.”

“The Jedi do not need symbols to inspire them,” Farfalla reminded him.

“But the rest of the Republic does,” Johun countered. “Symbols give power to ideas, they speak to the hearts and minds of the average person, they help transform abstract values and beliefs into reality.

“This monument glorifies the victory on Ruusan: a victory that came not through the strength of our army, but through the courage, conviction, and sacrifice of Hoth and those who perished with him. It will serve as a shining example to guide the citizens of the Republic in their thoughts and actions.”

“I see Valorum’s flair for speeches has rubbed off on you,” Valenthyne said with a rueful smile, recognizing that he would not be able to convince Johun to change his position.

“It was you who chose to assign me to the Chancellor’s side,” Johun reminded him. “And I have learned many things in my years of service.”

Farfalla rose from his seat and began to pace the room.

“Your arguments are eloquent, Johun. But surely you know they will not sway the Jedi Council.”

“This matter falls outside the Council’s authority,” Johun reminded him. “If the Senate approves funding for Valorum’s request, construction on Ruusan will begin within the month.”

“The Senate will never refuse Valorum anything.”

Farfalla snorted. He stopped pacing and turned toward Johun. “And what will your role be in this project?”

“That, too, is for the Senate to decide,” Johun answered evasively. However, after a moment he relented and told Farfalla the truth. “The Chancellor has agreed to travel with a full security complement on future diplomatic missions so that I will be free to go to Ruusan and oversee construction of the memorial.”

Farfalla sighed and sat back down in his chair.

“I understand why you are doing this, Johun. I do not fully approve, but neither I nor the Jedi Council will stand in your way.” After a moment he added, “I doubt we could stop you now even if we tried.”

“At times I can be most stubborn,” the Jedi Knight replied with the hint of a smile.

“Just like Hoth,” Farfalla noted.

Johun chose to take his words as a compliment.

“My father died when I was only an infant,” Hetton said, his voice low enough that Zannah had to strain to hear it over the clacking of their footsteps on the polished marble floor. “Burdened with the responsibilities of being the head of our house, my mother left it to the servants to raise me. They knew of my special gifts for many years before word of it ever reached my mother’s ear.”

“Perhaps they feared what she might do to them if they told her,” Zannah suggested.

She and Hetton were alone now. After her performance in the throne room, he had insisted on bringing her to see his vast collection of Sith manuscripts and artifacts, located in his inner sanctum on the far side of the great mansion. He had also insisted that his guards stay behind. To pass the time on the journey through the seemingly endless halls and rooms of his manor, he had started to tell her his personal history.

“My mother was a strong and intimidating woman,” Hetton admitted. “Perhaps the servants were afraid of her. Whatever the reasons, I was already in my early twenties before she finally discovered my affinity for the Force.”

“How did she react?”

“She saw my talents as a tool we could use to further the fortunes of our house. She had no use for the Jedi—or even the Sith, for that matter—but she wanted to find someone to help teach me to better master my skills.

“This was many years before the Brotherhood of Darkness came to power,” he reminded her before resuming his tale.

“After a number of discreet inquiries and many substantial bribes and payments, she finally settled on a Duros named Gula Dwan.”

“He became your Master?”

“Master was a title he never deserved,” Hetton replied with just a hint of bitterness. “He was nothing but a bounty hunter and assassin who had the good fortune to be born with the ability to touch the Force. Over the years he had gleaned a simple understanding of the most basic techniques to access his power, allowing him to levitate small objects and perform other similar tricks.

“But he had no allegiance to the Sith or the Jedi; Gula’s only fealty was to whoever paid him the most credits. And my family could afford to pay him more credits than he had ever dreamed of.”

They had reached another set of large double doors, though these were sealed and locked from the other side. Her host reached out and placed his palm on the surface, then closed his eyes. Zannah felt the soft whisper of the Force; then the lock clicked and the door swung open to reveal Hetton’s inner sanctum.

The room was part library, part museum. Shelves of ancient manuscripts and scrolls, and endless lines of old datatapes lined the walls, and there was a data terminal and large viewscreen in one corner. Several long glass display cases ran lengthwise down the center of the room, displaying the collection of Sith treasures Hetton had spent the past three decades acquiring: strange glowing amulets, small jewel-encrusted daggers, a variety of unusual stones and crystals, and the handles of at least a dozen different lightsabers.

“Gula’s instruction gave me a foundation on which to build, but most of my learning came from the books and manuscripts you see before you,” Hetton said with pride.

They walked slowly along the length of the display cases, Zannah splitting her attention between Hetton’s words and the intriguing array of Sith artifacts. She could still feel faint remnants of dark side energy clinging to them: fading memories of the incredible power they once contained.

“Early on in my apprenticeship I recognized Gula for the fool he was. At my urging, my mother used the wealth and resources of our house to scour the galaxy in pursuit of every record, object, or trinket even remotely associated with the dark side so that I could further my learning without having to rely exclusively on my so-called Master.

“As you might expect, much of what came to us was worthless rubbish. But over the years a number of rare and valuable items found their way into my possession.”

Hetton turned to the shelves, running his hands lovingly over the cataloged volumes.

“The knowledge here allowed me to quickly surpass Gula. Once my mother realized he was no longer of any use to us, she had him killed.”

Zannah started and blinked in surprise. Hetton laughed softly at her reaction.

“My mother was a woman driven by ambition and ruthless practicality. She had worked hard to keep my existence hidden from the Jedi and Sith; if Gula were allowed to simply leave our service, it was inevitable he would reveal our house’s great secret.”

“A necessary death,” Zannah said with a nod, realizing that Bane probably would have done the same thing. Then, hit with a sudden flash of insight, she said, “You were the one who killed him, weren’t you?”

Hetton smiled at her. “You are as perceptive as you are powerful. When the order came down from my mother, I was more than happy to comply. Gula had become a burden and an impediment to my own research into the ways of the dark side.”

“You speak of your mother as if she is gone,” Zannah noted. “What happened to her?”

Hetton’s eyes narrowed, and his expression grew dark.

“About fifteen years ago, when Kaan first began to assemble his Brotherhood of Darkness, my mother urged me to reveal myself and join their cause. She believed they would succeed in their quest to destroy the Republic, and she sought to ally our house with the rising new power in the galaxy.

“But I refused to become part of Kaan’s cult. He preached that all who followed the dark side would serve as equals—a democracy of Sith. I found the concept repugnant, a perversion of everything I had studied and believed in.

“However, my mother still thought in terms of governments and political alliances. Through my study of the dark side I had transcended such mundane interests, but she could not grasp my objections. In the end, I was forced to eliminate her.”

This time Zannah wasn’t surprised. “She would have ignored your wishes and tried to forge an alliance with the Brotherhood,” she said, showing that she understood—and even approved of—Hetton’s matricide. “She would have exposed you. You had no other choice.”

“I poisoned her in her sleep,” Hetton explained, his voice betraying just a hint of regret. “It was a peaceful death; I never wanted her to suffer. After all, I’m not a monster.”

There was a moment of silence as he let his thoughts linger over what he had done. Then he shook his head and resumed speaking as he led Zannah over to the monitor and data terminal.

“With the fall of the Brotherhood and the reformations of the Jedi Order, I became more bold. In addition to my quest to seek out the knowledge and artifacts of the ancient Sith I also began to assemble an army of followers. Under the separatist banner, I drew those individuals with unique skills and talents into my service. We were united in our hatred of the Republic and the Jedi, yet I was still wary of revealing my true purpose: the resurrection of the Sith!

“And now you are here,” he said, concluding his tale. He reached down and removed a datacard from the terminal they were standing beside. “The timing could not be more perfect.”

Zannah wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but before she could ask a question he had placed the datacard in her hand. “What’s this?”

“Do you know the name of Belia Darzu?” he asked her. Zannah shook her head. “She was a Dark Lord of the Sith who reigned over two centuries ago. She was a student of Sith alchemy; it was said she learned the secrets of mechu-deru, the ability to transform the flesh of living beings into metal and machinery. She used this power to create an army of technobeasts: organic-droid hybrids bound to her will.”

Zannah vaguely recalled a passing mention of technobeasts from her studies, though the name Belia Darzu still didn’t sound familiar.

“Many also believe that before her death she discovered the secret of creating Sith Holocrons,” Hetton added, and Zannah’s thoughts flashed back to Bane and his failed attempts to do the same.

“Ultimately, Belia was betrayed and murdered by her own followers,” Hetton continued. “A familiar occurrence in the histories I have read. When she fell all her secrets were lost, though there is speculation that much of what she discovered is still stored in the archives of her stronghold on Tython.”

“Tython?” Zannah exclaimed, recognizing the name. “Isn’t that one of the Deep Core worlds?”

The Deep Core was a small cluster of densely packed stars centered on a black hole in the very heart of the galaxy. The worlds of the Deep Core—planets like Tython—typically appeared only in myths and legends, or in the wild tales of half-mad explorers who claimed to have visited them. Unstable solar masses, large pockets of antimatter, and gravity wells powerful enough to warp the space-time continuum made it virtually impossible to chart safe hyperspace routes into the region.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Hetton said. “I was skeptical myself at first. But the more I learned about Belia, the more evidence I found to support the theory that her stronghold was on Tython.”

“Even if it’s true,” Zannah protested, “nobody knows how to get to Tython.”

“I do,” Hetton said with a sly smile. “In my research I discovered the coordinates for a long-forgotten hyperspace lane into the Deep Core. But I never dared to make the trip. I feared the defenses of Belia’s stronghold would be impenetrable. And then I met you.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” Zannah said.

“For many years I have studied the dark side, but my power has plateaued. I will learn nothing further on my own. I need a new Master—one with the power to penetrate the defenses of Belia’s stronghold and lay claim to her secrets.”

“You want to become my apprentice?” Zannah asked, her voice rising in disbelief.

“Everything I know about Belia Darzu, including the hyperspace route to Tython, can be found on that datacard,” Hetton said, speaking quickly. “I am presenting it to you as a gift, a sign of respect and admiration and proof of the seriousness of my offer.”

“You’re at least twice my age!” Zannah exclaimed, still unable to wrap her mind around the bizarre turn of events.

“Age has little relevance in matters of the Force,” Hetton assured her. “Your power is far greater than mine. I am asking you to teach me the ways of the dark side. In exchange, I offer you access to all the knowledge I have collected over the past thirty years.”

“I am only an apprentice myself,” Zannah admitted. “And my Master would kill us both before he accepted your offer. For the Sith to survive, there must only be one Master and one apprentice.”

“Then how does the Sith line continue?” Hetton asked, puzzled.

“When I surpass my Master, I will kill him and take his place,” Zannah explained, relaying the beliefs that Bane had drilled into her over the past decade without even thinking. “Then I will find my own apprentice to carry on the legacy of the dark side.”

Hetton was silent for a moment, considering what she had said. “Perhaps that time is now,” he said softly. “Together, we could end your Master’s reign.”

Zannah actually laughed at the suggestion. Hetton’s eyes narrowed momentarily, stung by her reaction.

“I have more resources at my disposal than you might imagine,” he said, raising his hand and snapping his fingers.

Two of his red-cloaked guards appeared beside him, seeming to materialize out of thin air. Zannah let her hand drop to her lightsaber, wondering if she had been lured into a trap. She couldn’t figure out where the guards had suddenly come from; even if they were somehow cloaked, she should have been able to sense their presence through the Force.

The guards made no move to attack her, however, and a second later she relaxed once more and looked questioningly at Hetton.

“As I told you before, I have recruited a number of individuals with unique and specialized talents to my side,” he explained. “Included among them are eight former students of the Sith Academy on Umbara.”

Through Bane, Zannah knew those students sent to Umbara were trained in stealth and assassination, learning to use the Force to mask their presence from all manner of detection. That was why she had been unable to sense them in the room.

“Should you accept me as your apprentice, my guards will swear fealty to you as well,” Hetton told her. “You will have a squad of eight unstoppable, undetectable killers at your command.”

Zannah was silent for several minutes, thinking about everything he had said.

“We cannot risk the Jedi learning of our existence,” she warned at last. “If you become my apprentice, you must leave all this behind.”

“I could not stay here much longer anyway,” Hetton reminded her. “It won’t be long before the Great Houses discover I am the founder of the Anti-Republic Liberation Front. They will seize my assets and condemn me for a traitor.

“I have already begun the process of transferring my library onto datacards in preparation for my flight.”

In her mind Zannah weighed all she knew of Darth Bane’s strength and power against Hetton and his eight Shadow Assassins, trying to determine which side had the upper hand. In the end she couldn’t accurately predict who would survive such an encounter, but she decided she wanted to find out.

“How soon can you and your assassins be ready?”

“We can leave within the hour.”

“And after Bane is dead we will go to Tython?”

“If that is your wish, Master,” Hetton said with a bow.

15

Night had fallen over Ambria, but Bane was not interested in sleep. Instead he was sitting cross-legged in what remained of their camp, waiting for Zannah to return with supplies so they could rebuild. As he waited, he meditated on his most recent failure with the Holocron.

The dilemma offered no easy solution. If he pushed himself too hard, his body would betray him, causing him to make mistakes during the precise adjustments of the Holocron’s matrix. If he went slowly, conserving his strength, he would be unable to finish before the cognitive network began to degrade. The two factors worked at cross purposes, and Bane had racked his mind to find a way to balance the requirements of both time and effort.

His most recent attempt had pushed his power to its limits, bringing him to the edge of complete exhaustion. Yet even if he hadn’t made the critical error that caused the matrix to collapse, he doubted he would have been able to complete the final adjustments in time.

The more he contemplated the process, the more frustrated he became. He had failed on both sides of the spectrum, unable to finish in the allotted time and lacking the necessary strength to complete his task without error.

Was it possible there was some other essential element in the process that he was missing? Was there one more secret waiting to be unlocked that would finally allow him to create a Holocron so he could pass his wisdom and knowledge on to his successors? Or was the failure in him? Did he simply lack power? Was his command of the dark side somehow less than that of the ancient Sith Lords like Freedon Nadd?

It was an uncomfortable line of speculation, but it was one Bane forced himself to consider. He had read the histories of the great Sith Lords; many were filled with feats almost too incredible to be believed. Yet even if these accounts were true, even if some of his predecessors had had the ability to use the dark side to destroy entire worlds or make a sun go nova, Bane still felt that his power measured up to the described abilities of many of those who had successfully created Holocrons of their own.

But how much of your power is wasted on the parasites infesting your body?

The question sprang unbidden to his mind, posed not in his own voice but that of his apprentice. Zannah had expressed her concerns about the effect the orbalisks might be having on him; it was possible she was right.

He had always believed the drawbacks of the orbalisks—the constant pain, the disfiguring appearance—to be offset by the benefits they provided. They healed him, made him physically stronger, and protected him against all manner of weapons. Now he began to question that belief. While it was true that he could channel his power through the creatures for a temporary increase in his abilities, over the long term they might actually be weakening him. They were constantly feeding on the dark side energies that flowed through his veins. Was it possible that, after a decade of infestation, his ability to draw upon the Force had been subtly diminished?

It was an idea he would have once dismissed out of hand. But his continued failure with the Holocrons had forced him to reevaluate his symbiotic relationship with the strange crustaceans. He could feel them even now, feeding, drawing on the Force that flowed through his veins.

The orbalisks suddenly became agitated. They twitched and trembled against his flesh; he felt their insatiable hunger growing as if in response to the nearby presence of a fresh source of dark side power.

Bane glanced around, expecting to see Zannah approaching the camp beneath the brightness of the full moon. He saw nothing; he sensed nothing—not even the small creatures and insects that came out at night to hunt for food, flying overhead or crawling across the sand. The normal awareness he had of the ambient world around him seemed strangely muted or … masked!

He leapt to his feet and drew his lightsaber, the blade blazing to life with a crackling hiss. A burst of red light exploded around him, illuminating the darkness and burning away the illusions cloaking his unseen enemies.

Eight red-robed figures surrounded the camp, their identities hidden by the visors of their helmets. Each carried a long metal rod that Bane recognized as a force pike, the traditional weapon of the Umbaran Shadow Assassins.

Specially trained in the art of killing Force-sensitive adversaries, Shadow Assassins preferred to rely on stealth and surprise. Exposed by Bane’s energy burst, they suddenly found their greatest advantage taken away. And even though there were eight of them, Bane never hesitated.

He leapt forward and cut the first red-robed figure down before he—or she—had a chance to react, a single slash of his lightsaber bisecting the unfortunate opponent horizontally, just above the waist.

The other seven swarmed him, thrusting their force pikes forward to deliver the deadly electrical charge stored in the tips. Bane never even bothered to parry the incoming blows, relying on his orbalisk armor to protect him as he adopted a strategy of pure offense.

His unexpected tactics caught two more of the assassins completely unprepared, and they walked right into a sweeping two-handed cut that disemboweled them both.

The remaining five struck Bane almost simultaneously, their force pikes sending a million volts of current through his body. The orbalisks absorbed most of the charge, but enough filtered through to jolt him from his teeth down to his toes.

The Dark Lord staggered and fell to his knees. But instead of rushing in to finish him off, the assassins simply stood their ground. The idea that anything smaller than a bantha could withstand a direct hit from a force pike set to maximum charge—let alone five pikes at the same time—was inconceivable. Their miscalculation gave Bane the second he needed to shake off the effects and rise to his feet, much to the amazement and horror of his enemies.

“Zannah was right about you,” a voice from behind Bane called out.

He whirled around to see a small man in his fifties, clad all in black, standing on the far edge of the camp. In his hand was a green lightsaber, though it was obvious from the way he gripped it that he had never received any proper training in how to handle the exotic weapon.

At the man’s side was Bane’s own apprentice; she had not drawn her lightsaber.

Bane snarled in anger at her betrayal, his rising anger fueled by the chemicals the orbalisks were pumping into his system.

“Today is the day you die, Darth Bane,” the man said, charging forward to attack.

At the same time, the five red-robed figures rushed in from behind him. Bane spun and thrust his open palm toward them, lashing out with the power of the dark side. Like the Jedi and Sith, one of the first techniques Shadow Assassins learned was the creation of a Force barrier. Channeling their power, they could form a protective shield around themselves to negate the Force attacks of their enemies. But if an opponent was strong enough, a concentrated attack could still breach the barrier. Darth Bane, Dark Lord of the Sith, was definitely strong enough.

Two of the assassins were stopped in their tracks, knocked to the ground as if they had run into an invisible wall. Two more, weaker and less able to defend themselves against Bane’s power, were sent flying backward. Only the fifth was strong enough to resist the Sith Lord’s throw and continue his charge.

However, without his brethren at his side to harry and distract his foe, he found himself the sole focus of Bane’s wrath. Unable to defend against the savage sequence of lightsaber cuts and thrusts, he fell in a matter of seconds, half a dozen fatal wounds scored across his chest and face.

While the four remaining assassins regained their feet, Bane wheeled back to their leader. Wisely, the man in black had stopped his own charge and was gathering the Force. As Bane stepped toward him the man unleashed it in a single long, thin bolt of indigo lightning. Bane caught the blast with his lightsaber, the blade absorbing the energy. In retaliation he struck back with lightning of his own—a storm of a dozen bolts arcing in toward his target from all angles.

The man leapt high in the air, flipping backward to avoid the deadly electrical conflagration. He landed on his feet ten meters away, a small, smoking crater marking the spot where he had been standing only an instant before.

“Zannah!” the man shouted. “Do something!”

But Bane’s apprentice didn’t move. She merely stood off to the side, biding her time and observing the action.

The assassins fell on Bane again, but instead of repelling them with the Force, he allowed his body to become a conduit, turning himself into a physical manifestation of the dark side’s tumultuous power. As he spun like a whirlwind, his blade seemed to be everywhere at once: hacking, slashing, and slicing his enemies to ribbons.

All four assassins died in the attack, though one managed to land a single blow with his force pike before his throat was slit, the wound so deep it nearly severed his head. Fueled by rage and fury, Bane shrugged off the deadly electrical shock like a rancor shrugging off the bite of a venn-bug.

Once again he turned his attention to the man in black. Bane marched slowly toward him as his adversary stood frozen in place, paralyzed by the terrifying knowledge of his own imminent death.

“Zannah!” the man cried out to her again, holding his lightsaber vertically before him as if it were a talisman that could hold the approaching demon at bay. “Master! Help me!”

Bane chopped down with his own weapon, severing the man’s sword arm at the elbow. The man screamed and dropped to his knees. An instant later his voice went silent as Bane ran him through with a single hard thrust, the lightsaber entering his chest just below his heart and protruding a full half a meter out the back of his shoulder blade.

Bane slid his blade back out. As the old man’s body fell face-forward into the dirt, the Dark Lord turned to his apprentice. Zannah merely stood there, watching him.

“You betrayed me!” he roared and leapt at her.

Zannah had watched the battle with interest, taking careful note of Bane’s tactics and tendencies and storing them away for later. Her Master easily dispatched Hetton and his minions, as she had expected … though there had been a brief instant near the start of the battle when Bane had appeared vulnerable. Apparently the orbalisks were not able to fully protect him against the electrical current of the force pikes—another fact she made a point of filing away for later.

When it was over her Master turned to face her. She waited for him to demand an explanation, but instead he let loose with a cry and flew at her. Zannah barely had time to ignite her twin blades to meet his completely unexpected attack.

She fell into a defensive posture as she so often had during their training sessions. But this was no drill, and her Master came at her with a speed and ferocity she had never faced before. Giving in to his orbalisk-fueled bloodrage, he was like a wild animal, raining savage blows down on her from all angles, the strikes coming so fast it seemed as if he wielded a dozen blades at the same time. Zannah fell into a full retreat, desperately giving ground beneath the overwhelming assault.

“I did not betray you, Master!” she shouted, trying to make Bane see reason before he cleaved her in two. “I lured Hetton here so you could kill him!”

She ducked under a horizontal cut from his lightsaber, only to catch a heavy boot in her ribs. She rolled with the kick, narrowly avoiding the return cut of his blade. She parried a sharp descending blow, gathered her feet under her, and launched herself backward, flipping ten meters clear.

“Listen to me, Master!” she shouted now that she had put some distance between them. “If I wanted to betray you, why didn’t I help them during the—oooffff!”

Bane hit her with a powerful Force throw, sending her hurtling backward. Only the barrier she had instinctively thrown up at the last second to shield herself saved her bones from being shattered by the concussive force of the impact.

She scrambled to her feet and twirled her lightsaber before her, creating what she hoped would be an impenetrable wall of defense. Instead of trying to pierce her guard, Bane leapt high in the air and came down almost right on top of her. She deftly parried his blade, redirecting it to the side as she spun away to keep his body from slamming into her. But Bane caught her on the chin with his elbow as she turned, the blow snapping her head back. Her body went limp, her weapon dropped from her nerveless fingers, and she crumpled to the ground.

For a second she saw nothing but stars. Her vision cleared to reveal the image of Darth Bane looming above her, his blade raised for the coup de grâce.

“I only did this for you, Master!” she shouted up at him, ignoring the throbbing pain in her jaw. “I only wanted to bring you the key to creating a Holocron!”

Bane hesitated, her words finally piercing the bestial madness that had enveloped him. He stared down at her on the ground, his head tilting to the side as his blood-lust slowly faded.

“You did this for me?” he asked suspiciously.

Zannah nodded frantically, even though it made her head spin. “Hetton recognized me as a true Sith. I had to find some way to eliminate him and his minions to keep our existence secret.”

“So you led them here to ambush me,” he said, his skepticism obvious.

“I had to win his trust,” Zannah explained, speaking quickly and reaching into the folds of her clothes to pull out the datacard Hetton had given her. “I had to trick him into giving me this, so I could then give it to you.”

She held the datacard up toward her Master, marveling at the fact that it had survived the punishment he had inflicted on her during their confrontation. Bane reached out to take it from her grasp, lowering his lightsaber and extinguishing the blade.

He gave a brief nod and took a step back, allowing her room to stand. Zannah retrieved her own lightsaber from where it lay on the ground, then rose slowly to her feet. Her head was still swimming from the elbow to her jaw, making it difficult to stand without swaying slightly.

“I knew you had the strength to defeat them, Master,” Zannah said. “That was why I didn’t come to your aid during the battle.”

“And what if you were wrong?” Bane asked in a quiet, menacing voice. “What if they had somehow killed me?”

“Then you would have been weak, unworthy of being the Dark Lord of the Sith,” Zannah answered boldly. “And you would have deserved to die.”

“Precisely,” Bane said with his familiar grim smile, and Zannah knew her Master approved.

16

Winter was still a new—and not entirely welcome—phenomenon on Ruusan. Originally it had been a temperate world, its climate controlled and moderated by the vast boreal forests that dominated the planet’s surface. But during the prolonged conflict between the Brotherhood of Darkness and the Army of Light, millions of hectares of old-growth trees had been decimated, turning a huge swath of Ruusan’s northern hemisphere into a desolate and arid wasteland.

Alone, the dramatic changes in the geographic features of the world might not have been enough to affect a significant climatic shift. However, the damage to the environment left the world more vulnerable to the terrible devastation of the thought bomb. In the wake of Kaan’s ultimate weapon, a powerful Force nexus was created: an invisible maelstrom of dark- and light-side energies capable of permanently altering the planet’s weather patterns.

As a result, even in the regions of the planet where the forests still stood, snow—a rarity in generations gone past—became a regular yearly occurrence. The unprecedented winters typically lasted only a few months, but they were particularly brutal on an ecosystem that had evolved in a much warmer clime. Some of the flora and fauna of Ruusan, like the humans who still inhabited the world, had learned to adapt. Other species simply died off.

Over the years Darovit had learned there were three keys to surviving the harsh cold. The first key was to always dress in layers. His hooded overcloak was a gift from a farmer he had treated for a bad case of fungal rot. The thick sweater beneath had been offered as payment by a miner after Darovit mended the man’s foot; he’d accidentally crushed it with his own pneumatic jack. In fact, every garment on his person—the long-sleeved shirt, his heavy trousers, his warm padded boots, the fur-lined glove on his left hand, and the custom-made cuff covering his amputated stump—had been given to him by locals who had come to his isolated home seeking aid from the “Healing Hermit.”

The second key to surviving the winter wind and snow was to stay dry. He learned to watch the sky, seeking shelter at the slightest sign of precipitation. If he allowed his clothes to become wet, hypothermia could easily set in before he was able to find help. It was one of the disadvantages that came with living alone deep inside the forest, but Darovit had become too accustomed to his life of solitude to give it up now.

In his first years he had been a wandering vagabond, exploring the wilds of Ruusan as he traveled between the small pockets of civilization scattered across the land. But as he learned to hunt and forage for himself, he found fewer and fewer reasons to venture into the towns and villages he came across.

Six years ago he had wearied of his nomadic existence. Locating a suitably remote location beneath a large stand of sheltering trees, he had constructed a simple hut of branches and mud. The hut gave him a sense of permanence and stability while still allowing him to enjoy the inner peace he had found in his self-imposed isolation.

There were no other human settlements within ten kilometers of his home, and even the closest bouncer colony was almost five kilometers away. Yet that didn’t mean he was without visitors. From the teachings of the bouncers and the experiences of his youthful travels, he had become wise in the lore of herbal medicines and natural remedies. Three or four times a month he would be visited by someone imploring him to treat some malady or injury. Darovit never turned these people away, asking only that in return they respect his privacy … though often patients bestowed small gifts on him, like the clothes he now wore, as tokens of their gratitude.

The third key to surviving the inhospitable Ruusan winters was to never venture out at night. Bone-chilling temperatures, the chance of becoming lost and unable to find shelter, and even the occasional predator made risking the darkness a dangerous and foolish proposition.

Yet here Darovit was in the dead of night, his feet crunching over the wind-crusted snow. He’d left the warmth of his hut many hours behind him as he set out to see with his own eyes if the rumors he’d heard from many of his recent patients were true.

Darovit angry?

“No,” he whispered to the small green-furred bouncer hovering above him. “Just curious.”

For reasons he still didn’t fully understand, the bouncers had developed a particular fascination with him. During the day there were always two or three of them circling his domicile. And each time he left his hut at least one of the unusual creatures accompanied him.

Perhaps they felt responsible for his well-being after rescuing him from the cavern of the thought bomb. Or maybe they were drawn to him by their shared vocations: the bouncers eased the mental anguish of those suffering or in pain, and Darovit had chosen to share his healing talents with any who came to him seeking succor. It was even possible they simply found him entertaining or amusing, though in truth Darovit didn’t know if bouncers had a sense of humor.

He had quickly grown used to their constant company. They were gentle companions, and they seemed to sense when he was in the mood for conversation and when he just wished to be left alone with his thoughts. Most of the time he found their presence calm and soothing, though some bouncers were less soothing than others. The young female accompanying him now, Yuun, seemed to be more talkative than her compatriots.

Darovit home now.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

Two of Ruusan’s Three Sisters moons were waxing full tonight, their light reflecting off the silver layer of frost and the white blanket of snow that had accumulated over the past few weeks. Darovit was crouched behind a copse of trees, leaning on his walking stick for support and reaching out with the stump of his right hand to push the branches aside so he could peer through without being spotted. Through the vapor clouds of his own breath, he studied the scene that confirmed the rumors were true: the Jedi had returned to Ruusan!

Darovit had openly scoffed the first time a patient mentioned that the Republic was going to build a monument to honor those who had fallen on Ruusan. It made no sense to undertake such a project now, Darovit had argued, a decade after the battle. Yet there was no denying what he saw through the branches.

A large plot of land on the edge of the forest had been cleared of snow, revealing the frozen, scrub-covered fields beneath. The perimeter had been marked with stakes and surveyor’s chains, and the groundbreaking had already begun. The deep furrows of soil dug up by the construction droids to lay the foundations struck Darovit as a wound upon the planet itself.

Several dozen large stones were scattered about the site, each brought to Ruusan from the birth world of one of the dead Jedi the monument was meant to honor. To Darovit’s eye the alien rocks stuck out like a Wookiee in a crowd of Jawas: unwelcome interlopers defacing the Ruusan landscape.

“They have no right to be here,” he whispered angrily.

Hurting nobody, Yuun suggested.

“This land is only just now beginning to heal itself from their kriffing war,” he answered. “It’s taken ten years for the people to put this all behind them. Now the Jedi want to open old wounds.”

Senate approved. Not Jedi.

“I don’t care what the official story says. I know the Jedi are behind this. It will lead to trouble.”

Trouble?

Yuun was too young to remember the war that had ravaged her world. She hadn’t witnessed the senseless death and suffering that drove hundreds of bouncer colonies into madness. Damaged beyond all hope of salvation, the wounded bouncers had projected thoughts of pain and torment, attacking and even killing other living creatures until they were slain by Jedi teams sent to wipe them out.

“The Jedi and their war nearly destroyed Ruusan,” Darovit told her. “Countless thousands of men, women, and children died. The forests burned. And your species was hunted almost to extinction.”

Sith started war.

“The Sith couldn’t have had a war on their own. They needed someone to fight, and Hoth was more than willing to throw his Jedi followers against them,” Darovit argued, wondering how much the bouncers—and Yuun in particular—knew of his past. “Both sides were equally to blame.”

Darovit guilty.

It was a statement of fact, rather than a question. “Maybe,” the young man admitted, leaning on his walking stick. “But trouble seems to follow the Jedi wherever they go. And I’m not going to sit back and watch so they can destroy this world a second time.”

Apart from the construction droids the dig site was deserted; the organic crews only worked during the light of day. Crouching low and holding his walking stick parallel to the ground at his side, Darovit crept out from the cover of the trees.

Peace. Calm, Yuun projected after him, trying to soothe his anger. But she wasn’t bold enough to follow him out into the open, and he ignored her pleas until he had crossed beyond the range of her telepathic communication.

Darovit wasn’t strong in the Force; that was part of the reason he failed in his attempts to join both the Jedi and the Sith. But he did have a minor affinity for it, enough to allow him to creep through the dig site unseen and unnoticed by the semi-intelligent construction droids.

Construction droids were employed only for simple, basic tasks. The majority of the work on the monument would be done by a crew using heavy machinery and hoversleds. Moving quickly, Darovit made his way to the nearest sled, crouching down out of sight behind it.

He had come well prepared, stashing a large supply of powdered tass root and two handfuls of crushed petals from the flowers of the scintil vine in the pockets of his overcloak. Individually the two substances were harmless, yet when mixed together and dampened they had a startling interaction.

With his good hand he pried open the sled’s maintenance panel just below the control box and stuffed four scintil petals into the repulsor coils. Next, he sprinkled a pinch of powdered tass root over the petals. Then, as a final touch, he scooped up a handful of snow, letting it melt in his glove so it would drip down onto the mixture.

There was a soft hiss and a sharp alkaline smell as the elements combined to form a highly corrosive paste that began to eat its way through the repulsor coils. Darovit snapped the sled’s maintenance cover back in place; wispy tendrils of brown-green smoke wafted out from underneath it.

Darovit spent the next hour moving from sled to sled, pausing whenever a construction droid wandered past in its preprogrammed assignments, oblivious to the vandal in their midst. By the time he got back to where Yuun was still waiting for him, every single hoversled had been disabled.

Temporary solution. Will replace.

“Repulsor coils are expensive,” Darovit said. “And they’re always in high demand. This should set them back at least a week.”

Then what?

“I’ve got a few more tricks up my sleeve for our Jedi friends,” he assured the little bouncer. “This was only the beginning.”

Light soon. Home now?

Darovit glanced up and saw the faint glow of the first of Ruusan’s twin suns peeking over the horizon.

“Home,” he agreed.

Three weeks had passed since Zannah had presented her Master with the datacard that had almost cost the young apprentice her life. Bane had used that time to study the datacard’s contents carefully, analyzing every tiny scrap of information Hetton had assembled about Belia Darzu. He cross-referenced much of the data with his own sources, verifying everything he could to authenticate Hetton’s research. And Bane was now confident that everything the old man had discovered was true.

Belia’s experiments in Sith alchemy had revealed the secrets that allowed her to surround herself with a technobeast army. Even more impressive, at least from Bane’s perspective, Belia had successfully created her own Holocron. And there was strong evidence to support the theory that the Holocron she created—the repository of all her knowledge—was still hidden somewhere in her stronghold on Tython.

Bane ran the final diagnostics check on his vessel: he couldn’t afford to have anything break down on the upcoming journey. The hyperspace route into the Deep Core was treacherous, and if something went wrong there was no chance of anyone coming along to find him. He would die a cold and lonely death—a frozen corpse floating in a metal coffin around the black hole at the galaxy’s heart.

The Mystic’s systems all appeared to be in perfect working order. One of the new Sienar-designed Infiltrator series, the Mystic was a medium-sized long-range fighter Bane had anonymously acquired through his network of front-men and shadowy suppliers. Built to carry up to six passengers, Infiltrators were armed with light weapons and equipped with minimal plating, the focus of the model being on speed and maneuverability. The Mystic had been customized with the addition of a Class Four hyperdrive, enabling her to outrun virtually any other vessel she encountered.

Though there was room on the vessel for both Master and apprentice, Bane had decided Zannah would not accompany him on his trip to Tython. But she was not going to simply wait on Ambria for his return.

Along with his study of the datacard Bane had also spent a great deal of time thinking about the orbalisks clinging to his flesh. Though it was possible that he would discover new information on Tython unlocking the final secrets of creating a Holocron, it was also possible that Belia had succeeded using the exact same process he had employed in his failed attempts. Bane still could not discount the theory that the orbalisks were responsible for his failure, bleeding him of the dark side energies he needed to draw on to complete the procedure.

There were other considerations, as well. Twice now he had lost himself in a bloodrage, thought and reason replaced by the mindless urge to destroy anything and anyone in range. The first time it happened he had left their camp in ruins: a foolish and pointless waste of resources.

The second time had almost been far more costly. Had he succeeded in killing Zannah, he still would have found Hetton’s datacard on her. But he would also have been forced to find a new apprentice. A decade of training would have been lost, thrown away because of his temporary madness.

Zannah had saved herself by explaining the motives behind her actions. She had acted in perfect accordance with her Master’s teachings—a fact Bane should have realized on his own. But the orbalisks blinded him to her skilled machinations, and he now understood that the raw power they granted him came at the expense of subtlety and cunning.

So while he went to Tython to face the dangers and defenses of Belia’s lost stronghold, Zannah was undertaking a mission of her own.

Hetton’s ship was magnificent. A custom built cruiser eighty meters in length, she could comfortably hold twenty passengers, yet only a single pilot was required to operate her. Every detail of her construction and design had been made to Hetton’s precise and lavish specifications. Equipped with enough firepower and armor plating to take on a small capital ship, the interior was still luxurious enough to host a formal dinner for planetary dignitaries. No expense had been spared, the vessel being as much a symbol of his incredible wealth as it had been a mode of transportation. There was only one thing Zannah disliked about it: He had called it the Loranda, after his mother.

She reached forward and punched the controls, marveling at the smooth takeoff and responsiveness of the yoke as she guided the ship up and out of Ambria’s atmosphere. In two days she would be touching down on Coruscant; no doubt she’d have to bribe a spaceport administrator to keep her arrival off the official books. The Loranda was still registered to Hetton, and her arrival would draw immediate attention if it was logged with the proper authorities.

Fortunately it was common practice for the nobles of Serenno to make frequent unscheduled—and unreported—landings, even on Coruscant. The wealthy weren’t bound by the rules of the average Republic citizen, and portraying herself as a servant sent to bribe a port administrator upon landing wouldn’t strike anyone as unusual. Arriving onworld without drawing undue attention would be the easy part of her mission. Gaining access to the Archives in the Jedi Temple would be much more difficult.

Bane was taking a tremendous gamble in sending her there. They had spent the past decade hiding from the Jedi, and now she was about to enter the very heart of the order. But she couldn’t second-guess his decision, not when she had been partly responsible. It was she who had planted the first seeds of doubt in her Master’s mind about the orbalisks, and now her scheme had come to fruition. Bane had decided—for her sake and the sake of the Sith—that he had to free himself from the infestation.

Nothing in Freedon Nadd’s original experiments indicated that the orbalisks could be extracted from the host, and Bane’s own research into the subject had failed to uncover anything to the contrary. But the Jedi Archives were the greatest single collection of assembled knowledge in the known galaxy. If an answer existed, they would find it there.

Her Master had taken every precaution to keep her true identity hidden while she visited the Archives. Through his network of mysterious informants and shadowy contacts, he had assembled a list of names and background portfolios for virtually every member of the Jedi Order. From this list, he had chosen one name that suited their purpose: Nalia Adollu.

Nalia was a Padawan of approximately Zannah’s age under the tutelage of Anno Wen-Chii, a famously reclusive Pyn’gani Jedi Master on the Outer Rim world of Polus. Over the past week Zannah had memorized every detail of her profile and history, along with the history of Master Anno, so she could pass herself off as the young woman.

The cover story was simple: Zannah would claim her Master was studying a rare breed of parasitic organism that lived beneath the ice-covered surface of Polus. Eager to compare the newly discovered life-form with similar species from other worlds, but loath to leave the quiet of his homeworld, he had sent his Padawan to gather research materials from the Jedi Archive.

Yet she would need more than a plausible cover story to maintain her disguise when she presented herself to the chief librarian and asked for permission to view the Archives. Zannah and Nalia were of the same age. They were roughly the same height and shared the same athletic build. They both had long, flowing hair—though Zannah had dyed her locks a deep, lustrous black to match those of the other woman.

It had been five years since Nalia had last left her Master’s side on Polus, so there was little chance of running into anyone who knew her well enough to recognize Zannah as an imposter. But even if her appearance didn’t give her away, there was one final element to consider.

Throughout her mission, she would be surrounded by servants of the light; if they sensed the dark side in her, she would be instantly exposed. The secrecy she and Bane had worked so hard to preserve would be destroyed. Everything they had labored for over the past decade, everything they had accomplished, would be for naught. She would surely be captured, possibly condemned to death, and her Master would be hunted down and slain.

The only way the plan would work was if she could use the power of Sith sorcery to mask her strength while simultaneously projecting an aura of light-side energy. It was a complicated spell, one she had never tried before. It required a balance of strength and delicacy, and she had practiced it continuously in the weeks leading up to her departure. Yet despite her best efforts, there were still moments when her concentration slipped and her true nature showed through.

She just had to hope that, if it happened on Coruscant, none of the Jedi would be close enough to notice.

17

A chill wind blew through the forest, dropping the temperature well below freezing, but Johun was able to draw upon the Force to warm himself and keep away the worst of the cold.

The Jedi Knight was frustrated. Little progress had been made in the construction of the monument on Ruusan over the past weeks, the project the victim of a campaign of vandalism and sabotage.

It had begun with the destruction of the hoversleds, the repulsor coils eaten away by some type of toxic substance smeared across their surface. It had taken four days to arrange for the shipment and installation of the replacement coils.

The second incident had seen all the heavy equipment coated with a thick, sticky sap that turned out to be a powerful adhesive. Gloves, boots, and other clothing of the workers had stuck fast, becoming permanently attached to any surface they even brushed against; luckily nobody had made contact with bare skin. It had taken hours to find and apply chemical solvents strong enough to break the bond, and two full days to clean the gummy residue off the equipment.

Johun had considered posting some of his crew as guards through the night. But the monument site was remote; each morning the crews were flown in by air shuttle. Anyone assigned to watch over the site would be left completely alone, and if the unknown vandals were armed, the guards might be injured or even killed. That was something the Jedi was not willing to risk.

For a few nights after the second incident he’d hired a private security team to patrol the region, hoping they could catch whoever was responsible. Those nights had passed without incident, however, the would-be saboteur likely scared away by the show of force. But funding on the project was limited, and Johun was already overbudget because of the previous setbacks. Ultimately, he’d ended the contract with the security patrols … and two nights later the vandals had struck again.

The third incident began with the crew arriving in the morning to find that someone had spread pungent pollen around the entire construction site. As the suns rose, a great flock of tiny birds—tens of thousands of the squawking, screeching creatures—descended on the site, drawn by the scent. Their numbers blotted out the twin suns as they swooped and dived at the crew, making it impossible to work. Even after the pollen was gone, the smell lingered for two days, drawing the birds back each morning to put a halt to construction.

Johun had decided to take matters into his own hands. Whoever was behind the mischief was cautious, and a security team marching the perimeter was too visible to be an effective deterrent. So for the past three nights, when his crew boarded the waiting flier and returned to the comfort of their beds, he had remained behind, determined to catch the vandals in the act and bring them to justice.

As a Jedi, he could go several days without sleep, instead throwing himself into light but restful meditative trances that allowed him to remain aware of his surroundings. And if the perpetrators turned out to be armed and even hostile, Johun was confident he wouldn’t be in any danger.

He was hunkered down behind a camouflage blind hidden in the trees that surrounded the construction site. Located atop a small bluff that overlooked the site and armed with night-vision goggles, he had a clear view of the entire area. The first two nights had passed without incident, and Johun had begun to fear that whoever was behind the attacks must have known he was there. If something didn’t happen tonight, he decided, he’d have to try some other course of action.

Nearly two hours later his patience was finally rewarded when, through the goggles, he saw a single figure creep out from the trees less than a hundred meters from where Johun was hiding. At its side was a long, thin object that could have been a weapon, a walking stick, or possibly even both.

Johun scanned the surrounding forest, looking to see if the person was alone. The only companion showed up in the night-vision goggles as a small green blob, hovering in the shelter of the branches. Johun recognized it as one of Ruusan’s indigenous bouncers, and he felt an involuntary shudder as he remembered the terror the species had inspired in the Jedi after a powerful Sith ritual had destroyed their forest homes and driven them mad.

It would make sense if the bouncers turned out to be behind the vandalism. To protect his troops, Hoth had, in the last days of the war, given standing orders to shoot the creatures on sight, and hundreds had died at the hands of the Jedi. Though the surviving members of the species had returned to their peaceful, healing ways, it was possible they still bore a grudge against the order for what had happened. But that still didn’t explain the involvement of the humanoid figure making its way slowly toward the camp.

Johun broke from his hiding place. He knew the bouncer would flee at his approach, launching itself on the forest limbs high into the air where he couldn’t follow. Short of killing it—which he wasn’t about to do—he wouldn’t be able to bring it down. But the bouncer’s companion would have to escape on foot, and Johun was confident he could outrun any non-Jedi.

He raced toward his prey and the figure turned its head, alerted by the loud crunching of Johun’s boots in the snow. Johun caught enough of a glimpse of the face beneath the hood to know he was chasing a young man. The man threw down the walking stick and bolted for the trees, the long robes he wore to protect against the cold fluttering out behind him.

Johun had fifty meters of ground to gain; with the power of the Force flowing through his limbs he had expected to make up the distance in a matter of seconds. But his adversary moved with surprising speed, and the Jedi realized that his quarry was, at least on some small level, attuned to the Force as well.

Across open ground Johun was still faster, but he was a good ten meters behind when the man reached the forest’s edge and plunged into the undergrowth. He cut a path that would have shaken off almost any pursuit: weaving and darting in and out of the densely packed tree trunks, ducking under sharp branches, and leaping over thick, protruding roots at a breakneck pace. Drawing heavily on the Force, however, Johun was able to match his progress, swatting away the limbs and leaves that threatened to smack him in the face and nimbly avoiding the roots that would have sent him crashing to the ground.

They sprinted through the forest for several kilometers, neither able to gain ground in their contest. The chase ended when they broke into a small clearing with a tiny mud hut built in the center, and Johun realized that his quarry, blinded by panic, had instinctively run for home.

The man raced to the door, as if hoping to escape by locking himself away inside. Then he stopped, suddenly realizing the mistake he had made. With slumping shoulders he stood by the door, making no attempt to flee as Johun cautiously approached.

“I didn’t think anyone could keep up with me through the forest,” he said, defeated as he opened the door to his small hut. “You might as well come inside and get out of the cold.”

The interior was simple but clean, and just large enough for the two men to share the space without feeling cramped. The only furnishing was a small sleeping mat in the corner. Glowing embers in a pit at the room’s center threw off enough heat that Johun was able to remove his thick winter robe and lay it beside him as he sat cross-legged on the floor.

His host also shed the heaviest of his garments, peeling away multiple layers before kneeling across from his uninvited guest. Johun guessed the man was in his early twenties, only a few years younger than the Jedi himself. He had dark scruffy hair and a long scraggly beard; there was a wildness in his eyes. But it was only when Johun noticed he was missing his right hand that he recognized him as the famed Healing Hermit of Ruusan.

“Do you know who I am?” Johun asked.

“I know you’re a Jedi,” the hermit replied. “That’s why I couldn’t shake you.”

“My name is Johun Othone. I’m in charge of the project to build a monument to those who sacrificed their lives here on Ruusan.”

Johun waited, giving the other man a chance to respond or reply. But the hermit simply stared at the ground, his good hand resting in his lap, clasping the stump of his right arm.

“Why did you wreck our equipment at the construction site?”

He half expected the hermit to make some type of denial; after all, Johun hadn’t actually caught him in the act. But instead he freely admitted what he had done.

“I wanted to stop you. I figured if I cost you enough time and credits you would give up and go back where you came from.”

“Why?” Johun asked, puzzled at the venom in the hermit’s voice.

“We don’t want your kind on Ruusan,” the younger man snapped. “You have no right to be here!”

“I served with General Hoth in the Army of Light,” Johun answered, trying to stay calm despite the righteous indignation he felt. “I saw my friends die. I saw them sacrifice themselves to save the galaxy from the Sith.”

“I know all about the Sith,” the hermit sneered. “And the Jedi, too. I saw the war with my own eyes. I know what happened.

“Look at what your war did to this world!” he shouted, his voice accusing. “Every year the snow falls, and with each winter more and more animals die from the cold. Ten years after your so-called victory, entire species are still being driven to extinction by what you caused!”

“I am sorry for the suffering this world has endured,” Johun said. “But the Jedi cannot be held responsible for everything. The greatest harm to this planet was done by the Sith.”

“Jedi, Sith, you’re all the same,” the hermit spat. “You were so blinded by your hatred of each other you couldn’t see the consequences of what you were doing. And in the end your general marched down into the underground caverns to face Kaan’s followers, knowing he would unleash the devastation of the thought bomb on this world.”

“Hoth sacrificed himself so that others could be saved,” Johun protested.

“The thought bomb was an abomination! Hoth should have done everything in his power to keep Kaan from using it. Instead he intentionally forced his hand.”

“There was no other choice,” Johun answered, defending his former Master’s actions. “The detonation of the thought bomb destroyed the Brotherhood and forever rid the galaxy of the Sith.”

The hermit laughed loudly. “Is that what you believe? The Sith are gone?” He shook his head and muttered, “Poor, deluded little Jedi.”

“What do you mean?” Johun demanded. He felt an icy fist closing around his guts. “You don’t believe the Sith were wiped out?”

“I know they weren’t wiped out,” the hermit answered. “One of the Dark Lords survived, and he took my cousin as his apprentice.”

Johun’s head snapped back as if he’d been slapped. “Your cousin?”

It sounded crazy, completely implausible. But the hermit, despite his wild eyes, didn’t strike Johun as mad.

“How do you know this?”

“After the thought bomb exploded, I went down into the tunnels to see what was left,” the hermit whispered, his expression grim as he dredged up dark memories from his past. “I saw them there, my cousin and Lord Bane.” He held his stump up before his face. “They gave me this.”

Johun’s mind was reeling. He remembered the mercenaries he’d encountered in the aftermath of the battle, and their tales of a Sith Master who had brutally slain their companions. Though he’d later recanted his position and dismissed their account in the face of Farfalla’s irrefutable logic, part of him had always clung to the belief that their story was true.

With no evidence and no leads, he had abandoned his efforts to prove that a Sith Master had escaped Ruusan alive. Now, inside the walls of a tiny mud hut, he had stumbled across the proof that had eluded him a decade ago.

“You saw a Sith named Lord Bane?” Johun pressed eagerly, looking for greater confirmation. “How do you know it was him?”

“For a time I was part of Kaan’s army,” the hermit whispered softly. “We all knew who Bane was.”

“This … this is unbelievable!” Johun stammered, all thoughts of the monument and the vandalism that had led him to the hermit gone from his mind. “We have to tell the Jedi Council! We need to go to Coruscant as soon as possible!”

“No.”

The refusal was delivered with such simple finality, it stopped Johun cold. “But … the Sith are still out there. The Council must be warned.”

The hermit shrugged. “So warn them. My place is here on Ruusan.”

“They won’t believe me,” Johun admitted. “They’ll want to question you themselves.”

“I’ve seen what happens when the Jedi and Sith go to war. I won’t be part of it again. I won’t go to Coruscant.”

“You were vandalizing Republic property,” Johun reminded him. “I could arrest you and bring you there to face charges.”

The hermit laughed again. “And then what, Jedi? Torture me until I confess what I saw? Use your powers to twist my mind and make me say the words you want to hear? I’m sure the Council will believe you then.”

Johun frowned. The hermit was right; the only way the Council would believe him was if his testimony was freely given.

“Don’t you see what’s at stake?” Johun said, changing tactics. “You saw what happens when the Sith raise an army and go to war. If you come with me now, the Council will listen to your warning. We can seek out this Lord Bane and stop him before he has a chance to lure others to his cause.”

As he spoke he reached out to touch the hermit’s mind with the Force. He didn’t compel him to agree to the request; that wouldn’t serve his purpose here. Force persuasion was a temporary measure, and by the time they got back to Coruscant, the effects would have worn off and the hermit would know he had been manipulated, making him even more intractable. Instead Johun simply tried to make the man more willing to listen to reason, casting a veil of calm and tranquillity over his thoughts. He gently swept the other man’s bitterness and resentment to the side, allowing him to weigh the logic of his arguments unclouded by passion and emotion.

“Bane has gone into hiding,” he continued. “If we do not find him, he will reveal himself only when he has rebuilt the armies of the Sith, and the galaxy will be plunged once again into war. But if you come with me now, we can convince the Council to seek him out. Help me stop him, and we will prevent another war.”

The hermit stared at him for a long time before finally nodding his agreement. “If it means stopping another war, I will go with you to Coruscant.”

The chief librarian of the Jedi Archives was a venerable Cerean named Master Barra-Rona-Ban.

“Welcome to Coruscant, Padawan Nalia,” he said, rising from his seat to greet Zannah with a smile as she entered his room. “How was your trip from Polus?”

Master Barra’s private quarters looked much as she had expected: a great number of journals, handwritten notes and datacards covered his small desk, organized into neat little piles. There was also a small viewscreen and a terminal that she suspected was linked to the main index catalog of the Archives, allowing Master Barra to reference it at will.

“The journey was long but uneventful,” she replied.

Her voice was calm and relaxed, though inside her heart was pounding. The illusion she projected of being an apprentice of the light side had served her well so far, but now she was face-to-face with a Jedi Master. If she made even the slightest mistake, all was lost.

“It was good to get away from the cold,” she added. Nalia, unlike her Master, had not been born on Polus: She had originally come from the tropical regions of Corsin.

The Cerean laughed, creasing up the wrinkles on his tall, cone-shaped forehead. “Master Anno would disagree with you, I suspect.”

She replied with a gentle laugh of her own. “My Master sends his regards,” she said, recalling from the profile that Anno and Barra had briefly studied together at the Academy here on Coruscant. “Do you have any plans to visit him on Polus in the near future?”

“I’m afraid such a journey would be impossible,” he replied with a sigh. “The Archives require my constant attention.”

“Master Anno warned me you would say that,” she said, smiling. “He told me you would use any excuse to avoid ever visiting Polus again.”

“Not everyone takes to the ice and snow with the ardor of the Pyn’gani,” the Cerean admitted with a sly twinkle in his eye.

The exchange of pleasantries concluded, he returned to his seat and punched a key on his terminal, bringing up a large block of text on the screen.

“I have reviewed your request to access the Archives,” he told her, “and I believe we can accommodate you.”

He tapped the terminal again and inserted a datacard. The terminal hummed as encrypted data was loaded onto it.

“The Archives are available at all hours, day or night,” he informed her. “You will have clearance to access the general collection, but please remember that the contents of the analysis rooms and the chamber of Jedi Holocrons are restricted.”

“I don’t think they’ll be necessary for my research,” she assured him. “Master Anno was very specific in what he wanted me to look for.”

The datacard popped out of the terminal, the information download complete, and Master Barra handed it to Zannah.

“Insert this into any of the catalog terminals in the Archives whenever you wish to log in and look something up. Original works may not be removed from the premises, but you are free to copy any materials you find onto this disk for your personal use or collection.

“I’ve taken the liberty of preloading your disk with some seminal works that may be of interest to your research,” he added, smiling at her once again.

“Thank you, Master Barra,” Zannah said with a bow.

“How long do you expect to remain here on Coruscant?” he asked.

“A few days at most,” she answered. She doubted she could maintain the illusion that shielded her dark side powers from detection any longer than that. “Master Anno is anxious to continue his research. He wants me to return as soon as I have the information he needs.”

The Cerean nodded in understanding. “Of course. But while you are here, I hope you won’t spend all your time studying parasites and symbionts. You have a rare opportunity to explore all the knowledge and wonders of the galaxy, and I hope you will take advantage of it.”

“I will try, Master Barra,” Zannah promised, though she had no intention of staying a second longer than was necessary.

“Good luck with your research, Padawan Nalia,” the librarian said, dismissing her.

With another bow, Zannah turned and left his room, more confident in her mission than ever. If she could fool Master Barra, chief librarian of the Jedi Archives, into believing she was Nalia Adollu, she knew she could fool anyone.

18

The Mystic dropped out of hyperspace with a jolt. Through the cockpit viewport a large planet loomed only a few thousand kilometers away, its surface concealed beneath a thick mass of rolling gray clouds. Bane checked the nav computer, confirming via the coordinates that he had arrived at Tython.

Like all planets in the Deep Core, Tython was a world shrouded in mystery and legend. Some accounts held that the Jedi had visited this world during the era of the Great Hunt, three thousand years ago, to cleanse it of the fearsome terentateks, monstrous creatures that fed on the lifeblood of those sensitive to the Force.

Much older legends identified Tython as the original birthplace of the Jedi Order over twenty-five thousand years before. According to the tale, priests and philosophers of the world had the ability to draw upon a mystical energy they called Ashla; a power that represented all compassion and mercy in the universe. They were opposed by a rival group that drew their strength from Boga, the manifestation of raw passion and pure uncontrolled emotion.

The stories said that a great war ensued between the two groups, with the worshipers of Ashla emerging victorious. The first Jedi Knights supposedly had evolved from the survivors of the war, creating the first lightsabers in their initiation ceremonies. Many years later, the legend continued, some of these Jedi left Tython and braved the unstable hyperspace routes to share their beliefs with worlds beyond the Deep Core. And as they met and mingled with other civilizations, Ashla and Boga became more commonly known as the light and dark sides of the Force.

Bane didn’t know if the legend was true, but even if it was, it merely proved the superiority of the dark side and its inevitable conquest of the light. For though the followers of Ashla had supposedly defeated the followers of Boga, the dark side had prevailed in the end. Tython, revered by many as the birthplace of the Jedi Order itself, was now a bastion of dark side power, and the location of Belia Darzu’s hidden fortress.

Bane knew it was possible that other people still lived on Tython: descendants of the early Jedi who had survived for eons in the isolation of the Deep Core. But he had no interest in seeking them out, even if they existed. Armed with the information from Hetton’s datacard, he was heading straight for Belia’s stronghold.

Pushing forward on the yoke, he sent the Mystic plunging down into the atmosphere of the cloud-covered world. Breaking through the mist, he saw that the surface below was the color of ash; barren fields stretched endlessly beneath an unbroken mantle of gray and sunless sky.

He brought his ship in low, only a few hundred meters above the ground, as he raced toward the only feature visible on the horizon: a massive, two-towered citadel constructed entirely of black durasteel.

The building was square and measured 150 meters on each side. The exterior walls rose up thirty meters above the ground, and the only entrance appeared to be a massive, twenty-meter-wide gate on the face of the front wall. The towers stood on either side of the front wall, rising up another ten meters from the corners.

As he closed to within a few hundred meters, a barrage of ion cannon fire erupted from the towers. Bane pulled hard on the stick, banking the Mystic ninety degrees to starboard, narrowly avoiding the unexpected attack. Except for her technobeasts, Belia’s stronghold was supposed to be empty.

He circled and brought his ship in again, setting the targeting systems to lock on to the first of the two towers. The ion cannons roared again, and Bane barrel-rolled out of the line of fire as he opened up with the Mystic’s lasers, reducing one of the towers to a heap of molten slag as he flew by.

The Mystic’s sensors had detected no life-forms present during his pass, suggesting that the ion cannons were likely part of an automated defense system still active after almost three centuries. This theory was confirmed twenty seconds later when Bane used the exact same barrel-roll maneuver on his next attack run to eliminate the second tower; automated defenses were nothing if not predictable.

He circled the citadel twice more, making a sensor and visual scan to confirm that there were no other threats before bringing his ship down to land on the barren ground a short distance from the stronghold’s entrance.

Drawing his lightsaber, he leapt from the cockpit and moved carefully forward until he stood before the black gate. It loomed above him, a giant blast door without handles, hinges, or a visible control panel. Gathering his power, he placed his left palm against the surface. The gate exploded, rupturing inward with a sharp bang that reverberated down the long, dark hallway leading into the fortress.

Bane stepped forward, wary and watching for any trick or trap that might await him. He could feel the power of the dark side in this place, but he detected no immediate threats to his person, and he proceeded cautiously.

Using glow rods to light his way, he explored the stronghold room by room, stirring up dust that had lain undisturbed for centuries. It was primarily a military base, the majority of the space taken up with the barracks and mess halls necessary to house and provide for an army of followers. But the rooms were deserted. Not even the vermin and insects one would expect in an abandoned building prowled the halls, though whether they were kept at bay by the dark side energy permeating the air or by some unknown means he couldn’t say.

As he moved deeper into the fortress, he began to come across Belia’s alchemy labs. Sealed beakers filled with strange-colored liquids rested atop long metal tables. Empty vats connected by coiled glass piping used to distill or separate mixtures lined the walls. In one room the hearts and brains of a dozen different species floated in specimen bottles, preserved forever in clear embalming fluid. Another lab contained notes and sketches tracking Belia’s efforts to transform living creatures into organic-droid hybrids.

Bane paused at these, glancing through them briefly before continuing on his way. He was unable to make sense of the cryptic scrawl; he needed to find Belia’s archives—and hopefully the Holocron where she had stored all her knowledge—if he was to comprehend her experiments.

Near the back of the building he came upon a narrow set of stairs leading down to the underground levels. One thing Hetton’s research had not provided was a map of the stronghold’s interior, but he could feel the power emanating from beneath him. There was little doubt that the source of the dark side energies hanging like smoke in the air of every room and hallway of the fortress was located at the bottom of the steps. It was here, Bane knew, that he would find Belia’s inner sanctum.

He crept down the stairs. At the bottom was another long, narrow hall, and at the end of this corridor was a small, archaic wooden door. A sliver of pale fluorescent light shone out from beneath. Unlike the floor above, Bane realized, generators were still providing power to the room beyond—another sign that it was of critical importance.

Bane approached the door, pausing at the threshold. He was unable to get any sense of what awaited him on the other side; his Force awareness was overwhelmed by a great concentration of dark side power. Taking a deep breath, he gently pushed open the door and stared in fascinated horror.

The chamber beyond was enormous, at least fifty meters long and easily twenty wide. Standing alone in the center was a pedestal, atop of which rested a small, familiar four-sided pyramid: the Holocron of Belia Darzu. Yet this was not what had grabbed Bane’s attention. The rest of the room had been completely overrun by an army of technobeasts.

They seemed to have come from all manner of species: a menagerie of humanoids and beasts from every corner of the galaxy that had fallen victim to Belia’s technovirus. Once a mutated combination of flesh and technology, most of the technobeasts’ living tissue had long since rotted and fallen away. What remained were desiccated strands of skin and sinew clinging to bone, supported and held together by rods, wires, and twisted scraps of metal.

The arms and hands of those creatures that had walked on two legs in life had been transformed into flat, jagged blades extending from their elbows. The larger creatures—like the technobeast bantha he saw across the room, or the rancor near the pedestal in the center—had become machines of war, with blaster cannons fused to their shoulders and their hides replaced with spiked, plated armor.

From Hetton’s research, Bane knew that the technovirus attacked the frontal lobes of the brain, reducing its victims to mindless automata incapable of higher thought functions—a grim fate for any sentient being. The creatures in the room were in an even worse state. Over the centuries what remained of their brains had been kept alive by the nanogenes of the technovirus, but the inevitable long-term degradation had impaired their motor skills and reduced them to shells of shambling, mummified metal.

Bane guessed that the army assembled in the chamber must once have roamed the halls and rooms of the stronghold, guarding it against attack and serving the needs of their mistress. With Belia’s death—poisoned by the assassins of the Mecrosa Order when her alliance with them fell apart—they had been left to wander mindlessly, without any purpose or direction. Over the decades they’d been slowly drawn to this chamber by the dark side energies radiating from the Holocron, the last surviving remnant of their mistress, calling them to her side. Driven only by simple, primal instinct, they had been helpless but to obey until, one by one, the entire bulk of her technobeast army had assembled in this single chamber.

An eerie silence hung over the scene; the vocal cords of the unfortunate creatures had disintegrated hundreds of years earlier. The only sound was the faint whirring of mechanized joints and the rusty scraping of metal across the stone floor as they milled about in slow confusion. Occasionally they would bump one another with a hollow clank, their movements awkward and clumsy as they jostled for position to move ever closer to the Holocron in the center of the room. But though they were clearly drawn to it, none dared to come within three meters of its pedestal. Instead they congregated in a loose, scuffling circle, an army of the living dead awaiting orders that would never come.

Bane stepped into the room, lightsaber drawn. The technobeasts ignored his presence, their attention focused only on the Holocron. He made his way slowly through their legions, trying to estimate their number as he edged ever closer to the center of the room. Fifty? A hundred? It was impossible to count; their bodies of rusted metal and mummified flesh all seemed to blend together into a single ghastly mass.

Reaching the pedestal at the heart of their numbers, he paused, uncertain what would happen when he reached out to claim the Holocron as his own. Would the creatures bow down before him as their new Master, or would they fall upon him in single-minded fury to protect the idol they worshiped? There was only one way to find out.

As his fingers closed over the Holocron he heard a noise that caused him to pull his hand back with a start. It sounded like the moan of a long-dead god rising from the grave; a hundred mechanized limbs sprang to action with an angry hum as the monsters swarmed over him.

Bane thrust out with the Force, and a dozen of the oncoming creatures exploded into dust and tiny flecks of small, twisted metal. But the others surged forward like a wave, driving him under. Their feet stomped and kicked at him; their bladed arms slashed at him as he lay prone on the floor. But none of their attacks could pierce the chitinous shells of his orbalisk armor.

From his back, Bane slashed indiscriminately with his lightsaber, hewing off limbs with every swipe. There were no screams of pain or gouts of blood—the bodies of his enemies had been exsanguinated when their flesh had crumbled away centuries before. The only sounds of battle were the Dark Lord’s own grunts of exertion, the clatter of metal falling to the stone floor, and the occasional small shower of sparks.

Even in their rage, the creatures were slow and cumbersome. Bane’s vicious strokes quickly cleared enough space for him to find his feet again. He rose to see the wall of creatures pressing in on him, and he unleashed a wave of lightning through their ranks. The bolts arced through the mostly metal bodies; the nanotechnology that animated their frames and gave them life smoked and smoldered, and a dozen more of his opponents toppled over never to rise again.

A heavy blow suddenly struck Bane in the back, the metal rancor sending him flying with a swipe of one massive, club-like claw. He slammed face-first into what might once have been a human, and the technobeast opened its mouth and released a cloud of tiny metal spores directly into his face.

Bane breathed them in even as he cut the creature down, chopping it diagonally clean through from shoulder to hip. He could feel the technovirus inside him, its nanogene spores burrowing up to his brain to eat away his frontal lobes and begin the process of transforming him into an abomination that was neither droid nor alive.

Before he could reach out with the Force to save himself, he felt a surge of heat in his blood as the orbalisks released a burning chemical to destroy the microscopic invaders. His skull felt as if it were on fire as his heart pumped the searing chemical through his carotid artery and up into the capillaries of his brain, but he could feel the nanogenes wither and die in the heat almost instantly.

Using the pain in his head to fuel his rage, Bane spun and leapt at the rancor, slicing both its metal legs out from under it. The laser cannons on the creature’s shoulders tried to fire at him, but in the more than two hundred years since its creation the power cells had lost their charge and the only result was a barely audible click. The torso fell to the floor, but the claws still clutched for him; Bane had to leap back out of the way before lunging forward to sever the arms at the shoulders.

That enemy vanquished, he used the Force to disintegrate two more advancing technobeasts, then felt something bump against his foot. He glanced down to see that the rancor’s jaws had clamped shut on his boot; it was trying to gnaw off his leg. Once again his orbalisk armor protected him from harm, and Bane sliced the rancor’s head from its body, relieved to see it finally go still.

There were still dozens upon dozens of the abominations in the chamber, closing in on him from all sides. Bane now realized that they couldn’t possibly harm him, but he also knew the technobeasts would not stop until he had reduced each one to pieces.

The slaughter lasted over an hour. He used his lightsaber to repeatedly dismember his enemies, conserving his Force abilities to stave off exhaustion in arms, legs, shoulders, and back. Three times during the one-sided melee he allowed himself to lose focus, his martial instincts thrown out of sync by the unnerving silence of his enemies as they were butchered. Each time his attention lapsed he was knocked to the ground by the blows of one of the lumbering creatures that got close enough to make contact and forced to battle his way back to his feet. Two other times during the battle he felt the burning in his brain as the orbalisks purged his system of yet another cloud of nanogene spores he had unknowingly inhaled.

By the time it was done every muscle in his body ached from hewing through hundreds of cubic meters of metal, bringing back memories of the long shifts he had endured in the mines of Apatros as a young man. From wall to wall the room was littered with the limbs, torsos, and heads of the technobeasts, the carnage made bearable only by the fact that there was no gore.

Kicking aside the remains with weary legs, Darth Bane slowly cleared a path back to the center of the room. He extinguished his lightsaber and hung it from his belt, then staggered forward, grasping the edges of the pedestal to keep from collapsing as his thighs and calves simultaneously cramped.

Gritting his teeth, he leaned heavily on the pedestal to take the weight off the locked-up muscles. Breathing deeply, he called upon what remained of his Force abilities to replenish his strength. After several minutes the spasms began to fade, and he was able to stand gingerly once more.

His body and will were exhausted; the smart thing would be to rest before attempting to use the Holocron. But he had come too far, and endured too much, to be put off any longer.

Still clutching the pedestal for support with both hands, the Sith Master stared at the talisman, focusing his will on bringing it to life. Slowly it began to pulse with a faint inner light of deep, dark violet, and Bane smiled.

Soon, all the secrets of Belia Darzu would be his.

19

“I thought you had put this madness behind you, Johun,” Farfalla said with a disappointed shake of his head.

“It’s not madness,” Johun insisted. “He was there, Master. He saw it with his own eyes!”

Farfalla sighed and got up from his seat and began to pace, making small tight circles over the carpet of his private quarters. Johun remained in his seat, focusing on staying calm and letting his arguments be guided by logic and reason.

“How did Hoth deal with your headstrong ways?” Valenthyne asked, stopping to throw up his hands in exasperation.

“Your personalities are quite different,” Johun remarked. “Hoth often accused me of being too passive.”

Farfalla shook his head again and returned to his seat.

“Are you certain this witness is reliable?” he asked, alluding to the mercenaries Johun had wanted to bring forward ten years before.

Johun nodded. “All the details of his story check out. He calls himself Darovit now, but back then he was known as Tomcat. Records confirm he was recruited on Somov Rit by Torr Snapit, and he came with his cousins to join the Army of Light.”

“And one of these cousins is the girl he claims took his hand?”

“A girl ten years ago,” Johun noted. “She’d be a woman now. The cousin’s name was Rain. She was lost in an attack by the Sith shortly after they landed on Ruusan. She was missing and presumed dead, but she must have been found by this Lord Bane and taken as his apprentice.”

“I’ve heard that name before,” Farfalla admitted, leaning back in his chair. “It was mentioned in some of the statements given by Sith minions we took as prisoners. If I remember correctly, he was one of the last of the Sith to join the Brotherhood.”

Johun nodded. “Darovit said the same thing. He said Bane was always reluctant to follow Kaan. If he refused to join the rest of the Brotherhood in the cave, that would explain how he survived the thought bomb!”

“It’s possible,” Farfalla admitted. “But how did Darovit recognize Bane?”

“He defected to the Sith near the end of the war.”

Farfalla threw his hands up again. “A defector, Johun? A traitor to the Jedi? The Council will never believe this!”

“That is what makes his story even more believable,” Johun countered. “If he was lying he could easily have found some reason to explain how he recognized Lord Bane. But he has freely admitted his crime to me because he has decided the time has come to speak the truth.”

“And why is that?” Farfalla wanted to know. “Your report said he has lived as a healer on Ruusan for the past decade. Why did he suddenly decide to come forward now?”

“When I spoke with him on Ruusan I convinced him of the dangers the Sith represent. He wants to stop Bane before another war begins.”

Farfalla raised an eyebrow. “You convinced him? After a decade of silence, one meeting with you and he is ready to come forward? How, exactly, did you achieve that?”

“I didn’t use the Force to do it,” Johun protested. “Not exactly. I didn’t use the Force to compel him. I just made him more willing to listen to me.”

“You are making this very difficult for me,” Valenthyne said, reaching up with one hand to rub at his temple.

“I only ask that you speak with him yourself, Master,” Johun implored. “Hear what he has to say. Listen to him, and then decide if you will bring him before the Council.”

“Very well, Johun,” Farfalla said, nodding. “I will meet with him. Where is he now?”

“He wanted to learn more about the healing arts of our Order,” Johun explained. “Master Barra gave him access to the Archives.”

Valenthyne slapped his hands on his thighs and rose to his feet. “Then I suggest we go find him before I come to my senses.”

The general collection of the Jedi Archives was arranged in four long halls built off a massive central rotunda. Each hall contained a wide primary aisle, with hundreds of smaller secondary aisles leading off either side. Lining the walls of the secondary aisles were the stacks: trillions of datatapes and datacards arranged under millions of categories, topics, and subtopics. Access to the disks of a particular hall could be gained via any of the terminals built along the center of its main aisle. Each terminal was equipped with a master index to help those seeking knowledge on a particular subject to find the proper hall, but to make things easier each hall also represented a specific, though very broad, branch of knowledge.

The first hall, the one all visitors passed through when they entered the Archives from the Jedi Temple, contained works of philosophy and historical records. Included in its stacks were the personal journals of Jedi, political leaders, and individuals of historical significance. Basic treatises examining the Force were also filed in this section, though Padawans were restricted from accessing many of these works lest they misinterpret the knowledge and become corrupted.

The second hall contained works dedicated to the mathematical and engineering sciences, including theories of space-time and hyperdrive construction, floor plans of official government buildings, and detailed design blueprints of every vehicle, weapon, or gadget ever made. The third focused on the geography and culture of the millions of known planets in the galaxy. Maps, both planetary and interstellar, as well as detailed descriptions of every recorded civilization, past and present dominated the stacks of the third hall.

However, it was the fourth hall where Zannah—still in the guise of Nalia—was headed. The fourth hall contained zoological data and research on virtually all known life-forms of the galaxy. This was her third day in the archives, and she had yet to find what she was looking for. The preloaded works on the datacard given to her by the chief librarian had helped to narrow her search, but locating a specific piece of information in an infinite ocean of knowledge was no simple task.

Had she gone back to Master Barra, or approached any of the analysis droids roaming the Archives, and asked for information on orbalisks rather than the more general topic of parasitic organisms, she might have made quicker progress. But, this would have conflicted with her cover story and raised unwanted questions. So Zannah had been forced to seek out the information using only the skills she had developed while studying various works during her apprenticeship under Darth Bane.

Her efforts had quickly brought to light several thousand articles and experiments that made at least some reference to orbalisks, but she had yet to find any mention of how to remove them without killing the host. She knew she was running out of time, but as she made her way down the first hall toward the rotunda, she was determined to find what she had come for.

There were always a number of other scholars in the Archives, but the primary aisles of each hall were wide, and the stacks were so numerous and deep that Zannah never felt crowded. This allowed her to work without fear of anyone accidentally discovering what she was investigating. However, she still felt a flash of apprehension whenever another of the Archive patrons passed her by, always worried that her projected aura of light-side power would falter.

She nodded at one of the analysis droids as she entered the central rotunda and turned to her right, heading for the fourth hall. She passed by the bronzium busts honoring powerful and memorable members from the Order’s history. She paused as she often did in front of the busts of the Lost: the only twelve individuals who had willingly set aside the vows they had sworn upon becoming Jedi Knights and chosen to leave the Order.

The Lost served as a reminder to the Jedi that, despite their wisdom and talents in the Force, they were not infallible. The Jedi viewed each of the Lost as a failure of their Order, not as a failure of the individual. A plaque on each bust recounted the individual’s history of service, praising what he or she had achieved and contributed before departing from the Jedi ranks. Curiously, though, none of the plaques offered a reason for leaving.

Zannah shook her head and continued. As a Sith, she couldn’t imagine any reason to honor someone who abandoned her cause … though with only one Master and one apprentice, the Sith had been transformed into something very different from the Jedi Order and its vast numbers.

She made her way down the fourth hall, heading for the privacy of the last viewing terminal in the central aisle. She inserted the personal datacard Master Barra had given her to gain access to the Archive catalogs, and then resumed her search where she had left off the day before.

Gathering a list of index numbers, she typed in a pass-code to lock her terminal from other users, then wandered off into the stacks to retrieve the half a dozen datacards she wanted to study in further detail. By necessity the datacards in the Archives were nearly twice the size of her personal datacard; each one contained the full text of hundreds—if not thousands—of different titles.

For five long hours she continued her research without a break. Time and time again she brought datacards back to the terminal and scoured their contents, only to find that they offered nothing new. Frustrated, she would eject the cards and compile a new list of possible sources, then return to the stacks to switch the old datacards for those promising better results.

It was the rumbling in her stomach that told her it was time to take a break. If she became distracted—too tired or too hungry—her spell might falter, exposing Zannah’s true nature to those around her. It had happened once before, on the first day when she pushed herself too hard and worked long into the night. It had lasted only an instant, a momentary lapse, but that could have been enough to doom her. Fortunately, at that late hour the Archives had been mostly deserted, and nobody had been close enough to notice the Sith in their midst. Since then, however, Zannah had been much more careful.

There was one last datacard to check; then she would head down to the cafeteria and return once she had sated her hunger. She popped it into the terminal and quickly scanned the contents. When she found what she was looking for, she tapped a key; a block of text from an academic paper popped up onto the screen.

AN EXAMINATION AND EXPLORATION OF A MOST DANGEROUS AND RESILIENT ORGANISM
by Dr. Osaf Hamud

In my years of study I have encountered a number of life-forms that subsist primarily through symbiotic relationships established with other species. Some of these relationships are commensalist, in which neither species is significantly affected by the presence of the other. Others are mutualistic, enabling both species to benefit from their shared existence. And still others are parasitic, in which the host organism suffers while the symbiont thrives.

Of course, to properly classify any symbiotic relationship into one of these three categories, we must first explicitly define the meaning of words such as harmful or beneficial, a task that many have regarded as …

Zannah blinked twice to clear away the stupor settling in. The Archives’ general collection included everything from explorers’ journals that were as exciting to browse as any well-written piece of fiction, to academic papers so dry and boring they would test the limits of a Jedi Master’s patience. Apparently the works of Dr. Osaf Hamud fell into the latter category.

For a brief instant she considered simply popping the datacard out and going in search of a meal, but then made a quick search for orbalisk instead. A dozen pages scrolled by on the viewer as it skipped to the relevant section.

… called orbalisks by the local Nikto populace. One warrior recounted how he had been infested for nearly a full year before ridding himself of the creatures because they so disfigured him that he could not find a mate.

This returns us to our earlier dilemma of how to define harmful and beneficial. Revisiting the previous discussion, we must now include capacity to find a mate in our discussions …

Zannah pulled her eyes back up to the top of the screen.

… one warrior recounted how he had been infested for nearly a full year before ridding himself of the creatures …

In desperation she typed in a new phrase, then hit SEARCH again.

It is a fact generally assumed by most zoologists that orbalisks cannot be removed without killing the host. However, my research has revealed that an infested host can be cured, though the process is both dangerous and extremely complicated, as I will detail here.

First, the host must be in excellent health. As one might expect, the very definition of excellent and even health must be expounded upon …

She had found it. She had found it! Zannah leapt to her feet, pumping a clenched fist in a quiet victory celebration, barely able to contain a fierce shout of triumph. And in her moment of elation, the spell concealing her true identity slipped.

Zannah quickly regained control, glancing to her left and right to see if anyone had noticed. Heart pounding, she slammed the personal datacard Master Barra had given her into the terminal to copy over the orbalisk article.

Behind her a voice said, “Rain? What are you doing here?”

Darovit wandered along the wide aisle of the Jedi Archives’ fourth hall, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of knowledge in the stacks.

He had briefly tried looking for information on the native flora and fauna of Ruusan, hoping to broaden his knowledge so he could better help those who came to him for aid. He was used to a simpler world, however, and found the technology of the Archives daunting. An analysis droid had explained how to use the search and retrieval systems to find information in the stacks, but his brisk tutorial had left Darovit even more confused than before.

Other scholars were there, and he could have approached one of them to ask for help. But as a man who valued his own privacy, he was loath to interrupt theirs. Ultimately, he had simply started to wander up and down the aisle, waiting for Johun to return.

Darovit was beginning to regret his decision to come to Coruscant. He had let himself get swept up in the moment by the Jedi Knight, the thoughts of stopping another war with the Sith appealing to the romantic ideals that had first led him to Ruusan as a teenager. But those were the dreams of a child; he was older and wiser now.

The Jedi moved through a world that was not his own. The concerns of an entire galaxy weighed upon their shoulders; their decisions affected trillions of lives. Darovit didn’t want that kind of responsibility. Surrounded by the grandeur and glory of the Archives, all he wanted was to return to his simple hut in the forest.

Unfortunately, that might no longer be an option. He was here now, and Johun seemed determined to have him speak before the Jedi Council.

To take his mind off his plight, he began to study the other scholars. They were all Jedi: Padawans and Masters, young and old, human and otherwise. He noticed an attractive young woman with long, dark hair staring intently at her viewscreen, chewing on her lip as she delved into some work of academia.

There was something familiar about her, though Darovit was sure he had never met her before. Over the past decade he hadn’t met anyone except those few individuals who sought him out in his hut, and the woman certainly didn’t look like she had come from the farms or villages of Ruusan.

He crept toward her, not wishing to interrupt her studies but trying to figure out if he knew her. For several minutes he watched her; she was obviously frustrated, unable to find what she was looking for in the datacards. Suddenly she leapt up, clenching her fist victoriously, and Darovit felt a familiar presence wash over him.

For the first ten years of his life, that presence had been at his side constantly. As children, they had shared a bond that went beyond being cousins—they were as close as brother and sister. And though the figure before him had black, not blond, hair, there was no doubt in Darovit’s mind who she was.

“Rain?” he called softly, so as not to startle her. “What are you doing here?”

The woman spun to face him, her eyes wide. She stared at him blankly, unable to recognize the man she had last seen as a boy ten years before. Then her eyes dropped to the stump of his right hand, and her jaw fell agape.

“Tomcat?”

He nodded, then added. “It’s Darovit now. But sometimes I think I still like Tomcat better.”

“You’re a Jedi now?” she said, confused by his presence in the Archives.

“No,” he answered quickly, unwilling to be mistaken for something he was not. “I stayed on Ruusan after … after this.” He held up his stump. “I became a healer.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to—” He stopped midsentence, suddenly realizing the danger Rain was in. The danger he had brought upon her.

“Rain, we have to get out of here! The Jedi are looking for you!”

“Tomcat, what are you talking about?”

“A Jedi came to Ruusan. I told him about you and Bane. That’s why they brought me here!”

The young woman’s eyes glowed with pure hatred and anger, and for a second Darovit thought she was going to kill him in the middle of the Jedi Archives.

“How much do they know?” she demanded. “Tell me everything you told them!”

“Rain, there isn’t time,” he protested. “I’m just waiting here for them to come get me. They could be here any minute. You have to get out of here or they’ll find you!”

She turned and punched a key on the terminal; a small datacard popped out. She snatched it up and stuffed it beneath her clothes. Then she grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him back down the aisle toward the central rotunda. She moved as quickly as she could without drawing attention, her pace something between a brisk walk and a run.

Darovit made no move to resist, though he did ask, “Where are we going?”

“Tython,” she whispered. “I have to warn my Master.”

They reached the rotunda, but instead of turning down the first hall and heading toward the exit, she led him into the third hall.

“What are you doing, Rain?” Darovit asked, his voice rising slightly. “We have to get going!”

One of the other scholars—an older woman with coppery red hair sitting at a nearby terminal—turned to stare at them, her attention drawn by Darovit’s exclamations.

“Quiet, Tomcat,” Rain shushed him, nodding apologetically in the woman’s direction. “You’re disturbing the other patrons.”

The old woman turned back to her viewscreen, dismissing them. Darovit’s companion gave his arm a rough shake.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. “But you have to get out of here. Leave for Tython before they find you here.”

“I don’t know where Tython is,” she snapped back through clenched teeth. “We need to find a hyperspace route.”

Taking the terminal one down from the red-haired old woman, Rain punched a series of buttons. A second later the screen came to life with a list of reference numbers.

“Got it,” she said, shoving Darovit into the seat by the terminal’s viewscreen. “Wait here.”

She disappeared into the stacks, moving with the same half-walking, half-running stride. As Darovit waited for her to return, it occurred to him that his loyalties had suddenly shifted. He had been lured to Coruscant with the notion of helping the Jedi wipe out the Sith and prevent a war. But the abstract concept of widespread galactic suffering meant little when he had come face-to-face with his childhood friend. Now all he could think about was what would happen to Rain if she was caught, and he realized he was willing to do whatever it took to keep her safe.

Less than a minute later she returned and slapped a datacard into the terminal. Leaning across Darovit, who was still seated in the chair, she tapped away at the controls until an image of a cloud-covered world appeared on the screen.

“I need to copy this,” she said, pulling out the datacard she had been using when he first saw her and jamming it into another slot on the terminal.

“Why not just take the original?” Darovit asked.

“Sensors on the Archive doors,” she explained. “Removing an original will set off alarms.”

The terminal beeped and the datacard popped out, the copying complete. Zannah stuffed it into her robes, then hauled Darovit up by his elbow.

“Let’s go. Before your friends show up.”

Not bothering to return the original back to the stacks, she half-led, half-pulled him away from the terminal. She whisked him to the rotunda, then down the main aisle of the first hall and out the exit, leaving the Archives behind them.

20

“I don’t understand, Master Valenthyne,” Johun said, casting his gaze from side to side as they made their way down the aisles of the Jedi Archives. “I left him here less than an hour ago.”

He had expected to find Darovit sitting at a terminal in one of the four halls, or possibly examining the bronzium busts in the rotunda. But when he brought Master Valenthyne to speak with the young man, Darovit had vanished.

“He’s probably just lost somewhere in the stacks,” Farfalla assured him.

Johun signaled to a passing analysis droid. It turned and made its way toward them with quick, stiff-legged steps.

“May I be of assistance?” it inquired helpfully.

“I’m looking for someone,” Johun explained. “A young man.”

“Beings of all species and ages visit the Archives,” the droid responded. “I would be better able to provide assistance if you could provide a description, Master Jedi.”

“He is missing his right hand.”

There was a soft whir as the droid accessed its recent memory banks.

“I believe I recently saw the man you are looking for in the third hall,” the droid offered, turning to lead them in that direction.

Johun didn’t bother to wait; he pushed past the droid in his haste. Farfalla followed closely at his heels.

There were many people examining the datacards located in the third hall, but the Healing Hermit of Ruusan was not among them.

“We’ve got to find him!” Johun said to his Master, then ran up and down the entire length of the hall, peering into the side aisles to see if Darovit was hidden among the stacks. His disruptive antics drew the ire of several of the other scholars.

Farfalla reached out and grabbed Johun as he ran past a second time, stopping him before he could make another lap of the hall.

“He’s not here, Johun,” he said.

There was a loud clearing of the throat, and two men turned to see an older redheaded woman glaring at them.

“Master Valenthyne,” she said, “I respectfully remind you that the Archives is a place of contemplative research. Your young friend would be better served to resume his exercises out in the training yards.”

“Our apologies, Master Qiina,” he whispered. “But this is a matter of some urgency. We are looking for someone who has gone missing.”

“It is easy to lose oneself in the wisdom of the Archives,” Qiina replied. “I myself often disappear for days at a time.”

Farfalla smiled politely at the jest. “This is somewhat different.”

The analysis droid that had been helping them earlier toddled over toward them, having only just now caught up after they left it behind in their haste. Johun glanced at the droid, then back to Master Qiina.

“We’re looking for a young man,” he told her. “He’s missing his right hand.”

Qiina raised her eyebrows. “I saw him not thirty minutes ago. He was with a young woman.”

“A woman?” Farfalla asked in surprise.

“They seemed to know each other,” the old Jedi informed them. “They called each other by silly little nicknames. Tomcat and Rain, if I remember correctly.”

Johun seized Farfalla’s arm. “Rain was his cousin! The one he met down in the caves. She’s here!”

“Do you know where they went, Master Qiina?” Farfalla asked.

The old woman shook her head. “They were using that terminal over there to look something up. Then they left.”

Farfalla turned to the droid. “Is there any way we can find out which records they were viewing?”

“I am sorry, Master Jedi,” the droid replied. “To protect the privacy of our scholars and to avoid compromising their research, the terminals do not store any data on which records they were used to explore.”

“Your friends seemed to be in quite a hurry,” Qiina offered. “I doubt they even bothered to return the datadisk to the stacks. It might still be plugged into the terminal.”

Johun rushed over to the screen. It was still logged on, under the name Nalia Adollu. As Qiina had guessed, there was a datacard loaded in. He pulled up the disk’s index as Farfalla came and peered over his shoulder.

“Tython,” the Jedi Master remarked, picking out the common theme among the thousands of articles and papers referenced by the index. “Birthplace of the Jedi.”

“That must be where they’re going,” Johun insisted. “Bane must have gone into hiding in the Deep Core!”

He turned to Farfalla, clutching his Master’s arm in his urgency. “You have to convince the Council to let us go after them.”

Farfalla’s eyes were cold and hard. “I doubt the Council will be in any great hurry to take action in this matter,” he warned.

“But Master Valenthyne—” Johun pleaded, only to have the other man cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.

“The Council will not help you, Johun. Therefore we must go to Tython ourselves.”

Johun’s eyes went wide in surprise.

“I swore a vow to General Hoth,” Farfalla explained, his voice taking on the hard tone of military command he had not used since the disbanding of the Army of Light. “I promised I would not rest until the Sith had been cleansed from the galaxy. I still intend to honor that vow.

“Go find Masters Raskta and Worror,” he added. “They also served with Hoth on Ruusan. They will join us in our cause. Tell them we leave within the hour.”

The first thing Zannah did after the Loranda had escaped Coruscant’s orbit and made the jump to hyperspace was wash the black dye out of her hair.

She’d engaged and locked the autopilot before heading off to the staterooms in the aft decks, leaving Tomcat to wander freely about the vessel. When she emerged, still drying her restored blond locks with a towel, he was calmly waiting for her.

He had settled in on one of the long, padded couches in the Loranda’s sitting lounge, reclining comfortably along its length. Judging by the drink in his hand, he had also located the collection of ales Hetton had kept on board. Still dressed in the ragtag robes of a hermit, he cut an image that was slightly comical.

“Even with the dye job gone, you still don’t look anything like what I thought you’d grow up as,” he told her.

It wasn’t just her hair that Zannah had changed; she’d also replaced the drab Jedi robes with her more familiar and comfortable all-black garb. Being left-handed, she’d hung her lightsaber on that same hip, and the valuable datacard with the article on the orbalisks had been secured in a cargo pocket sewn into her trousers along the outside of her right thigh.

“This is the real me,” she assured him.

She had often assumed character roles and disguises in her missions for Darth Bane, and she was usually comfortable in the act of deception. Yet for some reason she’d found the guise of Nalia repellent, and she’d been eager—almost desperate—to rid herself of all remnants of the Padawan façade.

“So am I your prisoner?” he asked as she sat down on the seat across from him.

“I don’t think prisoners are allowed to drink tarul while they lounge on couches,” she noted, tossing the towel onto the cushions beside her.

“Then why did you bring me along?” Tomcat asked, sitting up and leaning forward, suddenly serious and intent.

“I couldn’t leave you behind. You were going to expose me and my Master to the Jedi Council. You were a threat to the Sith.”

“Do you really believe you’re a Sith, Rain?”

“Don’t call me that,” she said angrily. “Rain is dead. She died on Ruusan. My name’s Zannah now.”

“I guess Tomcat died on Ruusan, too,” he agreed somberly, slowly swirling the glass in his hand. “You should probably call me Darovit now. But you never answered my question. Do you really believe you’re a Sith?”

“I am Darth Zannah, apprentice of Darth Bane, Dark Lord of the Sith,” she said, making no effort to hide the fierce pride she felt in the titles. “And one day I will destroy my Master and choose an apprentice of my own, continuing the legacy of the dark side.”

“I don’t believe that,” Darovit told her, obviously unimpressed with her declaration. “I know you, Zannah. You’re not evil.”

“Evil is a word used by the ignorant and the weak,” she snapped. “The dark side is about survival. It’s about unleashing your inner power. It glorifies the strength of the individual.”

“That’s not you, either,” Darovit countered. “Followers of the dark side must be brutal and ruthless. You care about others, Zannah.”

“You don’t know me,” she sneered at him. “I’ve killed more people than you can possibly imagine.”

“I’ve killed people, too. Bug died because of me,” Darovit said softly, referencing the third cousin who had come with them to Ruusan. “But killing people doesn’t make someone into a Sith,” he said in a louder voice.

“Don’t lecture me on the ways of my order,” Zannah warned, getting to her feet and snatching up the towel off the cushion beside him. “What could you possibly know that I have not already learned?”

“I may not know the dark side,” Darovit admitted, looking up at her. “But I know you. I know what you’re capable of.”

Zannah angrily threw the towel across the room, flinging it through the open door into the stateroom. She stepped forward and grabbed Darovit’s right forearm, spilling his drink. Then she twisted his arm up so his stump was right before his face.

“Maybe you forgot who gave you this,” she reminded him.

Darovit made no move to break free of her grasp, though she clutched his arm so hard that her nails were digging into his flesh.

“I’m not a fool, Zannah,” he said calmly. “Your Master would have killed me in that cave. I know you did this to save my life.”

She released her grip, tossing Darovit’s arm back down into his lap in disgust. She turned her back on him and marched up the corridor toward the cockpit. The young man tossed the empty glass onto the couch and scrambled to his feet to follow.

“You risked yourself to save me, Zannah,” he called out after her as she neared the cockpit. “You did it because you cared about me.”

Wheeling around, Zannah reached out with the Force and yanked Darovit to the floor. He landed with a grunt, facedown at her feet.

“Things have changed since then,” she said, then spun away from him again and threw herself angrily into the pilot’s seat.

Darovit got up slowly and moved to stand behind her chair, hovering over her right shoulder.

“If you don’t care about me anymore, then why did you bring me with you?” he asked quietly.

“I already told you,” she said stiffly, staring straight ahead. “You would have exposed us. I couldn’t leave you behind.”

“You could have killed me.”

“Ha!” Zannah barked out a laugh, turning her head and craning her neck to glare at him contemptuously. “Just strike you down with the power of the dark side in the middle of the Jedi Temple? Do you think the Sith are fools?”

“We’re not in the Jedi Temple anymore,” Darovit said softly. “Why don’t you kill me now?”

Zannah snapped her head forward again so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “You’re a healer. We can use you.”

“There are plenty of healers in the galaxy,” her cousin pressed. “Ones who can’t expose you to the Jedi.”

“I don’t have time to find anyone else. You were in the right place at the right time,” she insisted. “You got lucky.”

“That’s not true, Zannah. How do you think I recognized you after all these years? There’s a bond between us. There always has been. Ever since we were little.”

Zannah didn’t say anything, but merely shifted in her seat.

“Do you remember when we were kids? Everyone thought I was so strong in the Force, and nobody believed you had any power at all.”

She didn’t answer, but she did remember. As children Darovit was the one who could levitate objects, and bat away fruit tossed into the air with a stick while blindfolded. Her own powers hadn’t manifested until she found herself alone on Ruusan.

“I didn’t realize it then, Zannah, but the power I showed, all those tricks I did—that wasn’t me, it was you! Even as kids you knew how badly I wanted to be a Jedi, and you wanted to help me. So you channeled your own power through me, allowing me to do all those things.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” she said coldly.

“You didn’t do it on purpose,” Darovit explained. “The bond we shared was so strong, and you cared about me so much, that your subconscious took over.”

“That’s the stupidest theory I’ve ever heard.” Zannah snorted, still staring straight ahead.

“Is it? Think about it, Zannah. After we lost you on Ruusan, it was like my powers disappeared. That’s why I failed as a Jedi and as a Sith.

“My power is weak. That’s why I survived the thought bomb when all the Sith and Jedi around me were destroyed by its power. It only affected those with a strong affinity for the Force.

“And what about you? You have so much power. Why do you think it took so long to show itself? You were always channeling it through me.” He paused. “You won’t become the Dark Lord of the Sith, Zannah,” he added. “It’s just not in your nature. Sooner or later you’ll realize that.”

“Shut up,” she said flatly, still keeping her eyes riveted on the controls in front of her. “If you say one more word I’ll take your other hand.”

Darovit didn’t reply, but his fingers instinctively went to his stump.

“I brought you along for one reason, and one reason only,” she continued, her voice still completely devoid of emotion. “My Master is infested with parasites called orbalisks. And you are going to heal him.”

“But … I don’t know how,” Darovit protested, forgetting her warnings to remain silent.

Zannah reached back with the Force, wrapping it around his windpipe. And slowly she began to squeeze. Darovit fell to his knees, his hands flying up to his throat as his oxygen was cut off.

“There is a data terminal in the back,” Zannah said, ignoring his choking coughs. “Use it to go over everything in the article I took from the Archives.”

She pulled the card from the pocket on her thigh and tossed it down in front of her suffocating cousin. He was rolling back and forth on the floor now, his hands clawing at his throat. His face had turned a bright red, and his eyes were starting to bulge from his sockets.

“If you can’t find a way to help my Master by the time we get to Tython,” she warned, “he will kill you.”

She released Darovit from the Force choke, and he gasped and gulped down air in raw, ragged breaths. She turned to watch him with a cruel smile on her lips, making sure he knew she was enjoying his suffering. Eventually he recovered enough to pick up the datacard and head for the terminal in the back.

Once he was gone, Zannah got up from her chair and began to pace back and forth between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats. She knew Darovit was wrong. He had to be. She was confident in her commitment to the dark side, despite everything her cousin had said. But there was enough weight to some of his arguments to make her wonder what Bane would think about all this.

If her Master—like Darovit—believed her actions showed a lack of commitment to the ways of the Sith, things would go very badly for her when they reached Tython.

Belia Darzu had been a Shi’ido in life, a changeling species whose members were capable of shifting their appearance, so it was not surprising that the projection that served as the gatekeeper of her Holocron similarly changed forms. At various times she appeared to be Twi’lek, Iridonian, Cerean, or human, occasionally even switching between genders.

“The process of creating a Holocron cannot be rushed,” the gatekeeper explained. “The adjustments to the matrix must be made with precision and care.”

She was currently in the form she most often assumed: that of a tall human female with short brown hair. She appeared to be roughly thirty years of age, with a sly, almost crafty, look to her features. In this guise she was typically clad in a dark, formfitting flight suit, dark boots, and a pale yellow vest that left her arms bare. She also wore yellow gloves, a short black sleeve over each elbow, and a red flight cap and belt.

After his initial activation of the Holocron’s power, Bane had brought it up out of the inner sanctum and into a large common room on the main level that once served as a mess hall for Belia’s living followers. Here Bane had been exploring the Holocron off and on for the past several days. He had proceeded carefully, still drained from his battle with the technobeasts. The slow pace allowed him to recuperate his energies and rebuild his strength as he probed the crystal archives.

Much of what he discovered focused on the rituals and practices of Sith alchemy—something he would explore in depth when he had more time. Other times he stumbled across Belia’s own philosophical examinations of the Force, though in truth there was little there that Bane hadn’t already discovered for himself. Only now had he finally found what he had truly been searching for.

“It can take weeks, or even months,” Belia’s image explained, “before the final stages of construction are completed.”

Her form flickered, to be replaced by the image of a Holocron shown in cutaway. The filaments and strands of the crystal matrix in the image began to shift and move, illustrating the adjustments the gatekeeper was talking about. Bane didn’t bother paying close attention; he already knew how to fine-tune the matrix’s internal structures.

“You said the adjustments can take months. How is that possible?” Bane asked with a shake of his head. “The cognitive network degrades too quickly.”

Belia’s image flickered into view again. “The cognitive network must be trapped within the capstone before you begin,” she explained.

“Capstone?” Bane asked, his nerves tingling with excitement. In all his research he had never heard mention of a capstone before.

An image of a Holocron appeared once more, though no longer in cutaway. The small black crystal built into the apex of the pyramid was flashing.

“The capstone is key to the process,” Belia’s voice said. “Without it the cognitive network will degrade before you complete your adjustments, and you will fail every time.”

Bane stared in wonder at the image. He had known that the dark crystal was an essential part of the Holocron’s construction. Yet he had believed its sole purpose was to channel the power of the symbols etched across the sides of the pyramid into the matrix. He never imagined it would serve another function as well.

“How do I trap the cognitive network inside the capstone?” he asked, eager to learn the secret that had eluded him.

“You must invoke the Rite of Commencement,” Belia told him.

The projection shifted to show an incredibly elaborate and complicated Sith ritual, one that went beyond anything Bane had mastered so far. With subtle pushes from the Force he flipped through image after image after image, realizing it would take him many months of careful study to memorize the rite. Still … the secret was his!

Satisfied, he shut the Holocron down. It was time to leave Tython and return to Ambria. If all had gone well, his apprentice would be there waiting for him.

He made his way outside, where the Mystic waited. But as he prepared to board his ship, he saw another vessel in the distance racing toward him. He reached out with the Force, and felt the presence of Zannah inside … and one other.

The Loranda came in to land fifty meters from where his own ship had touched down. Bane stood impassively, waiting for Zannah to emerge. When she did, there was a young man with her. The Dark Lord could feel the Force in him, though its presence was weak. When he saw that the man was missing his right hand, everything fell into place.

“We were supposed to meet at Ambria,” he snarled at Zannah. “Why did you come here? And why did you bring him?”

“I came to warn you,” she answered quickly. “The Jedi know you survived the thought bomb.”

“Because of him,” Bane said, nodding in the other man’s direction.

“He was going to speak to the Jedi Council,” Zannah explained. “If he vanished, they might dismiss the rumors that you still lived.”

“Why didn’t you just kill him?” Bane asked, his tone ominous.

“He’s a healer” was her immediate reply. “He knows how to free you from the orbalisks.”

Zannah’s answers came too quickly to suit Bane. It was as if she had already had this argument, likely rehearsing it in her head over and over in preparation for this meeting.

“Is this true?” he demanded of the other man.

“I can’t do it here,” Darovit answered. “I need supplies. Special equipment. It’s dangerous, but I think it can be done.”

Bane hesitated. Not because of the potential danger; he had known that any procedure to rid himself of his infestation would be fraught with risk. But now that he knew his failures with the Holocron were not linked to the orbalisks feeding on his power, he wanted to reevaluate the decision to remove them.

The sight of another ship appearing over his apprentice’s shoulder, still too far in the distance to make out a model or affiliation, put an end to his deliberations. An instant later he felt the unmistakable light-side power of those on board.

Zannah must have felt it too; she turned and looked in that direction, then turned back to him with a worried grimace.

“Is something wrong?” the young healer asked, noticing the exchange. “What is it?”

“We were followed,” Zannah muttered.

The ship was coming in quickly, too fast for them to get into their own craft and take to the sky. If they tried, the other vessel would shoot them down before they took off.

“Inside the fortress,” Bane ordered. “The Jedi have found us.”

21

The Justice Crusader, Master Raskta’s ship, was easily the fastest vessel Johun had ever been on. A small, personal attack cruiser, she required a crew of four. Fortunately for Johun, there were four others with him on board, all of them clothed in the simple brown robes that marked them as members of the Jedi Order.

Master Raskta Lsu, an Echani, sat at the controls of her ship. She had the alabaster skin, pure white hair, and silver eyes common to all her species. She was almost as tall as Johun, with the muscles and physique one would expect in a species that valued physical combat as the highest form of art and personal expression. Named in honor of the legendary Echani warrior Raskta Fenni, acclaimed by many to be the greatest duelist of her time, Master Raskta had spent her life honing her martial skills so that she could one day equal, and even surpass, her namesake.

She had achieved the rare and prestigious rank of Jedi Weapons Master. Eschewing all other fields of study and forsaking the development of her other Force talents to focus exclusively on the lightsaber and combat, she had transformed herself into a living weapon.

Now tasked with training apprentices in the forms of lightsaber combat, Raskta had been part of the campaign on Ruusan. Wielding a blue-bladed lightsaber in each hand, and shunning any form of armor, she was a terrifying figure to behold on the battlefield. Johun vividly remembered her carving great swaths of destruction through the heart of the enemy ranks, leaving a litter of bodies in her wake. It was said that, by the end of the war, as many Sith Lords had fallen under her twin blades as had been killed by the thought bomb.

In the gunner’s chair across from the pilot was Sarro Xaj, the human male who had served as Raskta’s Padawan on Ruusan. A year older than Johun, Sarro had olive-brown skin and a single topknot of black hair. He was also the largest human Johun had ever encountered. Over two meters tall and 150 kilos of raw muscle, he could easily be mistaken for a hairless Wookiee rather than a man. Yet despite his mass, he was still quick enough to snatch a zess-fly out of the air.

Elevated to the rank of Jedi Knight seven years before, Sarro had chosen to follow in his Master’s path, focusing on mastering a massive double-bladed lightsaber measuring almost three meters in length. Johun imagined there were few beings in the galaxy who could stand up under the ferocious assault of his weapon’s blue blades.

Handling the navigation in the back of the vessel was Master Worror, an Ithorian. His long, flat neck curved forward and up to a head shaped like the letter T, with his large, bulbous eyes on either end of the cross stroke. This odd appearance had led to his species being commonly called hammerheads by the ignorant and insensitive.

Master Worror’s surname could only be pronounced by beings possessing the two mouths and four throats unique to Ithorian anatomy. Johun had heard tales of Ithorian Jedi channeling the Force to transform their multiple voices into a devastating sonic weapon. Master Worror, however, was a healer by training, and his power lay in that direction.

He had been one of General Hoth’s advisers on Ruusan, and a key to victory in many battles, even though he didn’t even carry a lightsaber. The Ithorian’s role was not to engage the enemy but rather to provide support through both his healing abilities and the rare art of battle meditation. Although his talent was not strong enough to single-handedly alter the outcome of a large-scale conflict, in close quarters Worror could draw upon the Force to give strength to the bodies, minds, and spirits of those around him, enhancing the skills and abilities of his allies.

Located beside the navigator in the rear of the vessel, the fourth member of the crew, Master Farfalla, provided support for the pilot, gunner, and navigator. He called up astronav charts, engine readings, weapons status, scanner reports, and anything else the others needed to do their jobs.

Johun was seated up front in the cockpit with Raskta and Sarro, occupying the passenger’s chair behind the pilot. Until they reached Tython, his only job was to stay out of everyone else’s way.

Using the long-abandoned hyperspace route indicated on the datacard they’d discovered in the Archives, the Justice Crusader had penetrated the Deep Core. Master Raskta had expressed her concern at the start of the voyage: According to current records the hyperspace lanes they were traversing had been known to momentarily collapse without warning. A ship traveling anywhere along the hyperspace corridor during the nanosecond before it re-formed would be lost forever. Combined with the other dangers of the Deep Core—including wandering black holes that would rip a vessel apart, even in hyperspace—the instability of the route had led to it falling into disuse and finally being forgotten for well over a thousand years.

Worror had calculated the risk of a hyperspace collapse during their journey at just over 2 percent—more than high enough to make Johun breathe a sigh of relief when they emerged unscathed a few thousand kilometers away from their destination.

“Weapons primed and ready,” Sarro’s voice told everyone over the intercom. “Any friends we have to worry about?”

“Nothing in orbit,” Farfalla reported. “Looks like we’re clean.”

“I’m taking us in,” Raskta told them. “See if you can find anything.”

“Picking up an ion trail,” Farfalla said as they neared the planet’s atmosphere. “Looks like we’re right behind them.”

“Locking on to the ion trail … locked on.” Even over the crackle of an intercom, Worror’s deep voice resonated through the ship.

“Engaging autopilot,” Raskta said. “Let’s see where this takes us. Sarro, keep your trigger finger ready.”

The autopilot dropped them down into Tython’s atmosphere, and for several seconds the only thing Johun could see through the cockpit viewport was a wall of gray cloud. When they broke free their destination was immediately obvious.

“I think I know where we’re headed,” Sarro mumbled.

Below them was a flat, empty field virtually devoid of life. A dark fortress was visible on the horizon, the only significant structure in sight.

“Picking up two small vessels on the ground,” Farfalla told them as they drew nearer. “Nobody outside, though.”

They were close enough now that Johun could make out two melted towers rising up on either side of the stronghold’s front face.

“Reading life-forms inside the building,” Farfalla noted. “Looks like … three.”

“Only three?” Sarro mumbled, sounding disappointed. “This might be too easy.”

“Don’t count on that,” Farfalla warned him as Raskta brought the Justice Crusader in for a landing.

Zannah was trying to concentrate, gathering her mental energies for the coming battle. She was distracted, however, by her Master’s own preparations.

Darth Bane was prowling back and forth like an angry rancor, his lightsaber already drawn. She could feel the dark side building inside him, fueled by his rage—his never-ending hatred of the Jedi; his resentment toward Darovit for exposing them; his anger at her for leading the Jedi here to Tython. At any moment she expected to see the bloodlust of the orbalisks unleashed, but Bane kept his fury in check, saving it for the coming battle.

Her Master had led them back inside the stronghold to a large, open room with an exit at either end. A single door would have been easier to defend, but he was wary of getting trapped. If the Jedi cornered them, they would settle in for a long siege and wait for reinforcements to arrive. As the last two surviving Sith, Zannah and her Master did not have the same luxury, so it was important that they keep alternate escape routes open.

The room was empty, completely devoid of any furniture. Based on that fact and its great size—forty meters by thirty—she guessed it had been built as some kind of practice arena or training center. In addition to the exits on either end, there was a small door on one of the side walls that led to a tiny, dead-end room. It had probably served at one time as a storage closet for weapons, targets, and other implements used in drills or training.

At Bane’s instruction, she’d stashed the datacard from the Archives inside the closet, and her Master had done the same with Belia Darzu’s Holocron. At her suggestion, Darovit was hiding in there, too. He was unarmed, and he would be of no help to either side.

“Don’t come out until the fighting’s done,” she’d warned him, drawing a sour, disapproving look from her Master. “He’ll only get in the way,” she’d explained as Darovit had closed himself in.

Now there was nothing to do but wait for the enemy to arrive. Fortunately—or unfortunately—they didn’t have to wait long.

The doors on either end of the room burst open simultaneously, the Jedi splitting their numbers in two to better coordinate the attack. The first group—a female Echani wielding a blue lightsaber in each hand and a Jedi Master in garish clothes with a golden blade—charged straight for Bane. The other two—a lean, quick-looking Jedi armed with a green lightsaber and a gigantic mountain of a man spinning a massive blue, double-bladed weapon—came at her.

Zannah ignited her own double-bladed lightsaber and threw up a twirling wall of defense, though her weapon looked puny and insignificant set against the blue monster brandished by the larger of her two opponents. Before they could engage her, she backpedaled toward one of the corners, stopping several meters from the intersection of the two walls. This allowed her to protect her flanks, but still left enough space for her to duck, dodge, and evade the weapons of her enemies.

From the corner of her eye she saw Bane take a completely different approach. Protected by his orbalisk armor, he charged forward to meet the two Jedi Masters confronting him head-on.

And then her enemies fell on her. It took only seconds for her to realize that the bigger man was by far the more dangerous opponent. In the time it took for the smaller man to strike at her twice with his green blade, she had batted aside half a dozen attacks from the other. There was a marked difference in the style and effectiveness of their blows, as well. The skills of the Jedi with the green lightsaber were raw and basic. When he struck, it was with either strength or speed, but not both at the same time. His blade came in either high or low, but never altered its plane during the attack. In contrast, the big man attacked her from creative and unexpected angles, the massive blue blades changing course mid-thrust. Each offensive was a model of lethal efficiency—quick and powerful strikes and counterstrikes that kept an opponent guessing.

Yet as long as Zannah kept her blade spinning to hold its momentum, she was able to ward off both their attacks easily using whirling parries, in large part because the Jedi with the green lightsaber was inadvertently working at cross purposes to his partner. He was attempting to alternate his forays with those of the bigger man, expecting they would take turns pressing forward, then withdrawing, always keeping Zannah on defense. But the incredible reach of the bigger man’s weapon made it difficult for him to unleash a sustained volley without fear of injuring or even killing his companion when the other man moved in to join the fray. As a result, the bigger man constantly had to step back, pull up, or lay off his attacks. He was forced into an awkward rhythm of advance and retreat, his timing and strategy dictated as much by his ally as by his opponent.

Zannah noted all this from behind the impassable wall of her spinning twin blades, content to play a completely passive role in the encounter. Were it not for the big man’s brilliance, she would have quickly switched to an aggressive sequence and easily dispatched the smaller man. But were it not for the smaller man’s mediocrity, her defensive talents would have been pushed to the very limits by her more skilled opponent. The arrangement suited Zannah just fine, allowing her to play them off against each other. She didn’t need to kill them; she only needed to hold them at bay until Bane, protected by the invulnerable orbalisk shells, killed his two opponents and came to her aid.

She waited until it was time for the smaller man to attack again, then gauged his painfully predictable incoming stroke. Knowing exactly where it would end by watching where it began, she was able to momentarily divert her attention from the combat to see how her Master was doing.

To her surprise, both of Bane’s opponents were still standing: proof they were exceptionally skilled combatants. She also noticed that a fifth Jedi had entered the room: an Ithorian who stood apart from the battle, his eyes closed as if he was meditating. And then she turned her focus back to her own melee, just in time to avoid certain death.

The glance in her Master’s direction had lasted only a fraction of a second, but in the brief interval of her distraction the larger man had sprung forward, jabbing the tip of one of his blades toward her eye like a spear. Zannah snapped her head to the side at the last possible instant, hearing the hiss as the blade sheared off a lock of her hair. The sudden movement threw off her timing and balance, and as her spinning lightsaber slapped away the blow she had earlier anticipated from the smaller man’s green blade, it lost its centripetal momentum and faltered.

In the split second it took to roll her wrists and start the intricate, whirling patterns of her blades again, she was vulnerable. The big man sliced high at her head, forcing her to duck, then chopped in low at her feet on the backstroke, causing her to jump before she could properly set herself. She avoided the swipe, but landed clumsily on her feet. Another blow rained down on her. With her body out of position, she was forced to block its path rather than deflect it to the side. The power of the impact sent her reeling, and she fell to the floor.

The man with the green lightsaber saved her. He leapt in to finish her off, blocking his companion from doing the same. Against his pedestrian assault she was able to regain her feet and slide into the sequence of moves that were the foundation of her virtually impenetrable style.

There was a brief instant when she saw an opening—but rather than choose to kill the man with the green lightsaber she let him live, knowing he was a greater hindrance to his allies than he was to her.

From across the room one of the other Jedi called out, “Johun! Sarro! We need reinforcements!”

“Go,” the big man shouted. “I can handle this one.”

And suddenly the man with the green lightsaber was gone.

The olive-skinned giant reared up to his full height; Zannah realized he was even taller and more heavily muscled than Bane. The air sizzled as his long lightsaber carved an elaborate flourish around his body, then another above his head. He smiled down at her knowingly.

Then he leapt forward and the real battle began.

It had been many years since Farfalla had fought while empowered by Worror’s battle meditation. He had forgotten how much quicker and stronger the Ithorian’s amazing talent made him feel. The Force flowed through him with greater power, filling him with its might. Yet even with their enhanced abilities, he wondered if they would survive the coming battle.

As they burst into the room a man who could only have been Darth Bane charged recklessly toward them. In any other instance the move would have spelled a quick end to the encounter, as Raskta raced ahead of Farfalla to carve the Sith to pieces.

Raskta’s blue blades flickered too quickly for the eye to see, neutralizing her enemy’s initial, wild attack then landing half a dozen lethal blows to his chest and abdomen. But instead of toppling, the big man kept coming, never even breaking stride. He would have plowed straight into Raskta, trampling her under his heavy boots, had she not cartwheeled to the side at the last possible instant.

Bane never stopped, his momentum carrying him straight toward Farfalla. The Jedi Master had a moment to register the strange armor coat of hard, shiny shells he wore beneath his clothes. Then he, too, leapt to the side to avoid being crushed, surviving only because his reflexes were heightened by Worror’s power.

Raskta was already back on her feet and flying through the air toward him. Bane spun and threw a wave of invisible dark side power at her. A Weapons Master was not skilled at defending against enemy Force attacks. The impact of the wave would have plastered her against the wall and crushed her had Farfalla not thrown up a shield to protect the Echani. Even so her muscular body was plucked from the air and hurtled backward, though she twisted and turned so she landed on her feet.

Farfalla saw the Sith Lord turn toward him, sensing the intervention that had saved Raskta’s life. Bane unleashed a barrage of Sith lightning, gathering and releasing his power at the speed of thought. The Jedi threw up a Force barrier to shield himself, but the electricity tore right through it and arced toward him. Then suddenly Raskta was there to save his life, repaying a debt that was only a few seconds old as she threw herself in front of him. Fueled by Worror’s battle meditation, she switched styles seamlessly, and her arms and blades became a blur as they carved figure eights in the air to catch and absorb the bolts of dark side energy.

Their enemy fell upon them again, following up the lightning with pure aggression. Raskta rushed ahead of Farfalla to meet this second charge. She crouched low, viciously slashing at his thighs and calves, attempting to leave their opponent crawling legless on the floor. Her blades carved through his boots and sliced wide gashes in his pants, only to reveal more of the chitinous shells.

Bane brought his lightsaber down at the Echani, who crossed her blades into an X, attempting to block and trap her opponent’s weapon at the point of intersection. But the Sith’s move was only a feint meant to distract her, and at the last instant he pulled his weapon back and swung an elbow around to catch her in the ribs. The contact lifted her off her feet and sent her sprawling. Then he was past her, and bearing down on Farfalla.

The Jedi Master dropped into an elegant defensive stance to meet the charge.

“The handle!” Raskta gasped as she scrambled to her feet.

The warning caused Farfalla to notice the hook-handled lightsaber of his enemy, and the unusual grip it required. This would alter the nature of his attacks, causing them to come in from odd and unfamiliar angles. In the regimented and hyperprecise world of Jedi–Sith lightsaber duels, it transformed his style into something unique and unexpected.

Valenthyne recognized, processed, and reacted to this information in a fraction of a second, allowing him to adjust his own weapon’s course just enough to block a strike that otherwise would have slipped along the edge of his blade and taken his arm off at the elbow. Even so, the strength behind the attack tore Farfalla’s golden blade from his grip, sending his lightsaber skittering across the floor. Unarmed and helpless before his enemy, he was saved by Raskta.

Knowing that her lightsabers couldn’t penetrate Bane’s armor, she slid in from behind and scissor-kicked his legs out from under him. He toppled over backward, turning his fall into a roll that ended with him back on his feet. However, the distraction allowed Farfalla to look over and reach out with the Force, calling his weapon back into his hand.

He spun back to the fight to see that the Echani Weapons Master had taken the offensive, sending quick flicks of her blue blades toward Bane’s unprotected face—the only spot on his body seemingly not covered by the impenetrable shells. Remarkably, Bane was giving ground.

“Stay back!” she shouted at Farfalla. “You’ll just get in the way.”

Farfalla did as he was told, gathering the energies of the light side to throw up another protective Force barrier should Bane try to unleash his dark side powers against the Echani.

She seemed to be everywhere at once—in front of Bane, beside him, behind him, circling low, leaping to come in high, deflecting his blade with one of her own then stabbing three quick times in succession at his eyes. The big man’s head ducked and bobbed, twisting and turning to avoid her blows as he tried to mount a counter-offensive.

Raskta’s mastery of her blades was unparalleled, but even with her talents augmented by Worror’s battle meditation she wasn’t able to land a telling blow on such a small target through Bane’s defenses. Still, the ferocity of her new strategy had turned the momentum in her favor … or so Farfalla thought.

Bane continued his retreat, circling away from Raskta’s blades, then suddenly turned and ran straight toward the unarmed Ithorian standing just inside the door of the room.

Battle meditation required Master Worror’s complete focus; there was no chance for him to mount any type of defense. If Bane cut him down, the others would lose the only advantage that gave them any chance of surviving the encounter.

Farfalla released the power he’d been gathering in a single concentrated burst. Bane was suddenly encased in a shimmering stasis field of light-side energy, freezing him where he stood. But his command of the dark side was too powerful for it to hold him for more than a split second. The shimmering field exploded into fragments as the Dark Lord broke free, though the momentary delay had allowed the Echani to place herself between the Ithorian and the Sith.

Raskta’s blades hummed and sang as she engaged him again, determined to keep him from reaching Master Worror at all costs.

He’s too strong, Farfalla realized, even as he ran to help her. Both physically and in the power of the dark side. It’s like trying to fight a force of nature.

“Johun! Sarro! We need reinforcements!”

Johun turned his head at the sound of Farfalla’s voice.

“Go,” Sarro shouted at him. “I can handle this one.” The young Jedi looked over to the far side of the room and instantly recognized what was happening. Master Worror was in danger; he had to be protected or his battle meditation—and any hope of victory—would be lost.

He leapt across the room, using the Force to propel him through the air so that he landed only a few meters from where Raskta was dueling Darth Bane, desperately trying to drive him back and away from where Master Worror stood but a meter or two behind her. He hesitated before attacking, noticing that the Sith Lord’s skin was covered with a strange, crustaceous growth.

“Go for the face!” Farfalla shouted, arriving on the scene and throwing himself into the battle as Johun did the same.

Together the three of them held the Sith Lord at bay: Farfalla on the left flank, Johun on the right, and Raskta in the center. Between blocks and parries they cut and stabbed at his face, their combined efforts finally forcing their enemy into a defensive stance.

The young Jedi marveled at the speed and savagery of Raskta’s blades. And while Johun’s own clumsy efforts had actually seemed to impede Sarro when they fought side by side, Raskta appeared to thrive off his presence. When he went high, she went low. If he came from the left, she came from the right. It was partly a function of her choice of weapon: individually each of her lightsabers was more precise and accurate than Sarro’s giant double blades. But it was more than that. Her reactions were so fast, her combat instincts so pure, that she was able to sense and anticipate what he was going to do even as it happened, then use his attacks to her own advantage.

On her opposite side Farfalla struck with clean, elegant blows, his form perfect as he harried Bane’s right flank. Yet though they were able to hold their ground, they couldn’t drive him back or defeat him.

They were at an impasse, none of their attacks able to connect with the one vulnerable part of Bane’s anatomy. Then Johun caught a glimpse of white flesh peeking out from the seam between the Sith’s armored gloves and the strange shells on his forearm. The gap was narrow, but it was large enough for a well-aimed blade to penetrate.

He slashed at his new target. Amplified by Worror’s power, the Force flowed through him and guided his blade home. The contact wasn’t perfect; his lightsaber glanced off the edge of the armored shells so that he only made shallow contact with the skin beneath. Instead of severing the hand, he merely sliced deep enough to sever nerves and tendons.

Bane bellowed in rage as his weapon slipped from his grasp, the wound leaving his fingers limp and powerless. But before Johun or any of the others had a chance to finish off their unarmed opponent, they were blown backward by an explosion of dark side energy, their enemy’s power fueled by the sharp, sudden pain of his wound.

Lying on the ground ten meters away, Johun watched in helpless horror as the Dark Lord’s lightsaber leapt from the floor and flew back into his hand. Amazingly, his fingers wrapped themselves around the hilt and reignited the crimson blade, his injuries somehow healing almost instantly.

There was no longer anyone standing between Bane and the Ithorian; like Johun, Farfalla and Raskta had both been thrown clear. The Sith Lord raised his blade to end Worror’s life, and Johun thrust out with the Force.

He knew he wasn’t strong enough to penetrate Bane’s defenses, but the big man wasn’t his target. Instead, the powerful push struck Worror, throwing him into the corner as the lightsaber strike that would have cut him in two swished harmlessly through the air.

Johun felt his strength and energy plummet. A wave of exhaustion and fatigue overwhelmed him, the beneficial effects of the battle meditation vanishing as Worror’s concentration was broken. But the Jedi Master was still alive, and Farfalla and Raskta were back on their feet. If they could hold Bane off for just a few seconds, the Ithorian could resume his meditations and restore their advantage.

* * *

Zannah slid to the side, her spinning weapon redirecting the blade of her enemy away from her throat and harmlessly up over her shoulder. Its twin came in quickly from the other side at her hip, and she threw herself into a back handspring to avoid it, landing nimbly on her feet. Grimly, she realized that she’d never understood the true meaning of the term martial arts until now.

The warrior assailing her had elevated the act of combat to its purest and highest form. He moved with the fluid grace of a dancer, his monstrous blade singing the deadly song of battle. He executed his moves with a perfect elegance born of obsession. Zannah knew it left him vulnerable to other forms of attack, but he pressed her so relentlessly that she never had a chance to effectively gather her power.

Had the Jedi enjoyed the same advantages Bane’s orbalisk armor provided, their encounter would have ended long ago. Bane could shrug off otherwise lethal blows, forgoing all sense of personal safety in a reckless assault of pure offense to overwhelm her defenses. In contrast, the man before her, massive though he was, would still die if her blades caught him. He had to guard against her counterattacks, his style less aggressive so he didn’t leave himself vulnerable. Even though his technique was more refined than her Master’s, she’d been able to withstand his assault … so far.

He came at her again, his blade changing directions so quickly in midstroke that it seemed to bend and curve. Zannah repelled the assault with a furious defensive flurry, breathing hard. Her style was meant to prolong combat, exhausting her opponents as they tried to penetrate her defenses. But each time she clashed with the olive-skinned giant, she was the one forced to expend desperate, frantic energy. Slowly, he was wearing her down.

It was more than just his talent and training. Zannah sensed some type of greater power at work: the Force flowed through him as if it was being channeled by another, giving even greater strength to her opponent.

Another exchange drove her backward; the man was cutting off the room, herding her tightly into the corner to limit her movement. He was taking away her agility, knowing she was no match for his strength. And there was nothing she could do about it. Taking another step back, she felt her heel butt up against the edge of the wall. There was nowhere left to go; the end was near.

On the far side of the room she heard Bane howl in rage, and she braced herself for a final stand she knew she couldn’t survive. Her opponent spun the long double-bladed lightsaber around his own body, gathering momentum for his next attack. And then, suddenly, the power behind him—the Force being channeled through him by another—was gone. Zannah felt it disappear, snuffed out like a candle in a puff of wind.

The big man hesitated, casting a quick glance over toward the others to see what had happened. Seizing the opportunity, Zannah’s fingers flickered in strange patterns as she unleashed her Sith sorcery at her foe.

His eyes went wide and he stumbled away from her, his lightsaber swinging wildly at the air around him as he was beset on all sides by imaginary demons. Flailing in half-mad terror at the invisible monsters, he ignored Zannah as she swooped in and ended his life with one long, diagonal stroke across his muscular chest.

As he fell to the ground, Zannah turned her attention to Bane on the far side of the room. He was single-handedly battling three Jedi, slowly pushing them back toward where the Ithorian lay crumpled in a corner.

Gathering the dark side around her, Zannah created a concealing cloak to mask her power as she had done at the Jedi Temple. While she did so, she saw the Ithorian slowly rise to his feet and close his eyes in concentration. She felt the surge of light-side energy rolling across the room, as did Bane’s opponents. Suddenly invigorated, they backed her Master up against a wall, concentrating their attacks on his face and the joints of his wrist where the orbalisks had left tiny gaps in his armor.

Zannah rushed to her Master’s aid, coming up silently behind the Jedi. Her presence hidden by her spell of concealment, they never sensed her coming. She struck the Echani down first, thrusting her blade forward so that it pierced the Jedi’s back and ran her through.

The Echani cried out and slumped forward, dropping at Zannah’s feet. The men on either side half turned toward her, momentarily forgetting the opponent directly in front of them. Bane took the opportunity to slice off the weapon hand of the man with the green lightsaber. He screamed and dropped to his knees, clutching his cauterized stump. The image pulled Zannah’s mind back to the cave on Ruusan where she had taken her cousin’s hand.

With a shake of her head, she dispelled the memory. Her distraction had given the young Jedi a chance to roll clear of the battle. Zannah hesitated, uncertain whether to finish him off or help her Master against the man he was still battling. The question became moot a moment later when Bane swatted the Jedi’s golden lightsaber aside with his orbalisk-encrusted left forearm, then removed his foe’s head from his body with his lightsaber.

In the corner the Ithorian broke his meditative trance, sensing that his companions had fallen. But before he could act Bane leapt through the air and landed in front of him, slashing all four of his throats simultaneously. The Ithorian crumpled to the ground, and Bane turned to finish off the one-handed Jedi.

Zannah felt the gathering dark side power of her Master, but in the instant before he unleashed the storm of deadly purple lightning, the Ithorian reached up from the floor and clutched him by his ankle. A shimmering blue globe surrounded them both as the mortally wounded Jedi released his own power in his final, dying act.

Instead of arcing across the room to destroy the one-armed Jedi, the lightning that flew from Bane’s fingers reflected off the inside of the shimmering blue globe encasing him. The bolts ricocheted around wildly inside the globe, creating a storm of energy so intense that Zannah had to shield her eyes and look away. She heard Bane’s scream rising above the sharp crackle of electricity, and when she looked back she saw the globe vanish and her Master fall to the ground in a charred and smoking heap.

She started to run to him, then saw that the sole surviving Jedi was crawling toward where his lightsaber had fallen on the ground, determined to fight on despite the loss of his hand.

Her face frozen in a mask of rage and hatred, she stepped forward and spun her lightsaber above her head. He looked at her with pleading eyes, but her only response was to bring her blade crashing down, ending his life.

22

When Zannah first reached Bane’s side, she was sure her Master was dead. The lightning had reduced his clothes to ash, and his gloves and boots had melted away. The flesh of his face and hands was charred and burned, covered with blisters that oozed a runny yellow pus. Several of the parasites on his chest and stomach hadn’t survived, their brown shells turned black and brittle by the lightning’s electrical charge. Wisps of still-smoldering smoke crept out from beneath their shells, bringing with it a sickly stench that made Zannah’s stomach churn.

Then she saw Bane’s chest rise and fall, his breaths so shallow and faint she had almost missed them. He must have slipped into unconsciousness as his body went into shock from the unbearable pain. She paused, half expecting to see his seared skin and tissue begin to regenerate, but his injuries exceeded even the ability of the orbalisks to heal him, and nothing happened.

The sound of a door opening made her turn her head, glancing up to see Darovit emerging from his hiding place. He looked around at the carnage in the room, then saw Zannah crouched over her Master.

“Is he …?” He left the question hanging in the air.

“He’s alive,” she said angrily, rising to her feet.

Darovit slowly walked over to her side, cradling Belia’s Holocron and the datacard against his sternum with his good hand. Zannah reached out and snatched them away when he drew close. He didn’t seem to notice, his eyes transfixed by the charred husk at her feet that was somehow still alive.

“Get the lightsabers,” she commanded. “We’re leaving.”

Darovit had the good sense not to question her orders, but went to gather the weapons of the fallen Jedi: trophies of the Sith triumph on Tython.

Zannah stuffed the Holocron and datacard away in the pockets of her clothing, then took a deep breath to focus her mind. She reached out with the Force and lifted Bane’s body off the ground, levitating it at waist height.

She carried her Master this way from the fortress and outside, Darovit following closely behind her. She briefly considered which ship they should use to take them from Tython, then settled on the Loranda. In addition to being larger, it was also equipped with a full medical bay.

“Open the cargo bay,” she ordered, nodding her head in the direction of the vessel.

Darovit raced ahead and did as she instructed, while Zannah slowly lifted her Master up and into the ship.

Once aboard they hooked Bane up to a bacta pump. His injuries probably required complete submersion in a bacta tank for several days, but she didn’t have access to those kind of facilities. A bacta pump was the next best thing; it injected a heavy dose of the fluid directly into his veins, circulating it through the body, then filtering it out, only to repeat the process.

“He’s stable,” Darovit said. “But he won’t be for long. When an orbalisk dies it poisons the host.”

“You read the information on the disk,” she said. “Get them off him.”

“Even if I did it wouldn’t help,” Darovit told her, relaying what he had learned from the disk. “It’s too late. The orbalisks release toxins into the host’s tissue the instant they die. It breaks down the cells at a microscopic level. He’ll be dead in a matter of days.”

“You’re a kriffing healer!” she shouted. “Help him!”

“I can’t, Zannah,” he said softly. “Not here. We don’t have the proper equipment or supplies. And even if we did, there’s nothing I can do. Once the orbalisk toxin enters the host, there’s no way to stop its progress.”

You can’t die yet, Zannah thought bitterly, chewing on her lip. There’s so much more you have to teach me!

Her Master’s power was still far greater than her own. She had the potential to surpass Bane—he had told her so himself—but right now he still possessed a strength she could only aspire to. There were secrets he had not yet shared with her, keys to unlocking even greater power than she now possessed. If he died, that knowledge was lost. It was possible she might one day succeed in discovering it on her own; with Bane as her Master, success was assured.

But what he still had to teach her went far beyond her ability to harness the energies of the dark side. For the past decade she had been focused only on learning to control her own power. Over that same time, her Master had begun to assemble the pieces that would one day allow the Sith to rise up and rule the galaxy.

He’d created a vast network of spies and informants, but Zannah had no idea as to its true extent, or even how to contact them. He had put into motion a hundred long-range plans to slowly build their strength while weakening the Republic. Yet she was only just now beginning to understand the scope and complexity of his political machinations.

Bane was a visionary, able to see far into the future. He understood how to exploit the weaknesses and vulnerabilities of the Republic. He knew how to draw the eyes of the Jedi away from the dark side, while at the same time leading them down the first steps of the long road that would end in their complete annihilation. He could manipulate people, organizations, and governments, planting seeds that would lay dormant for years—even decades—before they burst forth.

If he died now, everything he had put into place over the last ten years died with him. Zannah would have to start at the beginning. She would have to find and train an apprentice, even as she was still learning the full extent of her own abilities. She would be stumbling blindly forward, beset by enemies on all sides. It was almost impossible to imagine she wouldn’t make a mistake that would lead to her downfall … and the extinction of the Sith.

She couldn’t allow that to happen. For the sake of their order, she had to keep him alive. And though Darovit might not have the knowledge and power to heal her Master, she knew someone who did. Someone who had saved his life once before.

“Make sure he lives,” she said to Darovit, an implied threat in her tone.

Leaving the medical bay, she marched to the cockpit and sat down behind the controls. She punched in a course for Ambria, but she wasn’t heading back to their camp. She was going to see a man called Caleb.

Though Caleb’s camp was less than a hundred kilometers from their own on Ambria, Zannah had never met him. She knew him only from the tales of her Master. Bane had told her the healer was strong in the Force, but he didn’t draw on it the same way the Sith or Jedi did. Light side and dark side had no meaning for him; his was the power of nature.

Her Master’s words hadn’t made sense at the time, but as they came in to land near the tiny, dilapidated shack Caleb called home, she began to understand. There was power in this place; it called to her, but in a strange and unfamiliar language.

She could smell it in the air when the cargo doors of their ship opened, and she could feel it beneath her feet when she jumped down from the ship. With each step she took, the ground seemed to vibrate, humming with a sound too quiet to hear, but deep enough that she could feel it in the back of her teeth.

Darovit walked behind her, manipulating the controls that guided the Loranda’s medical gurney. It floated along beside him, supporting Bane’s still-unconscious form. As he had been when Zannah brought him forth from Belia’s stronghold, her Master was once again being unceremoniously transported like cargo hovering a meter above the ground. This time, however, he was supported by repulsorlifts rather than the Force.

“This place is amazing,” Darovit breathed. “I’ve never felt anything like this before. So … raw.”

Zannah recalled that, even though he lacked the power of the Jedi or Sith, her cousin was also attuned to the Force. She briefly wondered if it was possible that he shared the same type of talent as Caleb, then decided it made no difference why she was here. Four days had passed since they’d left Tython, and Bane had grown steadily weaker. If they didn’t find help for him here, her Master would die.

Judging from her first glance, she didn’t hold out much hope for his salvation. As was common on Ambria, they were surrounded on all sides by a desolate, arid wasteland stretching out as far as the eye could see. The only features of the landscape, other than a few scattered rock outcroppings, were Caleb’s shack and fire pit. The camp appeared to be deserted.

The shack was small, a few meters on each side. The walls were angled at forty-five degrees, meeting at a peak in the center, making the structure resemble a crudely built pyramid. Where or how Caleb had acquired the wood was impossible to say, but it was obvious he hadn’t replaced it anytime recently. The timber was faded and bleached by years in the sun, and though it wouldn’t rot in Ambria’s dry climate, hundreds of long vertical cracks had formed in the grain as the moisture was leached away. On the wall facing the fire pit was a small doorway leading into the hut. A tattered blanket hung down across it, fluttering slightly in the desert wind.

The fire pit was nothing more than a small circle of round stones, scorched and blackened from years of smoke and flame. A metal stand supported a large iron pot over the center of the circle for cooking, though the pot was empty and the fire was cold.

Zannah remembered from Bane’s tale how Caleb had plunged his own hand into the pot when it was filled with boiling soup, scalding himself to prove to her Master he feared no pain and couldn’t be threatened or intimidated.

Ten years ago the healer had initially refused to heal her Master, though ultimately Bane had compelled him by threatening the life of Caleb’s daughter. Zannah wondered if, should they find him, he would refuse to help Bane again.

“Hello?” Darovit called out, his voice sounding small in the emptiness all around them. “Hello?”

Zannah moved slowly to the ramshackle hut and drew back the blanket in the door. The only thing inside was a small sleeping mat in the corner. She stepped back from the door, peering out at the empty wastelands around the camp to see if there was anywhere else Caleb might have gone. Darovit mimicked her actions, then offered up the only logical conclusion.

“Nobody’s here.”

It wasn’t just Caleb that was missing, Zannah had to admit. Where were the medicines the healer would use to cure those who sought his aid? Where were the basic supplies—food, water, fuel for the fire—he would need to survive?

She recalled that Caleb had come to Ambria to escape the war between the Jedi and the Sith. Unfortunately for him, the war had eventually followed him even to this remote world. Yet the healer had maintained a steadfast neutrality during the conflict, refusing to aid followers of either the dark side or the light; only Bane had successfully compelled him to make an exception to his rule. Maybe with the end of the war, he had renounced his solitary ways and returned to the world of his birth, reintegrating himself into galactic society. It was just one of several possibilities that would explain his disappearance.

He could have died. It had been ten years since Bane had visited the camp, and though Caleb couldn’t be that old, it was possible something had happened to him in the ensuing decade. Ambria could be a harsh and dangerous world; the healer might have been slain and devoured by the hssiss, the fearsome carnivorous lizards that sometimes emerged from the depths of Lake Natth to feed.

The planet had its share of sentient predators, too. The handful of people who still lived on the world survived by picking through the remains of the battles that had once raged over its surface and in the skies above, finding damaged items and old technology they could restore and sell offworld. Most of the junkers, as they were called, were simple folk just trying to get by. But a few had become desperate criminals, willing to kill over anything of value—like Caleb’s missing collection of medicine and supplies.

Or maybe the healer had fallen victim to some disease or affliction even he couldn’t cure. If he had died of natural causes, it wouldn’t take long until the various desert scavengers carried off the last of his remains, leaving behind no evidence of what had happened.

It was clear there was no help to be found here, but there was no point in going anywhere else. Bane had a day, at most, before the orbalisk toxins reached lethal levels in the tissues of his body. Zannah simply stood there, unable to even think what she should do next. And then she remembered another detail from her Master’s tale.

Caleb had tried to conceal his daughter from Bane. Her Master had easily discovered her cowering inside the shack; there was no other place to hide in the small camp. At least, there hadn’t been ten years ago.

“Wait here,” she said to Darovit, leaving him to watch over Bane on his gurney.

She went back into the shack, kicking the sleeping mat aside to reveal a small trapdoor in the floor. She used the Force to fling it open, and was rewarded with the sight of a man staring up at her from a small cellar.

His expression wasn’t one of fear, nor even anger. Not exactly. He looked more like he was weary; as if he knew his discovery was going to lead to a long and tedious exchange.

“Out,” Zannah said, stepping back and dropping her hand to the handle of her lightsaber.

Without a word, he climbed up the cellar’s small ladder until he stood beside her inside the shack. He looked to be in his late forties, a thin man of average height. He had straight black hair that hung down to his shoulders, and his skin was brown and leathery from a decade of exposure to Ambria’s burning sun. There was nothing about his appearance to suggest he was a man of power or importance, yet Zannah could sense his calm inner strength.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked him.

“I’ve known ever since you and your Master built your camp on this world,” he said quietly.

“And you know why I’m here?”

“I sensed you coming. That was why I hid.”

She peeked down into the cellar, noting that it contained a number of small shelves lined with bottles, bags, jars, and pouches that held the medicines and healing compounds he used in his vocation. There were also a number of ration kits piled in one corner, along with a handful of small, square supply containers.

“When did you build that?” she asked, curious.

“Shortly after my previous encounter with your Master,” he answered. “I feared he would one day come back, and I wanted a place for my daughter to hide.”

The man suddenly smiled at her, though there was no joy or mirth in the expression.

“But now my daughter has grown,” he told her. “She has left this world, never to return. And you have no power over me.”

“Are you saying you will not help my Master?” Zannah asked, not even bothering to put a threat into her voice.

“There is nothing you can do to compel me this time,” he replied, and she sensed a deep satisfaction in his tone. She realized he had been preparing for this day for over ten years.

“The war between the Jedi and Sith is over,” Zannah told him. “My Master is no longer a soldier. He is just an ordinary man who needs your help.”

The man smiled again, flashing his teeth in a feral grin. “Your Master will never be ordinary. Though soon enough he will be dead.”

One glance down at the man’s hand, permanently scarred by the burns he had given himself plunging it into the boiling soup, made Zannah dismiss any ideas of using torture to change his mind. And she knew that any attempt to dominate his mind with the Force would fail; his will was too strong for her to bend it to her needs.

“I can give you credits. You’ll be richer than you can possibly imagine.”

He waved his hands around at the austere little shack. “What use are credits to a man like me?”

“What about your daughter?” Zannah countered. “Think of how much easier her life could be.”

“Even if I wanted to let my child take your blood payment, I could never find a way to get it to her. For her own protection, I insisted she change her name when she left this world. I do not know what she is called now; I do not know where she has gone.”

Zannah chewed her lip, then tried something desperate.

“If you do not help my Master I will hunt your daughter down. I will find her, torture her, and kill her,” she vowed, carefully hitting each word for emphasis. “But first I will make her watch as I torture and kill every other person she cares about.”

Caleb smirked, amused at her empty threat. “Go, then. Seek her out and leave me alone. We both know you will never find her.”

Again, he had her. With no name and not even a physical description, it would be impossible to track down one woman who could be on any of a million Republic worlds.

Scowling, Zannah glanced once more down at his scarred hand. It stood as mute testament to the fact she couldn’t break him through raw physical pain, no matter how brutal. But with no other options left, she decided to try anyway.

She reached out with the Force and picked Caleb up. His feet dangled only a few centimeters off the floor, yet his head brushed against the shack’s low, slanted roof. She began to squeeze, applying pressure directly to his internal organs, slowly crushing them as she inflicted an agonizing pain few beings had ever experienced. She was careful to leave his lungs alone, however—allowing him enough air to breath and speak.

“You know how to make this end,” she said coldly. “Say you will heal my Master.”

He grunted and gasped in pain, but shook his head.

“Zannah! What are you doing?”

Darovit had come into the shack, curious as to what was taking her so long. Now he stood in the doorway, staring in horror at the scene.

“Stop it!” he shouted at her. “You’re killing him! Put him down!”

With a sharp growl of frustration she released her grip, letting Caleb fall to the floor. Darovit rushed to his side to see if he was okay, but the older man shook his head and waved him away. He rose to his hands and knees, then settled back onto his heels, his hands resting on his thighs as he took slow, deep breaths.

Darovit turned on her. “What did you do that for?” he demanded angrily.

“He refused to help us,” she said, her voice more defensive than she meant it to be.

“I will not release that monster on the galaxy a second time,” Caleb declared, his teeth still clenched against the lingering effects of Zannah’s torture. “There is nothing you can do to make me save him.”

Zannah dropped to one knee beside him. “I can use my powers to conjure up your worst nightmares and bring them to life before your eyes,” she whispered. “I can drive you mad with fear, shred your sanity, and leave you a raving lunatic for the rest of your life.”

Darovit just stared at her, shocked by her words. Caleb only smiled his infuriating smile.

“If you do,” the healer calmly replied, “your Master will still die.”

Zannah chewed her lip, glaring at him. Then she leapt to her feet and stormed out of the cabin, leaving Darovit and Caleb alone.

23

Fuming, Zannah stomped her way across the sand between Caleb’s shack and the edge of the camp, where her Master lay on the hover gurney.

She checked the monitor attached to the gurney’s side, getting a reading of his vitals. He was still alive, but fading fast. Soon he would be gone, taking all his knowledge and secrets with him.

She was standing over the gurney when Darovit emerged from the shack several minutes later. He crossed the camp to stand beside her, gazing down at Bane.

“When he goes,” he said, offering his cousin words of condolence, “at least he’ll go peacefully.”

“Peace is a lie!” Zannah snarled back. “It doesn’t matter if you die in your sleep or on the battlefield, dead is still dead.”

“At least he’s not feeling any pain,” Darovit replied, tossing out another meaningless platitude.

“If you feel pain,” she answered, “it means you’re still alive. Give me pain over peace any day.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say that, Zannah,” Darovit said sadly, shaking his head. “Can’t you see what he’s made you become?”

He made me become a Sith, she thought. Out loud she said, “He made me strong. He gave me power.”

“Is that all you care about now, Zannah? Power?”

“Through power I gain victory, and through victory my chains are broken.”

“Power doesn’t always bring victory,” Darovit countered. “Even with all the power you have, you couldn’t make Caleb help you.”

Bane would have found a way, she thought bitterly, but didn’t say anything.

“I understand what happened to you,” her cousin said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You were just a kid. Scared. Alone. Bane found you and took you in. I understand your loyalty to him. I understand why you care about him.”

Zannah shook his hand off and turned to stare at him with an expression of wide-eyed disbelief. “I’m a Sith. I don’t care about anyone but myself.”

“You care about me.”

Zannah didn’t reply, refusing to be drawn again into the same argument they’d had on the way to Tython.

“You don’t want to admit it,” Darovit pressed, “but I know you care about me. And about your Master, too. Your actions prove that, no matter what you say. But Caleb’s right, you know. Bane’s a monster; we can’t let him go free.

“But he doesn’t necessarily have to die,” he added.

“What do you mean?” Zannah said, suddenly wary.

“I spoke with Caleb. He thinks you’re a monster, too. But he doesn’t know you like I do. You’re not a monster, Zannah … but you’ll become one if you let anger and hate rule your life.”

“Now you sound like the Jedi,” she said carefully. Darovit was clearly up to something, but she couldn’t figure out what it was.

“I’m starting to realize they’re better than the alternative,” he admitted. “I know what’s going to happen, Zannah. If Bane dies, you’ll kill Caleb.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Probably.” There was no point in lying.

“You’re balanced on the precipice,” her cousin warned her, his voice suddenly urgent and intense. “You can still turn back from this life, Zannah. But if Bane dies, I know your desire to avenge him will drive you to murder Caleb. And I’m afraid your Master’s death will push you over the edge. It’ll turn you into him.

“I don’t want you to turn into him,” he added more softly, nodding down at Bane’s motionless form on the gurney. “I have to save you from yourself. I had to find some way to stop you from killing Caleb. So I convinced him to heal Bane. It’s the only way to make you turn away from the teachings of the Sith.”

“That … that makes no sense,” Zannah said, her mind reeling as she tried to wrap her head around his logic. “If Bane lives he’ll never let me abandon my studies.” And why would I even want to? she added silently.

“Before Caleb will help,” her cousin explained, “you have to dispatch one of the Loranda’s message drones. You have to tell the Jedi where we are so they can come and arrest Bane.”

“What?” Zannah shouted, taking a half step away from him. “That’s crazy!”

“No, it’s not!” he said, grabbing her by the arm with his good hand and pulling her back to face him. “Please, Zannah, just listen to me. If you send that message to the Jedi and hand Bane over to them, it will prove you’re turning your back on the ways of the Sith. It will show you want to make up for all the pain and suffering you’ve caused.

“And it’s the only way Caleb will agree to heal him,” he added a second later, letting go of her arm.

“You saw what Bane can do,” she said. “What’s to stop him from killing the Jedi when they get here?”

“The orbalisk toxin is melting Bane’s body from the inside. Even with Caleb’s help it will be weeks, maybe months, before he can even get out of bed.”

“So what’s to stop me from just taking Bane away as soon as he’s healed?”

“Your greatest weapon is secrecy. The Jedi think your Order is extinct. They won’t waste their time chasing shadows every time someone whispers the word Sith. That’s the only reason you’ve been able to survive so far.

“But once you send off the message drone, everything changes. They’ll know the Sith still exist. They’ll have the proof they need to drive them to action. Every Jedi Knight and Jedi Master across a million worlds will be searching for you. The Sith won’t be able to hide anymore.”

Zannah knew he was right. It was the very reason Bane had worked so hard to keep their existence nothing more than an unfounded rumor.

“Besides,” Darovit added, “Caleb won’t do anything unless we disable the ship first. If you try to run, you’ll have to drag Bane out into the desert on foot. Even if he survived the trip, you wouldn’t get very far before the Jedi arrived.”

“Sounds like the healer doesn’t trust me,” Zannah mumbled darkly.

“You did almost kill him,” her cousin pointed out.

“If I hand him over to the Jedi,” she wondered aloud, “what happens to me?”

“I don’t know,” the young man admitted. “The Jedi might arrest you, too. But I’m hoping they’ll recognize your actions as a turning point in your life. Maybe they’ll see it as an attempt to make amends.

“Maybe they’ll even take you in,” he suggested. “I’ve heard the Jedi believe in the power of redemption. And, like I said, it’s better than the alternative.”

“What about you?” she asked. “What will you do?”

“I won’t be part of this if you choose to kill Caleb and let Bane die,” he told her. “But I don’t think you will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’ve told you, Zannah—we share a bond. I can tell what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. You’re afraid of being alone … but you’re not alone. Not anymore.

“You’ll make the right choice. And when you do, I’ll be there for you.”

She weighed the offer carefully, chewing on her lip so hard her teeth drew blood. If she refused, Bane was dead and she’d have to continue the Sith Order on her own. Kill Caleb, find an apprentice … probably kill Darovit, too. If she agreed, she had to betray her Master to the Jedi, which would mark the end of the Sith and the first step in her long road of redemption and atonement.

“Bane’s time is running out,” her cousin prodded. “You have to decide.”

The two paths loomed large before her: alone into the darkness, or into the light with Darovit at her side. She spun the problem over and over in her mind until, finally, the answer came to her.

“Tell Caleb I agree to his demands.”

Bane opened his eyes slowly; his lids felt heavy, weighed down as if they were lined with metal filings. He could feel them brushing over his pupils, rubbing like sandpaper as he blinked against the harsh light streaming down on him. The brightness made him squint again as he tried to sit up.

His body refused to move. Legs, arms, and torso ignored the impulses from his brain to rise. Even his head couldn’t budge. There was sensation in his extremities: He could tell he was lying on his back, and he could feel the rough grain of a burlap sheet or a coarsely woven cloth against his skin. But he was paralyzed, unable to move.

He let his eyes flicker open once more, and the brightness began to fade as his pupils gradually contracted. He was staring up at a low, sloping ceiling of simple wooden planks. A ray of sunlight beamed through a narrow crack in the wood, shining directly on his face.

Groaning he managed to turn his head to the side so the light no longer hit his eyes. The change of angle also gave him a better view of the room he was in: small, plain, and strangely familiar. Before he could match the setting to any of his memories, a figure stepped into his line of sight.

From the fact that he was staring directly into a pair of worn leather boots, Bane deduced that he was lying on the floor. The figure stood over him for a moment, then crouched down to look him in the eye.

The face—ten years older, but unmistakable—jogged the Dark Lord’s memory. He had lain on this very floor over a decade earlier on the border between life and death, even as he lay now.

Caleb, he tried to say, but the only sound that came out was a soft groan. Like the rest of his body, his lips, tongue, and jaw refused to move. Bane tried to call upon the power of the dark side to grant him strength, but his will was as weak and helpless as the rest of him.

“He’s awake,” Caleb called out loudly, never taking his eyes off his patient.

From outside Bane heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He tried to speak again, pouring all his strength into a single word.

“Caleb.”

His voice was a faint whisper, but this time the word was clear. The healer didn’t bother to respond. Instead he stood up, leaving Bane staring at his boots once more. Bane heard the dull thud of running footsteps on the sand outside change to the sharp clack of boot heels on the shack’s wooden floor.

“Let me see him!”

He recognized the voice of his apprentice, and his mind slowly began to reassemble the pieces of what had happened. He remembered the battle with the Jedi on Tython; he remembered unleashing a storm of Force lightning at the last of his foes. He remembered the kriffing shield the Ithorian Master had thrown up around him. After that, all his memories were of unbearable pain.

Somehow the Jedi’s barrier had trapped Bane inside the center of the dark side storm. The electricity had enveloped him, millions of volts arcing through his body, cooking his flesh from the inside and throwing his muscles into an endless series of violent seizures that threatened to rip his body apart.

The energy had coursed through the orbalisks embedded in his skin, too. The creatures absorbed the power, hungrily devouring it until they became so engorged that the soft, pliant flesh of their underbellies had begun to swell. Squeezed ever tighter against the unyielding chitin of their own exterior shells, they’d begun to burrow deeper into Bane. He remembered screaming as thousands of tiny teeth started sawing away at subcutaneous tissue, chewing through muscles, tendons, and even bone.

But burrowing deeper hadn’t stopped the creatures from feasting on the electricity coursing through Bane’s frying innards. They’d continued to expand until they had begun to pop, rupturing like overfilled balloons pinched beneath the hard shells.

Bane had stayed conscious through the torture of the electricity cooking him alive and the agony of the teeth burrowing into his flesh. But the indescribable pain from the chemicals released by the exploding orbalisks dissolving his body on a cellular level finally caused him to black out … only to wake up here.

A pair of boots stepped in beside Caleb’s: the smaller feet of a woman, most likely Zannah.

“He’s trying to speak,” Caleb said from up above Bane’s line of sight.

He tried to tilt his head again, this time managing to look up toward the pair standing over him. Zannah noticed and crouched down to raise his head and shoulders. She slid a makeshift pillow formed by her balled-up cloak underneath his neck to support him. He felt her long, thin fingers on his back as she did so.

The contact brought a realization crashing down on Bane—the orbalisks were gone! That was why he had felt the coarse blankets against his bare skin. That was why he could feel Zannah’s fingers pressing against his flesh.

“Orbalisks?” he managed to gasp.

“We had to remove them,” his apprentice informed him. “They were killing you.”

Bane felt the world going dim again, his body exhausted by the two words he had spoken. As he lost consciousness, he felt a pang of regret for what he had lost.

To Zannah’s untrained eye, her Master looked much stronger when he opened his eyes again two days later. This time he was able to turn his head slowly from side to side, taking in the surroundings of Caleb’s home and the nearby presence of his apprentice.

“What happened?” he asked.

The words were faint, his voice still raw and ragged.

“Caleb healed you,” she told him, adjusting the pillow she had taken from the Loranda and placed under his head and shoulders to prop him up. “He saved your life.”

Four days ago such a statement would have been hard to imagine. Caleb had watched Zannah program the message drone and send it off to the Jedi, then warned her there was a strong chance Bane wouldn’t survive the treatment.

She’d thought at first it might be a ploy, an excuse Caleb was giving to cover up his actions if he decided to let her Master die … or simply killed him. So she’d kept a close eye on the healer during Bane’s treatment. Even though she knew there were a hundred ways he could end Bane’s life without her having any clue as to what he was doing, Zannah hoped her presence might dissuade him from trying anything underhanded.

Now she realized how pointless her vigil had been. Caleb was a man of his word; he was burdened and bound by foolish notions like honor. He had promised to help Bane as long as she alerted the Jedi, and since she had held up her end of the bargain, he had made every effort to do the same.

Zannah had originally suggested moving Bane back to the Loranda’s medical bay for the treatments, but Caleb had refused. He’d claimed the powerful energies coursing through the land around his camp gave strength to his medicine. Darovit had agreed, and Zannah, having felt the power of the place herself, had relented.

The healer had started by forcing a foul-smelling liquid he had concocted in his cooking pot down Bane’s throat to counter the effects of the orbalisk toxins. Darovit had warned her that the poison was killing Bane, eating away at his body. But it was only when they began to peel away the orbalisks, beginning with the charred shells of those that had died, that Zannah understood the full scope of how badly her Master had suffered.

What lay beneath could no longer be called skin; it couldn’t even be properly called flesh. A pulpy mass of green and black ichors released by the parasitic organisms mixed with oozing white pus and bloody red tissue from Bane’s own body. Looking at the damage it was obvious, even to someone like Zannah, with no medical expertise, that the only thing keeping Bane alive was his power in the Force. His wounds gave off the gangrenous odor of spoiled meat, and it was all she could do not to vomit.

The next step involved removing the still-living orbalisks. The key, as Zannah had suspected, was electricity. Caleb had brewed a sticky, highly conductive gel over his fire, then used it to coat the exterior shell of each orbalisk. Next he took a long, thin needle attached to a power cell salvaged from the Loranda and inserted it into a tiny hole at the very tip of the orbalisk’s plated skull. The needle pierced the soft body underneath, discharging a powerful electrical jolt to stun the creature.

This caused the orbalisk to release a small burst of solvent chemicals that weakened the powerful adhesive the creature used to bond itself to the host. With the adhesive bond weakened, the creature could be manually pried loose. The still-stunned parasites were then tossed into a large, water-filled tank hooked up to one of the Loranda’s power cells and killed with a final dose of electricity. The process had to be carefully repeated for each individual in the colony that had sprouted over Bane’s body, and even with both Darovit and Caleb working on him the procedure had taken several hours.

The flesh beneath the living orbalisks was pale and ragged, with deep, weeping sores where it had been constantly chewed and gnawed by the parasites’ tiny teeth. The wounds looked minor when compared with the grisly mess beneath the dead shells.

Once Bane was cleansed of the infestation, Caleb had rubbed a salve over his entire body and wrapped him head-to-toe in bandages. The dressings had been changed every four hours for the first two days, the salve reapplied each time.

Zannah was impressed with Caleb’s skill. Bane had been little more than a mass of dead and infected tissue when the healer had begun, and by the time the bandages came off for good Bane’s ravaged body had been reborn. His skin was now a bright pink, unusually supple and extremely sensitive, though over the coming weeks she’d been told it would slowly return to a more normal color and texture.

“Caleb saved me?” Bane muttered softly. “How did you convince him?”

Zannah hesitated, not sure what to tell him. Darovit and Caleb were just outside the door; they could walk in at any moment. But even if they caught her telling Bane about the message drone, why would they care? The deed was done. Her Master was still too weak to stand, and by now the Jedi were probably less than a day away from Ambria.

“We had to tell the Jedi you were here. I sent a message telling them a Sith Lord had killed five Jedi on Tython. I told them you were with Caleb on Ambria, injured and helpless. They’re coming for you.”

Anger flashed through Bane’s eyes and he tried to sit up, but only managed to raise his head a few centimeters off the pillow before falling back. Realizing he was helpless, her Master stared at her with accusing eyes.

“You exposed me,” he said. “You betrayed me.”

“I had to keep you alive,” she explained, falling back on the argument she had used to make her final decision. “You still have so much to teach me.”

“How can that happen now?” he demanded angrily. “The Jedi will never allow it.”

Zannah didn’t have an answer she could give him. Bane closed his eyes, though whether in defeat or thought she couldn’t say. She could just make out Darovit and Caleb talking in low voices outside by the fire.

Bane’s eyes opened a few seconds later, burning with a fierce intensity.

“Darth Zannah, you are my apprentice. The heir to my legacy. You can still claim the destiny that is yours by right. You can still ascend to the rank of Sith Master.”

He was speaking louder now, his strength slowly returning. Zannah wondered if the men outside could hear him.

“Take your lightsaber and strike me down! Claim my title as your own. Slay the others and flee this place before the Jedi arrive. Seek out a new apprentice. Keep our Order alive.”

Zannah shook her head. Caleb had already considered that possibility, and effectively eliminated it. “Our ship is disabled, and the Jedi will be here in a matter of hours. Even if I flee into the desert, they will find me before I can escape this world.”

“I never thought you would fail me so utterly,” Bane told her, turning his head away from her in disgust. “I never thought you would be the one to destroy the Sith.”

She didn’t say anything in her defense, and a few seconds later Bane turned back to face her once more, casting his eyes to the lightsaber on her belt.

“I don’t want to live as a prisoner to the Jedi,” he said, his voice low, as if he now knew there were others who might overhear. “You can end this before they arrive.”

Zannah shook her head. She hadn’t gone to all the trouble of saving her Master’s life just to kill him now. “While you live there is still hope, Bane,” she said quietly, worried what Darovit or Caleb would think if they heard her words. Yet she had to offer some type of reassurance to her Master. “The Sith may yet rise again.”

Bane shook his head, though it took a monumental effort. “The Jedi will never allow me to escape. They will sense my power, and keep me under the constant guard of a dozen Jedi Knights until the Senate decides to execute me for my crimes. Kill me now and deny them their justice.”

Zannah had spent the past two days by Bane’s side, waiting for him to wake again. It had been clear he would live, but she’d wanted to speak with her Master to be certain his mind was still intact. She’d wanted proof that all his faculties—his intelligence, his cunning—had survived his ordeal. She had it now, ironically expressed in his desire to die.

“A Sith never surrenders, Master,” she told him.

“And only a fool fights a battle that cannot possibly be won,” he answered sharply. “The Jedi will be here soon. Act now. Strike me down!”

She shook her head. Her Master tried to rise, his fury giving him the strength to sit halfway up. And then he collapsed back onto the pillow, utterly exhausted.

As her Master slipped once more into unconsciousness, Zannah realized he was right. The Jedi were coming, and if she didn’t act now it would be too late. She stood up and drew her lightsaber, knowing the hum of its blade would alert the two men outside. She didn’t care. By the time they realized what she was doing it would be too late.

24

The Light of Truth, one of the many Jedi cruisers that had been incorporated into the Republic fleet after the Ruusan Reformations, landed with a soft thump on Ambria’s desolate surface.

“Be ready for anything,” Master Tho’natu warned his team as they prepared to disembark.

Back before he achieved the rank of Master, the Twi’lek had served as a Jedi Knight in the Army of Light on Ruusan. He had been assigned to Farfalla’s ship, luckily in time to avoid the effects of the thought bomb, but not before he’d had ample opportunity on Ruusan to witness first-hand the kind of atrocities the Sith were capable of. He wasn’t about to take any chances here.

They’d been dispatched in response to a message drone that had arrived on Coruscant a few days before. The anonymous message inside had been cryptically short, and somewhat disquieting in its lack of detail. It contained only a set of landing coordinates and four brief lines of text.

A Sith Lord still lives. He killed five Jedi on Tython. He is now on Ambria, under the care of a healer named Caleb. He is badly injured and helpless.

Less than two weeks ago Master Farfalla and four companions had hastily taken off from Coruscant, leaving behind word they were heading to Tython in pursuit of a Dark Lord of the Sith. They hadn’t been heard from since. The message drone offered a grim explanation of their fate, and it drew an immediate response from the Jedi Council.

They’d quickly assembled a team of fourteen Jedi, six Masters and eight Jedi Knights, and sent them to Ambria under Tho’natu’s command to apprehend the man responsible for the massacre of Master Farfalla and his companions. The journey had been made with all possible haste, but now that they were here they intended to proceed with caution, wary of walking into a trap.

The landing coordinates had set them down a few hundred meters from a small wooden hut and a tiny campfire. A cruiser with the name LORANDA emblazoned on its side was parked nearby.

The landing bay doors opened, and Tho’natu and the others leapt to the ground, ready to draw their lightsabers at the first sign of trouble. The air around them trembled with a strange and unfamiliar sensation of power, though beneath was the unmistakable taint of the dark side.

“First and second units, go check out that ship,” he said. “Third unit explores the camp with me.”

Nine Jedi rushed off toward the Loranda, while Tho’natu and the others approached the camp. What they saw as they drew nearer filled them with revulsion: Someone had been literally chopped to pieces.

Eviscerated chunks of human anatomy littered the ground around the campfire. Arms had been hewn off at the shoulder, then sliced again at the elbows and wrist. The same had been done to the lower limbs, dismembered into feet, legs, and thighs. Even the torso had been carved into quarters. The clean, cauterized cuts left no doubt the butcher’s weapon of choice had been a lightsaber.

Only the head remained whole, placed like a trophy atop an upside-down cooking pot resting on the ground. A human male with long, black hair, he appeared to have been forty or fifty years of age. His features were twisted in a gruesome mask of pain and terror; Tho’natu wondered how many of the wounds had been inflicted while he was still alive.

“What kind of madness could make someone do this?” one of the others asked, but Master Tho’natu had no answer.

At a nod from their commander, the Jedi ignited their weapons. They crept toward the small shack, their commander in the lead. As a unit, they stopped when he heard a soft sound coming from inside the building: hard ragged breaths broken by trembling sobs and whimpers of fear.

A tattered blanket hung down across the building’s open doorway, obscuring their view. The Twi’lek reached out with the Force to try to sense whoever was hiding inside, but something—likely the strange, underlying power of the campsite itself—blurred his awareness.

“I am Master Tho’natu of the Jedi,” he called out, flicking off his lightsaber’s blade. “We’re here to help you.”

A scream of incoherent rage erupted from the shack. A young man burst from the doorway, brandishing a golden lightsaber above his head in his left hand. His right hand was nothing but a stump, and there was a crazed gleam in his eye.

“No!” he shrieked as he charged at them, flailing wildly with his weapon. “You’ll never get me! No! No! No!”

Master Tho’natu ignited his blade as the man fell on him with the fury of madness, his cries turning to mindless, beastly howls. The rest of his team reacted on instinct, leaping to their commander’s defense. The battle lasted less than three seconds, the raving young man cut down by a swarm of Jedi lightsabers.

When it was over, the Jedi took up defensive positions facing the shack, weapons poised as they braced themselves for another potential attack. For several seconds nothing happened, and there were no further sounds of life from inside. Motioning for the others to stay back, Tho’natu crept forward and pulled aside the blanket covering the doorway.

The room beyond was empty except for five lightsaber handles lying beside the door. The Jedi Master stepped inside the small building, his keen mind quickly piecing together what must have happened.

He recalled that Farfalla had used a golden blade, just like the one the man had attacked them with. The lightsabers here were trophies, taken from those who had died on Tython by their killer. The man outside was young, but the Jedi were taught that the dark side led to quick and easy power—power enough to kill Farfalla and the others, especially if they’d been led into some type of trap. The Sith had slain the Jedi and claimed their weapons, though he must have suffered grievous injuries in the battle, including the loss of his hand.

He had probably tried to call on the power of the dark side to heal himself. But the Jedi Master knew the dark side couldn’t heal; it only caused harm. The misguided attempt was likely what damaged the young man’s mind. Wounded and half mad, he had come to Ambria to seek aid from the healer. By the time he arrived at this place he would have been near death, and completely helpless.

That’s when Caleb must have dispatched the message drone to warn the Jedi.

A Sith Lord still lives. He killed five Jedi on Tython. He is now on Ambria, under the care of a healer named Caleb. He is badly injured and helpless.

He must have sensed who and what the young man was as he healed his horrific injuries. But Caleb had underestimated the Sith Lord’s power—and the degenerating state of his madness. Before the Jedi could arrive, the Sith had recovered enough to torture and kill Caleb for exposing him. The healer’s prolonged and visceral death must have further fueled the young man’s psychosis, reducing him to the raving creature that had lunged at them from the hut.

All the pieces fit. It all made sense.

“Master,” one of the other Jedi said, peeking in through the door. “The rest of the camp is deserted.”

“What about the ship? The Loranda?”

“Nobody on board,” he reported. “It looks like somebody sabotaged her before we got here.”

Probably Caleb, Tho’natu realized. He wanted to make sure the Sith couldn’t escape. If the young man had found out, that could explain the brutality of Caleb’s death.

“It would probably only take two or three days to make the repairs,” the Jedi informed him.

“Leave it for the junkers,” the Twi’lek said with a shake of his head. There were only two things he wanted to bring back from this accursed place. “Collect the healer’s remains. We’ll give him a proper burial on Coruscant.”

The man nodded and scurried off to relay his orders.

Master Tho’natu bent over and gathered up the lightsabers of his fallen comrades from Tython, so they could be given a place of honor in the Temple. The loss of Farfalla and his companions was a terrible tragedy, as was what had happened here. But at least he could go back to the Jedi Council and tell them with absolute certainty that the last of the Sith Lords had died on Ambria.

He exited the small shack and headed back to his ship, knowing that the memories of the gruesome massacre on Ambria would haunt him for the rest of his life. He never thought to examine the small sleeping mat in the corner. He never noticed the trapdoor built into the floor beneath it. And he never sensed the apprentice and her unconscious Master, masked by Sith sorcery, hiding silently in the cellar just below his feet.

EPILOGUE

It took Zannah three days to make the repairs to the Loranda. She’d loaded Bane into the ship and hooked him up to the bacta pump so he could continue to recuperate while she worked, sedating him to accelerate the healing process. Now that their vessel was ready to leave Ambria, she went in to check on her Master one last time.

He was still unconscious, lying on his back on the gurney as she had left him. She stepped forward to check his vitals and his eyes flew open, burning with rage. His hand snapped out and seized her wrist, clenching it with the strength of an iron claw.

“Where are the Jedi?” he asked in a fierce whisper, fixing her with a look of pure hatred as he lifted himself up onto one elbow. His grip on her wrist tightened, making her wince.

“They’re gone,” she said, trying to stay calm. “They’ve gone back to Coruscant.”

She could feel Bane’s power—whole once more—coursing through his veins. She could feel the heat of his anger, and she knew one wrong word and he’d snap her neck in two with the Force.

“Why?” he growled.

“They think they killed the Dark Lord on Ambria,” she replied. “They think the Sith are extinct.”

Bane tilted his head to the side, curious. “Caleb?”

“I killed him.”

“Your cousin?

“Dead. Killed by the Jedi.”

An unwanted vision of the pitiful creature she had turned Darovit into flashed through her mind. She remembered him huddled in the corner, quivering in terror. He clutched the handle of a lightsaber against his chest, his only defense against the horrors and nightmares he saw crawling toward him from every corner. She swept the memory away with a quick shake of her head.

Bane released his hold and lay back in his bed, his anger fading.

“You have done well, Zannah,” he said, his ever-cunning mind filling in the blanks enough for him to surmise what she had done. She smiled at the compliment.

“I underestimated you,” he continued. “Had I known your plans, I would never have asked you to kill me.”

“You still have much to teach me,” Zannah reminded him. “I will continue to study at your feet, Master. I will learn from your wisdom. I will discover your secrets, unlocking them one by one until everything you know—all your knowledge and all your power—is mine. And once you are no longer of use to me, I will destroy you.”

Bane raised an eyebrow at her words, and she could tell he approved. Her ambition was good; it would give her power. Her talents and abilities would continue to grow. In time, she would challenge her Master for the right to rule, and only the stronger would survive. It was inevitable. It was the way of the Sith.

“One day I will surpass you,” Zannah warned him. “And on that day I will kill you, Lord Bane. But that day is not today.”

Star Wars: Darth Bane: Dynasty of Evil is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

2010 Del Rey Mass Market Edition

Copyright © 2009 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated.

All Rights Reserved. Used Under Authorization.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 2007.

eISBN: 978-0-307-79606-6
www.starwars.com
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v3.1

Contents

Master - Table of Contents

Darth Bane: Dynasty of Evil

Title Page

Copyright

Dramatis Personae

Prologue

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27

Epilogue

Dedication

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by This Author

Introduction to the Star Wars Expanded Universe

Excerpt from Star Wars: The Old Republic: Deceived

Introduction to the Old Republic Era

Excerpt from Star Wars: Red Harvest

Introduction to the Rise of the Empire Era

Excerpt from Star Wars: Dark Lord: The Rise of Darth Vader

Introduction to the Rebellion Era

Excerpt from Star Wars: Death Star

Introduction to the New Republic Era

Excerpt from Star Wars: X-Wing: Rogue Squadron

Introduction to the New Jedi Order Era

Excerpt from Star Wars: The New Jedi Order: Vector Prime

Introduction to the Legacy Era

Excerpt from Star Wars: Legacy of the Force: Betrayal

Excerpt from Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Outcast

Star Wars Novels Timeline

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Darth Bane; Dark Lord of the Sith (human male)

Darth Zannah; Sith apprentice (human female)

The Huntress; assassin (Iktotchi female)

Lucia; bodyguard (human female)

Serra; princess (human female)

Set Harth; Dark Jedi (human male)

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away …

PROLOGUE

Darth Bane, the reigning Dark Lord of the Sith, kicked the covers from his bed and swung his feet over the edge, resting them on the cold marble floor. He tilted his head from side to side, straining to work out the knots in his heavily muscled neck and shoulders.

He finally rose with an audible grunt. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, reaching his arms up high above his head as he stretched to his full two-meter height. He could feel the sharp pop-pop-pop of each individual vertebra along his spine loosening as he extended himself until his fingertips brushed against the ceiling.

Satisfied, he lowered his arms and scooped up his lightsaber from the ornate nightstand at the side of the bed. The curved handle felt reassuring in his grip. Familiar. Solid. Yet holding it couldn’t stop his free hand from trembling ever so slightly. Scowling, he clenched his left hand into a fist, the fingers digging into the flesh of his palm—a crude but effective way to tame the tremor.

Moving silently, he slipped from the bedchamber out into the hallways of the mansion he now called home. Luminous tapestries covered the walls and colorful, handwoven rugs lined the corridors as he made his way past room after room, each decorated with custom-made furniture, rare objets d’art, and other unmistakable signs of wealth. It took him almost a full minute to traverse the length of the building and reach the back door that led out to the open-air grounds surrounding his estate.

Barefoot and naked from the waist up, he shivered and glanced down at the abstract mosaic of the stone courtyard illuminated in the light of Ciutric IV’s twin moons. Goose bumps crawled across his flesh, but he ignored the night’s chill as he ignited his lightsaber and began to practice the aggressive forms of Djem So.

His muscles groaned in protest, his joints clicking and grinding as he moved carefully through a variety of sequences. Slash. Feint. Thrust. The soles of his feet slapped softly against the surface of the courtyard stones, a sporadic rhythm marking the progress of every advance and retreat against his imaginary opponent.

The last vestiges of sleep and fatigue clung stubbornly to his body, spurring the tiny voice inside that urged him to abandon his training and return to the comfort of his bed. Bane drowned it out by silently reciting the opening line of the Sith Code: Peace is a lie; there is only passion.

Ten standard years had passed since he had lost his orbalisk armor. Ten years since his body had been burned almost beyond recognition by the devastating power of Force lightning unleashed from his own hand. Ten years since the healer Caleb had brought him back from the brink of death and Zannah, his apprentice, had slaughtered Caleb and the Jedi who had come to find them.

Thanks to Zannah’s manipulations, the Jedi now believed the Sith to be extinct. Bane and his apprentice had spent the decade since those events perpetuating that myth: living in the shadows, gathering resources, and harboring their strength for the day they would strike back against the Jedi. On that glorious day the Sith would reveal themselves, even as they wiped their enemies from existence.

Bane knew he might never live to see that day. He was in his midforties now, and the first faint scars of time and age had begun to leave their marks on his body. Yet he had dedicated himself to the idea that one day, even if it took centuries, the Sith—his Sith—would rule the galaxy.

As he continued to ignore the aches and pains that inevitably accompanied the first half of his nightly regime, Bane’s movements began to pick up speed. The air hissed and crackled as it was split time and time again by the crimson blade that had become an extension of his indomitable will.

He still cut an imposing figure. The powerful muscles built up during a youth spent working the mines on Apatros rippled beneath his skin, flexing with each slash and strike of his lightsaber. But a tiny sliver of the brute strength he once possessed had been whittled away.

He leapt high in the air, his lightsaber arcing above his head before chopping straight down in a blow powerful enough to cleave an enemy in two. His feet hit the hard surface of the courtyard stones with a sharp, sudden smack as he landed. Bane still moved with fierce grace and terrifying intensity. His lightsaber still flickered with blinding speed as he performed his martial drills, yet it was the merest fraction slower than it had once been.

The aging process was subtle, but inescapable. Bane accepted this; what he lost in strength and speed he could easily compensate for with wisdom, knowledge, and experience. But it was not age that was to blame for the involuntary tremor that sometimes afflicted his left hand.

A shadow passed over one of the twin moons; a dark cloud heavy with the threat of a fierce storm. Bane paused, briefly considering cutting his ritual short to avoid the impending downpour. But his muscles were warm now, and the blood was pumping furiously through his veins. The minor aches and pains were gone, banished by the adrenaline rush of intense physical training. Now was no time to quit.

Feeling a blast of cold wind blow in, he crouched low and opened himself up to the Force, letting it flow through him. Drawing on it to extend his awareness out to encompass each individual bead of rain as it fell from the sky, he resolved not to let a single drop touch his exposed flesh.

He could sense the power of the dark side building inside him. It began, as it always did, with a faint spark, a tiny flicker of light and heat. Muscles tense and coiled in anticipation, he fed the spark, fueling it with his own passion, letting his anger and fury transform the flame into an inferno waiting to be unleashed.

As the first fat drops splattered onto the patio stones around him, Bane exploded into action. Abandoning the overpowering style of Djem So, he shifted to the quicker sequences of Soresu, his lightsaber tracing tight circles above his head in a series of movements designed to intercept enemy blaster bolts.

The wind rose to a howling gale, and the scattered drops quickly became a downpour. His body and mind united as one, he channeled the infinite power of the Force against the driving rain. Tiny clouds of hissing steam formed as his blade picked off the descending drops while Bane twisted, twirled, and contorted his body to evade those few that managed to slip through his defenses.

For the next ten minutes he battled the pelting storm, reveling in the power of the dark side. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the tempest was gone, the dark cloud scurrying away on the breeze. Breathing hard, Bane extinguished his lightsaber. His skin was sheened in sweat, but not a single drop of rain had touched his bare flesh.

Sudden storms were an almost nightly occurrence on Ciutric, particularly here in the lush forest on the outskirts of the capital city of Daplona. Yet this minor inconvenience was easily tolerated when set against all the advantages the planet had to offer.

Located on the Outer Rim, far from the seat of galactic power and far from the prying eyes of the Jedi Council, Ciutric had the good fortune to exist at the nexus of several hyperspace trading routes. Vessels stopped at the planet frequently, giving rise to a small but highly profitable industrial society centered on trade and shipping.

More important to Bane, the constant flow of visitors from regions scattered across the galaxy gave him easy access to contacts and information, allowing him to build up a network of informants and agents that he could personally oversee.

This would have been impossible had his body still been covered with the orbalisks—a host of chitinous parasites that fed upon his flesh in exchange for the strength and protection they afforded. His living armor had made him nearly invincible in one-on-one combat, yet its monstrous appearance had forced him to remain hidden from the eyes of the galaxy.

Back then, his plans to build up wealth, influence, and political power had been crippled by his physical deformity. Forced into a life of isolation lest the Jedi become aware of his existence, he had worked only through emissaries and go-betweens. He had relied on Zannah to be his eyes and ears. All the information he received was funneled through her; every goal and task was accomplished by her hand. As a result, Bane had been forced to act more cautiously, slowing his efforts and delaying his plans.

Things were different now. He was still a fearsome figure to behold, but no more so than any mercenary, bounty hunter, or retired soldier. Clad in the typical garb of their adopted homeworld, he was remarkable more for his height than anything else—noticeable, but hardly unique. He was able to mingle with the crowds, interact with those who possessed information, and forge relationships with valuable political allies.

He no longer had to remain hidden, for now he was able to conceal his true self behind an assumed identity. To this end, Bane had purchased a small estate a few minutes outside Daplona. Adopting the guise of siblings Sepp and Allia Omek, wealthy import–export merchants, he and Zannah had carefully cultivated their new identities in the planet’s influential social, political, and economic circles.

Their estate was close enough to the city to give them easy access to everything Ciutric had to offer, yet isolated enough to allow Zannah to continue her lessons in the ways of the Sith. Stagnation and complacency were the seeds that would lead to the ultimate destruction of the Jedi; as the Dark Lord, Bane had to be vigilant against allowing his own Order to fall into the same trap. It was necessary not just to train his apprentice, but also to continue to increase his own skills and knowledge.

A cool zephyr wafted across the courtyard, chilling Bane’s sweat-soaked body. His physical training was done for the evening; now it was time for the truly important work to begin.

A few dozen strides brought him to the small annex at the rear of the estate. The door was locked, sealed by a coded security system. Punching in the digits, he gently pushed the door open and stepped into the building that served as his private library.

The interior consisted of a single square room, five meters on each side, lit only by a single soft light hanging from the ceiling. The walls were lined by shelves overflowing with the scrolls, tomes, and manuscripts he had assembled over the years: the teachings of the ancient Sith. In the center of the room stood a large podium and a small pedestal. On the pedestal rested the Dark Lord’s greatest treasure: his Holocron.

A four-sided crystal pyramid small enough to be held in the palm, the Holocron contained the sum of all Bane’s knowledge and understanding. Everything he had learned about the ways of the dark side—all his teachings, all his philosophies—had been transferred into the Holocron, recorded for all eternity. It was his legacy, a way to share an entire lifetime of wisdom with those who would follow him in the line of Sith Masters.

The Holocron would pass to Zannah on his death, providing she could one day prove herself strong enough to wrest the mantle of Dark Lord away from him. Bane was no longer certain that day would come.

The Sith had existed in one form or another for thousands of years. Throughout their existence they had waged an endless war against the Jedi … and one another. Time and time again the followers of the dark side had been thwarted by their own rivalries and internal power struggles.

A common theme resonated across the long history of the Sith Order. Any great leader would inevitably be overthrown by an alliance of his or her followers. Lacking a strong leader the lesser Sith would quickly turn against one another, further weakening the Order.

Of all the Sith Masters, only Bane had understood the inescapable futility of this cycle. And only he had been strong enough to break it. Under his leadership the Sith had been reborn. Now they numbered only two—one Master and one apprentice; one to embody the power of the dark side, the other to crave it.

Thus would the Sith line always flow from the strongest, the one most worthy. Bane’s Rule of Two ensured that the power of both Master and apprentice would grow from generation to generation until the Sith were finally able to exterminate the Jedi and usher in a new galactic age.

That was why Bane had chosen Zannah as his apprentice: she had the potential to one day surpass even his own abilities. On that day she would usurp him as the Dark Lord of the Sith and choose an apprentice of her own. Bane would die, but the Sith would live on.

Or so he had once believed. Yet now there was doubt in his mind. Two decades had passed since he had plucked the ten-year-old girl from the battlefields of Ruusan, yet Zannah still seemed content merely to serve. She had embraced his lessons and had shown an incredible affinity for the Force. Over the years Bane had tracked her progress carefully, and he could no longer say with certainty which one of them would survive a confrontation between them. But her reluctance to challenge him had left her Master wondering if Zannah lacked the fierce ambition necessary to become the Dark Lord of the Sith.

Stepping into the library, he reached out with his left hand to close the door behind him. As he did so, he noticed the all-too-familiar trembling in his fingers. He snatched his hand back involuntarily, clenching it once more into a fist as he kicked the door shut.

Age was beginning to take its toll on Bane, but it was nothing compared with the toll already wrought upon his body by decades of drawing upon the dark side of the Force. He couldn’t help but smile at the grim irony: through the dark side he had access to near-infinite power, but it was power that came with a terrible cost. Flesh and bone lacked the strength to withstand the unfathomable energy unleashed by the Force. The unquenchable fire of the dark side was consuming him, devouring him bit by bit. After decades of focusing and channeling its power, his body was beginning to break down.

His condition was exacerbated by the lingering effects of the orbalisk armor that had been killing him even as it gifted him with incredible strength and speed.

The parasites had pushed his body well beyond its natural limits, aging him prematurely and intensifying the degeneration wrought by the power of the dark side. The orbalisks were gone now, but their damage could not be undone.

The first outward manifestations of his failing health had been subtle: his eyes had become sunken and drawn, his skin a touch more pale and pockmarked than was normal for his age. The last year, however, had seen more pronounced deterioration, culminating with the involuntary tremor that seized his left hand with increasing frequency.

And there was nothing he could do about it. The Jedi could draw upon the light side to heal injury and disease. But the dark side was a weapon; the sick and frail did not deserve to be cured. Only the strong were worthy of survival.

He had tried to conceal the tremor from his apprentice, but Zannah was too quick, too cunning, to have missed such an obvious mark of weakness in her Master.

Bane had expected the tremor to be the catalyst Zannah needed to challenge him. Yet even now, with his body showing undeniable evidence of his growing vulnerability, she seemed content to maintain the status quo. Whether she acted out of fear, indecision, or perhaps even compassion for her Master, Bane didn’t know—but none of these traits was acceptable in one chosen to carry on his legacy.

There was another potential explanation, of course—yet it was the most troubling of all. It was possible Zannah had noticed his deteriorating physical abilities and had simply decided to wait. In five years his body would be a ruined husk, and she could dispatch him with virtually no risk.

In most circumstances Bane would have admired this strategy, but in this case it flew in the face of the most fundamental tenet of the Rule of Two. An apprentice had to earn the title of Dark Lord, wresting it from the Master in a confrontation that pushed them both to the edge of their abilities. If Zannah intended to challenge him only after he was crippled by illness and infirmity, then she was unfit to be his heir. Yet Bane was not willing to initiate their confrontation himself. If he fell, the Sith would be ruled by a Master who did not accept or understand the key principle upon which the new Order had been founded. If he was victorious, he would be left without an apprentice, and his failing body would give out long before he could find and properly train another.

There was only one solution: Bane needed to find a way to extend his life. He had to find a way to restore and rejuvenate his body … or replace it. A year ago he would have thought such a thing to be impossible. Now he knew better.

From one of the shelves he took down a thick tome, its leather cover pockmarked, the pages yellow and cracked with age. Moving carefully, he set it down on the podium, opening it to the page he had marked the night before.

Like most of the volumes on the shelves of his library, this one had been purchased from a private collector. The galaxy might believe the Sith to be extinct, but the dark side still exerted an inexorable pull on the psyches of men and women across every species, and a black market of illegal Sith paraphernalia flourished among those with wealth and power.

The attempts of the Jedi to locate and confiscate anything that could be linked to the Sith had only succeeded in driving up the prices and forcing collectors to work through middlebeings to preserve their anonymity.

This suited Bane perfectly. He had been able to assemble and expand his library without fear of drawing attention to himself: he was just another Sith fetishist, another anonymous collector obsessed with the dark side, willing to spend a small fortune to possess banned manuscripts and artifacts.

Most of what he had acquired was of little use: amulets or other trinkets of negligible power; secondhand copies of histories he had memorized long ago during his studies on Korriban; incomplete works written in indecipherable, long-dead languages. But on occasion he had been lucky enough to come across a treasure of real value.

The worn, tattered book before him was one such treasure. One of his agents had purchased it several months earlier—an event too fortuitous to be attributed to chance. The Force worked in mysterious ways, and Bane believed the book had been meant to come into his possession—the answer to his problem.

Like most of his collection, it was a historical account of one of the ancient Sith. Most of the pages contained names, dates, and other information that had no practical use for Bane. However, there was a small section that made a brief reference to a man named Darth Andeddu. Andeddu, the account claimed, had lived for centuries, using the dark side of the Force to extend his life and maintain his body well beyond its natural span.

In the typical fashion of the Sith before Bane’s reformations, Andeddu’s reign came to a violent end when he was betrayed and overthrown by his own followers. Yet his Holocron, the repository of his greatest secrets—including the secret of near-eternal life—was never found.

That was all: less than two pages in total. In the brief passage there was no mention of where or when Andeddu had lived. No mention of what had become of his followers after he was overthrown. Yet the very lack of information was what made the piece so compelling.

Why were there so few details? Why had he not come across references to Darth Andeddu in all his previous years of study?

There was only one explanation that made any sense: The Jedi had managed to purge him from the galactic record. Over the centuries they had collected every datapad, holodisk, and written work that mentioned Darth Andeddu and spirited them away to the Jedi Archives, burying them forever in order to keep his secrets hidden.

But despite their efforts, this one reference in an old, forgotten, and otherwise insignificant manuscript had survived to make its way into Bane’s hands. For the past two months, ever since this tome had come into his possession, the Dark Lord had ended his nightly martial training with a visit to the library to ponder the mystery of Andeddu’s missing Holocron. Cross-referencing the manuscript before him with the vast wealth of knowledge scattered across a thousand other volumes in his collection, he had struggled to assemble the pieces of the puzzle, only to fail time and time again.

Yet he refused to give up his search. Everything he had worked for, everything he had built depended on it. He would discover the location of Andeddu’s Holocron. He would unlock the secret of eternal life to give him time to find and train another apprentice.

Without it, he would wither away and die. Zannah would claim the title of Dark Lord through default, making a mockery of the Rule of Two and leaving the fate of the Order in the hands of an unworthy Master.

If he failed to find Andeddu’s Holocron, the Sith were doomed.

1

“… adhering to the rules established through the procedures outlined in the preceding, as well as all subsequent, articles. Our sixth demand stipulates that a body of …”

Medd Tandar rubbed a long-fingered hand across the pronounced frontal ridge of his tall, conical cranium, hoping to massage away the looming headache that had been building over the last twenty minutes.

Gelba, the being he had come to the planet of Doan to negotiate with, paused in the reading of her petition to ask, “Something wrong, Master Jedi?”

“I am not a Master,” the Cerean reminded the self-appointed leader of the rebels. “I am only a Jedi Knight.” With a sigh he dropped his hand. After a moment’s pause he forced himself to add, “I’m fine. Please continue.”

With a curt nod, Gelba resumed with her seemingly endless list of ultimatums. “Our sixth demand stipulates that a body of elected representatives from the mining caste be given absolute jurisdiction over the following eleven matters: One, the determination of wages in accordance with galactic standards. Two, the establishment of a weekly standard of hours any given employee can be ordered to work. Three, an approved list of safety apparel to be provided by …”

The short, muscular human woman droned on, her voice echoing strangely off the irregular walls of the underground cave. The other miners in attendance—three human men and two women crowding close to Gelba—were seemingly transfixed by her words. Medd couldn’t help but think that, should their tools ever fail, the miners could simply use their leader’s voice to cut through the stone.

Officially, Medd was here to try to end the violence between the rebels and the royal family. Like all Cereans, he possessed a binary brain structure, allowing him to simultaneously process both sides of a conflict. Theoretically, this made him an ideal candidate to mediate and resolve complex political situations such as the one that had developed on this small mining world. In practice, however, he was discovering that playing the part of a diplomat was far more trying than he had first imagined.

Located on the Outer Rim, Doan was an ugly, brown ball of rock. More than 80 percent of the planetary landmass had been converted into massive strip-mining operations. Even from space, the disfigurement of the world was immediately apparent. Furrows five kilometers wide and hundreds of kilometers long crisscrossed the torn landscape like indelible scars. Great quarries hewn from the bedrock descended hundreds of meters deep, irreparable pockmarks on the face of the planet.

From within the smog-filled atmosphere, the ceaseless activity of the gigantic machines was visible. Excavation equipment scurried back and forth like oversized insects, digging and churning up the dirt. Towering drilling rigs stood on mechanical legs, tunneling to previously unplumbed depths. Gigantic hovering freighters cast shadows that blotted out the pale sun as they waited patiently for their cavernous cargo holds to be filled with dirt, dust, and pulverized stone.

Scattered across the planet were a handful of five-kilometer-tall columns of irregular, dark brown stone several hundred meters in diameter. They jutted up from the ravaged landscape like fingers reaching for the sky. The flat plateaus atop these natural pillars were covered by assemblages of mansions, castles, and palaces overlooking the environmental wreckage below.

The rare mineral deposits and rampant mining on Doan had turned the small planet into a very wealthy world. That wealth, however, was concentrated almost exclusively in the hands of the nobility, who dwelled in the exclusive estates that towered above the rest of the planet. Most of the populace was made up of Doan society’s lower castes, beings condemned to spend their lives engaged in constant physical labor or employed in menial service positions with no chance of advancement.

These were the beings Gelba represented. Unlike the elite, they made their homes down on the planet’s surface in tiny makeshift huts surrounded by the open pits and furrows, or in small caverns tunneled down into the rocky ground. Medd had been given a small taste of their life the instant he stepped from the climate-controlled confines of his shuttle. A wall of oppressive heat thrown up from the barren, sun-scorched ground had enveloped him. He’d quickly wrapped a swatch of cloth around his head, covering his nose and mouth to guard against the swirling clouds of dust that threatened to choke the air from his lungs.

The man Gelba had sent to greet him also had his face covered, making communication all the more difficult amid the rumbling of the mining machines. Fortunately, there was no need to speak as his guide led him across the facility: the Jedi had simply gawked at the sheer scope of the environmental damage.

They had continued in silence until reaching a small, rough-hewn tunnel. Medd had to crouch to avoid scraping his head on the jagged ceiling. The tunnel went for several hundred meters, sloping gently downward until it emerged in a large natural chamber lit by glow lamps.

Tool marks scored the walls and floor. The cavern had been stripped of any valuable mineral deposits long before; all that remained were dozens of irregular rock formations rising up from the uneven floor, some less than a meter high, others stretching up to the ceiling a full ten meters above. They might have been beautiful had they not all been the exact same shade of dull brown that dominated Doan’s surface.

The makeshift rebel headquarters was unfurnished, but the high ceiling allowed the Cerean to finally stand up straight. More important, the underground chamber offered some small refuge from the heat, dust, and noise of the surface, enabling them all to remove the muffling cloth covering their faces. Given the shrillness of Gelba’s voice, Medd was debating if this was entirely a good thing.

“Our next demand is the immediate abolition of the royal family, and the surrender of all its estates to the elected representatives specified in item three of section five, subsection C. Furthermore, fines and penalties shall be levied against—”

“Please stop,” Medd said, holding up a hand. Mercifully, Gelba honored his request. “As I explained to you before, the Jedi Council can do nothing to grant your demands. I am not here to eliminate the royal family. I am only here to offer my services as a mediator in the negotiations between your group and the Doan nobility.”

“They refuse to negotiate with us!” one of the miners shouted.

“Can you blame them?” Medd countered. “You killed the crown prince.”

“That was a mistake,” Gelba said. “We didn’t mean to destroy his airspeeder. We only wanted to force it into an emergency landing. We were trying to capture him alive.”

“Your intentions are irrelevant now,” Medd told her, keeping his voice calm and even. “By killing the heir to the throne, you brought the wrath of the royal family down on you.”

“Are you defending their actions?” Gelba demanded. “They hunt my people like animals! They imprison us without trial! They torture us for information, and execute us if we resist! Now even the Jedi turn a blind eye to our suffering. You’re no better than the Galactic Senate!”

Medd understood the miners’ frustration. Doan had been a member of the Republic for centuries, but there had been no serious efforts by the Republic Senate or any governing body to address the injustices of their societal structure. Comprising millions of member worlds, each with its own unique traditions and systems of government, the Republic had adopted a policy of noninterference except in the most extreme cases.

Officially, idealists condemned the lack of a democratic government on Doan. But historically the population had always been granted the basic necessities of life: food, shelter, freedom from slavery, and even legal recourse in cases where a noble abused the privileges of rank. While the rich on Doan undoubtedly exploited the poor, there were many other worlds where the situation was much, much worse.

However, the reluctance of the Senate to become involved had not stopped the efforts of those who sought to change the status quo. Over the last decade, a movement demanding political and social equality had sprung up among the lower castes. Naturally, there was resistance from the nobility, and recently the tension had escalated into violence, culminating in the assassination of the Doan crown prince nearly three standard months earlier.

In response, the king had declared a state of martial law. Since then, there had been a steady stream of troubling reports supporting Gelba’s accusations. Yet galactic sympathy for the rebels was slow to build. Many in the Senate saw them as terrorists, and as much as Medd sympathized with their plight, he was unable to act without Senate authority.

The Jedi were legally bound by galactic law to remain neutral in all civil wars and internal power struggles, unless the violence threatened to spread to other Republic worlds. All the experts agreed there was little chance of that happening.

“What is being done to your people is wrong,” Medd agreed, choosing his words carefully. “I will do what I can to convince the king to stop his persecution of your people. But I cannot promise anything.”

“Then why are you here?” Gelba demanded.

Medd hesitated. In the end, he decided that straightforward truth was the only recourse. “A few weeks ago one of your teams dug up a small tomb.”

“Doan is covered with old tombs,” Gelba replied. “Centuries ago we used to bury our dead … back before the nobility decided they would dig up the whole planet.”

“There was a small cache of artifacts inside the tomb,” Medd continued. “An amulet. A ring. Some old parchment scrolls.”

“Anything we dig up belongs to us!” one of the miners shouted angrily.

“It’s one of our oldest laws,” Gelba confirmed. “Even the royal family knows better than to try and violate it.”

“My Master believes those artifacts may be touched by the dark side,” Medd said. “I must bring them back to our Temple on Coruscant for safekeeping.”

Gelba glared at him with narrowed eyes, but didn’t speak.

“We will pay you, of course,” Medd added.

“You Jedi portray yourselves as guardians,” Gelba said. “Champions of the weak and downtrodden. But you care more about a handful of gold trinkets than you do about the lives of men and women who are suffering.”

“I will try to help you,” Medd promised. “I will speak to the king on your behalf. But first I must have those—”

He stopped abruptly, the echo of his words still hanging in the cavern. Something’s wrong. There was a sudden sickness in the pit of his stomach, a sense of impending danger.

“What?” Gelba demanded. “What is it?”

A disturbance in the Force, Medd thought, his hand dropping to the lightsaber on his belt. “Somebody’s coming.”

“Impossible. The sentries at the tunnel outside would have—ungh!”

Gelba’s words were cut off by the unmistakable sound of a blaster’s retort. She staggered back and fell to the ground, a smoking hole in her chest. With cries of alarm the other miners scattered, scrambling for cover behind the rock formations that filled the cavern. Two of them didn’t make it, felled by deadly accurate shots that took them right between the shoulder blades.

Medd held his ground, igniting his lightsaber and peering into the shadows that lined the walls of the cave. Unable to pierce the darkness with his eyes, he opened himself to the Force—and staggered back as if he had been punched in the stomach.

Normally, the Force washed over him like a warm bath of white light, strengthening him, centering him. This time, however, it struck him like a frozen fist in the gut.

Another blaster bolt whistled by his ear. Dropping to his knees, Medd crawled to cover behind the nearest rock formation, bewildered and confused. As a Jedi, he had trained his entire life to transform himself into a servant of the Force. He had learned to let the light side flow through him, empowering him, enhancing his physical senses, guiding his thoughts and actions. Now the very source of his power had seemingly betrayed him.

He could hear blaster bolts ricocheting throughout the chamber as the miners returned fire against their unseen opponent, but he shut out the sounds of battle. He didn’t understand what had happened to him; he only knew he had to find some way to fight it.

Panting, the Jedi silently recited the first lines of the Jedi Code, struggling to regain his composure. There is no emotion; there is peace. The mantra of his Order allowed him to bring his breathing under control. A few seconds later he felt composed enough to reach out carefully to try to touch the Force once more.

Instead of peace and serenity, he felt only anger and hatred. Instinctively, his mind recoiled, and Medd realized what had happened. Somehow the power he was drawing on had been tainted by the dark side, corrupted and poisoned.

He still couldn’t explain it, but now he at least knew how to try to resist the effects. Blocking out his fear, the Jedi allowed the Force to flow through him once more in the faintest, guarded trickle. As he did so, he focused his mind on cleansing it of the impurities that had overwhelmed his senses. Slowly, he felt the power of the light side washing over him … though it was far less than what he was used to.

Stepping out from behind the rocks, he called out in a loud voice, “Show yourself!”

A blaster bolt ripped from the darkness toward him. At the last second he deflected it with his lightsaber, sending it off harmlessly into the corner—a technique he had mastered years ago while still a Padawan.

Too close, he thought to himself. You’re slow, hesitant. Trust in the Force.

The power of the Force enveloped him, but something about it still felt wrong. Its strength flickered and ebbed, like a static-filled transmission. Something—or someone—was disrupting his ability to focus. A dark veil had fallen across his consciousness, interfering with his ability to draw upon the Force. For a Jedi there was nothing more terrifying, but Medd had no intention of retreating.

“Leave the miners alone,” he called out, his voice betraying none of the uncertainty he felt. “Show yourself and face me!”

From the far corner of the room a young Iktotchi woman stepped forth, holding a blaster pistol in each hand. She was clad in a simple black cloak, but she had thrown her hood back to reveal the downward-curving horns that protruded from the sides of her head and tapered to a sharp point just above her shoulders. Her reddish skin was accentuated by black tattoos on her chin—four sharp, thin lines extending like fangs from her lower lip.

“The miners are dead,” she told him. There was something cruel in her voice, as if she was taunting him with the knowledge.

Gingerly using the Force to extend his awareness, Medd realized it was true. As if peering through an obscuring haze, he could just manage to see the bodies of the miners strewn about the chamber, each branded by a lethal shot to the head or chest. In the few seconds it had taken him to collect himself, she had slain them all.

“You’re an assassin,” he surmised. “Sent by the royal family to kill the rebel leaders.”

She tilted her head in acknowledgment, and opened her mouth as if she was about to speak. Then, without warning, she fired another round of blaster bolts at him.

The ruse nearly worked. With the Force flowing through him he should have sensed her deception long before she acted, but whatever power was obscuring his ability to touch the light side had left him vulnerable.

Instead of trying to deflect the bolts a second time, Medd threw himself to the side, landing hard on the ground.

You’re as clumsy as a youngling, he chided himself as he scrambled back to his feet.

Unwilling to expose himself to another barrage, he thrust out his free hand, palm facing out. Using the Force, he yanked the weapons from his enemy’s grasp. The effort sent a searing bolt of pain through the entire length of his head, causing him to wince and take a half step back. But the blasters sailed through the air and landed harmlessly on the ground beside him.

To his surprise, the assassin seemed unconcerned. Could she sense his fear and uncertainty? The Iktotchi were known to have limited precognitive abilities; it was said they could use the Force to see glimpses of the future. Some even claimed they were telepathic. Was it possible she was somehow using her abilities to disrupt his connection to the Force?

“If you surrender, I will promise you a fair trial,” Medd told her, trying to project an image of absolute confidence and self-assurance.

She smiled at him, revealing sharp, pointed teeth. “There will be no trial.”

The Iktotchi threw herself into a back handspring, her robe fluttering as she flipped out of view behind the cover of a thick stone outcropping. At the same instant, one of the blasters at Medd’s feet beeped sharply.

The Jedi had thought he had disarmed his foe, but instead he had fallen into her well-laid trap. He had just enough time to register that the power cell had been set to overload before it detonated. With his last thought he tried to call upon the Force to shield him from the blast, but he was unable to pierce the debilitating fog that clouded his mind. He felt nothing but fear, anger, and hatred.

As the explosion ended his life, Medd finally understood the true horror of the dark side.

2

The nightmare was familiar, yet still terrifying.

She is eight years old again, a young girl huddled in the corner of the small hut she shares with her father. Outside, beyond the tattered curtain that serves as their door, her father sits by the fire, calmly stirring a boiling pot.

He’s ordered her to stay inside, hidden from view, until the visitor leaves. She can see him through tiny holes worn in the curtain, looming over their camp. He’s big. Taller and thicker than her father. His head is shaved; his clothes and armor are black. She knows he’s one of the Sith. She can see that he’s dying.

That’s why he’s here. Caleb is a great healer. Her father could save this man … but he doesn’t want to.

The man doesn’t speak. He can’t. Poison has swollen his tongue. But what he needs is clear.

“I know what you are,” her father tells the man. “I will not help you.”

The big man’s hand drops to the hilt of his lightsaber and he takes a half step forward.

“I am not afraid to die,” Caleb tells him. “You may torture me if you want.”

Without warning, her father plunges his own hand into the boiling pot over the fire. Expressionless, he lets the flesh blister and cook before withdrawing it.

“Pain means nothing to me.”

She can see the Sith is confused. He is a brute, a man who uses violence and intimidation to get what he wants. These things won’t work on her father.

The big man’s head turns slowly toward her. Terrified, she can feel her heart pounding. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying not to breathe.

Her eyes snap open as she is swept off her feet by a terrible, unseen power. It lifts her into the air and carries her outside. Upside down, she is suspended by an invisible hand above the boiling cooking pot. Helpless, trembling, she can feel wisps of hot steam rising up to crawl across her cheeks.

“Daddy,” she whimpers. “Help me.”

The expression in Caleb’s eyes is one she has never seen in her father before—fear.

“All right,” he mutters, defeated. “You win. You will have your cure.”

Serra woke with a start, wiping away the tears running down her cheeks. Even now, twenty years later, the dream still filled her with terror. But her tears weren’t those of fear.

The first rays of the morning sun were streaming through the palace window. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, Serra kicked aside the shimmersilk sheets and got up.

The memory of the confrontation always filled her with shame and humiliation. Her father had been a strong man—a man of indomitable will and courage. It was she who was weak. If not for her, he could have defied the dark man who had come to them.

If she had been stronger, he wouldn’t have had to send her away.

“The dark man will return one day,” her father had warned her on her sixteenth birthday. “He must not find you. You must go. Leave this place. Change your name. Change your identity. Never think of me again.”

That was impossible, of course. Caleb had been her entire world. Everything she knew about the healing arts—and about disease, illness, and poisons—she had learned at his knee.

Crossing the room to her wardrobe, she began to sift through her vast collection of clothes, trying to decide what to wear. Her entire childhood had been spent wearing simple, functional clothing; discarding it only when it became too threadbare and worn to be mended. Now she could go an entire month without wearing the same outfit twice.

She didn’t dream about the dark man every night. For a while, in the first year of her marriage, she had hardly dreamed about him at all. Over the past few months, however, the dream had come more frequently … and with it, the ever-growing desire to learn the fate of her father.

Caleb had sent her away out of love. Serra understood that. She knew her father had only wanted what was best for her; that was why she had honored his request and never gone back to see him. But she missed him. She missed the feeling of his strong, callused hands ruffling her hair. She missed the sound of his quiet but firm voice reciting the lessons of his trade; the sweet scent of healing herbs that had always wafted up from his shirt when he hugged her.

Most of all she missed the sense of safety and security she felt whenever he was around. Now more than ever, she needed to hear him tell her everything was going to be okay. But that could never be. Instead she had to cling to the memory of the last words he ever spoke to her.

“It is a terrible thing, when a father cannot be there for his child. For this, I am sorry. But there is no other way. Please know that I will always love you, and whatever happens you will always be my daughter.”

I am Caleb’s daughter, she thought to herself, still idly flipping through the hangers of her wardrobe. I am strong, just like my father.

She finally selected a pair of dark pants and a blue top, emblazoned with the insignia of the Doan royal family … a gift from her husband. She missed him, too, though it was different than it was with her father. Caleb had sent her away, but Gerran had been taken from her by the rebels.

As she dressed, Serra tried not to think of her crown prince. The pain was too sharp, his assassination too recent. The miners responsible for the attack were still out there … but not for much longer, she hoped.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her train of thought.

“Come in,” she called out, knowing only one person could be at the door of her private chambers this early in the morning.

Her personal bodyguard, Lucia, entered the room. At first glance the soldier was unremarkable: a fit, dark-skinned woman in her early forties with short, curly black hair. But beneath the fabric of her Royal Guard uniform it was possible to catch glimpses of hard, well-defined muscles, and there was an intensity in her eyes that warned she was not someone to be taken lightly.

Serra knew that Lucia had fought during the New Sith Wars twenty years ago. A sniper in the famed Gloom Walkers unit, she had actually served on the side of the Brotherhood of Darkness, the army that fought against the Republic. But as Caleb had explained to his daughter on many occasions, the soldiers who served in the conflict were far different from their Sith Masters.

The Sith and Jedi were fighting an eternal war over philosophical ideals, a war her father had wanted no part of. For the average soldiers who made up the bulk of the armies, however, the war was about something else. Those who rallied to the Sith cause—men and women like Lucia—did so out of the belief that the Republic had turned its back on them. Disenfranchised by the Galactic Senate, they had fought a war to free themselves from what they saw as the tyrannical rule of the Republic.

They were ordinary people who became victims of forces beyond their control; expendable pawns to be slaughtered in battles waged by those who believed themselves to be great and powerful.

“How did you sleep?” Lucia asked, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her to ensure their privacy.

“Not well,” Serra admitted.

There was no point in lying to the woman who had been her near-constant companion for the past seven years. Lucia would see right through it.

“The nightmares again?”

The princess nodded, but didn’t say any more. She had never revealed the content of her nightmares—or her true identity—to Lucia, and the older woman respected her enough not to ask about it. They both had dark times in their past that they preferred not to talk about; it was one of the things that had drawn them together.

“The king wishes to speak with you,” Lucia informed her.

For the king to send for her so early, it had to be important news.

“What does he want?”

“I think it has something to do with the terrorists who killed your husband,” her bodyguard replied, picking up a delicate black veil from its stand in the corner of the room.

Serra’s heart jumped, and her fingers fumbled over the last button on her top. Then she regained control of her emotions, and stood perfectly still as the older woman placed the veil atop her head. According to Doan custom, Serra was required to wear the mourning shroud for a full year following her husband’s death … or until her beloved was avenged.

Lucia moved with practiced precision, quickly tying up Serra’s long black hair and pinning it in place under the veil. The soldier was only average height—slightly shorter than her mistress—so Serra bent slightly to accommodate her.

“You’re a princess,” Lucia chided her. “Stand up straight.”

Serra couldn’t help but smile. Over the past seven years, Lucia had become like the mother she’d never had—assuming her mother had served as a sniper with the fabled Gloom Walkers during the Sith Wars.

Lucia finished adjusting the veil and stepped back to give her charge one final inspection.

“Stunning, as always,” she pronounced.

Escorted by her bodyguard, Serra made her way through the palace to the throne room, where the king was waiting for them.

As they marched down the castle halls, Lucia fell into her customary position, one step behind and to the left of the princess. Because most people were right-handed, being on Serra’s left side gave her the best chance to interpose her own body between a blade or blaster fired by a would-be assassin approaching from head-on. Not that there was much chance of anyone attempting anything here in the walls of the Royal Manse, but Lucia was always ready and willing to give her life for the sake of her charge.

With the collapse of the Brotherhood of Darkness two decades ago, Lucia—like many of her comrades who had served in the Sith armies—had become a prisoner of war. For six months she had been incarcerated on a work planet, welding and repairing ships until the Senate granted a universal pardon to all those who had served in the rank and file of the Brotherhood’s armies.

Over the next thirteen years Lucia had worked as a hired bodyguard, a freelance mercenary, and finally a bounty hunter. That was how she had first met Serra … and how she had earned the long, angry scar that ran from her navel all the way up to her rib cage.

She had been tracking down Salto Zendar, one of four Meerian brothers who had come up with the shortsighted plan to kidnap a high-ranking Muun official from the InterGalactic Banking Clan head office and hold him for ransom. The miserably ill-fated venture had resulted in two of the brothers being killed by security forces when they tried to break into the IBC offices on Muunilinst. A third was captured alive while the fourth—Salto—managed to escape despite being critically wounded by security forces.

The reward put out for his capture by the IBC was big enough to attract bounty hunters from as far away as the Mid Rim, and Lucia had been no exception. Using contacts from her days in the Gloom Walkers, she tracked Salto to a hospital on the nearby world of Bandomeer where he was being treated for his wounds.

However, when Lucia tried to take him into custody, a young human working at the hospital as a healer had stepped between her and her quarry. Despite the arsenal of weapons on Lucia’s back, the tall, dark-haired woman had refused to back down, claiming she wouldn’t let the patient be moved while he was still in critical condition.

The healer had shown no fear, even when Lucia had drawn her blaster and ordered her to step aside. She had simply shook her head and held her ground.

It might have ended right there; Lucia wasn’t willing to shoot an innocent woman just to collect the price on Salto’s head. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the only bounty hunter at the hospital that day: Salto had been as bad at covering his tracks as he was at kidnapping.

While she and Serra were locked in their confrontation, a Twi’lek had burst into the room, blasters drawn. Lucia turned just in time to get shot point-blank in the stomach, her weapon falling from her hand as she slumped to the floor.

When Serra tried to stop the Twi’lek from taking Salto, he had slammed the butt of his pistol against the side of her skull, knocking her aside then yanking Salto out of bed and dragging the moaning prisoner away.

Ignoring the hole in her gut, Lucia crawled after them. She saw the Twi’lek get halfway down the hall before he was shot in the back by another bounty hunter looking to claim the reward. And then she blacked out.

Official reports put the number of bounty hunters at the hospital that day at somewhere between six and ten. Unlike Lucia, most of them had no qualms about killing innocent civilians—or one another—to claim their prize. By the time the bloodbath was over Salto was dead, along with two other patients, one member of the hospital nursing staff, three security guards, and four bounty hunters.

The only reason Lucia’s name wasn’t on the list of casualties was because of Serra. The healer had dragged her back into the room and performed emergency surgery while the gun battle raged outside. She managed to save Lucia’s life despite being freshly pistol-whipped … and despite the fact that Lucia had stuck a gun in her face only minutes earlier.

Lucia owed her life to the young healer, and from that day forward she had vowed to keep Serra safe, no matter where she went or what she did. It wasn’t easy. Before marrying Gerran, Serra had moved around a lot. Never content to stay in the same place, she seemed to travel to a different world every few weeks. It was as if she was searching for something she could never find, or running from something she could never escape.

At first the healer had been reluctant to have someone constantly watching over her, but she couldn’t stop Lucia from following her as she moved from planet to planet. Eventually, she came to appreciate the value of having a trained bodyguard on hand. Serra was willing to go anywhere and try to help anybody, and the Outer Rim could be a violent and dangerous place.

Over the years, however, Lucia had become more than just the princess’s protector: she was her confidante and friend. And when Gerran had proposed to Serra, she accepted his offer only on the condition that Lucia still be allowed to serve at her side.

The king hadn’t liked it, but in the end he had relented and made Lucia an official member of the Doan Royal Guard. But though she had sworn an oath to protect and serve the king and all his family, her true loyalty would always be to Serra.

That was why she was so nervous as they approached the throne room. Though she hadn’t admitted anything to the princess, she had a pretty good idea of why the king wanted to see them.

When they reached the entrance Lucia was required to hand over her blaster; by custom only the king’s personal guard could possess weapons in his presence. Though she did so without comment or protest, she always felt uneasy when she didn’t have a weapon within easy reach.

She had accompanied the princess to enough audiences with the king to become accustomed to the magnificent blue and gold decorations of the throne room. But it looked different this morning: larger and more imposing. The typical crowd of retainers, servants, dignitaries, and honored guests were nowhere to be found. Except for Serra’s father-in-law and four of his personal guards, the room was empty—what was said in this meeting was not meant to go beyond these walls.

If the yawning chasm of the strangely empty throne room bothered Serra, she gave no outward sign as she approached the raised dais where the king was seated on his throne. Lucia followed a respectful three steps behind.

Physically, the king resembled an older version of his dead son—tall and broad-shouldered, with strong features, golden shoulder-length hair, and a closely trimmed beard that was slightly darker in color. But while Lucia had come to know Gerran during his marriage to Serra, she knew little of his father’s personality. She saw him only from a distance at official functions, and in these settings he had always been formal and reserved.

At the foot of the blue-carpeted stairs Serra stopped and dropped to one knee, bowing her head. Lucia remained standing at attention behind her.

“You sent for me, Your Majesty?”

“The terrorists who orchestrated the attack on my son’s airspeeder were killed last night.”

“Are you certain?” she asked, looking up at the king seated in his throne above her.

“A security patrol responding to an anonymous tip found their bodies this morning in an old cave they were using for their headquarters.”

“This is glorious news,” Serra exclaimed, her face lighting up as she rose to her feet.

She took a half step toward the throne, perhaps to embrace the king. But her father-in-law stayed in his seat, unmoving. Puzzled, Serra pulled back as his guards glared at her with suspicion.

Seeing the king’s reaction toward the princess, Lucia felt her stomach twist into a knot. She hoped none of the others could sense her anxiety.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Sire?” the princess asked. “Is something wrong? Are they sure it was Gelba?”

“They’ve positively identified her body. Two of her bodyguards and three of her top lieutenants were also killed … along with a Cerean named Medd Tandar.”

“A Cerean?”

“He was a Jedi.”

Serra shook her head, unable to make sense of the information. “What was a Jedi doing on Doan?”

“A member of the Council contacted me and asked that I allow one of their people to make contact with the rebels,” the king informed her. “I agreed to their request.”

The princess blinked in surprise. Still standing rigidly at attention, Lucia gave no outward reaction, though she was just as stunned as her mistress.

“We’ve always tried to keep the Jedi and the Senate out of our business on Doan,” Serra protested.

“The politics of our world are under attack,” the king explained. “Support for the rebels is building within the galactic community. We need allies if we want to preserve the Doan way of life. Working with the Jedi will make them and the Senate less willing to take action against us.”

“What did he come here for?” Serra demanded, her voice cold.

The king scowled; Lucia realized he didn’t like being interrogated in his own throne room. But possibly out of respect for his lost son, he didn’t take the princess to task.

“The Jedi had news that the rebels may have uncovered a cache of ancient talismans—objects imbued with the power of the dark side. The Cerean was sent to investigate these claims and, if true, bring the talismans back to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant where they could do no harm.”

Lucia could see the logic behind the king’s decision to grant the Jedi leave for their mission on Doan. The last thing the nobility wanted was for their enemies to gain possession of potentially devastating weapons. If the reports were true, the best way to nullify the threat would be to have the Jedi deal with it. Unfortunately, the death of the Cerean was not part of the plan.

“You think the Jedi will blame you for Medd’s death,” the princess noted, her sharp mind putting all the pieces together. “You knew he was making contact with the rebels; it will look like you hired the assassin to follow him to their hideout.”

The king gave a solemn nod.

“Gelba’s death has dealt a great blow to our enemy, but others will surely rise to take her place. Terrorists breed like insects, and our war with them is far from over.

“So far the Senate has not interfered in our efforts to cleanse our world of these criminals. But if they believe I used the Jedi to further my personal desire for vengeance, they will not sit idly by.”

The king rose from his throne, standing up to his full height. He towered over Serra where she stood on the steps below the dais.

“But this assassin was not acting on my orders!” he pronounced in a voice that echoed off the throne room walls. “This was done without my knowledge or consent … a clear violation of Doan law that may cost us everything!”

“Is that why you brought me here, Sire?” Serra asked, refusing to be cowed by his anger. “To accuse me of betraying you?”

There was a long silence as they stared at each other before the king spoke again.

“When my son first declared his intention to marry you, I opposed the union,” he replied. He was speaking casually now, almost as if they were chatting over a meal. But Lucia could see his eyes were fixed on the princess, studying her intently.

“Yes, Sire,” Serra answered, giving away no hint of emotion. “He told me as much.”

“You have secrets,” the king continued. “All my efforts to learn about your parents or your family turned up nothing. Your past is well hidden.”

“My past is of no consequence, Sire. Your son accepted that.”

“I have watched you these past three years,” the king admitted. “I could see that you loved my son. I could see you were devastated by his death.”

Serra didn’t say anything, but Lucia could see moist tears beginning to form in her eyes as she thought back on memories of her husband.

“Over the years I have come to appreciate those qualities my son saw in you. Your strength. Your intelligence. Your loyalty to our House.

“But now my son is dead, and I cannot help but wonder where your true loyalties lie.”

“I swore an oath to serve the Crown when I married Gerran,” Serra told him, her voice firm despite the tears in her eyes. “Even though he is gone, I would not dishonor his memory by abandoning my duties.”

“I believe you,” the king said after several seconds, his voice suddenly weary. “Though this brings me no closer to finding out who was behind the attack.”

Silently, Lucia let out the breath she hadn’t even been aware she was holding.

The king sat back down on his throne, his expression troubled by doubt and lingering grief over his son. Serra stepped forward and knelt by her father-in-law, close enough to put a comforting hand on his arm, ignoring his guards as they took a menacing step forward.

“Your son was beloved by all the nobles of Doan,” she said. “And the rebels are universally despised. Anyone could have hired the assassin, with no knowledge whatsoever that the Jedi would be there. The Cerean’s death was an unfortunate accident, not some sinister plot.”

“I fear the Jedi may not be so easily convinced,” the king replied.

“Then let me speak to them,” Serra offered. “Send me to Coruscant. I will make them understand that you had no part in this.”

“I have seen you in the halls these past months,” the king told her. “I know the pain you still carry over my son’s loss. I cannot ask you to do this while you are still mourning his death.”

“That is why I must be the one to go,” Serra countered. “The Jedi will be more willing to show compassion to a grieving widow. Let me do this for you, Sire. It’s what Gerran would have wanted.”

The king considered her offer briefly before nodding.

Serra rose and took her leave with a bow. Lucia fell into step behind her as she left the throne room, only pausing at the doors long enough to collect her weapons.

Only when they were back in the privacy of the princess’s chamber with the door closed carefully behind them did either of them dare to speak.

“Take this somewhere and burn it,” Serra spat as she ripped the mourning veil from her head and cast it down to the floor. “I never want to see it again.”

“I have something to confess,” Lucia said as she scooped the discarded garment up from the floor.

Serra turned to look at her, but Lucia couldn’t read the expression on her face.

“I’m the one who hired the assassin that killed Gelba,” she said, speaking quickly to get the words out.

She wanted to say so much more. She wanted to explain that she had known nothing about the Jedi being on Doan. She needed Serra to understand that she had done it only for her sake.

Lucia had always sensed a darkness in the healer, a shadow on her spirit. With Gerran’s death that shadow had grown. She had seen her friend slipping into bleak despair as the weeks turned to months, listlessly wandering the halls of the castle in her black mourning garb like some tormented ghost.

All she wanted was to try to ease the princess’s suffering. She thought that maybe if those responsible for Gerran’s death were made to pay, Serra could find closure, could move on and come out from the shadow that had fallen over her.

She wanted to say all this, but she couldn’t. She was just a soldier; she wasn’t any good with words.

Serra stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her in a long, gentle hug.

“When the king spoke of someone hiring an assassin to avenge Gerran’s death, I thought it might be you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

And Lucia knew she didn’t have to tell the princess all the things she wanted to say. Her friend already knew.

“I think you should tell the king,” Lucia said when the princess finally broke off her embrace.

“He’d have you arrested,” Serra said with a firm shake of her head. “Or at the very least dismissed from your post. I can’t have that. I need you at my side when I go to Coruscant.”

“You still plan to speak with the Jedi?” she asked, mildly surprised. “What are you going to tell them?”

“Medd’s death was an accident. The king was not involved. That is all they need to know.”

Lucia had her doubts, but she knew the princess well enough to realize that arguing the point would be a waste of time. Serra had no intention of turning her in to either the king or the Jedi. But she couldn’t just let it go at that.

“I never meant to cause any trouble for you. Or the king. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t ever apologize for this!” Serra shot back. “Gelba and her followers got exactly what they deserved. My only regret is that I wasn’t there to see it myself.”

The venom in her words—the raw anger and hatred—caught Lucia off guard. Instinctively, she took a step back, recoiling from her friend. But then Serra smiled, and the awkward moment was gone.

“We need to leave as soon as possible,” the princess noted. “It won’t do to keep the Council waiting.”

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Lucia replied, though she knew it would be several days before their actual departure. As the princess, it wasn’t easy for Serra to simply leave Doan—there were diplomatic protocols and bureaucratic procedures that had to be followed.

“This will all work out,” Serra reassured her, coming over to place a comforting hand on Lucia’s arm. “Gelba is dead. My husband is avenged. A quick meeting with one of the Jedi Masters and this whole incident will be behind us.”

Lucia nodded, but she knew it wouldn’t be that simple. This wasn’t just going to go away. The death of the Jedi had set in motion a chain of events—one she feared might end very badly for both of them.

3

The cantina was almost empty at this time of day; the crowds wouldn’t start arriving until the late evening. Which was exactly why Darth Bane had arranged this meeting for early afternoon.

His contact—a balding, slightly overweight man of about fifty named Argel Tenn—was already there, seated at a private booth in the back of the establishment. Nobody paid any special attention to the Dark Lord as he crossed the room; everyone here, including Argel, knew him only as Sepp Omek, one of the many wealthy merchants who lived on Ciutric.

Bane sat down in the seat across the table from the other man and summoned a waitress with a discreet wave of his hand. She came over and took their order, then slipped away to leave them to their business. On Ciutric it was common for merchants to make deals in the backs of bars and clubs, and the serving staff knew how to respect the confidentiality of their customers.

“How come we never meet at your estate?” Argel said by way of greeting. “I hear you have one of the best-stocked wine cellars on the planet.”

“I’d rather not have my sister learn about our transactions,” Bane replied.

Argel chuckled slightly. “I understand completely.”

He stopped speaking while the waitress returned and set their drinks on the table, then continued in a quieter voice once she was gone.

“Many of my clients are reluctant to let friends and family know of their interest in the dark side.”

Dealing with Argel always left a sour taste in Bane’s mouth, but for this there was no one else he could turn to. The portly dealer was the sector’s leading procurer of banned Sith manuscripts; he had built a small fortune by discreetly seeking them out, purchasing them, and delivering them in person to his clients while keeping their names from ever being linked to the transaction.

Of course most of his clients were nothing but collectors or Sith fetishists who simply longed to possess a work that had been officially banned by the Jedi Council. They had no real understanding of the dark side or its power. They bought and sold the manuscripts in blissful ignorance, unaware of what they were truly dealing with.

This, more than anything, was what brought the bile to Bane’s throat each time he met with Argel. The man portrayed himself as an expert in the dark side. He bartered and traded the secrets of the ancient Sith like cheap rugs at an open-air bazaar. It galled Bane to think of what treasures had passed through his hands into the possession of those too weak and common to ever make use of them.

He had occasionally fantasized about revealing his true identity to Argel, just to see his terrified reaction. Bane wanted to watch him grovel, begging for mercy at the feet of a real Sith. But petty revenge against an insignificant speck of a man was beneath him. Argel was useful, and so Bane would continue to play the part of a Sith-obsessed merchant.

“I hope you were able to find what I was looking for,” he muttered. “The details you provided were rather vague.”

“I promise you this, Sepp,” the other man replied with a cunning smile. “You will not be disappointed.

“But you have no idea how hard this was,” Argel added, throwing in an exaggerated sigh. “What you’re after is illegal. Banned by the Jedi Council.”

“Everything you deal in is banned by the Jedi Council.”

“This was different. I’d never even heard the name Darth Andeddu before. None of my suppliers had. I had to go outside the normal channels. But I came through, like I always do in the end.”

Bane scowled. “I trust you were careful. I wouldn’t want word of this to make its way back to the Jedi.”

Argel laughed. “What’s the matter, Sepp? Some of your business practices not quite on the up-and-up? Afraid the Council will come after you for cheating on your taxes?”

“Something like that.”

“Don’t worry, nobody will ever know you were involved. I only brought it up because I may have to renegotiate our original price.”

“We had a deal.”

“Now, now—you know my initial quote is only an estimate,” Argel reminded him. “I had to outlay triple my normal expenses to track this particular item down.

“But I’m willing to give you a bargain and only charge you double my original offer.”

Bane gritted his teeth, knowing his hopes of a quick end to their conversation would remain unfulfilled. He had the funds to simply pay, of course. But this would arouse suspicion. He had a role to play: that of a savvy merchant. If he didn’t negotiate down to the last credit, it would seem strange.

“I’ll give you a ten percent bonus. Nothing more.”

For the next twenty minutes they haggled back and forth, finally settling on 40 percent above the starting price.

“A pleasure doing business with you, as always,” Argel said once payment was agreed upon.

From inside his vest he produced a long, thin tube roughly thirty centimeters long. The tube was sealed at one end, and the other was capped with a tightly screwed-on lid.

“If the item proves unsatisfactory,” he noted as he handed it over, “I will be happy to take it back and return your funds … less a reasonable commission of course.”

“I highly doubt that will be necessary,” Bane replied as he wrapped his fingers tightly around the tube.

With the transaction complete there was no point in staying at the cantina. Bane was eager to open his prize, but he resisted until he was safely back inside the privacy of the library annex on his personal estate. There, beneath the pale glow of the lonely overhead light, he carefully unscrewed the lid. He tipped the tube, allowing the single sheet of paper rolled up inside to slide out.

His instructions to Argel had been simple: be on the lookout for any book, volume, tome, manuscript, or scroll that made mention of a Sith Lord named Darth Andeddu. He couldn’t say any more than that for fear of raising suspicions or awkward questions, but he had hoped it would be enough.

For two months his supplier had turned up nothing. But then, just as Bane was beginning to fear the Jedi had successfully buried all trace of Andeddu and his secrets, Argel had delivered.

The scroll was yellow with age, and Bane gingerly unfurled the dry, cracked page. As he did so, he marveled at the long and untraceable chain of events that had allowed the scroll to not only survive across the millennia, but eventually make its way into his hands. He had chosen to seek the scroll out, yet on some level he felt his choice had been preordained. The scroll was part of the Sith legacy; a legacy that by all rights now belonged to Bane. It was almost as if he had been destined to find it. It was as inevitable as the dark side’s eventual triumph over the light.

The page had been fashioned from the cured skin of an animal he couldn’t identify. On one side, it was rough and covered with dark splotches. The other side had been bleached and scraped smooth before being covered with handwritten lines in a language Bane immediately recognized.

The letters were sharp and angular, aggressive and fierce in their design; the alphabet of the original Sith, a long-extinct species that ruled Korriban nearly one hundred thousand years ago.

That didn’t mean the document was that old, of course. It only meant that whoever wrote it had revered and respected the Sith culture enough to adapt their language as their own.

Bane began to read the words, struggling with the archaic tongue. As Argel had promised, he was not disappointed with the contents. The scroll was a religious proclamation declaring Darth Andeddu the Immortal and Eternal King over the entire world of Prakith. To commemorate the momentous event, the proclamation continued, a great temple would be built in his honor.

Satisfied, Bane carefully rolled the scroll up and slid it back into the protective tube. Despite being only a few paragraphs scrawled across a single sheet of parchment, it had given him what he needed.

Andeddu’s followers had built a temple in his honor on the Deep Core world of Prakith. There was no doubt in Bane’s mind that this was where he would find the Dark Lord’s Holocron. Unfortunately, he had to think of a way to acquire it that wouldn’t raise Zannah’s suspicions.

Andeddu’s Holocron offered the promise of immortality; with it he could live long enough to find and train a new successor. It was unlikely his current apprentice would know the significance of the Holocron, but he wasn’t willing to take that chance. Though she was loath to challenge him directly, if she learned that he planned to replace her Bane had no doubt she would do everything in her power to stop him.

He couldn’t allow the fear of being replaced to become the catalyst that compelled Zannah to finally challenge him. Fighting back simply because she knew she was about to be cast aside was nothing but a common survival instinct. His successors would need to do more than just survive if the Sith were ever to grow powerful enough to destroy the Jedi. Zannah’s challenge had to come from her own initiative, not as a reaction to something he did. Otherwise, it was worthless.

This was the complex paradox of the Master–apprentice relationship, and it had put Bane into an untenable position. He couldn’t send Zannah after the Holocron, and if he went after it himself she would almost certainly suspect something. He rarely traveled offworld anymore; any journey would immediately put her on her guard. She might try to follow him, or prepare some type of trap to be sprung on his return.

Even though she had disappointed Bane by not challenging him, Zannah was still a dangerous and formidable opponent. It was possible she might defeat him, leaving the Sith with a leader who lacked the necessary drive and ambition. Her complacency would infect the Order; eventually it would wither and die.

He couldn’t allow that to happen. Which meant he had to find something to occupy Zannah’s attention while he made the long and arduous journey into the Deep Core.

Fortunately, he had already had something in mind.

* * *

Bane’s personal study—unlike the secluded private library tucked in the back corner of the estate—was a buzzing hive of endless electronic activity. Even when unoccupied, the room was illuminated by the flickering images of HoloNet news feeds, the glow of data screens showing stock tickers from a dozen different planetary exchanges, or blinking readouts on the monitors indicating private communications filtering in from the network of informants he and Zannah had assembled over the years.

For all the opulence and extravagance throughout the mansion, more credits had been spent on this room than any other. With all the terminals, holoprojectors, and screens, it looked more like the communications hub of a busy starport than a den in a private residence. Yet the study was no grandiose display of wealth; rather, it was a testament to efficiency and practicality. Every single piece of equipment had been carefully chosen to handle the staggering volume of data passing through the room: thousands of data units every hour, all recorded and stored for later review and analysis.

The study helped reinforce the illusion that he and Zannah were wealthy entrepreneurs obsessively scouring news from the farthest reaches of the galaxy in search of profitable business ventures. To some degree, this was even true. Every credit spent on the study was an investment that would eventually pay off a hundredfold. Over the past decade, Bane had used the information he had gathered to grow his wealth significantly … though for the Dark Lord material riches were only a means to an end.

He understood that power came from knowledge, and his vast fortune had allowed him to assemble the priceless collection of ancient Sith teachings he kept secured in his private library. Yet he was interested in more than just the forgotten secrets of the dark side. From the halls of the Republic Senate to the tribal councils of the most backrocket planets on the Outer Rim, the lifeblood of government was information. History was shaped by individuals who understood that information, properly exploited and controlled, could defeat any army.

Bane had seen proof of this firsthand. The Brotherhood of Darkness was destroyed not by the Jedi and their Army of Light, but by the carefully laid plans of a single man. Ancient scrolls and manuscripts could unlock the secrets of the dark side, but to bring down the Jedi and the Republic, Bane first had to know everything about his enemies. The network of agents and go-betweens he had assembled over the years were a key part of his plan, but they weren’t enough. Individuals were fallible; their reports were biased or incomplete.

Whenever possible, Bane preferred to rely on pure data plucked from the web of information that wove itself through every planet of the Republic. He needed to be aware of every detail of every plan put forth by the Senate and the Jedi Council. If he ever hoped to shape and manipulate galactic events to bring about the downfall of the Republic, he had to know what they were doing now and anticipate what they would do next.

The complexity of his machinations required constant attention. He had to react to unexpected changes as they happened, altering his long-term plans to keep them on course. More important, he needed to seize upon unexpected opportunities as they arose, using them to their fullest advantage. Like the situation on Doan.

Bane had never paid this small mining world on the Outer Rim much attention before. That had changed three days ago when he noticed an expense claim submitted to the Senate for approval by a representative acting on behalf of the Doan royal family.

It wasn’t unusual for Bane to be reviewing Senate budget reports. By law, all financial documentation filed through official Republic channels was available for public viewing … for a price, of course. The cost was high, and typically all it resulted in was an onerous list of customs regulations, taxes levied in accordance with economic treaties, or funding appeals for various projects and special-interest groups. Occasionally, however, something of true significance would filter through the clutter. In this case, it was a line-item request for the reimbursement of costs incurred by the Doan royal family to transport the body of a Cerean Jedi named Medd Tandar back to Coruscant.

There were no further details; budget reports were rarely interested in the why. Bane, however, was very interested. What was a Jedi Knight doing on Doan? More important, how had he died?

Ever since first seeing the report, Bane had been mining his sources to try to find the answers. He had to tread carefully where the Jedi were concerned; for the Sith to survive they had to remain hidden in the shadows. But through a long chain of bureaucrats, household servants, and paid informants, he had assembled enough facts to realize the situation was worthy of more thorough investigation.

And so he had sent for Zannah.

Seated behind the desk at the center of the screens and holoprojectors, he could hear her coming down the hall, the hard heels of her boots clacking against the floor with each stride. Resting on the left side of the desk was a data disk containing all the information he had compiled on Medd Tandar and his visit to Doan. He reached out for it without thinking and froze. For a brief instant his hand hovered in the air, trembling involuntarily. Then he quickly snatched it back, hiding it beneath the edge of the desk just as Zannah entered the room.

“You sent for me, Lord Bane?”

She made no acknowledgment of the tremor, yet Bane was certain it had not gone unnoticed. Was she playing him for a fool? Pretending not to see his weakness in the hope he would become careless and let his guard down? Or was she silently gloating while she bided her time, waiting for the dark side to simply rot his body away?

Zannah was only ten years younger than Bane, but if the dark side was extracting a similar physical toll on her it had yet to show itself. Unlike her Master, she had never been infested with the orbalisks. It would still be many decades before the corruption of the dark side caused her body to wither.

Her curly golden hair was still long and lustrous, her skin still smooth and perfect. Of average height, she had the figure of a gymnast: lean, lithe, and strong. She wore fitted black pants and a sleeveless red vest embroidered with silver, an outfit that was both stylish by current Ciutric standards and practical, in that it would not hinder movement.

The handle of her twin-bladed lightsaber hung from her hip; over the past few years she had never come into her Master’s presence without it. The hooked handle of Bane’s own weapon was clipped to the belt of his breeches … it would have been foolish to leave himself unarmed and vulnerable before the apprentice who had sworn to one day kill him.

I’m still waiting for that day, Bane thought. Out loud he said, “I need you to make a trip to the Outer Rim. A planet called Doan, where a Jedi was murdered three standard days ago.”

“Anyone powerful enough to kill a Jedi is worthy of our attention,” Zannah admitted. “Do we know who is responsible?”

“That is what you need to find out.”

Zannah nodded, her eyes narrowing as she processed the information. “What was a Jedi doing on an insignificant planet in the Outer Rim?”

“That is something else you need to find out.”

“The Jedi will send one of their own to investigate,” she noted.

“Not right away,” Bane assured her. “The Doan royal family is calling in political favors to delay the investigation. They’ve sent a representative to meet with the Jedi Council on Coruscant instead.”

“The royal family must be rich; those kinds of favors don’t come cheap. Small world, but not widely known—yet with wealthy royals. Valuable resources? Mining?” she guessed.

Zannah had always been able to grasp bits of information and put them together into something meaningful. She would have been a worthy successor, if she had only possessed the ambition to seize the Sith throne.

“The planet’s been carved down nearly to the core. There are only a few habitable kilometers of land left on the surface; all food has to be shipped in. Most of the population live and work in the strip mines.”

“Sounds charming,” she muttered, before adding, “I’ll leave tonight.”

Bane nodded, dismissing her. Only after she was gone did he dare to place his still-quivering hand back on top of the desk.

The death of a Jedi was always of interest to him, but in truth he cared about finding Andeddu’s Holocron far more than he did about the outcome of Zannah’s mission.

Fortunately, the incident on Doan offered the perfect distraction. Investigating the Outer Rim world would keep his apprentice occupied while he braved the dangerous hyperspace routes into the Core to retrieve the Holocron. If things went as he hoped, he would be back long before she returned to give him her report, with Zannah none the wiser.

Confident in his plan, Bane focused all his concentration on calming the tremor that still gripped his hand. But for all his power, for all his mental discipline, the muscles continued to twitch involuntarily. In frustration, he balled up his fist and slammed it once hard upon the surface of the desk, leaving a faint impression in the soft wood.

4

Ciutric IV’s twin moons shone brightly down on Zannah’s airspeeder as it zipped through the night sky. The evening’s rain clouds were just beginning to build; they were still no more than wispy veils that simply tore apart as her vehicle ripped through them. On the ground below, still a few kilometers ahead, she could see the lights of Daplona’s primary spaceport.

A light on the nav panel blinked a warning, indicating she was approaching the two-kilometer limit of restricted airspace that surrounded the port. Her hands moving with casual precision over the controls, she brought the speeder in for a landing at the section reserved for those wealthy enough to afford private hangars for their personal shuttles.

As the vehicle gently touched down on the pad located on the starport’s perimeter, three men scurried out to meet her. The first, a valet, tended to her speeder, whisking it away toward the secure lot where it would be parked until she returned. The second man, a porter, loaded her luggage onto a small hoversled then waited patiently as the third man approached.

“Good evening, Mistress Omek,” he greeted her.

From their first arrival on Ciutric, Zannah and Bane had worked hard to build up their identities as Allia and Sepp Omek. After nearly a decade, she was able to slip into the role of the wealthy import–export trader without even thinking about it.

“Chet,” she said with a nod to the customs official as the young man handed her an official-looking form.

For the common masses, arrivals and departures at the Daplona spaceport were a long and arduous process. Because the world was built on commerce and trade, the government required copies of trip itineraries, verification of ship registration, and a host of forms and permits to be filled out before the port authority would clear a vessel, its contents, or its passengers. This frequently involved a thorough inspection of the ship’s interior by customs personnel, with the official explanation being increased planetary security. However, everyone knew inspections were actually meant to discourage merchants from trying to transport undeclared merchandise in the hope of avoiding interstellar taxes and tariffs.

Fortunately, Zannah didn’t have to worry about any of that. She simply signed the departure form and handed it back to Chet. One of the chief benefits of maintaining a private hangar at the port was the ability to come and go at will. In exchange for their substantial monthly hangar fees, the government kept its nose out of her and Bane’s business … a bargain at nearly any price as far as she was concerned.

“You’ll be taking your private shuttle, I assume.”

“That’s right,” she replied. “The Victory over in hangar thirteen.”

“I’ll alert the control tower.”

Chet gave a curt nod to the porter, who headed off with the hoversled in the direction of the hangar.

“Just a moment,” the customs official said softly to Zannah, causing her to hang back.

“Heard some news I thought you might be interested in,” he continued once the porter had disappeared around the corner. “Argel Tenn touched down a few days ago to meet with your brother.”

Zannah had never met Argel, but she knew who he was and what he did. Over the past few years she had slowly been gathering information on all the members in Darth Bane’s network of contacts; they could prove useful to her once she took over the Sith. She didn’t know if Argel’s arrival was relevant or not: Bane was always looking to acquire rare Sith manuscripts, and it could just be a coincidence. Nevertheless, she filed the knowledge away in case it should ever prove handy.

“Thanks for the update,” she said, slipping Chet a fifty-credit chip before heading off toward her private hangar.

The porter was already there, waiting with her bags by the shuttle. Zannah punched in the security code, causing the boarding ramp to lower.

“Put everything in the back,” she instructed, smiling and handing the porter a ten-credit chip.

“Right away, mistress,” he replied, the tip disappearing instantly into a pocket somewhere on his uniform as he hustled to load her baggage.

Zannah kept the smile plastered on her face while he worked. She made a point of being friendly with everyone at the spaceport. She saw it as an investment in the future—the cultivation of a potential resource. The members of the Senate and other powerful individuals might shape galactic policy, but it was the bureaucrats, government officials, and various other low-level political functionaries who actually made things run … and they were so much easier to deal with than the political elite. A few kind words and a handful of small bribes, and Zannah could get anything she needed without attracting unwanted attention. Just as she had done with Chet.

This was one advantage she had over Bane. She knew she was attractive. Men in particular were drawn to her because of her looks; they wanted to help her, to please her. Zannah wasn’t above encouraging them with a soft laugh or a subtle touch—it was a small price to pay to establish a relationship that might eventually prove useful. Her Master’s appearance, on the other hand, would never inspire anything but fear in those who didn’t know him.

Only once the porter was gone and she was alone in the cockpit of the vessel did she let the façade drop. Settling into the custom-molded seat, she punched in the navigation coordinates. Through the cockpit viewport she could see the Triumph, Bane’s personal shuttle, in the adjacent hangar.

Like her own, it was a Cygnus Spaceworks Theta-class T-1 vessel: the latest, and most expensive, personal interplanetary transport shuttle available on the open market. Everything about their life here on Ciutric—the mansion, their clothes, even their social calendar—was a part of their disguise. They surrounded themselves with luxury and material comforts; a far cry from the austere life they had lead during their years on Ambria.

There were times when Zannah missed the simplicity of those early days. Life on Ambria had been hard, but it had kept her strong. And she couldn’t help but wonder if the lavish lifestyle here on Ciutric had made her—and Bane—soft.

The Victory’s engines roared to life, and the shuttle rose up a few meters off the ground. Zannah piloted by instinct while her mind continued its train of thought.

Life was a constant struggle; the strong would survive and the weak would perish. That was the way of the universe, the natural order. It was the philosophy embraced by the Code of the Sith. But here on Ciutric it was easy to be lulled into a sense of peace.

Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken.

Zannah understood that chains were not always made of iron and durasteel; they could sometimes be woven of expensive shimmersilk. The easy life they enjoyed on Ciutric was a trap as dangerous as any the Jedi could ever set for them.

She had continued her study and training even after Bane had moved them into their magnificent estate outside the city. But the sense of urgency and the threat of danger that had spurred her on during her early years had faded, replaced by the ennui of security and contentment.

It was time to stake her claim as Dark Lord of the Sith. She would already have challenged him by now, if not for two things.

The first was the tremor she had noticed in his left hand several months ago. He tried to hide it from her, but she noticed it more and more. She didn’t know the cause of the tremor, but regardless, it was an obvious sign of his degenerating skills.

Perhaps too obvious. Bane was a master manipulator. Zannah couldn’t dismiss the idea that he was faking it. What if the tremor was just a ruse meant to lure her into the confrontation before she was truly ready—one final test to see if the apprentice had learned the lesson of patience he had worked so hard to ingrain into her?

I will strike at a time of my choosing, Zannah vowed to herself. Not his.

But in order to make her move, she had to be ready with an apprentice of her own. Two there should be; no more, no less. One to embody the power, the other to crave it. The Rule of Two was inviolate. If she was going to seize the mantle of Master from Bane, she would need to find an apprentice. So far, despite her best efforts, she had failed to locate even a single potential candidate.

Bane had recognized her own potential when, as a young girl, she had killed the Jedi who had mistakenly slain her friend. Now she was going to investigate the mysterious death of another Jedi. Might she find her successor the same way Bane had found her?

But if she was thinking along these lines, it was a sure bet that Bane had thought of it, too. He was rarely caught unprepared or off guard. So … why would Bane send her on a mission that could end with her finding the individual who might become the next Sith apprentice? Did her Master want her to challenge him? Was he trying to help her? Or was he looking to replace her? Maybe he had decided she was unworthy of assuming his title. Maybe he was hoping this mission would provide him with someone new to train in the ways of the dark side, and he planned to cast her aside.

If that’s true, Master, you might be surprised at how this ends. Underestimate me at your peril.

A beep from the nav screen notified her as the shuttle broke Ciutric’s atmosphere. A few seconds later she felt the unmistakable surge as the ship made the leap into hyperspace.

Zannah eased her seat back and closed her eyes. There was no point in dwelling on all the possibilities of what Bane might or might not be thinking, or what his secret motivations for sending her on the mission might be. The web of his machinations could be too impossibly tangled to unweave.

But she knew one thing for sure: something was about to change. For twenty years she had served as his loyal apprentice, learning the ways of the Sith. Now her time as a pupil was about to end. Whatever the mission might bring, she had decided this would be the last time she answered to Darth Bane.

5

Coruscant was unlike anything Serra had ever seen. As a child she had known nothing but the simple isolation of her father’s camp. When he had sent her away, she’d visited dozens of other worlds before settling on Doan, but all of them had been less populated planets on the Outer Rim. Her entire life had been spent on the fringes of civilization. Here, on the planetwide metropolis that was the Republic capital, she had been hurled into the madness of the Galactic Core.

Caleb had made sure his daughter’s education was well rounded; she had read descriptions of Coruscant, she had memorized all the relevant facts and figures. But knowing a world had a population approaching one trillion individuals and seeing it in person were entirely different.

Serra simply stared out the window of the airspeeder, speechless as it darted and dived, fighting its way through the heavy traffic of the skylane. Below, an endless ocean of durasteel and permacrete stretched off to the horizon in all directions, shining with the permanent glow of a million lights. The effect was overwhelming: the crowds, the vehicles, the dull cacophony of sounds that could be heard over the hum of the engines—the sheer magnitude of it was almost more than her mind could grasp. It made her feel small. Insignificant.

“There it is,” Lucia said, nodding out the window.

In the distance Serra could just make out a massive structure that towered high above the rest of the cityscape: the Jedi Temple. The swift-moving speeder was bringing them rapidly closer, and it wasn’t long before she could make out the unique details of the Temple’s construction.

The foundation was a pyramid of successively smaller blocks, creating a stepped or ziggurat effect. On the top of the uppermost level was a tall central spire, surrounded on each corner by smaller, secondary spires. Scattered among the spires were open plazas, wide promenades, vast natural gardens, and a number of smaller buildings that served as dorms or administrative centers.

As the speeder dropped out of the main line of traffic toward their destination, the structure’s true scope became apparent. Everything on Coruscant was grand and magnificent, but the Temple dominated the skyline. Serra recalled that it had been built on top of a mountain. Not on a mountain, like the small settlements the nobles had constructed on the plateaus of Doan, but actually over the mountain—the stepped pyramid covered the entire surface, swallowing the mountain so completely that it was no longer visible.

Their vehicle banked in a wide circle around the Tranquillity Spire, the tall central tower, before touching down on a landing pad in the shadow of the smaller tower on the northwest corner.

“Let’s get this over with,” Lucia muttered, standing quickly and offering her hand to help Serra up from her seat.

The princess realized Lucia was as uncomfortable as she was, though she suspected her bodyguard’s unease had less to do with the overwhelming sights and sounds of Coruscant and more to do with her days as a soldier fighting against the Army of Light. Even after twenty years, Lucia still harbored a resentment toward both the Jedi and the Republic.

That, and the fact that she still probably felt guilty for hiring the assassin who had killed the Jedi emissary. Serra, on the other hand, felt nothing but gratitude for what her friend had done. And she had no intention of letting anyone—not the king, and not the Jedi—find out that Lucia was responsible.

“Remember what I told you,” she said, placing a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I have dealt with the Jedi before. I know how to handle them. I know their weaknesses. Their blind spots. We will get through this.”

The bodyguard took a deep breath and nodded. Serra did the same, centering herself in anticipation of the coming confrontation.

Lucia was amazed at how calm and composed the princess appeared as they prepared to leave the shuttle.

She had always carried herself with a quiet but firm resolve. It gave her an air of confidence and authority that drew others to her. When she spoke, people gave her words careful consideration … even people like the king of Doan. But this was different. They were about to meet a Jedi Master, and Serra intended to lie right to his face.

Lucia had no intention of letting her friend get into trouble, however. At the first sign the Jedi knew Serra was being dishonest, she intended to confess everything, no matter the consequences.

Steadied by her decision, she was able to maintain her own exterior of composure as they disembarked. Outside the shuttle they found an escort of three Jedi waiting for them. Two were human, a man and a woman. The third was a female Twi’lek. Each wore plain brown robes with the hoods thrown back to reveal their features; their simple garb a sharp contrast with Serra and Lucia’s more formal outfits.

The princess was wearing a long, flowing, sleeveless dress of blue silk; a finely woven gold stole covered her shoulders and upper arms. Her long black hair hung loose from beneath the elaborate golden tiara she wore, and around her neck was an elegant gold chain and a sapphire pendant signifying her station within the Doan royal family.

Lucia was also dressed in blue and gold—the royal colors—but she wore the dress uniform of the Doan military: dark blue pants with a gold stripe running up the leg and a tight, light blue shirt covered by a short blue jacket with gold trim buttoned up to the collar. Like the three Jedi, however, her head was bare.

The Twi’lek stepped forward with a bow. “Greetings, Your Highness. My name is Ma’ya. My companions are Pendo and Winnoa.”

Serra returned the bow with a tilt of her head. “This is Lucia, my companion,” she returned.

Ma’ya’s eyes flicked down to the blaster prominently displayed on Lucia’s hip, but all she said was, “Please, follow us. Master Obba is waiting to speak with you.”

From the briefings she had reviewed during the trip to Coruscant, Lucia knew that Obba was a member of the Council of First Knowledge. As keepers of ancient Jedi lore, they often provided advice and guidance to the Jedi High Council. He had also been the Master of Medd Tandar, the Jedi who had died on Doan.

The three robed figures led them from the landing pad through a well-tended garden, dotted by a number of memorials and statues. A small crowd of children rushed past them at one point, laughing.

“Younglings from the trainee dorms,” Ma’ya explained. “During afternoons they are given time away from their studies to play in the gardens.”

Serra didn’t reply, but Lucia could see the flicker of sorrow in her eyes. She knew the young couple had been trying to start a family in the weeks before Gerran’s death, and seeing the children no doubt brought back painful memories.

They continued on in silence, the Jedi leading them to the foot of the northwest tower and then inside. They climbed up several flights of winding stairs; toward the end Lucia noticed that the princess had become short of breath, though neither she nor the Jedi had the same problem.

And then, somewhere roughly a quarter of the way up the tower, they stopped outside a large door. Ma’ya knocked, and a deep voice from inside called out, “Come in.”

The Twi’lek opened the door, then stepped to the side with another bow. Serra entered the room, Lucia following a single step behind. Their escorts stayed outside, closing the door.

At first glance, the interior of the room might have been mistaken for a greenhouse. A single large window on the far wall allowed sunlight to stream through, making it exceedingly bright and overly warm. Potted plants of at least a dozen different species lined the walls; another half a dozen grew from boxes along the windowsill, while still more hung from planters affixed to the ceiling. There were no chairs, no table, and no desk. It was only when she noticed a small, straw-woven sleeping mat rolled up in the corner that Lucia realized this was the Jedi Master’s personal chambers.

“Welcome, Your Highness. You honor us with your visit.”

Master Obba, an Ithorian, was standing with his back to them looking out the window. In the elongated fingers of one hand he held a watering can. Setting it down on the floor, he turned to face them.

Like all Ithorians, he was taller than the average human—easily over two meters in height. His rough, brown skin looked almost like bark, and his long neck curved down and forward before looping up again, making it seem as if he was leaning toward them. Looking at the eyes bulging out from either side at the top of his tall, flat head made it easy to see why the nickname Hammerhead was often applied to the species.

“This is my adviser, Lucia,” Serra told him, sticking with their planned cover story. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Master Obba.”

“It was the least I could do, given your circumstances,” the Ithorian explained, his voice deep and resonant. “My condolences on your husband. His death was a terrible tragedy.”

Lucia was no expert in the subtleties of politics, and she couldn’t tell if Obba was simply a compassionate soul expressing real sympathy, or an expert negotiator trying to put the princess emotionally off balance by mentioning Gerran.

“My tragedy is mirrored by your own,” Serra replied in the formal tone of a practiced diplomat. Whatever the Jedi’s intentions, his words had no visible effect on her demeanor. “Allow me to apologize on behalf of the royal family for the unfortunate passing of Medd Tandar.”

The Ithorian’s head dipped in acknowledgment. “I grieve for his death. And it is of critical importance that we learn the identity of the person or persons responsible.”

Lucia felt her heart skip a beat, though she gave no outward sign of her anxiety.

“I understand,” Serra assured him. “The authorities on my world are doing everything in their power to bring those responsible to justice.”

“I want to believe you,” Obba replied, “but you can understand if I have my reservations. Medd was killed during an attack on your enemies. There are some who believe your father-in-law was behind the attack.”

“That makes no sense,” Serra objected. “The king wants to improve our relationship with your revered Order. That was why he agreed to let Medd come to our world in the first place.”

“There are some who believe the king used Medd to help find his enemies,” Obba countered. “They claim that was his plan all along.”

“Medd’s death was a tragic coincidence, not a part of some devious plot to exploit the Jedi,” the princess insisted. “He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. As for the king, he had no knowledge of the assassination whatsoever. I give you my word.”

“Unfortunately, your word will not be proof enough to allay the fears of those in my Order.”

“Then let them use logic,” Serra argued. “My father-in-law is not a fool. If he wanted to use the Jedi to seek revenge, he would have been smart enough to cover his tracks. He would have waited until after Medd had left before ordering the attack.”

“Sometimes when we are blinded by grief, we aren’t able to look past our immediate desires,” the Jedi noted.

“Is that what you really believe, Master Obba? Or are you just looking for someone to blame for the death of your former Padawan?”

The Ithorian sighed. “I admit my own judgment in this may be clouded by my personal feelings. That is why I must trust in the Force and allow it to guide my thoughts and actions.”

“There is no emotion, there is peace,” the princess remarked.

“You have studied our Code.”

“Only informally.”

“I should have suspected as much,” the Master told her. “I can feel the Force is strong in you.”

Lucia’s eyes popped open in surprise, though Serra took his observation completely in stride.

“I fear I am too old to be recruited into your Order, Master Obba,” she said with a faint smile.

“Even so, the words of our mantra can serve you well,” he admonished her. “You must be ever wary of the temptations of the dark side.”

“Like the talismans Medd was sent to find?” Serra countered. “That is what this is really about, isn’t it?”

The Ithorian nodded gravely. “As much as I grieve over his death, I must put those feelings aside and focus on the purpose of his original mission.”

Lucia was impressed. So far the encounter had gone almost exactly as Serra had predicted. During their preparations for the meeting, the princess had told her the Jedi cared more about ideology and the battle of light and dark than about living people. She had planned to exploit that knowledge to turn the conversation away from discussions of who had hired the assassin … with a little help from Lucia.

The Jedi love to feel superior, Serra had explained during the shuttle ride. They consider it their duty to educate and inform the ignorant masses. If you ask one of them a question, they can’t help but answer it. We can use this to our advantage during our meeting.

“Forgive my interruption, Master Obba,” Lucia said, recognizing the opportunity he had given her, “but are these talismans really that important?”

“I believe they are,” the Ithorian replied.

“But … how can you be so sure?”

“I am a member of the Council of First Knowledge,” he explained, launching into a lesson just as Serra had said he would. “We are keepers of the wisdom of the Jedi. We maintain the Great Library, we oversee the teachings of the younglings, and we seek out the ancient histories and Holocrons that will bring us greater knowledge of the light side of the Force. But we are more than just caretakers. We are also guardians.

“Not all knowledge is pure; some is touched by evil. There are secrets that must remain hidden; forbidden teachings that should remain forever buried. There is a dark side to the Force. Unchecked it brings death and destruction.”

Lucia nodded as if absorbing every word, but inside she felt nothing but scorn. The arrogance of the Jedi knew no bounds. As a soldier serving in Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness, she had developed a rather different view of the dark side. The Sith taught that emotion—fear, anger, and even hate—should be embraced. She had learned to draw strength from the so-called evil of the dark side, and it had helped her survive through war and years of suffering.

The Jedi would never understand this. They lived in isolation, meditating in great towers at the center of the galaxy. They had no idea what it was like for the outcasts, the disenfranchised, and the forgotten people forced to live on the fringes of society.

“The Council of First Knowledge is sworn to keep this terrible power from being unleashed,” Master Obba continued, oblivious of her true feelings. “But the influence of the dark side is scattered throughout the galaxy, as are the tools it uses to spread: ancient texts of Sith sorcery, amulets imbued with malevolent energy, tainted crystals that can corrupt the minds of the innocent.

“Sometimes these artifacts are discovered by accident, and they fall into the hands of unsuspecting victims. They become agents of the dark side, wreaking havoc across the galaxy … unless we get to them in time. We are trained in the handling of dark side artifacts. Some can be destroyed, but others are too powerful and must be safeguarded.”

“How would something like that end up on a remote world like Doan?” Lucia asked, still playing her part.

“Humans have been living on your world for at least ten thousand years,” Obba was only too willing to explain. “When the mining operations began several centuries ago, ancient burial mounds, crypts, and grave sites were often dug up, as were the remains of primitive villages abandoned long ago. On rare occasions entire cities had even been discovered, entombed millennia earlier in mudslides or ancient volcanic eruptions.

“Some of these early civilizations worshiped the Sith and followed the ways of the dark side. When the people disappeared, the artifacts of their faith were often left behind.”

“How did you first hear about these artifacts?” the princess suddenly asked, seizing on an idea.

“Nothing but a rumor,” Obba admitted. “We heard word that a mining team had discovered a cache of items and was offering them for sale to offworld collectors. Based on the descriptions, we felt the items might have been Sith talismans. So I sent Medd to investigate.”

“If you heard about these items,” Serra speculated, “then it’s possible others could have heard of them as well. Medd’s killer might not have been an assassin sent to avenge my husband’s death. It could have been someone interested in finding the talismans.”

“I have considered that possibility,” the Jedi Master confessed. “Though I had hoped it was not so.”

The Ithorian turned his back on them, clearly troubled. He began to pace slowly back and forth in front of his plants, as if to calm himself before speaking again. Once again Lucia was amazed at how easily the princess had controlled and directed the encounter.

Obba had commented on Serra being strong in the Force. That might help to explain the commanding presence she seemed to carry. But, Lucia wondered, was it possible the princess was so powerful she was able to manipulate a Jedi Master?

“Those who are trained in the ways of the Jedi are taught to live by the rules and tenets of our Order,” Obba said at last. “We believe in self-sacrifice, and we believe that the power of the Force must only be used when it serves the greater good. Unfortunately, despite our best efforts, there are those who fall away from our teachings. They give in to weakness. They succumb to ambition and greed. They use the Force to satisfy their own base wants and desires. They reject our philosophy and fall to the dark side.”

“You’re talking about the Sith,” Serra whispered. Lucia thought she heard fear in the princess’s voice, but she couldn’t tell if it was real or simply part of the game she was playing with their host.

“Not the Sith,” he corrected. “I am speaking of the Dark Jedi.”

“What’s the difference between a Sith and a Dark Jedi?” Lucia asked.

The Ithorian stopped pacing and turned to face them, instinctively addressing his audience like a teacher giving a lesson.

“The Sith were the sworn enemies of the Jedi and the Republic. They sought to wipe us from existence; they sought to rule the galaxy. They united their strength in the Brotherhood of Darkness, drawing countless followers to their cause with false promises. They amassed an army of individuals foolish and desperate enough to believe their lies, and they plunged the galaxy into a war that threatened to destroy us all.”

Lucia remained silent as Obba spoke, though she tensed involuntarily at his description of her and her fellow soldiers.

“A Dark Jedi, on the other hand, has much smaller ambitions. He—or she—thinks only of himself. He acts alone. The ultimate goal is not galactic conquest, but personal wealth and importance. Like a common thug or criminal, he revels in cruelty and selfishness. He preys upon the weak and vulnerable, spreading misery and suffering wherever he goes.”

“And you think such a one might be involved here,” Serra noted. “You have someone in particular in mind.”

Obba bowed his head in shame. “Set Harth. As a Padawan he lost his Master to the thought bomb on Ruusan. I took him under my wing, and eventually I recommended him to the other members on the Council of First Knowledge. Like Medd, he became one of our agents, scouring the galaxy for dark side artifacts and lore.

“But the temptation of the dark side proved too strong for Set. He rejected the Jedi teachings to pursue wealth and personal gain at the expense of others. Too late we learned that he had kept many of the artifacts he uncovered for himself. By the time I realized what he had become, he was gone, vanished into the galactic underbelly of lawless mercenaries, bounty hunters, and slavers.”

“So you fear that Set Harth, this Dark Jedi, may have killed Medd Tandar on Doan?”

“If the killer was not an assassin hired by someone on Doan, then this seems to me to be the most likely possibility. If Set somehow learned about the artifact cache on Doan, he would have sought to claim it … and he would have killed anyone who got in his way.”

“He sounds like a dangerous man,” Serra noted.

“Now that the Sith are extinct,” Obba proclaimed, “Set Harth may be the most dangerous individual in the galaxy.”

Serra stared at him. She thought of the black-armored man who had haunted her dreams for the past twenty years, and remembered the words of her father:

The Jedi and the Sith will always be at war. They are each wholly uncompromising; their rigid philosophies make no room for mutual existence. But what they fail to realize is that they are merely two sides of the same coin: light and dark. You cannot have one without the other.

“How can you be so sure the Sith are gone?” she demanded. “Weren’t there rumors that some of the Sith Lords survived the thought bomb that destroyed the Brotherhood of Darkness?”

“That is true. One did survive,” Obba explained. “But now he, too, has fallen … though his defeat came at a terrible cost.”

“I don’t understand.”

The Ithorian sighed, an anguished, mournful sound. “Come. I will show you.”

With slow plodding steps he crossed the room and opened the door leading back out to the hall. The three Jedi who had escorted them there were all sitting cross-legged on the ground, silently meditating. They scrambled to their feet upon seeing the Ithorian emerge.

“You may return to your regular duties,” he informed them.

“Yes, Master,” they replied, bowing in unison. Dismissed, the Jedi headed up the stairs to whatever tasks awaited them in the higher floors of the tower.

Moving at a pace so languid it bordered on maddening, Obba led the way back down to the base of the tower and out into the gardens where, at long last, he stopped.

They stood before one of the many monuments raised in the garden. This particular one was a white block of stone a meter and a half high and nearly twice as wide. The handles of five lightsabers were inlaid on the face of the stone; beneath each was a small engraved portrait—presumably an image of the lightsaber’s owner. Beneath this, in larger letters, was the following:

In honor of those who fell beneath the blade of
the last Dark Lord of the Sith.

May their memories live on, to remind us of what is lost.

There is no emotion; there is peace;

There is no death; there is the Force.

Jedi Master Valenthyne Farfalla

Jedi Master Raskta Lsu

Jedi Master Worror Dowmat

Jedi Knight Johun Othone

Jedi Knight Sarro Xaj

Caleb of Ambria

When her eyes fell upon the last name of the list, Serra felt her knees grow weak. Speechless, she could only stare at the monument, her mind unable to make sense of what she was seeing.

“What is this?” Lucia asked, echoing her mistress’s confusion. “Why’d you bring us here?”

“Ten years ago, Master Valenthyne Farfalla learned that a Dark Lord of the Sith had somehow survived the thought bomb on Ruusan. Acting on a tip, he quickly assembled the team of Jedi you see honored on this monument to try to apprehend the Dark Lord. They followed him into the Deep Core and confronted him on the world of Tython. None of the Jedi survived.”

“Did you know them well?” Lucia wondered aloud, still following Serra’s instructions to ask questions at every opportunity.

“I knew Master Worror and Master Valenthyne back when we were all Padawans. We served together in Lord Hoth’s Army of Light during the war against Lord Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness.”

For several seconds there was silence, Obba lost in his memories and Serra still too stunned to speak. It was Lucia who broke the spell, asking yet another question.

“The last name, Caleb of Ambria—I remember hearing it back during the war. He was a healer, wasn’t he?”

“He was. In the battle against the Jedi on Tython, the Dark Lord was grievously injured. He went to Ambria in search of the one man with the knowledge to heal his wounds. But Caleb refused to help him.”

In her mind’s eye, everything became clear to Serra. As her father had predicted, the man in black armor had returned. As before, he had come to try to compel Caleb to work his art. As before, Caleb had resisted. This time, however, her father had the upper hand. Having sent his daughter away, there was nothing the Sith could do to compel him to cooperate.

“What happened when the healer refused?” she whispered, her eyes still transfixed on her father’s name etched into the base of the stone.

“Nobody knows for certain. What we do know is that shortly after the Dark Lord arrived, Caleb sent out a message alerting the Jedi Council. He told them the last of the Sith was at his camp on Ambria, injured and virtually helpless. He wanted the Jedi to come capture him.”

“Why would he do that?” Lucia wondered. “I seem to remember hearing that Caleb refused to take sides in the war. Didn’t have much use for the Jedi or the Sith.”

“He did not always agree with the philosophies of our Order,” Obba admitted. “But he was a good and moral man. The war was long over by this point, and his conscience would not suffer evil to endure without taking action. He knew if he let the Sith leave, sooner or later more innocents would suffer.

“Upon receiving the message, the Council sent a team led by Master Tho’natu out to Ambria. I was one of the Jedi chosen to accompany him. Unfortunately, by the time we arrived at the camp, Caleb was dead.”

“How?” Serra asked, her voice low and devoid of all emotion.

“The Dark Lord learned about the message. Driven mad by Caleb’s betrayal, his injuries, and the corruption of the dark side, he butchered the healer, hewing him limb from limb.

“By the time we arrived, the Dark Lord had gone completely insane. He was still lurking around the camp and he rushed out to attack us, one man against an army of Jedi. Master Tho’natu was forced to cut him down to protect his own life.”

Serra’s father had been right. He had known the black-armored man would return. He had sensed the danger, and he had sent his daughter away. He had saved her life, at the cost of his own. And in so doing, he had helped destroy the man Serra feared more than any other.

A flood of emotions swept through her. Relief. Guilt. Sorrow. Shame. But drowning them all out was a fierce, primal anger. More than anything she wanted revenge. She wanted to strike out at the monster who had terrorized her as a child and then, years later, killed her father. Yet that was impossible. The Jedi had stolen that from her.

“What was he like?” Lucia asked. “The last Sith, I mean.”

“He was a tragic, pathetic figure,” Obba answered. “Thin. Frail. You could see the madness in him when he charged us. His eyes were as dark and wild as his hair.”

No, Serra thought. That’s not right. “He had hair?” The black-armored man’s head was shaved.

“Yes. Hair like an animal’s. Long. Unkempt. Matted with blood.”

An unthinkable suspicion was worming its way into Serra’s brain.

“Was he a big man?” she demanded, straining to keep the urgency from her voice. “Tall, I mean?”

The Ithorian shook his head. “No, not overly so. Not for a human.”

The dark-armored man was a giant. At least as tall as you, Master Obba.

Oblivious to Serra’s inner turmoil, the Ithorian continued his tale. “The lightsabers of the fallen Jedi were found in Caleb’s camp; the Dark Lord had kept them as trophies. Master Tho’natu brought them back, along with the healer’s remains, so they could be laid to rest in a place of honor.

“This monument represents one of the greatest triumphs of the Jedi Order, but also one of its grimmest chapters. The Sith are no more, but only at the cost of many lives that will be sorely missed. This was the price we had to pay to rid the galaxy of the Sith forever.”

Serra’s mind was churning, trying to put all the pieces together. She needed time to think, to figure it out. But she couldn’t do that here—not with her father’s name staring up at her from the stone. She needed to leave before she said or did something that would expose her secret and reveal her true identity.

“You have given us a lot to think about, Master Obba,” Serra said stiffly. “I will be sure to relay all of this to the king.”

Master Obba cleared his throat apologetically. “I have every confidence you will do so, but I would still like to send one of my own people to investigate and see if the talismans are still there.”

When Serra hesitated before answering, Lucia came to her rescue.

“What would be the point of that? I mean, if you’re right about Set Harth being the killer, wouldn’t he be long gone by now? He’s not going to hang around after he gets his hands on those talismans, right?”

“You are probably correct,” the Jedi admitted after considering her words.

“Then I see no reason for the Jedi to follow up on this matter,” Serra said, collecting herself enough to seize the opportunity Lucia’s quick thinking had provided her. “Given the delicate political situation on Doan, it would probably be best for all concerned if the investigations were conducted by the local authorities.”

She could see the Ithorian wasn’t pleased with the arrangement, but he had been backed into a corner. Caught in the web of galactic politics, he was now helpless to take action without turning this into an official diplomatic incident—something the Senate would not look kindly on.

“If we learn any news about Set or the talismans,” the princess promised, “you have my word that we will inform you right away.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” the Ithorian replied with a stiff bow, only now realizing how he had been outmaneuvered.

Serra gave Master Obba a curt nod as a final farewell, then quickly turned to take her leave, anxious to return to the privacy of her shuttle. Lucia immediately fell into step beside her. Neither of them spoke as they crossed the gardens to the waiting airspeeder; the silence continued as the speeder whisked them up and away, turning the buildings and swarming crowds of Coruscant into a blur beneath them. Serra was still thinking about the black-armored man from her nightmares. She knew her dreams were more than just memories or subconscious fears bubbling to the surface. Caleb had been neither Sith nor Jedi, yet he had believed in the natural power of life and the universe and had taught Serra to listen to the power within her, to draw on it when she needed wisdom, courage, or strength of spirit. Most important, he had taught her to trust her instincts.

In the same way Caleb had known that the black-armored man would return, Serra knew he was still alive. She knew he was somehow involved in her father’s murder. The Jedi who had come to Ambria had been tricked. She was certain of it. It wouldn’t have been hard; they wanted to believe the Sith were extinct. It was always easier to make people accept a lie they had hoped and wished for.

A plan began to form in Serra’s mind. For too many years, she had been tormented by the terrifying figure from her childhood. Now, with Caleb’s death as the catalyst, she was going to do something about it. She would avenge her father. She was going to find the black-armored man, and she was going to kill him.

She didn’t speak again until she and Lucia were alone on board the private shuttle that would take them back to Doan. Here she knew they were safe, that whatever was said would stay between the two of them. Even so, she wasn’t ready to confess everything. She would keep the secrets of her past—her father, her nightmares—a little longer yet.

“The assassin you hired. I need you to contact her again” was all she said. “I have another job for her.”

6

Set Harth had been on Doan for two days. He was determined not to still be here by the end of the third. In part, he wanted to be gone before any more Jedi showed up to investigate Medd’s death, or to try and claim the artifacts the Cerean had come for in the first place. But beyond that, Set was just sick of being surrounded by miners.

They were all beginning to look the same: squat and stout, their common thickness a result of generations spent at hard manual labor. Their skin was brown and weathered, not to mention caked with the dust and grime that hung over everything. They all had the same hair—short and dark—and they all wore the same clothes, drab and ratty. Even their features all looked the same: grim and sullen, despondent and broken by a lifetime of grinding in the quarries.

To say he didn’t fit in was the epitome of understatement. Set was thin and wiry, with long, silver hair flowing down over his shoulders. His skin was creamy white and unblemished by the elements; his handsome features conveyed a mischievous charm and just a touch of arrogance. And unlike the miners, Set dressed with style.

He wore a tailor-fitted combat suit, the material a shade somewhere between black and violet. The lightweight outfit gave him full mobility, yet was also durable enough to afford some protection if, as so often happened around Set, events took a violent turn. Atop this he wore a pale yellow vest; both the combat suit and vest were sleeveless to leave his arms bare. A fashionable violet band of woven veda cloth encircled each ripped bicep, and his boots, belt, and fingerless gloves were made from the finest Corellian leather.

Typically he also carried a GSI-24D disruptor pistol holstered on his right thigh and a conventional blaster strapped to his left. Here on Doan, however, disruptors were banned, so he had tucked both weapons—along with his lightsaber—into the various pockets lining the inside of his vest.

It was obvious he didn’t belong with the rest of the crowd in the cantina, but Set wasn’t trying to blend in. It was common knowledge that mercenaries could find high-paying jobs here on Doan. Set figured anyone who saw him would assume he was just one more soldier of fortune hoping to cash in on the escalating violence between the rebels and the nobility.

They’d be wrong, of course. Set was here hoping to cash in, but it had nothing to do with Doan’s inevitable civil war. Less than a week ago his former colleague Medd Tandar had been on this world, and there was only one reason he would ever come to a pit like this.

Master Obba sent you here to find some dark side talisman, didn’t he? Only you got more than you bargained for. Always suspected you were soft.

Whatever Medd had come in search of, he had died before retrieving it. That meant the item was still here, just waiting for someone to claim it. Someone like Set.

For the past two days he had traveled the scarred surface of Doan, moving from one cantina, barracks, or work site to another. At each stop he asked questions, trying to find someone—anyone—who knew something about the Cerean who had been killed along with the rebel leaders. More important, he needed to find someone who knew what Medd had been looking for.

To anyone who asked, he explained that he was interested because he was a collector of rare artifacts. But the people here were wary. Some of them suspected he was working for the royal family. It wasn’t easy to get the answers he needed. Still, over the years Set had learned that everyone had their price … or their breaking point.

His investigations had led him here, to this nameless cantina owned by a Rodian bartender named Quano, one of only a handful of nonhumans who chose to try to make a living on Doan.

Eager to get away from the blowing dust clouds rolling across the surface, Set pushed open the door and entered the cantina. He immediately began to regret his decision. It was clear that the crowd in this particular establishment comprised the lowest dregs of Doan mining society. Most of the people here were bent and twisted; the hard-timers, hunchbacked and half-crippled by a lifetime of digging up ore for the profit of others. Their clothes weren’t just shabby, but filthy, and the acrid stench of sweat and unwashed bodies nearly brought tears to his eyes. Exactly the kind of people Set would expect to find in a Rodian’s bar.

The furniture was as wretched and broken-down as the clientele: glasses disfigured by chips and cracks, discolored tabletops tottering on three rickety legs, rusting stools that looked as if they would crumble if given one good kick. Against the far wall was a long, wide bar covered by a slap-dash coat of peeling paint that did little to hide the rotting wood beneath. The row of bottles perched on the shelf behind the bar were covered in a thick layer of dirt and grime, but Set didn’t need to read the labels to guess they were all brands that readily sacrificed quality for price.

He noticed two heavyset thugs loitering on either side of the door and quickly sized them up: typical goons—big, strong, and stupid. He could tell from the awkward way they stood that each had a small pistol jammed down the front of his respective belt.

Leaning against the wall behind the bar was the green-skinned proprietor himself, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His insectlike eyes glared at Set from across the room, his tapirlike snout twisted into what the former Jedi could only assume was meant to be a sneer.

Ignoring the uninviting greeting, Set made his way slowly toward the Rodian. Two dozen eyes gave him the once-over as he passed the bar, their collective gaze cold, appraising, and ultimately uncaring as the owners turned their attention back to the brackish sludge swirling around in their mugs.

“Bar for miners only,” Quano muttered in heavily accented Galactic Basic once Set was close enough to rest an elbow on the bar. “You not drink. Go away.”

Set reached out and casually dropped a pair of hundred-credit chips on the counter. The Rodian tried to act nonchalant, but Set could sense that he was suddenly holding his breath.

“I was hoping we could have a little chat,” Set told him, getting right to the point. “Alone.”

In a flash the chips disappeared and Quano was standing on top of the bar.

“Cantina closed!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Time to go! Back to work! Everybody out!”

Most of the crowd rose grudgingly from their seats, muttering darkly as they shuffled to the door. One stubborn soul stayed sitting, doing his best to keep his wobbly chair from being knocked over by the other patrons heading for the exit. The bartender clapped his hands together twice, and the bouncers by the door quickly moved in.

They grabbed the man, each one seizing an arm, and yanked him from the chair. Too drunk to even struggle, the customer hung like deadweight between the two hulking brutes, his feet dragging limply on the floor as they forcibly ushered him out. Upon reaching the exit, the bouncers rocked their human cargo back and forth several times in a surprising display of coordinated effort, building momentum before hurling him through the doorway and onto the hard ground outside. It would have been a lie for Set to say he wasn’t impressed by the distance they achieved.

With the last customer gone, one of the bouncers slammed the door and latched it shut. Then they both turned to face Set, grinning as they resumed leaning against the wall on either side of the room’s only exit.

Set couldn’t help but admire the Rodian’s utter and complete lack of subtlety. Most proprietors would have invited Set into a back room to chat rather than shutting down their entire establishment for only two hundred credits. Judging by the general décor, however, the establishment was barely profitable.

Not that Set really cared. He wasn’t trying to keep a low profile. He was used to leaving memorable stories in his wake; if anyone ever came to investigate he would be long gone, so what did it matter if he had another tale to add to his legend? Over time the details would inevitably become exaggerated, and one day people would marvel at how Set had been so wealthy that he had paid thousands of credits to shut down an entire cantina just so he could speak to the owner.

“Nobody bother us now,” Quano said from behind him, hopping back down onto the floor. “You want drink?”

“I’m a collector interested in rare artifacts,” Set replied, ignoring the question and cutting right to the chase. He wanted to spend as little time here as possible. “Rings. Amulets. That kind of thing.”

Quano shrugged. “Why you tell Quano?”

“Word around the camp is you sometimes have these kinds of items for sale.”

The cupped antennae on the bartender’s head twitched ever so slightly. “Maybe,” he whispered, leaning forward so Set could hear him. “Miner finds things. Him wants to sell it offworld. Maybe Quano help him.”

“Then this is your lucky day,” Set replied, somehow managing to flash a dazzling smile despite the pungent aroma of alien pheromones wafting off the Rodian. “Like I said—I’m a collector. A wealthy collector.”

Quano cast a quick glance around the empty room, almost as if he expected someone to be listening in on their conversation. Set recognized it as a nervous reflex developed after years of making shady deals in public places.

“What you interested in?”

“I think you know what I’m looking for. The same thing as the last collector who came here. The Cerean.”

“Him not collector. Him Jedi. You Jedi, too?”

Set sighed. This was going to drive the price up. Never did understand the value of keeping a low profile, did you, Medd?

“Do I look like a Jedi?”

The Rodian tilted his head from one side to the other before answering. “No. Look more like bounty hunter.”

“Does it really matter? I want to buy what you’re selling. And I’ve got plenty of credits … if you’ve got the merchandise.”

“Stuff not here. Quano just middlebeing. Miner have it.”

“Can you take me to whoever has it?”

Quano shook his head. “Miner change his mind. Not for sale no more.”

“Everyone has a price. I’m a wealthy man. If you take me to him, I’m sure we can come to some agreement.”

Another shake of the head. “Last time Quano take someone to meet miners, everyone end up dead. Too risky.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

The Rodian snorted. “Quano not care about risk for you. Miners say if Quano show up again, they kill him.”

“They don’t have to know you were involved,” Set promised. “Just show me where to find them. I’ll make it worth your while.”

To emphasize his point he produced his small drawstring purse, reached in, and pulled out an entire handful of high-value chips. He held them up for Quano to look at before letting them spill through his fingers back into the satchel.

The Rodian’s tongue poked out and swirled around his snout, his reluctance to take Set to the miners doing battle with his greed.

“You pay one—no, two!—thousand, yes?”

“Seven hundred. Or I go find someone else who can help me.”

“Okay, deal,” the bartender blurted out, unwilling to barter for fear he might let a small fortune slip through his fingers.

To seal the deal, he extended his hand. Gritting his teeth Set returned the gesture. He clasped the other’s palm for one quick shake then pulled back, mildly repulsed by the feel of the Rodian’s scaly skin against his own.

“You have drink to celebrate,” Quano declared. “On the house.”

“Pass,” Set replied.

“You got credits with you, right?” the bartender wanted to know. “You pay now, right?”

Set nodded. “I’ll pay you as soon as we go.”

“We go now. Quano just grab something first.”

As the Rodian ducked back behind the bar, Set realized there was something off about his voice. Too eager.

So it’s going to be like that, is it?

Slipping his hand into his vest, the Dark Jedi whipped out his lightsaber. He ignited it as Quano popped back up into view, just in time to deflect the bolt from the blaster pistol that was now pointing at him. The Rodian let out a shriek of surprise and disappeared back behind the cover of the bar.

He’d dealt with Quano’s type before. Set would have been perfectly content to honor the terms of their agreement, but the Rodian had obviously come up with a different plan. Why risk your life and take someone to a hidden base for seven hundred credits when you can murder him in cold blood and take all his money instead?

Set respected the sentiment; after all, he lived by similar self-serving principles. But the bartender had made an unforgivable error by trying to use those principles against a Dark Jedi.

Keeping one eye on the bar, Set turned to face the two burly miners guarding the door. They had probably been expecting Quano’s betrayal, but they were caught completely off guard by the failure of his plan. Now the grins had fallen from their faces, and they were clumsily scrambling to draw their own weapons.

Why are the big ones always so kriffing slow?

Set could have stopped them any number of ways: He could have used the Force to yank their weapons from their grasp, or unleashed a wave that would send the guards flying across the room. Given how long it was taking them, he could have leapt forward and sliced them both in half with his lightsaber before they ever fired a shot. Instead, he chose to simply hold his ground, waiting for the inevitable barrage of blasterfire.

His adversaries didn’t disappoint him. Set easily caught the first round of bolts with his shimmering blade, sending them ricocheting harmlessly away. At this point a smart opponent would have made a break for the door. Quano’s two thugs, on the other hand, simply kept firing, too dumb to realize the sheer futility of their attacks.

Set picked off a few more shots before growing bored with the game. Using the Force to anticipate the precise location of the next two incoming bolts, he angled his lightsaber so that they deflected straight back toward their point of origin.

The first miner was hit in the chest, the other in the stomach. Both died instantly.

Killing his enemies with their own blaster bolts was a long-standing tradition for Set. There were occasions when he needed to keep a low profile, and lightsabers tended to leave very distinctive wound patterns. This wasn’t one of those times, but why pass up a chance to keep his skills sharp?

All this time, Quano hadn’t reappeared. Set was unsurprised.

“Might as well come out. Don’t make me come get you.”

The Rodian’s green head slowly rose up into view. He was still holding his blaster, pointing it at Set. But his hands were trembling so much he couldn’t even keep the barrel steady.

Set shook his head. “If you’re going to kill somebody so you can steal their credits, at least go after an easy target.”

“You liar,” Quano replied, his voice rising defensively. “You said you no Jedi.”

With a flick of his wrist, Set used the Force to slap the pistol from Quano’s hand. Another gesture lifted the helpless bartender off the ground and yanked him across the room, where he landed in a crumpled ball at Set’s feet.

Reaching down to seize one of the Rodian’s antennae, Set used it to pull his whimpering victim up to his knees. His free hand brought the blade of his still-ignited lightsaber to within a few centimeters of Quano’s scaly face.

“Let’s get one thing clear. I’m not a Jedi.”

To emphasize his point, he flicked his blade, caressing it against the Rodian’s cheek for a fraction of a second. The sizzle of smoldering flesh was drowned out by Quano’s scream.

“No kill, no kill!” he blubbered.

The damage was minor; a burn that would heal within a week while leaving only a faint scar. But Set was satisfied his point had been made. Shutting off his lightsaber, he released his grip on the antenna and took a step back, giving Quano room to stand.

The Rodian stayed on his knees, his hand reached up gingerly to examine his wound.

“Now why would I want to kill you?” Set asked him. “You’re the only one who can take me to the miners and their talismans. Until I have them in my hands, I’ll do everything I can to keep you alive.”

“What happen after you get them?” Quano asked, suspicious.

Set flashed him his most charming smile. “At that point, we’ll just have to play it by ear.”

Set could hear the voices of the miners echoing down the tunnel. He estimated they were only a few hundred meters away; from the tone of the echoes he suspected they were in a large, high-roofed cavern.

They live like vermin, huddled in underground warrens, afraid for their lives. Pathetic.

Ahead, his unwilling guide suddenly stopped and turned to look back at him. It wasn’t easy to read a Rodian’s expression, but it was clear what Quano was asking: I brought you this far—can I go now?

Set simply shook his head and pointed farther down the tunnel. Shoulders sagging, Quano continued to shuffle forward.

They were close enough now that Set could actually make out what the miners were saying to one another.

“You can’t be serious!” a deep-voiced man shouted. “The nobles murdered Gelba! We have to make them pay!”

“If they got Gelba, they can get anyone,” another man protested. “I think we should lay low for a while. Let things simmer down.”

“I agree,” a woman chimed in. “I know Gelba was your friend, Draado. But you’re talking madness!”

Set could see light from the entrance to the cavern spilling around a bend in the tunnel just up ahead. Quano crept around the corner silently and crouched behind a rock that gave him a clear view of their quarry. He might have been a coward, Set noted as he moved up to join him, but he had a natural talent for sneaking and spying.

From their vantage point he could clearly see the cave. It was dotted with dozens of large stalagmites protruding up like ugly brown spires from the floor. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, looking ominously like the teeth of some ancient stone monster waiting to chomp down on the people below.

He counted an even dozen miners gathered in a loose semicircle near the center of the chamber. All of them were armed, just like the four guards he had dispatched at the tunnel’s entrance not ten minutes earlier. A few of the miners were sitting on short, flat-topped rock formations. Others paced nervously back and forth. One leaned against a nearby stalagmite. Two men and a woman appeared to be engaged in a heated argument. Four others were standing guard on the edges of the group, blaster rifles drawn while they nervously scanned the cavern’s entrance, as if trying to pierce the shadows in anticipation of an attack.

Whoever killed Medd and your friends made you paranoid.

“With Gelba gone, I call the shots,” a bearded man was saying to one of the women. “And I say Gelba’s death calls for blood!”

“Draado,” Quano whispered, speaking so softly Set had to lean in to hear it. “Him one who dig up stuff you want.”

Looking closer, Set noticed an amulet draped around Draado’s neck, and he caught the glint of a ring on his finger—the only jewelry he had seen on any of the miners since he’d set foot on this destitute world.

“You want to start a war that will get us all killed,” one of the men objected.

“At least we’ll take a few of the nobles with us!” Draado snapped back.

Draado was standing less than ten meters from where Set was hiding, close enough that he could sense the power emanating from the talismans. The amulet seemed to call out to him; the ring beckoned with its dark heat.

“What happened to you, Draado?” the woman asked. “You always used to be the one who said we could get what we want without violence and bloodshed.”

“I’ve changed. Now I see the truth.” Draado pounded his chest for emphasis as he spoke, his fist striking the amulet.

“The nobles won’t respect us until they learn to fear us,” he insisted, turning to look at everyone scattered about the cavern. “We need to make them scared for their very lives. We need to strike terror into their hearts!”

Clearly Draado was under the influence of the talismans; they were corrupting his mind and his thoughts. The power of the dark side had taken hold of him.

No wonder Quano said he wouldn’t want to sell them.

The Dark Jedi considered his options. Bargaining with the miners was out of the question; Draado would never willingly give up his newfound treasures. Given the tension in the room and the itchy trigger fingers on the guards, it was pretty clear that any attempt to negotiate would probably end up in a firefight no matter what he did.

He drew out his twin pistols and took a deep breath, bracing for the confrontation. He needed the target practice anyway.

Leaping from his hiding place, he charged into the cavern with guns blazing. He dropped all four of the rifle-carrying guards before anyone had a chance to react. With the Force guiding his hand, he easily picked them off with four clean shots as he sprinted toward the cover of a large stalagmite on the far side of the cavern.

He skidded in behind it just as the miners began to return fire. They peppered his hiding place, sending up fine clouds of dust as the bolts disintegrated small chips from the stone. Poking his head out, Set fired twice more, reducing the number of opponents to six before ducking back behind the safety of the stalagmite.

The sound of enemy blasterfire reverberated off the walls of the cavern. Set smiled, enjoying the glorious clamor of battle. Halfway done already. This might be easier than I thought.

Behind him, he sensed Quano making a break for freedom back up the tunnel. Set could have taken him out with a single shot in the back, but he decided to let him go. He always preferred to leave someone behind to tell the tale of his exploits, anyway.

A sharp crack suddenly echoed across the cavern. Glancing up, Set saw one of the large stalactites from the ceiling plunging down to impale him. He rolled out of the way at the last instant, the deadly rock spear exploding into fragments as it hit the unyielding cavern floor. He ducked his head as the shower of jagged stone shards washed over him, scoring the exposed skin of his neck and bare arms with hundreds of superficial, stinging cuts.

Blasterfire opened up again, but Set was already on his feet. Darting and weaving erratically, he managed to sidestep the shots as he made a mad dash for cover behind another of the prominent rock formations.

Momentarily safe, he took a second to catch his breath, glancing up to make sure another potentially deadly stalactite wasn’t poised above him. He had no doubt who had fired the shots that had dislodged the last one. He’d gotten sloppy, underestimating Draado and the talismans.

It wasn’t necessary to be trained in the ways of the Force to benefit from its power. It heightened the senses, made an individual quicker to react and anticipate. What some saw as expertise with a weapon or luck in battle was often really a manifestation of the Force. Even if he wasn’t aware of it, Draado was drawing on the power of the dark side. And that made him dangerous.

Putting his pistols away, Set unclipped his lightsaber. Playtime’s over.

Leaning out from behind his rock, igniting his lightsaber, he hurled it with a sidearm throw, sending it spinning horizontally on a wide, looping trajectory. It circled the room once, easily slicing through stalactites and miners before returning to Set’s waiting grasp.

It had taken Set years to fully master the devastating power of the lightsaber throw, but the attack was virtually unstoppable. Five of his remaining opponents had been caught in the lethal arc it traced around the room. Only Draado had been quick enough to duck out of the way, saved by the power of the talismans he wore. But even with these artifacts, he was no match for a former Jedi Knight.

Set simply stood up and reached out with his free hand in Draado’s direction, his fingers forming into a claw. The miner dropped his blaster, his hands flying up to his throat as he gasped for breath.

Set crossed the room, increasing the pressure on his helpless victim’s windpipe. Draado collapsed to his knees, his face turning purple. The Dark Jedi stood above him, watching coldly as his life was slowly choked away.

When the miner’s struggles finally stopped, Set bent down and stripped him of both the amulet and the ring. He resisted the temptation to put them on right away. From his apprenticeship under Master Obba he had learned that it was wise to study the artifacts of the dark side carefully before using them—their power often came with a cost.

He had what he came for, and he was eager to get off this civilization-forsaken world and back to the luxury of his home on Nal Hutta. Besides, the longer he stayed on Doan, the greater the chance he would run into another Jedi sent to investigate Medd’s death. If he left now all they’d find would be the sniveling bartender he’d left behind, and he wouldn’t be able to tell them anything they couldn’t figure out for themselves.

So long, Quano. You better hope we never meet again.

As he made his way back up the long, winding tunnel toward the surface—the amulet and the ring firmly in his possession—he couldn’t help but wonder if the Rodian would ever appreciate just how lucky he was.

7

In Zannah’s opinion, of all the worlds she had been to—including the war-torn fields of Ruusan, the lifeless deserts of Ambria, the desolate gray plains of Tython—Doan was by far the least hospitable.

The entire surface of the planet had been gashed open in the endless quest for new minerals. Flora and fauna were nonexistent; everywhere she looked she saw nothing but dirt and rock. It was an ugly, ravaged world: by all rights it should have been devoid of all life. And yet the mining camps teemed with desperate beings scratching and clawing to carve out a meager existence for themselves.

Watching them, she couldn’t help but compare them with her Master, whom she knew had grown up on a place like Doan: Apatros, a world rich in nothing but cortosis mines, owned by Outer Rim Oreworks, a corporation notorious for treating its indentured employees like slaves. But where Bane’s brutal childhood and savage upbringing in the mines of Apatros had taught him to fight to survive, had helped forge his indomitable spirit, the miserable curs she had encountered on Doan were weak, deserving nothing better than servitude. Bane had ambition. Bane had strength. He had managed to rise above his surroundings. Through sheer force of will, he had cast off the shackles of his childhood and forged a new destiny for himself. He had risen from nothing to become the Dark Lord of the Sith.

It was time for Zannah to do the same. She would not allow herself to be like these pathetic wretches: weak, afraid, and enslaved.

Through power, I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken.

There was still the problem of finding her own apprentice, of course. But for now, she needed to focus on why she was here. Her investigations had revealed that she wasn’t the only one interested in the dead Jedi. A man with long, silver hair—some called him a mercenary, others a bounty hunter—had been here not two days earlier, asking the same questions she was. Since then, she had been following his tracks: talking to the people he spoke to, and charming, bribing, or threatening them into giving her the same information they had given him.

She now suspected she knew why Medd Tandar had come here in the first place. It was common knowledge among the miners that a small cache of jewelry had been uncovered during a dig, and that the Jedi had come to Doan in the hope of acquiring the find. Zannah could only think of one reason why a Jedi would be interested in a few trinkets discovered in a long-forgotten tomb on an insignificant Outer Rim world—her Master wasn’t alone in his obsessive efforts to locate ancient Sith artifacts scattered across the galaxy.

At first she had assumed the man who had been asking about Medd before her had been another Jedi sent to complete the original mission. However, it quickly became clear from the reports of his use of terror and torture to extract information that he was not a Jedi or even someone working for the Jedi Order. The trail of these reports had ended at a dilapidated cantina in one of the seemingly infinite mining camps. But she found the establishment closed, and Quano, the Rodian proprietor, nowhere to be found. With no more eyewitnesses, Zannah decided to have a look around herself, hoping for further clues.

Night had fallen, casting everything in near blackness. She tried the door and discovered that someone had smashed the lock. Not surprising, given the poverty she had seen. Pushing her way in, she picked up the faint odor of decaying flesh. She cracked a glow stick from her belt, filling the room with its pale green light. She was just able to make out two bodies on the floor.

Crouching by the first one, she made a quick examination. Doan’s dry, dusty heat—combined with the general lack of airflow through the cantina—had partially mummified the corpse, slowing the decomposition process. The cause of death was obvious: a blaster bolt to the chest. His own blaster was still clutched in his hand.

It was obvious he wasn’t Quano; the body was plainly human. And he didn’t fit the descriptions she had been given of the man she was following. Based on his clothes and large muscles, he was probably one of the miners. She found the second body the same: a dead miner, shot in the chest.

Continuing her examination of the scene, she noticed that the shelf behind the bar was empty—but clear circles in the dust showed that until very recently, dozens of bottles had stood there. Whoever had broken in must have stolen all the alcohol … and left the two bodies where they lay on the floor.

A thorough search of the room turned up no trace of either the Rodian or the silver-haired man.

At the sound of someone fumbling at the door, Zannah covered her glow stick with her cloak and crouched low to the ground, a perfect statue hidden—she hoped—by the darkness.

The door creaked open and a shadowy figure slowly picked its way through the tables toward the bar in the back. Zannah waited to make sure the intruder was alone, then stood up and cast her cloak aside, bathing the room in the light of her glow stick.

A Rodian stood frozen, staring at her with wide, fearful eyes.

“Quano, I presume?”

“Who you?” he asked, his barely passable Basic made even harder to understand by the panic in his voice. Then he noticed the empty shelf behind the bar, and his face scrunched up in sullen anger. “You steal all Quano’s booze.”

“I didn’t steal anything. I just came here to ask you some questions,” she assured him.

The Rodian’s shoulders slumped. Sighing, he sat down cross-legged on the ground, his head hanging despondently.

“More questions. You Jedi, too? Like other one?” He spoke with a tone of utter hopelessness, as if he realized he was doomed and had given up any hope of escaping his fate.

“A Jedi? You mean Medd Tandar? The Cerean?”

“No. The other one. Human. Long, white hair.”

“I’m looking for him,” Zannah admitted. “But what makes you think he was a Jedi?”

“Him got lightsaber. Use it to give Quano this.”

The Rodian turned his head and pointed to his cheek. Moving slowly so as not to startle the obviously distraught fellow, Zannah approached until she was able to make out his scar. In the dim light of the glow stick she couldn’t be sure, but the burn did appear to be consistent with that made by a lightsaber’s blade.

She knew how to read people. The Rodian was like an abused pup, cowering as he waited for the next blow. Show him a little compassion, however, and he would react as if she had saved his life.

“He tortured you. You poor thing,” she cooed, feigning sympathy even as her mind churned on the identity of the mysterious white-haired man.

A Jedi would never harm someone without just cause. Whoever had done this wasn’t one of the Order, but he did have a lightsaber. And he was skilled enough to wound Quano without accidentally slicing off half his head. She had heard tales of Dark Jedi—Jedi Knights who had fallen away from the teachings of their Masters to embrace the power of the dark side. Was it possible the man she sought was one of these?

More important, did Bane already know this? Her Master often kept secrets from her, and she had learned to always assume he knew more than he said. But if he knew there was a Dark Jedi on Doan, why had he sent Zannah to investigate? Was it some type of final test? Was she supposed to prove herself by finding and killing this potential rival? Or was Bane testing the white-haired man? If he proved strong enough to defeat Zannah, would he become her Master’s new apprentice?

“Him wanted information,” Quano whimpered.

“I’m sorry, Quano,” she said, speaking softly as she gently placed a hand on his shoulder, “but I need information, too. I need to know what you told him.”

As she did so, she reached out with a gentle push of the Force, nudging the bartender’s will ever so slightly so he would be more inclined to tell her what she wanted.

“Him you friend?”

“No,” Zannah assured him, using words to reinforce her subtle mind manipulation. “He’s not my friend.”

Maybe Bane was trying to force her hand, she thought; pushing her to act. Was he providing her with a suitable apprentice in the hope it would compel her to challenge him for leadership of the Sith?

“You want kill him?” Quano asked, his voice rising excitedly.

“That is a possibility,” she answered, giving him a warm smile. That, or make him my apprentice … assuming he doesn’t kill me. “But I’ve got to find him first.”

“Him no here no more. Him go two days ago. Leave Doan.”

“He came here looking for something, didn’t he?”

Quano nodded. “Stuff miner dig up. Him take it. Kill miners. That when Quano escape.”

“And you’ve been hiding ever since,” Zannah guessed. “So why did you come back to the cantina?”

The Rodian hesitated, his bug eyes darting nervously between Zannah’s face and the small wrist-mounted blaster peeking out from beneath the sleeve of her cloak.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Quano,” she promised. “I’m not like him.” He enjoys hurting people. I only hurt people if I see some way to profit from their suffering. “I don’t think he’s coming back.” Not if he’s got the talismans. “But I need to know something else, Quano. When that man left Doan, where did he go?”

She saw the Rodian flinch before answering. “Quano not know. For trueness.”

“I believe you,” she said, reaching out to gently pat his hand. “But I bet you know people who could help me find out, don’t you?”

The bartender shifted uncomfortably, but another gentle push with the Force overcame his reluctance. “Quano has friend at spaceport. Him maybe find out.”

“Can we go see him?”

“You want go now?”

Zannah smiled again, knowing it would help sustain the rapport she had established. “You can grab your credits from the safe first, if you want.”

It was a two-kilometer walk from Quano’s cantina to the nearest ground-shuttle station, a fifteen-minute wait for the shuttle to arrive, and then a forty-minute ride before they reached the spaceport. By the time they arrived it was well past midnight, and the Doan spaceport—never busy even during peak hours—was empty except for a few individuals assigned to work the graveyard shift.

Unlike the highly regulated ports on Ciutric, the authorities at the Doan docks didn’t bother doing any registration checks on incoming vessels. In fact, their only job seemed to be collecting the landing fee.

“Your friend,” Zannah asked as she and Quano walked into the unstaffed gate, “what does he do here?”

“Cleaning crew,” the Rodian answered.

Zannah wasn’t quite sure how a janitor was going to be able to help her track down a ship that had left nearly two days ago, but she held her tongue as he led her into the arrival/departure area then out to the landing pad at the back.

The pad was small, barely large enough to accommodate a dozen midsized passenger shuttles. The vast majority of Doan’s interstellar traffic was made up of either the personal vessels of the wealthy nobles, who all docked at private landing pads on their estates, or cargo vessels affiliated with the mining operations, which were handled at a different location. Individuals landing here at the communal spaceport were few and far between.

The landing pad was poorly lit by a handful of floodlights set on tall lampposts, but even so Zannah could clearly see there were only three ships on site, one of which was her own shuttle. Half-hidden in the shadows near the edge of the landing pad was a young man slumped backward in a chair. He wore a crumpled custodian’s uniform and an ID badge, his arms hung limp at his sides, and he was snoring loudly.

Quano walked over and kicked the leg of his chair, startling him out of his sleep.

“Pommat. Get up.”

Looking around with the bemused expression of one only half-awake, the young man shifted his position and sat up straighter in his chair. When his gaze settled on Zannah, his eyebrows arched suggestively.

“Hey, Quano. Who’s your pretty friend?”

“My name is not important,” Zannah said, speaking before the Rodian could reply. “I was told you could help me track down a ship that passed through here two days ago.”

When the man looked at Quano, the Rodian said, “Is okay. She nice. She friend.”

The young man turned back to Zannah, crossing his arms and giving a derisive snort. “Yeah, right. A friend who won’t tell you her name.”

She could sense that his will was stronger than the bartender’s, but still malleable. The fact that Pommat obviously found her attractive would help, too, if she was willing to flirt with him a little.

“I’m a friend who has credits,” she replied coyly. “If you have what I need.”

The man bobbed his head back and forth a few times before uncrossing his arms and running his fingers through his shaggy, sleep-ruffled hair.

Zannah arched one eyebrow playfully and reached out with the Force. “Come on, Pommat. I’m not looking for the strong, silent type.”

“Yeah, all right,” he relented. “Maybe I can help. What do you need?”

“A few days ago a man with long white hair arrived on Doan. Did he come through this port?”

She already knew the answer: unless the man had some connection to one of the noble families, this was the only port for a thousand kilometers. But a basic tactic in negotiations was to get the other person to start giving you affirmative answers to simple questions. It made them more likely to agree with you on more important matters later on.

“Oh, yeah. I remember him. Nice ride. State-of-the-art shuttle. Custom interior. Top of the line. Even nicer than yours.”

“How would you know what the interior of my shuttle is like?” Zannah asked suspiciously.

There was a brief pause, then both Quano and Pommat burst out laughing.

“Him smuggler,” the Rodian explained when he caught his breath.

“Not exactly,” Pommat clarified. “It’s just a little side racket I’ve set up. Something to help pay the bills, you know?”

“No,” Zannah said darkly. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me.”

“Whoa, you got a little fire in you, doll,” Pommat said appreciatively. “Let me break it down for you. At night, I’m the only one working here. I can pretty much do anything I want. Including breaking into somebody’s shuttle.”

“You’re not worried about security systems?”

“Never ran across one I couldn’t slice,” he said, puffing out his chest. “It’s one of my many talents. Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll show some of the others later on.”

“So you break into people’s shuttles and steal from them?” Zannah clarified, ignoring his clumsy come-on.

“Nah. That’d be stupid. People would notice if stuff was missing. They’d report it to my boss. Wouldn’t take long to figure out who was behind it.”

“So what do you do, exactly?”

“You’re going to love this,” Pommat said with a sly wink. “Once I’m inside, I slice into their nav computer and download all the info onto a datapad. It gives me everything: the owner, any planets the ship is registered with, commonly plotted hyperspace routes. I know who owns it, where they’ve been, and which world they use as a home port.”

“Clever,” Zannah admitted. “But what use is that?”

“This is where it gets good,” he promised, obviously pleased with himself. “I’ve got an arrangement with a guy on Kessel. Every month he sends me a shipment of glitterstim.”

Glitterstim, or spice, was a powerfully addictive drug banned on most worlds. Doan, however, had no laws against importing it. And nobody at the spaceports to enforce the laws, even if they did exist, Zannah silently noted.

“I don’t sell the spice here,” Pommat continued. “Nobody has any money except the nobles. And they won’t deal with the lower classes. But I’ve got contacts at the spaceports on a bunch of other worlds here on the Outer Rim.

“So let’s say I slice into a ship’s nav computer and I find out it’s from Aralia. I reach out to my contact on that world, and I see if he wants me to send him a shipment. After we work out a price, I sneak onto the vessel while the owner’s not around and I hide a stash of spice somewhere on board.

“I tell my contact where I hid it, give him the ship’s registration, and he tells one of his buddies at the spaceport to let him know when it returns to Aralia. Then he waits until the coast is clear, sneaks on board, takes the stash, and transfers the credits into my account back here on Doan. The owner never has a clue!”

“Spice smuggling is a capital offense on Aralia,” Zannah remarked.

“That’s the best part. If the customs officials ever decide to search one of these ships, the owner goes down for the crime, not us. It’s foolproof!”

The whole operation seemed rather petty and ill thought out to Zannah. She wasn’t bothered by the fact that Pommat was willing to have innocent people suffer horrible fates just so he could make a handful of credits from time to time. What bothered her were the technical details. The operation had obviously been thrown together out of simple opportunity, but it struck her as inefficient and unreliable. But she wasn’t about to ruin the rapport she had established by saying so out loud.

“I didn’t realize I was dealing with a criminal mastermind,” she teased, bringing a cocky grin to Pommat’s face. “So when the white-haired man left, you snuck onto his ship and copied everything from his nav computer?”

“Got it all right here on my datapad,” Pommat replied, patting his hip pocket.

“So you know his name? You know where he’s from?”

“I do … but it’s going to cost you.”

Zannah smiled, and tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Of course. Name your price.”

“Go big,” the Rodian chimed in. “Remember, Quano get half.”

Pommat shot his friend a disapproving look before stammering out his opening offer. “Uh … four hundred credits?”

She was in no mood to negotiate. “Deal.” From the crestfallen expression on the smuggler’s face, she knew he was suddenly wishing he had asked for a lot more.

Reaching into her cloak, she produced four hundred-credit chips and handed them over to the young man. “Start talking.”

“Ship’s registered to someone named Zun Haako,” Pommat answered glumly as he flipped two of the chips to Quano and slipped the remaining pair into his pocket.

“Haako’s a Neimoidian name,” Zannah pointed out. “The man I’m looking for is human.”

Pommat shrugged. “Maybe the shuttle’s stolen.”

“I’m starting to think this information isn’t worth what I paid for it.”

“The registered owner might be fake, but the nav data’s real,” the young man assured her. “That ship came from Nal Hutta.”

“You’re certain?”

“No doubt about it.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Zannah asked, “is he carrying a shipment for you?”

“No,” he replied, almost regretfully. “I don’t do any business there. The Hutts don’t like small-timers cutting in on their action, you know?”

“Probably a wise decision.”

Quano barked out a laugh.

“What about my ship?” she asked, keeping her tone light. “Any hidden surprises on board?”

“Nah. You’re the first ship that ever came here from Ciutric,” Pommat replied. “I don’t have any contacts back on your world.

“Unless you’re interested in establishing a more long-term relationship?” he added, leering at her.

Zannah answered by whipping out her lightsaber handle and igniting the red three-quarter-length blades protruding from each end. She moved with the blinding speed of the Force, her first vicious slash severing Pommat’s outstretched arm at the elbow and carving a lethal furrow across his chest while the second cleanly removed Quano’s head from his body. Both were dead before they even had a chance to register an expression of surprise.

The deed done, she shut off her weapon, the twin blades disappearing with a low-pitched hum. She didn’t kill without reason, but once Pommat revealed that he knew she was from Ciutric she had no choice but to eliminate both him and Quano. The Jedi might still come to investigate Medd’s death, and she couldn’t risk having them trace the shuttle back to her and Bane’s estate. She didn’t like loose ends.

Crouching down, she removed the datapad from Pommat’s pocket, along with the credit chips she had given him. Then she did the same with Quano before loading the bodies, along with the dismembered bits, onto a nearby hoversled used to move heavy baggage around the spaceport. If any Jedi did come snooping around she didn’t want to leave any signs that someone with a lightsaber had killed the two men.

Loading the corpses onto her shuttle, she took a last look around to make sure she hadn’t left any witnesses behind. Satisfied, she made her way to the cockpit to prepare for liftoff.

The remains of her victims could be jettisoned into Doan’s sun just before she made the jump to hyperspace, leaving behind no physical evidence that could connect her to the world. After that, it was off to Nal Hutta, though whether she was going to eliminate a rival or recruit an apprentice, Zannah couldn’t say for sure.

8

A soft beep from the console alerted Bane that the Triumph was at last approaching its final destination.

The journey to Prakith had taken longer than he had anticipated. Travel into the Deep Core was always dangerous; the densely packed stars and black holes at the galaxy’s heart created gravity wells capable of warping the space–time continuum. Under such extreme conditions, hyperspace lanes were unstable, shifting or even collapsing without warning.

The last known route to Prakith had collapsed nearly five hundred years ago, and nobody had bothered to plot a new one since. This happened frequently with worlds in the Deep Core: if they weren’t rich in resources or mineral deposits, the dangers of trying to find new hyperspace lanes simply didn’t justify the effort.

In the centuries since the collapse of the hyperlanes, Prakith had basically been forgotten by the rest of the Republic. Even travel from nearby systems was risky, and Bane expected to find a planet that had stagnated after being cut off from the rest of society. Interplanetary trade was the lifeblood of galactic culture; without it populations dwindled and technology levels tended to regress to varying degrees.

Prakith’s isolation had also allowed the Jedi to effectively purge all mentions of Darth Andeddu and his followers from galactic records, though Prakith itself was still mentioned in a handful of older sources. Bane had compiled all the known sources, including several hopelessly out-of-date navigational charts, in the hope of relocating the lost world.

It wasn’t impossible to travel through unmapped hyperlanes, but it was both slow and dangerous. Bane was forced to plot and replot his course multiple times, making hundreds of small jumps, moving from one star to its nearby neighbors, picking and choosing from a list of potential hyperspace routes generated by the Triumph’s state-of-the-art nav computer.

Despite being the best program credits could buy, the computer was far from foolproof. It operated on probabilities and theoretical assumptions derived from previously reported data and complex astrogational measurements made on the fly. There was no way to predict the stability or inherent safety of a given route until a ship charted it by going through; as a result each stage of the journey had the potential to end in disaster.

Traveling through uncharted space was more art than science, and Bane relied as much on his instincts as the mathematical calculations of the nav computer. By sticking to shorter jumps he prolonged the journey, but he was able to minimize the risk of the Triumph being torn apart by an unexpected gravity well or being crushed out of existence by a collapsing hyperlane.

This wasn’t the first time he had braved the perils of the Deep Core. Ten years ago he had traveled to the lost world of Tython to reclaim the Holocron of Belia Darzu. The fact that he was now going to Prakith to retrieve another Holocron—this one created by Darth Andeddu—didn’t strike him as mere coincidence, however.

What the ignorant dismissed as chance or random luck was often the work of the Force. Some chose to call it destiny or fate, though these terms were far too simple to convey the subtle yet far-reaching influence it wielded. The Force was alive; it permeated the very fabric of the universe, flowing through every living creature. An energy that touched and influenced all living things, its currents—both light and dark—ebbed and flowed, shaping the patterns of existence.

Bane had spent a lifetime studying these patterns, and he had come to realize that they could be manipulated and exploited. He had come to understand that as the power of the dark side waned, the talismans created by the ancient Sith tended to become lost. But in time the cycle would turn, and as the power of the dark side waxed full the chance for these lost treasures to be found again would bubble up to the surface. During these windows of opportunity, all that was required was an individual with the wisdom to recognize them and the strength to take action.

Bane had mastered these talents, yet he was unsure if he could say the same of his apprentice. Zannah was smart and cunning, and her powers in the dark side might be even greater than his own. But did she have the vision to guide the Sith through the invisible tides of history as they rose and fell?

He wondered how her investigation on Doan was progressing. He had hoped to return to Ciutric before her, but he had underestimated the difficulty of navigating through the Core. By the time he got back, it was likely she would already be there waiting for him. She would realize he had sent her away as a distraction, and she would be expecting betrayal on his return. The confrontation he had been anticipating would finally come to pass.

The nav console beeped again, and the view outside the cockpit changed from the blinding white field of hyperspace to reveal the Prak system: a small red sun surrounded by five tiny planets. Taking manual control of his vessel, Bane descended on the third—a forbidding world largely covered by active volcanoes, burning lakes of magma, and dark fields of sulfuric ash.

As he entered the atmosphere, the scanners picked up several small cities scattered across the inhospitable surface. The nearest was several hundred kilometers to the north, but Bane turned his ship in the opposite direction, heading for the vast mountain range that ran east–west along the planet’s equator.

He didn’t know whether Andeddu’s cult still existed or not, but from the moment he had come out of hyperspace he had been confident their stronghold still survived. He could feel its presence on the surface of the world—a nexus of dark side energy pulsing like a beacon from the heart of the mountains.

As he drew closer, the ship detected a small settlement on the edge of the range. Surprisingly, an automated landing beacon was emitting a signal on standard channels. That meant there was still an active spaceport, though it was probably used by shuttles traveling from one location on the planet’s surface to another, rather than visitors from offworld.

Bane’s theory was confirmed when he brought his shuttle in to touch down at the small landing pad on the edge of the settlement. The only other person on site was an old man sitting in a chair outside a small, dilapidated customs booth. He watched curiously as Bane emerged from the ship, but made no effort to rise.

“Don’t see too many visitors lately,” he said as Bane approached. “You from Gallia?”

From his research, Bane knew that Gallia was one of Prakith’s larger cities. The man was assuming he was a native of Prakith; the idea that someone from outside their system would come to visit obviously hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“That’s right,” Bane said, seeing no reason to complicate the situation by revealing the truth. “I flew in from Gallia. I’m looking for information on Darth Andeddu’s followers.”

The man leaned forward in his chair and spat on the ground. “We don’t like to talk about them.” He fixed Bane with a suspicious stare, spat again, then sat back in his chair and crossed his arms defiantly. “I got nothing else to say to you. Go back to Gallia. You aren’t welcome here.”

Bane could have pressed the issue, but he saw no benefit in intimidating or torturing an insignificant, irritable old man. Instead, he turned away and began walking in the direction of the buildings on the horizon. He was confident that someone there would be willing to tell him what he wanted to know.

A few hours later Bane was back in his shuttle, armed with the information he needed. Despite the old man’s declaration, he’d found people were only too eager to share what they knew about the strange, insular cult deep in the neighboring mountains.

It was clear that Andeddu’s followers were still active; occasionally some of them even came into the small town in need of supplies. It was also clear that the people in the mountain village regarded their mysterious neighbors with a combination of fear and loathing. Estimates of their numbers ranged from a few dozen to more than a thousand, though Bane suspected the truth was somewhere closer to the low end. Beyond that, everything else fell under the headings of wild speculation or illogical superstition.

Drawn by the unmistakable power of the dark side emanating from his target, Bane dropped the Triumph lower and began to weave in among the tall black peaks. As he flew deeper into the range, he began to notice increased signs of recent seismic activity. Some of the mountains were over twenty kilometers tall but most were half that height, their tops blown off when the molten lava at their core erupted in a shower of smoke and fire.

It wasn’t long before the stronghold itself came into view, a towering structure built on the flat plain of a valley hidden deep within the heart of the range. A four-sided, flat-topped pyramid chiseled from black obsidian, the two-hundred-meter tall building was part fortress and part monument to a self-proclaimed god.

From the stories of the townspeople, Bane had learned that Andeddu had been worshiped as a deity during his long, long life before being overthrown. Yet even after his betrayal and death, a small cult of devoted followers believed his spirit still existed. They had continued their loyal service, preparing themselves for the day their Master would return.

Prakith’s long isolation from the rest of the galaxy had only served to strengthen his followers’ resolve. Those who lived in the temple now were described by everyone he spoke to as fanatics, and Bane suspected each would be willing to sacrifice his or her life to protect Andeddu’s Holocron.

Bane throttled back his shuttle, searching for a place to touch down. Ribbons of lava crawled down from the surrounding peaks and crisscrossed their way across the valley. The malevolent power emanating from the stronghold kept the deadly streams at bay, but any landing site he chose on the ground would be at risk. He had no intention of acquiring the Holocron, only to return and discover that his ship had disappeared beneath a slow-flowing river of magma.

There was one option: the flat top of the stronghold, no doubt constructed in the first place as a landing site. He would have preferred not to risk alerting anyone inside the pyramid by landing on it, but it seemed he had no choice. There was a time for subtlety, and a time for strength. He circled the pyramid once, then brought the shuttle in for a perfect landing on the landing pad.

Moving quickly, he sprang from the cockpit and raced outside, lightsaber already drawn. Through the Force, he could sense the chambers in the building beneath his feet explode in a flurry of activity as the cultists rallied to meet the unexpected intruder.

He glanced quickly around, taking stock of his surroundings. The roof was square, thirty meters across on each side, with a small hatch built into one corner. At that moment, the hatch burst open and beings he assumed were cultists began to pour out—nearly two dozen in total, all armed with vibroblades and clubs.

Despite their numbers, Bane instantly realized they posed no real threat. Though they worshiped one of the ancient Sith, these were ordinary men and women. The Force did not flow through their veins; they were nothing but fodder. Their fury might be fueled by the dark side energies emanating from the temple, but Bane could just as easily draw upon the same power, letting it build until he unleashed it against his foes.

A decade earlier he would have eagerly engaged them in physical combat, his body pumped full of adrenaline released by the orbalisks that had covered his flesh. Swept up in a mindless rage, he would have carved a bloody swath through their numbers, hacking and slashing at his helpless enemies while relying on the impenetrable shells of the orbalisks to protect him from their blows.

But the orbalisks were gone now. He was no longer invulnerable to physical attacks, yet he was also no longer a slave to the primal bloodlust that used to overwhelm him. Free from the parasitic infestation, he was able to dispatch his enemies using the Force rather than relying solely on brute strength.

Bane extinguished his weapon and stood perfectly still, allowing the swarming horde to close in on him as he gathered his strength. He called upon the power of the temple itself, feeding on it to bolster his own abilities as he created a deadly field around his body. It began as a tight circle, but quickly spread outward until it extended to a radius of ten meters, with the Sith Lord at the center. The air within the circumference of the field suddenly became darker, as if the light from the red sun above had been suddenly dimmed.

Cloaked in the shadowy gloom, Bane simply held his ground against the enemy assault. The front ranks of onrushing cultists shrieked in agony as they entered the field, their life essence violently sucked out of their bodies, aging them a thousand years in only a few seconds. Muscles and tendons atrophied instantaneously; their skin withered and shrank, pulling tight across their bones. Eyes and tongues shriveled, turning them into mummified husks before their desiccated flesh crumbled away, leaving only skeletal remains and a few strands of hair.

The effort of creating an aura of pure dark side energy would have quickly exhausted even Bane. However, as his enemies fell he was able to draw their essence into himself, feeding on their energies to revitalize his fading strength and reinforcing the field in preparation for the next wave of victims.

The mass of cultists continued to charge forward. Those in the middle ranks had seen the fate of their companions and tried desperately to stop. But the momentum of those behind swept them forward into the field to suffer the same agonizing death as those who had already fallen.

Only those at the very rear of the crowd were able to see the danger and pull up in time to save themselves. Of the more than twenty cultists who had attacked him, only a handful were able to save themselves. They stood at a safe distance, hovering on the edge of the deadly field with weapons raised, uncertain how to proceed.

Bane ended their confusion by letting the field drop and drawing his lightsaber. His opponents were too slow and too few to challenge him, and their crude vibro-weapons couldn’t even parry his glowing blade. Completely helpless against a superior foe, their mindless devotion to Andeddu still compelled them to attack the invader of the sacred temple. Bane cut them down like dogs.

No more cultists emerged from the hatches to attack him, but Bane could sense nearly a hundred more in the temple below him. The ones he had slain on the roof were the warriors, guardians sent up by the priests and attendants still huddled in the rooms and corridors of the pyramid.

The remaining enemies were potentially more dangerous: the priests of Andeddu had no doubt ascended to their positions because of their affinity for the Force. Their training was probably limited, and Bane knew no single one among them was powerful enough to stop him. Together, though, they might have the potential to overwhelm him. However, he didn’t intend to give them time to organize so they could attempt to unite their strength.

Moving quickly, Bane strode over to the hatch. Sometime during the battle it had been closed, and he discovered it had been locked from the inside. Letting the Force flow through him, he clipped his lightsaber and crouched down to grip the handle with both hands. Bracing his massive shoulders, he wrenched the metal hatch open, yanking it off its hinges and tossing it aside.

He jumped down the steep staircase revealed below, landing in a sloping corridor that led deeper into Andeddu’s stronghold. Igniting his lightsaber again, he moved with long, quick strides as he made his way unerringly through the labyrinthine halls, drawn by the power of Andeddu’s Holocron calling to him from the lower chambers.

The interior architecture reminded him of the Sith Academy on Korriban: ancient stone walls, heavy wooden doors, and narrow halls dimly lit by torches sputtering in sconces along the wall. As he marched through the corridors, Bane sensed the occasional presence of one or two individuals on the other side of the doors he passed. Most simply cowered in their rooms, allowing him to continue on unhindered; they could sense his power, and they knew that interfering with his quest would only result in their pointless deaths. Every so often, however, a cultist whose devotion to Andeddu outweighed all sense of self-preservation would spring out to try to stop him.

Bane responded to each of these attacks with brutal efficiency. Some he sliced in two with a single swipe of his lightsaber; with others he used the Force to cleanly snap their necks, never even breaking stride. By the time he reached the central chamber of the stronghold, all pretense of resistance was gone. Anyone still left in the temple had retreated to the lowest chambers, fleeing his wrath.

Here at the heart of the pyramid Andeddu’s followers had built a shrine to their Master. Glow lamps in each corner illuminated the room with their eerie green light. The walls were covered with murals depicting images of the God-King unleashing his power against the armies of those who opposed him, and a great stone sarcophagus lay in the center, its lid carved with a relief of the long-dead Sith Lord.

In the Valley of the Dark Lords on Korriban, Bane had searched the ancient burial sites of the Sith who had come before him. Each of these, however, had been empty. Over the centuries the Jedi had stripped away anything of value or dark side power from the world, secreting the treasures away in their Temple on Coruscant for safekeeping.

Here, however, Bane had found what had been lost on Korriban. The isolation that had allowed the Jedi to purge Andeddu from the galactic records had kept his resting place safe from their looting. The sarcophagus on Prakith had been undisturbed for centuries. Inside, the Dark Lord’s most prized possession waited to be claimed by one worthy of its secrets.

Entering the room, Bane noticed the cloying smell of sickly-sweet incense in the air. As he approached the sarcophagus, he could feel the scent crawling over him like a fine mist, clinging to his clothes. Finding a grip on one corner of the sarcophagus’s lid, he leaned in and shoved. Muscles straining, he used all his great strength to slide it out of the way, the sound of grinding stone echoing in the chamber as the heavy lid grudgingly succumbed to his efforts.

Inside, Andeddu’s mummified corpse lay on its back, hands clasped around a small crystal pyramid clutched against his chest. Reaching into the casket, Bane seized the pyramid and pulled. For a moment it felt as if the corpse inside was resisting him, its bony fingers refusing to relinquish their grip.

He pulled harder, wrenching the Holocron free from the hold of its dead creator. Then he turned and left the room.

On his way back to his ship, only a few of Andeddu’s followers made any effort to stop him; those who did he brushed aside like gnats. He half expected to find a few dozen amassed on the roof against him in a last desperate stand, but except for his shuttle the roof was empty. Apparently wisdom and self-preservation had prevailed over their loyalty to Andeddu.

As it should be, Bane thought to himself. The leaders of the cult had realized a fundamental truth: the strong take what they want, and the weak can do nothing about it. They were not powerful enough to stop him from claiming Andeddu’s Holocron, therefore they did not deserve it.

Bane climbed into his shuttle and prepared for liftoff. He couldn’t help but think that if any of the cultists had been worthy, he would have left with more than just a Holocron: he would have taken a new apprentice, as well.

As it was, the search for Zannah’s replacement would have to wait. He had what he’d come for. It would take many days to traverse the hyperspace routes leading out of the Deep Core, but Bane welcomed the journey. It would give him time to explore the Holocron in greater detail. And if all went as planned, by the time he arrived back home all of Andeddu’s secrets would be his.

9

Paradise was anything but what it promised. The ironically named space station was located along a small hyperspace route branching off from the Corellian Trade Spine. Although technically under Republic jurisdiction, the quadrant was largely neglected by most major shipping corporations; it was known more for pirates and slavers than the transport of commercial goods. But realizing that even criminals needed somewhere to spend their ill-gotten credits, a group of Muun investors had pooled their resources to create an orbital platform catering to a segment of Republic society shunned on more civilized worlds.

Lucia had been to Paradise more than enough times in her life. After her release from a Republic POW camp she had spent several years as a freelance bodyguard, and many of her clients had contracted her specifically to provide protection during their visits to the station. The jobs always paid well, but she took them only when there was nothing else available.

Though Paradise officially billed itself as a “full-service entertainment lounge,” the reality of what transpired there was far more sordid than that innocuous term implied. Pleasure slaves, gambling, and illegal narcotics were available on hundreds of worlds and orbital platforms, most of them promoting themselves as hedonistic retreats for the rich and powerful—but generally law-abiding—citizens of the Republic. This was not the case with Paradise. The clientele here could best be described with a single word: scum.

Lucia’s dislike of the station had been formed on her first visit, and each time she returned her opinion was further reinforced. As she made her way through the crowd at the Stolen Fortune—the largest of the six casinos on the station—she didn’t see anything to change her mind.

Music was pumped in through overhead speakers, mingling with the general din rising up from the crowd. Humans, near-humans, and aliens all mingled freely, drinking, laughing, shouting, and tossing credits away on various games of chance. Pirates and slavers made up the bulk of the crowd, along with a few mercenaries, bounty hunters, and a handful of personal security personnel. Virtually everyone was armed. Pleasure slaves, both male and female, made the rounds offering drinks and other, more powerful indulgences for purchase. For the right price, anything could be bought on Paradise … even the pleasure slaves themselves.

The potential threat of sudden, lethal violence was an inevitable and generally accepted element of Paradise’s culture. There were no security forces on board, and no official representative of Republic law had ever set foot on the station—not openly, at any rate. Autotargeting blasters mounted in the ceiling could be used as an extreme method of crowd control if anyone ever attacked the casino staff, but when it came to individual safety, patrons were expected to fend for themselves. Those able to afford the expense typically hired an entourage of bodyguards, but the average visitor had to rely on a prominently displayed blaster at the hip and the threat of retribution from friends to make others think twice about starting something.

Lucia didn’t have any friends with her on this trip, but she had been here enough to know how to avoid trouble. She carried herself with an air of confidence, an unspoken challenge in the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her head that dissuaded others from approaching her. Besides, most of the conflicts started near the gaming tables, and Lucia wasn’t here to gamble.

She was here because the princess had sent her to find the Iktotchi assassin known as the Huntress. The last time Lucia had come here she had also been looking for the Huntress, though that had been her decision, not Serra’s.

At the time, Lucia hadn’t known about the king’s arrangement with the Jedi. She never suspected the assassin would kill Medd Tandar and set off a diplomatic incident. Yet even if she had, she would still have come for Serra’s sake.

She had seen her mistress grieving for her husband. His death had torn a hole in the princess’s heart, and after two months with no signs of improvement, Lucia couldn’t bear to watch her friend suffer any longer without doing something.

The princess needed closure; she needed to see those responsible pay for their crimes. But though the king had sent his troops in search of Gelba and her followers, they had made no progress in tracking her down. And so Lucia had taken matters into her own hands.

Going behind the king’s back to hire an assassin was a clear breach of Doan law and a direct violation of the oath she had taken when she was sworn into the Royal Guard. But this went beyond any oath or vow. Serra was her friend, and her friend had been wronged. She couldn’t bring her husband back, but she could see that those responsible for his death were punished. That was what you did as a friend: you put the needs of each other above everything else. You were loyal to your own.

That was the reason Lucia had joined Kaan’s armies in the New Sith Wars twenty years ago. She didn’t care one way or the other about the dark side, or the Sith, or even destroying the Republic. She had been a young woman with no family or friends. No prospects. No future. When the Sith recruiter came to her world, he offered her something nobody else had: a chance to be part of something greater than herself; a chance to belong.

She had found that sense of belonging during her time as a sniper with the Gloom Walkers. The other members of the unit became like her family. She would have given her life to save any one of them, and she knew they would have done the same. And if she couldn’t save someone, she would do the next best thing and honor their memory by avenging their death.

That’s what happened with Des. Although Lieutenant Ulabore was the official commander of the Gloom Walkers, everyone knew Sergeant Dessel was the real leader of the squad. A miner from Apatros, he had been a giant of a man: two meters tall and 120 kilograms of pure muscle, with an instinct for battle and a knack for keeping his fellow soldiers alive in impossible situations. Des had risked his own life to save the unit more times than Lucia could even remember.

Thinking back on what had happened to Des still filled her with anger. While stationed on Phaseera, the Gloom Walkers had been given orders to attack a heavily fortified Republic installation before sundown … a suicide mission that would have seen the entire unit get slaughtered. When Des suggested to the lieutenant that they wait until after nightfall, Ulabore had refused to listen. The kriffing coward would have sacrificed them all rather than tell his superiors that they were making a mistake.

Unwilling to march his friends into certain death, Des took charge of the situation. He knocked Ulabore out and took command of the unit, changing the plan so they would strike under cover of darkness. The mission turned out to be a complete success: the enemy forces were wiped out with minimal casualties, securing a major victory for the Sith war effort.

Des should have been hailed as a hero for his actions. Instead, Ulabore had him arrested and court-martialed for insubordination. Lucia could still remember the military police leading Des away in cuffs. She would have shot Ulabore right then and there if Des hadn’t seen her slowly raising her weapon and shaken his head. He knew there was nothing anyone could do to save him; there were too many MPs around, all with weapons drawn. Anyone trying to help Des would be killed, and he would still end up getting court-martialed. Even as he was being led away to face certain execution, Des was still looking out for his friends.

Lucia never saw Des again; never heard what happened to him, although she could easily guess. Insubordination was a capital offense, and the Sith weren’t known for leniency. But though she couldn’t save him, she could still do something to repay him.

It took almost a month before she got the chance, but she wasn’t about to forget. It came during a skirmish against Republic troops on Alaris Prime. The Gloom Walkers were on patrol when they stumbled into an ambush—something that never would have happened if Des had still been with them. But their sergeant had taught them well, and even without him the Gloom Walkers were still one of the best units in the Sith army. The encounter lasted only a few minutes before the Republic soldiers broke ranks and fled.

The intense, close-quarters fighting resulted in several casualties on both sides. Among them was Lieutenant Ulabore. His status was officially registered as killed in action, and nobody in the Gloom Walkers ever bothered to report that he had been shot in the back from point-blank range.

There were some who might consider her a bad person for what she had done, but Lucia never regretted her decision. To her, it was simple. Des was her friend. Ulabore was responsible for his death. It had been the same with Serra. The princess was her friend. Her husband was dead. Gelba was responsible. It was all about loyalty.

And so Lucia had made the trip to Paradise. A few discreet inquiries, along with significant sums of credits changing hands, led her to the Huntress. Two weeks later, Gelba was dead. Now Serra wanted her to hire the assassin again … though Lucia had no idea why.

Something had happened to Serra during their visit to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. She had seen something upsetting, something she hadn’t wanted to talk about. Lucia knew there were secrets in the princess’s past, but she had always respected her right to privacy. After all, there were things in her own past she didn’t want people poking their noses into, either.

Yet even though she had agreed to help, she was worried about her mistress. Serra was basically a kind and gentle person, but there was another side to her as well. She had nightmares, and sometimes she would go into dark depressions. Lucia suspected she had been scarred by some traumatic event in her childhood—a memory so intense, it had damaged her in a deep and fundamental way.

The sight of the Huntress seated at one of the viewing tables near the edge of the casino refocused her thoughts on the task at hand. The Stolen Fortune, like all the casinos on Paradise, overlooked the arena built at the center of the orbital platform. Through the large transparisteel windows patrons could watch combatants—typically beasts or slaves—fight to the death.

While it was common for bettors to wager on the outcome of each battle, Lucia realized that couldn’t be the case with the Huntress. Iktotchi were rumored to have telepathic and precognitive powers, and as a result they were barred from gambling at virtually every casino in the galaxy. Lucia realized she had to be enjoying it purely for the brutality of the kill.

The Huntress was seated in the farthest corner, her back to one wall. She was dressed in the same black cloak she had worn during their previous encounter. Her heavy hood was thrown back to reveal the horns that curled down to her shoulders, framing her sharp features.

Lucia could only see her in profile, the black tattoos tracing down from her lips hidden by the angle and the shadows in the corner. From this perspective there was something striking about the red-skinned Iktotchi, a grace and elegance she had never noticed before.

She could have been beautiful, she thought with some surprise. But she chose to turn herself into a demon.

The Huntress glanced up as she approached, and Lucia froze—fixed in place by her piercing yellow eyes.

“I’ve been expecting you,” the Iktotchi said, her voice barely audible over the music and crowd.

“Expecting me?” Lucia replied, too stunned to say anything else. Maybe she really could read minds and see the future.

“There was collateral damage during my mission on your world,” the Huntress explained. “The Jedi. I expect your mistress was displeased.”

Lucia shook her head. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Good. Because I don’t give refunds.”

“I want to hire you again.”

The Iktotchi tilted her head, considering for a second before nodding. Lucia took a seat at the table across from her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see into the arena, where two monstrosities covered in fur and blood tore at each other with claws, tusks, and teeth. One appeared to be an Endorian boarwolf; the other was some type of three-headed canine abomination.

“A terbeast,” the Huntress explained, though whether she read Lucia’s mind or simply the confusion on her face wasn’t clear.

Lucia turned her head away in disgust.

“You have other rebels you want me to eliminate?” the assassin guessed.

“No.” At least I don’t think so. “My mistress wishes to meet with you in person. On a world called Ambria.”

The assassin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why Ambria?”

“I don’t know,” Lucia answered honestly. “She wouldn’t tell me. She only said she wants to meet you there, alone. She is willing to pay triple your normal rate.”

She slid a datapad across the table. “Here is the location.”

Lucia was certain she would refuse. It sounded too much like a trap. But the Huntress simply sat back in her chair and didn’t speak for a very long time. She almost seemed to slip into some type of trance.

Waiting patiently, Lucia did her best to ignore the bloody show playing out in the arena. She didn’t approve of killing for sport or pleasure—it seemed pointless and cruel. Despite her refusal to watch, a roar from the tables along the viewing windows told her the match had ended; one of the animals must have dealt a fatal wound to the other. Instinctively, she turned her head to see the result and was greeted with the sight of the terbeast’s three heads burrowing into the torn belly of the boarwolf in a race to feast on its organs.

She turned away quickly, struggling to control her rising gorge.

“Tell your mistress I accept her offer,” the Huntress said, reaching out to seize the datapad with the thick, stubby fingers that were common to her species.

Their business done, the assassin turned her attention back to the arena, the hint of a smile playing across her painted lips as she watched.

Disgusted, Lucia stood up and gave a curt nod before turning to go, eager to leave the station as quickly as possible. The Huntress, seemingly enraptured by the gruesome spectacle below, didn’t seem to notice her departure.

10

Zannah had never actually set foot on Nal Hutta before, but she knew the world well enough by reputation. While the ruling Hutt clans had entirely covered the surface of Nar Shaddaa, the nearby moon, with a sprawling cityscape, Nal Hutta remained largely undeveloped. The planet’s predominant natural terrain of marshland had been poisoned by the pollution spewing unchecked from industrial centers scattered across the world, turning the surface into a cesspool of fetid swamps capable of supporting only mutated insect life. The capital city of Bilbousa huddled beneath a perpetual sky of greasy gray smog punctuated only by dark clouds drizzling acid rain on the stained and pockmarked buildings below.

The physical ugliness of the world was mirrored by its moral corruption. Hutt space had never been a part of the Republic, and the laws of the Senate held no sway here. What few rules there were had been handed down by the powerful Hutt clans that controlled nearby Nar Shaddaa, making Nal Hutta a haven for smugglers, pirates, and slavers.

But protection from Republic law enforcement came with a price. The Hutts considered other species to be inferior, and all resident aliens on both Nar Shaddaa and Nal Hutta had to pay a hefty monthly fee to one of the ruling clans for the privilege of living under their protection. The exact price fluctuated wildly, depending on the rising and falling fortunes of the respective clan, and it wasn’t unusual for it to double or even triple without warning. In such cases, those who were unwilling or unable to meet the new price tended to disappear, with all their possessions and assets being claimed by the sponsoring clan, in accordance with Hutt law.

The bias against other species would have made it difficult for Zannah to get the information she needed. The port authorities on Nal Hutta had a deeply ingrained mistrust of outsiders asking questions, and it was unlikely any amount of credits could have convinced them to overlook their prejudices to tell her anything useful. Fortunately for her, however, Bane’s network of informants and agents included several high-ranking members of the Desilijic clan, one of the most prominent, and stable, Hutt factions. In the familiar guise of Allia Omek, Zannah was able to use these contacts—along with the ship registration stored in the late Pommat’s datapad—to track down the silver-haired man she had followed here from Doan.

She’d learned his real name was Set Harth, and there was a persistent rumor that he had once been a Jedi. She’d also discovered that he was incredibly wealthy. And while nobody she spoke with seemed to know the exact source of his vast fortune, all agreed his gains were almost certainly ill gotten. On Nal Hutta, that was generally seen as something to be admired.

One other interesting fact had also surfaced during her investigations: Set Harth was a fixture on the thriving Nal Hutta social scene. Despite the fact the city was a grimy, greasy pit ruled over by the oppressive clans of Nar Shaddaa—or maybe because of it—the non-Hutt residents of Bilbousa were prone to throwing lavish and extravagant parties, each one a celebration of hedonistic excess. Set Harth never failed to receive an invitation to these functions, and he was even known to host them several times a year.

By good fortune he was at one of these galas tonight, giving Zannah an opportunity to break into Set’s mansion to try to gain a better understanding of the man who could possibly become her apprentice.

Her first impression was that, in many ways, his mansion resembled the estate Bane had set up on Ciutric IV: it was less a home than a temple of elegance and luxury in which no expense had been spared. A chandelier fashioned from Dalonian crystal dominated the entrance, reflecting the light from Zannah’s glow stick with soft turquoise hues. The halls were lined with marble tiles, and several of the rooms Zannah inspected contained Wrodian carpets, each one woven over several generations by a succession of master artisans. The massive dining room could easily seat twenty guests at a table made from crimson greel wood. The desk in Set’s study was even more extravagant; she recognized it as the work of the master craftsbeings of Alderaan, hand carved from rare kriin oak.

But the furniture paled when compared with the rare and expensive works of art that accentuated each room. Set had a penchant for bold, striking pieces, and Zannah was almost certain every one was an original work. She recognized statues carved by Jood Kabbas, the renowned Duros sculptor; landscapes from Unna Lettu, Antar 4’s most famous painter; and several portraits that bore the unmistakable style of Fen Teak, the brilliant Muun master.

Clearly, the owner was someone who preferred the finer things in life. Bane’s estate on Ciutric was supposed to give the same impression to visitors—all the extravagant art and opulent furniture were part of a façade, key to maintaining the disguise of a successful galactic entrepreneur. In Set’s case, however, she wasn’t sure the lavish décor was an act. There was a vibrancy here. Things felt real. Alive. The more she looked around, the more Zannah began to believe that the Dark Jedi wasn’t just playing a part: his home was a true reflection of his personality. Set obviously enjoyed spending his fortune on material goods; he craved the attention and envy it inspired in others.

The thought gave Zannah pause. Bane had taught her that wealth was only a means to a greater end. Credits were nothing but a tool; amassing a vast fortune was nothing but a necessary step on the path to true power. Materialism—an attachment to physical goods beyond their practical value—was a trap; a chain to ensnare the foolish with their own greed. Apparently Set had yet to learn this lesson.

That is why he needs a Master. He needs someone to teach him the truth about the dark side.

Continuing her tour, Zannah mounted a large spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. Running her hand absently across the fine finish of the railing on the balcony overlooking the sitting room below, she made her way to the rear of the mansion. There she came across Set’s library. Hundreds of books lined the walls, but most were novels written purely for entertainment … works she wouldn’t consider worthy of reading herself. One shelf did give her hope, however: a collection of technical manuals and guides authored by experts in more than two dozen widely varied fields. Assuming Set had actually read and studied them all, he was a man of broad knowledge and numerous talents.

At the back of the library was a nondescript door; beyond it, Zannah could sense the power of the dark side. It called out to her, like the vibrations of a churning engine thrumming through the floor. Approaching carefully, she felt the power grow. It wasn’t coming from any person or creature; she knew the sensation of a living being attuned to the Force. This was different. It reminded her of the invisible pulses of energy she had felt emanating from the Force crystals she had used to construct her lightsaber.

She tested the door and was surprised when it opened easily. Obviously, Set was confident in his privacy—but then, he no doubt had never suspected that a Sith might come to visit. Stepping into the room, she found it small and plain next to the rest of the mansion. There were no works of art, and the only furnishing was a display case set against the back wall a few meters away. By the light of her glow lamp, she could see an array of jewelry carefully arranged in the display case: rings, necklaces, amulets, and even crowns, all imbued with the power of the dark side.

Zannah had seen collections like this before. Ten years ago Hetton, a Force-sensitive Serrenian noble obsessed with the dark side, had shown her a similar trove of Sith artifacts … an offering he had hoped would convince Zannah to take him on as her apprentice despite his advanced age. Unfortunately for Hetton, his baubles and trinkets hadn’t been able to save him—or his trained guards—when they confronted Zannah’s own Master. Bane had shown Hetton the true power of the dark side, a lesson that had cost the old man his life.

Bane also collected the treasures of the ancient Sith, but he preferred the wisdom contained in the ancient texts. Zannah knew he looked on the rings, amulets, and other paraphernalia with disdain. The spark of the dark side that burned within them was like a single drop of rain falling into the ocean of power he already commanded; he saw no need to augment his abilities with gaudy jewelry fashioned centuries ago by ancient Sith sorcerers. Her Master believed true strength must come from within, and he had ingrained this belief in his apprentice. Apparently that was another lesson she would have to teach Set Harth, assuming he proved himself worthy of being her apprentice.

Zannah froze as she felt a sudden presence within the mansion. Reaching out with the Force, she confirmed her suspicions: Set had returned from his party, and he was alone. Extinguishing her glow rod, she moved in perfect darkness back toward the main entrance, letting the Force guide her path.

Slipping silently to the railing overlooking the large sitting room at the foot of the stairs, she spotted her quarry almost directly below her. By the light of the lamp on a nearby end table she could see him lounging on an exquisite leather couch, a bottle of fine Sullustan wine in one hand and a half-filled glass in the other. He was still dressed in the clothes he had worn to the party: a turquoise-blue shirt of fine Dramassian silk, tailored black slacks, and knee-high boots polished to perfection. The collar of his shirt was unbuttoned and its long, loose-fitting sleeves hung from his wrists, billowing softly as he gently swirled the wine to release its full body between each sip.

She made no attempt to mask her own presence; she was curious to see if Set would sense her through the Force the same way she had sensed him on his arrival. Much to her dismay, he seemed completely oblivious, lost in the comforts of his home and the enjoyment of his drink.

Zannah leapt over the railing and fell five meters to the floor below, landing behind him, silent save for the soft rustle of her black cape. Set shifted at the noise, twisting in his seat to fix his bleary gaze on the intruder.

“Greetings,” he said with a smile, seemingly unsurprised by her arrival. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. My name is Set Harth.”

He raised his drink and tilted his head as if toasting her arrival.

“I know who you are,” Zannah replied coldly.

Set carefully placed the wine bottle and his glass on the nearby end table, then turned back to Zannah and patted the cushion beside him. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? Plenty of room for both of us.”

“I prefer to stand.”

Zannah was both confused and dismayed by his reaction. Instead of being guarded, wary, or even outraged at discovering an intruder in his home, Set seemed to be hitting on her. His tone was playful and suggestive. Couldn’t he sense that his life hung in the balance? Couldn’t he sense the danger he was in?

Set responded to her refusal with an easy shrug. “Followed me home from the party, did you?” he guessed. “Normally I wouldn’t forget such a pretty face.”

Zannah cursed herself as a fool. She had come here looking for an apprentice and found nothing but a womanizing fool too interested in making clumsy advances to recognize her power. Her failure was embarrassing; she knew with certainty Darth Bane would have seen Set for what he was right away.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” Set reminded her, waggling his finger in front of his face. “You’re a very naughty girl.”

The attack came the instant Zannah opened her mouth to reply. It came without any warning, Set moving with the preternatural speed of the Force. The Dark Jedi’s lightsaber materialized in his hand, igniting and spiraling across the room toward her faster than thought itself.

Zannah barely managed to duck out of the way, the lightsaber’s blade slicing off a section of her cape as she threw herself to the floor. By the time the weapon completed its boomerang path and returned to Set’s hand, he was on his feet … as was Zannah.

She realized Set’s initial greeting had all been an act. He had been waiting with his lightsaber up his sleeve the whole time, just looking for Zannah to lower her guard. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

“You move fast,” Set noted, a hint of admiration in his voice.

His words no longer carried the light, easy tone of a guest at a party; he had dropped all pretense now. His blue eyes were sharp and focused, boring through his opponent searching for any weakness he could exploit.

Zannah braced herself for his next assault. In her mind the next few seconds played out in a thousand different scenarios, each unique in its specific details, each a vision of a possible future glimpsed through the power of the Force. The sheer number of possibilities could be overwhelming, but Bane had trained her well. Instinctively, she collapsed the matrix of probabilities into the most likely outcomes, effectively allowing her to anticipate and react to her opponent’s next move even before it happened.

Set fired out a sharp burst of dark side power in a shimmering wave designed to knock her from her feet. Zannah easily countered by throwing up a protective energy barrier, the simplest and most effective way for one Force-user to defend against the attacks of another. It was a technique taught to every Jedi Padawan, and it had been one of the earliest lessons Bane had required her to master.

“You’re a Jedi?” Set exclaimed.

“A Sith,” Zannah replied.

“I thought the Sith were extinct,” he replied, casually twirling his lightsaber in one hand, never taking his eyes off Zannah.

“Not yet.” She stood still, her own lightsaber still tucked inside her belt. But she was wary now: Set had almost fooled her once, and she wasn’t about to let it happen again.

“Let me see if I can fix that.”

As he leapt over the couch toward her, Zannah ignited her own weapon. The twin blades sprung to life, and she fell into the familiar dance.

Set came in low to start, slashing at her legs. When she parried his incoming blade he spun away quickly, moving out of range before she could retaliate. With the Force he picked up a bronze bust on the side of the room and hurled it toward her left flank. At the same time, he dived forward into a somersault that brought him close enough to strike at her right side as he tumbled past her.

Zannah easily repelled both threats, her spinning blades slicing the bust in half even as she pivoted just enough so that Set’s weapon missed her hip by less than a centimeter. For good measure she kicked him hard in the back as he rolled past, a blow meant not to disable him, but to goad him on to further aggression.

When two skilled combatants engaged each other with the lightsaber, the blades moved so quickly it was impossible to think and react to each move. Bane had taught her to rely on instinct, guided by the Force and honed by thousands of hours’ training in the martial forms. This training allowed her to realize within the first few passes that Set was using a modified variation of Ataru, a style defined by quick, aggressive strikes. In only the first few moments of battle she had already evaluated her opponent, noting his speed, agility, and technique. Set was good. Very good. But Zannah also knew without any doubt that she was much, much better.

Set, however, had yet to come to the same realization. Her kick had had the desired effect: when he came at her the next time his face was twisted with snarling rage. His fury allowed him to call upon the dark side, making him even more dangerous as he unleashed his next series of attacks. Leaping high in the air, crouching low to the ground, lunging forward, springing back, spinning, twisting, and twirling, he came at her from every conceivable angle in a relentless barrage meant to overwhelm her defenses, only to have Zannah turn his efforts back with a cool, almost casual, efficiency.

Lightsaber battles were brutal in their intensity; few duels lasted more than a minute. Even for a trained Jedi, the effort of all-out combat was exhausting … particularly when using the acrobatic maneuvers of Ataru. It didn’t take long for Zannah to sense that her opponent was wearing down. She, on the other hand, was barely winded. At Bane’s urging, she had become an expert in the defensive sequences of the Soresu form. It was simple for her to parry, redirect, or evade her opponent’s blows by using Set’s own momentum against him, easily keeping the Dark Jedi at bay.

In their short encounter, she was presented with at least a dozen opportunities to land a lethal blow to the silver-haired man. But she hadn’t come here to kill him; not yet, at least. She had come here to test him, to see if he was worthy of being her apprentice.

He didn’t have to beat her to succeed in Zannah’s eyes; he only had to show potential. Despite his inability to penetrate her defenses, she had seen enough to satisfy her. He may have been reckless and wild with the lightsaber, but he was also imaginative and even, at times, a little unpredictable. He had shown enough cunning when they first met to make Zannah underestimate him. And most importantly, she could feel the power of the dark side raging within him as he grew more and more determined to take her out … futile though his efforts might be.

She was toying with him now, dragging the battle out. It wasn’t enough for her to want Set as an apprentice; he also had to want her to be his Master. She had to prove her superiority so completely that he would be willing to serve. It wasn’t enough just to beat the Dark Jedi; she had to break him.

When he was a step slow in retreating after one of his thrusts, she kicked his feet out from under him and sent him sprawling to the floor, only to back away and let him get to his feet again. When he moved back in, she twisted her lightsaber in a sharp, unorthodox move, hooking one of her blades onto his and wrenching the weapon from his hand.

Set sprang back immediately and used the Force to yank the hilt back to his palm, then stubbornly renewed his attacks. But as the seconds slipped by, the fire of the dark side was less and less able to fight off the fatigue setting into his joints and limbs.

It was inevitable that his weary body would betray him, and soon enough he came in with his blade held out too far to the side, instead of tight in front of him. Zannah stepped forward and snapped her foot straight up, catching Set under the chin. He staggered back howling in pain while a string of unintelligible profanities spewed from his mouth, along with a spatter of blood.

“Do you yield?” Zannah asked.

His only response was to spit a gob of blood onto the expensive carpet at his feet and rush forward once more.

Zannah felt a small twinge of disappointment. She had hoped he would be smart enough not to continue a battle he could not win. Another lesson I will have to teach you.

As he drew near, she responded not with physical violence, but rather with a powerful spell of Sith sorcery that attacked Set’s mind. He tried to throw up a protective Force barrier in response, but Zannah’s power shredded his defenses, leaving him completely vulnerable.

Sith sorcery was as much a part of the dark side as the deadly violet bolts of energy her Master unleashed from his hands, and when Bane had first recognized her talent for the subtle but devastating magics he had encouraged her studies into the arcane. From ancient texts she had learned to twist and torment the thoughts of her enemies. She could make them see nightmares as reality; she could cause their deepest fears to manifest as demons of the psyche. She could, and had, rip the minds of her enemies apart with a simple thought and a gesture.

With Set, however, she did not intend to destroy him completely. Instead she enveloped him in a cloud of utter despair and hopelessness. She reached into the innermost recesses of his mind and wrapped it in the nothingness of the void.

Set’s eyes went blank, his jaw hung slack, and his lightsaber slipped from nerveless fingers. He slowly slumped to the ground, his eyes closing and his body trembling slightly as he curled up into a fetal position.

This was to be his final test. A weak mind would collapse upon itself to wither and die, leaving the victim forever comatose. If Set was strong, however, his will would fight back against the horror. Little by little it would tear away at the emptiness, refusing to die, clawing its way back to the surface until consciousness finally returned.

If Set was truly worthy of being her apprentice, he would recover from his current condition in a day or two. If not, she would simply have to begin her search anew.

11

The Huntress brought her shuttle in low over the desert wastelands that covered the majority of Ambria’s surface. Though she had received no formal training, she was highly attuned to the Force, allowing her to feel it rising up from the sunbaked dirt as her ship skimmed across the surface.

Thousands of years ago Ambria had been a world of verdant forests, brimming with life and the power of the Force. But the lush vegetation had been devastated when a Sith sorceress tried—and failed—to bend the entire planet to her will through a powerful ritual. Unable to control the violent energies of the dark side, she was destroyed by her own spell … as was the landscape of the entire planet.

For centuries the corruption of the failed ritual influenced all life on Ambria, transforming the once beautiful world into a nightmare of stunted, poisonous vegetation and twisted, mutated beasts. Eventually the dark side energies released by the Sith sorceress were trapped in a great lake near the planet’s equator by a Jedi Master named Thon, but the damage was too widespread for the world to ever be completely healed.

The Iktotchi knew all this not because she had studied the planet’s history, however. Her connection to the Force allowed her to see things; it gave her glimpses of the past, present, and even possible futures. The ability was common to all Iktotchi in varying degrees, but the Huntress’s talent went far beyond that of the rest of her species. Most Iktotchi would get nothing more than a subtle sense of danger when an impending threat was coming, or a general feeling of whether a new acquaintance might be friend or foe. On occasion they would be granted precognitive dreams, but even these were little more than random images that meant little without context.

With her, however, it was different. Over the years she had developed her skills so that she could control and direct the visions that flashed through her mind. When she concentrated on a specific person or place, she would get a rush of visual and emotional stimuli that she could often assemble into something useful and coherent.

She had meditated for several hours in preparation for her journey to Ambria, calling on the Force while thinking about her destination. In return, she had witnessed scenes plucked from the planet’s history: the Sith sorceress as she was consumed by her failed spell; the Jedi Master’s struggle to trap the dark side in Lake Natth.

But not all her visions were as clear, particularly those dealing with the shifting probabilities of the future. Her arrival and meeting with the princess from Doan had only been revealed in vague impressions. She was confident she wasn’t walking into a trap. More important, she had the sense that somehow this meeting was going to have a profound influence on the rest of her life. For better or for worse she couldn’t say, but she was certain the journey to Ambria would set her on a new path … and the Huntress was never one to shy away from her destiny.

The location for the meeting was a small abandoned camp located deep in the heart of Ambria’s impassable desert. As it drew nearer, the shuttle’s sensors indicated that another ship was already waiting on the ground. Readings indicated a single life-form on board; as promised, the princess had come alone.

The Huntress landed, shut down the engines, and made her way from the climate-controlled comfort of her shuttle out into the dry, suffocating heat of Ambria’s midday sun. The princess was standing at the edge of the camp, facing away from her and lost in thought.

The camp itself wasn’t much to look at; it was nothing but a small, dilapidated hut and an old cooking pot suspended over a ring of stones and charcoal. But despite the modest surroundings, the Huntress could feel this was a place of power: a nexus for both the light and dark sides of the Force. Despite the heat, the Iktotchi shivered. Great and terrible things had happened here; events that would one day shape the course of galactic history.

The princess—Serra, the assassin recalled—turned to face her.

“I’m glad you came” was all she said.

The Huntress sensed something dark and powerful in the other woman, a strength of will and a hatred nurtured over many years.

“Your bodyguard said you wished to hire me?”

The princess nodded. “They say you can track anyone. No matter where they hide, you can find them. They say you can see across time and space.”

The statement wasn’t precisely accurate, but the Huntress saw no need to explain the subtle intricacies of her talent to this woman.

“I have never failed a mission.”

Serra smiled. “There was a man here. Many years ago. I don’t know his name. I don’t know where he is now. But I want you to find him. Can you do this?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she closed her eyes and reached out with her mind. She felt the Force gathering; it swirled around her like a rising storm, carrying the dust of memory imprinted on the campsite.

The captured memories encircled her; images flooded her mind. She saw a child, dressed in a frayed and tattered tunic; she saw the child blossom into a young woman; she saw the woman leave Ambria, only to return many years later as a princess.

“You grew up here,” she whispered as she continued to probe even deeper.

Sometimes the history of a place was faint, washed away by the passage of mundane events and insignificant people. Here the memories were strong, preserved by isolation and trapped in the currents of the Force that permeated the camp.

“I see a man. Tall and thin. Dark hair. Brown skin.”

“My father,” Serra explained. “His name was Caleb.”

“He was a healer. Wise. Strong. A man who commanded respect.”

She didn’t say this to please the princess; the Huntress never cared what her clients thought of her as long as they paid.

“There is another man,” Serra told her. “He came to my father for help during the New Sith Wars. Tall and muscular. Bald. He was … evil.”

Evil. Reaching out with the Force required intense focus and deep mental concentration. Even so, the Iktotchi couldn’t help but notice the other woman’s hesitation.

The Huntress had no use for words like evil, or good, or even justice. She killed those she was hired to kill; she gave no thought of whether they deserved their fate. Still, she found the princess’s choice of labels odd. She was an assassin. She killed for profit. Was this any more evil than the man Serra spoke of? And what about the princess herself? She wanted to hire someone to take the life of another; did that make her evil?

She did not speak her thoughts aloud, however. They had no relevance to what she was doing. Instead she pushed deeper into the well of memories, submersing herself in them in search of the man Serra had described.

Hundreds of faces flashed before her. Male. Female. Human, Twi’lek, Cerean, Ithorian. Soldiers serving the Jedi, and even those serving the Sith. Caleb had healed them all. The only ones he turned away were the leaders of the armies. He saw himself a servant of the common folk. The Jedi Masters and the Sith Lords he always refused to help, with one notable exception.

The Huntress could see him now: a Sith Lord in black armor; the curved hilt of a lightsaber clipped to his belt as he towered over the healer. They were locked in a battle of wills, the big man dying from some illness she couldn’t discern. Even though they were decades removed from the encounter, the Iktotchi sensed the raw power of the dark side emanating from him. It was like nothing she had seen or felt before, both terrifying and exhilarating.

“I see him,” she told the princess. I see what he did to you.

“My father always said he would return. That was why he sent me away. Made me change my name.”

“Your father was right.”

Now that she had seen him in her visions, it was easy to skim the passing years looking for the imprint of the Sith Lord. Through the maelstrom of images, she easily picked out his next visit to the camp. Yet again, he arrived in need of the healer’s aid. This time, however, he did not come alone.

“There are others with him. A young woman. A young man.”

“What happened?” the princess asked, her voice trembling slightly.

A series of shocking and violent images assailed the Iktotchi’s senses. She saw the healer’s decapitated body, his limbs hacked from his torso and arranged in a gruesome display near the fire pit. Inside the cabin the young man crouched in a corner, a babbling idiot driven mad by the horrors that had been visited upon him. The other two—the young woman and the Sith Lord—were harder to see, though she sensed they were still there. Something concealed them; some power or spell cloaked their presence.

When she tried to pierce the veil something pushed back, snapping her out of her meditative trance and severing her connection with the past. She fell to her knees with a cry of anguish, clutching at her temples, her mind reeling.

Serra was at her side in an instant, crouching over her. “What happened? What did you see?”

The Huntress didn’t speak right away. She had heard of this happening to others, but she’d never experienced it herself. It wasn’t the images of Caleb’s gruesome death that had caused her to recoil. It had been sorcery, Sith magic. A spell of concealment had hidden the Sith Lord and the young woman from the Jedi who had discovered the healer’s body. The memories still carried the echo of the spell upon them; even after a decade it had been potent enough to momentarily overwhelm her.

How can one individual command such power?

“Tell me what you saw,” the princess demanded, rising to her feet.

“Your father’s death,” the Huntress replied, also rising to her feet.

“He was there? The man in the black armor?”

“Yes. I think so. It wasn’t clear.”

“He was there,” the princess said with certainty. “He was responsible for my father’s death.”

“There was another with him,” the Huntress said. “A young blond woman.”

“I only care about the man in black. Can you find him?”

“If he still lives, I will find him,” the Huntress assured her.

She knew she would dream about the Sith Lord tonight, and for many nights to come. Her sleep would be filled with pictures and images from his daily life. She would see how many suns rose in the sky each morning on whatever world he called home; she would see their color and their size. Whatever moons and stars marked the night sky would be revealed to her. Familiar landmarks would bubble up from her sleeping subconscious night after night. She would cross-reference these with a database containing descriptions of all the systems and worlds in the known galaxy, narrowing her search down until she had his exact location.

It might take days, or possibly even weeks, but in the end she always found her prey. This time, however, she wasn’t certain what the outcome would be. She had killed a Jedi on Doan, but this encounter would be far more dangerous. The lingering remnants of the Sith spell had been enough to thwart her efforts to peer into the past. How much stronger would the creator of that spell be in person? And who had cast the spell? The Sith Lord? Or the young woman with him?

She still intended to take the job, of course. But she was smart enough to understand that her odds of success would increase if she wasn’t acting alone.

“This man is powerful,” the Huntress admitted. “I don’t know if I will be able to kill him without help.”

“I don’t want you to kill him,” the princess replied. “I want you to capture him. I want you to bring him to me alive.”

The assassin’s lips twisted up in an angry sneer. “I’m not a bounty hunter.”

“I’ll pay ten times your normal price. And I’ll hire mercenaries to help you. As many as you want.”

“Even if we capture him, how are we supposed to keep him prisoner while we bring him back to you? Normal restraints can’t hold someone who has the power to call upon the Force.”

“Leave that to me,” the princess replied, pushing past the Iktotchi and heading toward the small hut on the other side of the camp.

Curious, the assassin followed her.

Only a few meters on either side, the hut was little more than a crate with a doorway. On the floor inside, buried under a layer of sand that had blown in from the encroaching desert, were a tattered old curtain and a threadbare rug.

The curtain looked as if it had been torn down. The rug, on the other hand, was still spread out across the far corner of the hut, though its fibers were caked with dirt.

With the Iktotchi watching from just outside the doorway, the princess pulled the carpet aside, revealing a trapdoor built into the floor. A small ladder led down to a tiny chamber below.

“My father built this cellar to store the tools of his trade,” Serra explained, climbing carefully down the ladder.

The Huntress entered the hut to get a better view, approaching the trapdoor and peering down into the darkness below. She heard a sharp crack as the princess ignited a glow lamp to dispel the gloom.

From her vantage point the assassin could just make out a series of shelves built into the cellar walls, each lined with jars, satchels, and other small containers. The princess rummaged through them quickly until she found what she was looking for: a nondescript bottle of a pale yellow liquid that she tucked into the folds of her clothes before making her way back up the ladder.

“Do you know what senflax is?” she asked once she was back aboveground.

The assassin only shrugged in response.

“It’s a neurotoxin extracted from a rare plant found only in the jungles of Cadannia.”

“What use could a healer have for poisons?” she wanted to know.

“It’s not really a poison. Senflax is more like a sedative. One that allows the patient to stay conscious while numbing all pain and sensation. It disrupts the nerves of the primary muscles, paralyzing them, but it won’t cause the heart, lungs, or other vital organs to shut down no matter how large the dose.”

“Even a paralyzed Sith Lord can kill with his mind,” the Huntress warned.

“Senflax also clouds the mind. It makes it impossible for the patient to focus or collect his thoughts; it takes away any semblance of free will. He can give simple answers to direct questions, but otherwise he is completely helpless.

“I saw my father give it to a pilot who had been badly burned in a chemical explosion,” she continued, her eyes growing distant as she slipped back into the memories of her youth. “His friends brought him here, but by the time they arrived he had been driven mad with pain. The senflax took the pain away while leaving the pilot still able to answer questions about what chemicals he had been transporting so that my father would best know how to treat him.”

“You’re certain the neurotoxin will still work after all this time?”

The Huntress was aware that most people would have inquired about the fate of the injured pilot, but she wasn’t most people. The only thing she cared about was the job she still wasn’t sure she was going to accept.

“It should be fine as long as the bottle was sealed,” Serra confirmed. “Once we get back to my ship I can test it for potency.”

“Do you know how to prepare it properly?” the assassin demanded. “How to administer it? How quickly it takes effect and how long it will last?”

“I am my father’s daughter,” the princess proudly declared. “He taught me everything he knew about healing and medicine.”

What would he say if he knew you were using his knowledge to seek revenge for his death? the Huntress silently wondered.

“I can show you how to use the senflax to keep the prisoner under your control,” Serra continued. “So, will you take the job?”

The Iktotchi took her time before answering. It wasn’t the money that intrigued her. It was the challenge; the knowledge that she would be pitting herself against a foe more powerful than any she had faced before. She couldn’t see the outcome of the mission; too many conflicting forces were at work for the future to be clear. Yet she sensed that this was the moment she had been training for her entire life.

“I’d need at least ten well-trained warriors under my command,” she said, speaking slowly.

“I’ll give you twenty.”

“Then we have a deal,” the Iktotchi replied, her faint smile making the dark lines tattooed on her lower lip curl up like an animal baring its fangs.

12

The return trip from Prakith to Ciutric IV was taking even longer than the original journey. It should have been quicker, of course; Bane had already plotted the hyperspace routes that would lead him back out of the Deep Core. But in the hours he had spent on the volcanic world acquiring the Holocron from Andeddu’s followers, several of the lanes he had used for the inbound flight had shifted and become unstable.

Two had already collapsed, forcing him to recalculate his journey. Statistically, the chances of this happening in such a short time span were astronomically small. However, statistics often fell by the wayside when events were influenced by the Force. There were too many accounts of those who had come into possession of powerful Sith artifacts falling victim to grim misfortune to dismiss the tales as mere coincidence.

Many believed the talismans of the dark side carried a curse; others claimed they were somehow alive, as if the inanimate materials used to make a ring, amulet, or Holocron could somehow achieve sentience. Those ignorant enough to believe in such superstition might have claimed that Andeddu’s Holocron was fighting Bane. They would have declared the collapsing hyperspace routes were evidence of Andeddu’s vengeful spirit trapped within the crystal pyramid seeking to destroy the thief who had defiled his sacred temple.

Bane knew there was no inherent malevolence in the Holocron; it was merely a tool, a repository of knowledge. Yet he also understood how far reaching the effects of the Force could be. A storm of violence swirled around items imbued with the magic of the ancient Sith; the strong could ride the storm to even greater heights, the weak would be swept up in its wake and destroyed.

Andeddu’s Holocron was a talisman of undeniable power; Bane could feel the waves of dark side energy radiating from it. It was possible the fragile matrix of the Deep Core’s space–time continuum had been subtly altered by these waves during his outbound journey, destabilizing the hyperlanes. He plotted a course of nearly one hundred brief jumps, minimizing the danger by spending as much of the journey in realspace as possible. It would take him nearly twice as long to get home, but it was better to be cautious than risk having his ship instantaneously crushed into a pinpoint singularity by the sudden collapse of a weakened hyperspace corridor.

Fortunately, he had a way to help him pass the time.

“Essence transfer is the secret of eternal life,” the hologram told him.

Bane was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his ship, the Holocron resting on the ground in front of him. A three-dimensional image of Darth Andeddu, twenty centimeters tall, was projected just above the apex of the four-sided pyramid.

“The physical body will always weaken and fail, yet it is nothing but a shell or vessel,” the hologram continued. “When it is time, it is possible to transfer your consciousness—your spirit—into a new vessel … as I have done with this Holocron.”

Bane understood that the projection speaking to him was not the dead spirit of the ancient Sith Lord; it was only a simulated personality known as a gatekeeper. Every Holocron had one. A virtual guide programmed with the personality traits of the original creator, the gatekeeper served as a guardian of the information stored within the artifact.

The appearance of the gatekeeper often mirrored that of the Holocron’s creator … or at least, the image the creator wanted others to see. Bane remembered how the gatekeeper of Belia Darzu’s Holocron would often change appearance, reflecting her changeling heritage.

His own Holocron projected an image of Bane still clad in his orbalisk armor. Although the parasites had proven impractical in real life, the horrific appearance of his body covered by the infestation was more visually impressive and intimidating. It also hinted at the sacrifices one must make to embrace the true power of the dark side—a valuable lesson for any who would follow his teachings.

More important, the orbalisks masked his appearance and concealed his true identity. Should the Holocron ever fall into the hands of the Jedi while he was still alive, they would be unable to recognize him from the gatekeeper’s image … an even greater consideration now that he was on the cusp of learning the secrets of eternal life. But first, he had to overcome the small but imposing figure who now stood before him.

Andeddu had chosen to represent himself as a heavily armored man bathed in a fiery glow of red and orange. Atop his head rested a tall, flat headdress reminiscent of a high priest, encircled by a thin gold crown inset with gems. His face was sunken and drawn, almost skeletal.

For the past four days Bane had played the gatekeeper’s games in an attempt to unlock the secrets of eternal life. He had delved deep into Andeddu’s Holocron, accomplishing in less than a week what would have taken others months or even years. He had suffered through the tedious lessons; he had listened to the tiresome philosophical rants of the holographic image. He had learned nothing new about the Force, though the gatekeeper’s words had revealed much about Darth Andeddu’s personality and beliefs.

Like many of the ancient Sith, he was cruel, arrogant, self-centered, and shortsighted. His lessons mirrored those of Bane’s instructors at the Sith Academy on Korriban; lessons Bane had rejected decades ago as flawed. He had moved beyond their teachings. His understanding of the dark side had evolved. In creating the Rule of Two, he had ushered in a new era for the Sith. He had transcended the limited understanding of men like Andeddu, and he was done listening to the gatekeeper’s ignorant litany.

“Show me the ritual of essence transfer,” Bane demanded.

“The ritual is fraught with danger,” the gatekeeper warned. “Attempting it will cause the current vessel to be destroyed; your body will be consumed by the power of the dark side.”

Bane clenched his teeth in exasperation. He had heard these warnings at least a dozen times before.

“Choose your new vessel carefully. If you select a living being, be warned that their own spirit will fight you as you try to possess their body. If their will is strong, you will fail and your consciousness will be cast into the void, doomed to an eternity of suffering and torment.”

The mention of the void always made Bane think of the thought bomb, and the hundreds of Sith and Jedi spirits trapped forever by its detonation. It reminded him of what he had accomplished; it reminded him of who he was.

“I am not some student cowering in fear before the unimaginable power of the dark side,” Bane snapped at the hologram. “I am the Dark Lord of the Sith.”

“Your title means nothing to me,” the gatekeeper sneered. “I decide who is worthy to learn my secrets, and you are not yet ready. Perhaps you will never be.”

Over the past few days Bane had come to this point too many times. He wasn’t about to let the gatekeeper thwart him yet again.

Bane snatched the Holocron up from the floor with his right hand, ignoring the all-too-familiar trembling in his left. There was another way to get the knowledge he sought, but it was a path fraught with peril.

In the construction of his own Holocron, Bane had developed an intimate knowledge of how the talismans worked. Each was unique, a repository of everything its creator had learned during his or her long life. But there were similarities that were common to them all, including the one he now studied.

Andeddu’s Holocron was a four-sided pyramid made of smooth, dark crystal. Arcane glyphs of gold and red were etched into each face, the mystic symbols focusing and channeling the power of the dark side. Inside was an intricate matrix of crystal lattices and vertices. The fine, interwoven filaments formed a data system capable of storing near infinite amounts of knowledge, as well as providing a framework for the cognitive networks required to create the gatekeeper’s appearance and personality.

The entire system was controlled by the capstone, a single piece of black crystal perched atop the apex of the pyramid. Imbued with incredible power, the capstone stabilized the matrix structure, allowing the individual pieces of data to be accessed instantaneously by the gatekeeper.

However, it was possible to circumvent the gatekeeper … but only by one strong enough to survive the attempt. If Bane’s will faltered, or if the power of Andeddu’s Holocron was more than he could handle, then his mind would be destroyed. His identity would be devoured by the talisman, leaving his body a mindless husk. It was a desperate gamble, but there was no other way to get what he needed. Not in time to help him against Zannah.

“If you will not give me what I want,” he shouted at the gatekeeper, “then I will take it!”

Reaching out with the Force, he plunged his awareness into the depths of the pyramid’s inner workings as the gatekeeper let loose a howl of impotent rage. Thrusting his consciousness directly into the capstone, Bane let his will invade the small four-sided talisman just as he himself had invaded the stronghold of Andeddu’s cult back on Prakith.

For a brief instant he could feel the burning inferno of power trapped within threatening to consume his identity. Bane welcomed the pain, feeding on it and transforming it along with all the frustration and anger he had built up over the past four days into a raging, swirling storm of dark side energy. Then, bit by bit, he began to impose order on the chaos, bending it to his will.

Using the Force, Bane began to make subtle adjustments to the Holocron’s crystal matrix. He began to manipulate the arrangement of the filaments, twisting, turning, and shifting them with subtle, immeasurable adjustments as he worked his way deeper and deeper into the data in pursuit of what he sought. In many ways it was like slicing a secure computer network, only a million times more complex.

With each adjustment, the gatekeeper’s image flickered and cried out, but Bane was oblivious to the simulation’s artificial suffering. For several hours he continued his work, his body perspiring heavily, until he finally found what he sought: the ritual of essence transference; Andeddu’s secret of eternal life.

With one final push of the Force, he reached out with his mind and seized what he had been searching for. With the aid of the gatekeeper the information would have taken weeks to absorb and learn. Bane, however, had gone right to the source. The knowledge streamed directly from the Holocron into his mind, raw and unfiltered. Thousands of images flooded his consciousness, an explosion of sights, sounds, and thoughts that caused him to drop the Holocron to the floor, breaking the connection.

The gatekeeper’s image vanished, leaving Bane alone in the ship, still sitting cross-legged on the floor. He was slumped forward, his breath coming in heavy gasps. His clothes were soaked in sweat; his body shivered with exhaustion.

Slowly, he got to his feet and made his way over to the pilot’s seat. He walked with the stumbling gait of a man drunk on Mandalorian wine, resting his hand on the wall for support. His head was swimming, lost in the secrets he had wrenched from the Holocron’s depths.

As he collapsed into the seat the control console began to beep softly. It took him several seconds to realize the latest hyperspace jump on his return journey was reaching an end … though there were still many more jumps to go.

He needed to plot a course for the next leg of the trip, but he was in no state to contemplate that right now. Not while his addled mind was still wrestling with what he had learned. He needed time to process the information from the Holocron, to wrap his head around it. To analyze and compartmentalize all the facts, arranging them into some semblance of rational thought.

Bane reached out and activated the autopilot, content to let the ship drift slowly through space while he recovered. Then he closed his eyes and let the darkness of sleep envelop him.

13

Consciousness returned slowly to Set Harth. It was as if his mind were swimming through a swamp, struggling to escape the murky depths of his own subconscious. Pushing up through the sludge he finally broke the surface, though the lingering memories of strange dreams and nightmares still prowled the dark corners of his mind.

On some level he was aware the nightmares had nearly driven him mad. They had been on the verge of destroying him, but Set had refused to succumb. Bit by bit he had managed to shove them back down into the hidden recesses of his mind where they belonged, separating fantasy from reality one small piece at a time.

How long was I out? he wondered, keeping his eyes closed and his breathing steady so as not to reveal he had woken up. Feels like days.

He was in his own room, that much he was sure of. He recognized the smell of his perfumed pillow, the soft feel of silk sheets against his skin, the luxurious comfort of his down-filled mattress. Everything else was still a blur.

Come on, Set. Let’s figure this out.

Careful to avoid the horrors of his recent nightmares, Set stretched his memory back, trying to piece together exactly what had happened to him.

The blond woman.

She had been waiting in his mansion when he returned home from the party. It wasn’t the first time that had happened … though this was the first time his uninvited guest had tried to kill him.

Probably wasn’t really trying to kill you, he reminded himself. Seeing as how you’re still alive.

They had fought. That much he remembered clearly. They had fought and she had beaten him.

Though his eyes were still closed, Set was beginning to assemble a detailed image of his surroundings by reaching out with the Force. He was in his own bed, in his own room. But he wasn’t alone. Someone else was there. The woman.

Claimed she was a Sith.

He still had no idea why she had broken into his home. He couldn’t even guess why she had left him alive. But he was determined to make her regret it.

Pushing out gently with his mind, he scanned the room for his lightsaber. It was resting on his dressing table on the far side of the room. The woman was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, patiently waiting for him to wake up. Would he be able to use the Force to pull the lightsaber across the room and into his hand before she could react?

And then what? She already beat you once.

Maybe this time he could surprise her. Catch her off guard. Carefully, he began to gather his power.

“I thought you were smarter than that,” the woman said.

Set froze. Going to have to talk your way out of this one. Time to turn on the charm.

He opened his eyes and gave an easy laugh.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said with a shrug, sitting up in bed.

He was still dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the party.

“That was quite an entrance you made last night,” he said.

“Three nights ago,” she corrected, returning his smile with a humorless stare. “I was beginning to wonder if you would be trapped in your nightmares forever.”

Her words caused his mind to momentarily flash back to the terrors he was still struggling to suppress, and he shuddered involuntarily.

“I managed to find my way out,” he answered, his voice grimmer than he intended. “What did you do to me? Some kind of drug?”

“If that’s what you really think,” she said, her lip curling up in disdain, “then I’m wasting my time here.”

There was an implied threat in her words, and Set’s survival instincts kicked into high gear.

Get on the ball, Set. You don’t want to make this woman angry.

“Sorcery,” he said after a second of deliberation. “You said you were a Sith. You attacked my mind with some kind of spell.”

She nodded, and Set saw her shoulders relax. So she had been on the verge of killing him for his ignorance.

“Are you the assassin who killed Medd Tandar?” he asked, still trying to fit everything together.

The woman shook her head, blond curls swaying slightly.

She’s attractive enough … if you can get past the whole Sith sorceress thing.

“You followed me here from Doan,” Set guessed, desperately looking for some piece of information he could use. If he figured out what she was after, then he’d have something to bargain with. “You want the talismans.”

“You’re half right,” she replied. “I followed you from Doan, but I’m not interested in the talismans.”

Set wasn’t used to being at a disadvantage. If he didn’t have it, he was usually smart enough to figure out a way to get it. Here, however, he was utterly at a loss as to the woman’s motives and goals. And so he had no recourse but to fall back on the one thing he hated most of all: total honesty.

“I have absolutely no idea what you want with me.”

“My name is Darth Zannah,” she explained, “and I am looking for an apprentice.”

On one level, Set was even more confused than before. But part of his mind—the part that had kept him one step ahead of the Jedi for the past ten years—seized on her words. Now you know what she wants. Figure out a way to use it.

“Why are you looking for an apprentice?” he asked carefully, wary of enraging her with his lack of understanding.

“The Jedi believe the Sith are extinct,” she began. “But you can plainly see by my presence that the Jedi are wrong. The Sith still exist, but now we number only two: one Master, and one apprentice. One to embody the power of the dark side, the other to crave it.”

“So you want to increase your numbers,” Set reasoned. “You’re seeking recruits to join your cause and rebuild the Sith armies.”

“That is the path to failure,” Zannah replied. “The history of the Sith has proven that in greater numbers the Sith will always turn their hatred against one another. It is inevitable; it is the way of the dark side.

“The only way we can survive is by following the Rule of Two. Our numbers can never grow beyond this. The Master will train his apprentice in the ways of the Sith, until one day she must challenge him. If she proves unworthy, the Master will destroy her and choose a new apprentice. If she proves the stronger, the Master will fall and she will become the new Dark Lord of the Sith, and choose an apprentice of her own.”

Set felt like things were becoming clearer now. “You are the apprentice. You think it’s time to challenge your Master. And you want me to help you defeat him.”

“No!” she snapped, causing Set to flinch in his bed. “That is the old way. Lesser followers would unite their inferior skills to bring down a strong leader, weakening the Order. This goes against everything the Rule of Two stands for.

“If I am to become the Dark Lord of the Sith, I must prove myself by facing my Master alone. If I am unworthy, then I will fall … but the Order will remain strong under his leadership.

“Do you understand?”

Set understood all too well. “The Rule of Two guarantees that each Master will be more powerful than the one who came before. It culls the weak.” Good for the Sith as a whole, but not so great if you’re the one getting culled.

Zannah may have been willing to sacrifice herself for the greater good of the Sith Order, but Set wasn’t ready to do the same. Of course, he was smart enough not to say so out loud.

Instead, he asked, “What made you choose me?”

“I have been seeking an apprentice for some time now,” Zannah explained. “When I stumbled across your path on Doan, I knew it was more than mere chance.

“You are strong in the Force, and you have rejected the Jedi and their teachings. You are intelligent and resourceful. But your potential is unfulfilled. You have not dedicated yourself to the dark side. In your quest for the talismans of the ancient Sith you are like a child playing with his toys.

“You have no thoughts of the future. No ambition. No plan. No vision. That will change if you agree to be my apprentice. Join me and I will show you your destiny.”

“My destiny?”

“For thousands of years the Jedi and Sith have waged an endless war against each other. The Jedi believe the war is over. They think the Sith are gone. But we still exist in the shadows, planning our revenge.

“With patience and cunning, we are laying the seeds of our ultimate victory. Generation after generation our power and influence will grow until one day we will destroy the Jedi, and the Sith will rule the galaxy.”

Set wasn’t interested in ruling the galaxy. Or destroying the Jedi. It sounded like a lot of work. It’s not like you’ve got a lot of options. She’s not going to just let you walk away if you refuse.

Aloud, he said, “The Rule of Two dictates there can only ever be two Sith, so how can you take me as an apprentice if your Master is still alive?”

“If you accept my offer, you will accompany me as I go to face my Master,” Zannah explained. “But you must not interfere. If he falls, then I will take you on as my apprentice.”

“What happens to me if you fail?” Set wondered.

“If I die, my Master will need a new apprentice. If he judges you worthy, then you will replace me. If not …”

There was no need for her to finish the thought.

Set wasn’t crazy about the deal, but he understood the position he was in. Refuse, and she would kill him. Accept, and there was a good chance he would die anyway if Zannah proved weaker than her Master. And even if she was victorious, he would be returning to the life of an apprentice … a life he had been eager to escape while he was with the Jedi.

But there was one thing worthwhile in Zannah’s offer. He had been given a glimpse of what she was capable of during their one-sided battle in his living room. It might be worth a few years of following orders and calling her “Master” if he could learn to command that kind of power for himself.

“You said you can help me reach my full potential. Teach me how to unlock the true power of the dark side.”

“If you follow me,” Zannah promised, “you will become more powerful than you ever imagined.”

Zannah could sense Set Harth’s reluctance to become her apprentice. He lacked the burning hatred of the Jedi and what they represented; he had little interest in embracing the greater destiny of the Sith. But it was also obvious that he was tempted by her promises of individual power.

Set cared only for himself. He would accept her offer only because he saw it as a means to an end, a way to make himself stronger. Zannah knew this, and she was prepared to accept it. She would have preferred to find an apprentice eager to learn the Sith philosophies Bane had imbued in her, but in the lack of a better option she was willing to work with what she had.

She understood the risks, but nothing of importance had ever been accomplished without risk. Over the first few years of his training, she would keep a close eye on Set. She would be wary of treachery and deceit as little by little she exposed him to the greater truths Bane had taught her. She would use his lust for personal power as the bait to draw him deeper and deeper into the ways of the Sith.

In time Set would come to accept the teachings and philosophies as she had done. As his understanding of the dark side evolved, he would gain the vision to see beyond his own petty wants and desires. He would recognize their need to destroy the Jedi and he would embrace the ultimate destiny of the Sith.

And if he did not, then she would destroy him and find another to serve her.

All this was running through her mind as she watched the silver-haired Jedi rubbing his chin, contemplating the prospect of becoming her apprentice.

“I accept,” he said at last. “And I am honored you have chosen me.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. “But someday you will be.”

14

“We should have force pikes for this job,” Captain Jedder grumbled. “They’ve got twice the juice of these kriffing stun rifles.”

“Force pikes can kill if you’re not careful,” the Huntress reminded him, though she was only half paying attention to the conversation. “The princess wants him taken alive. Besides, you’d never get close enough to use them.”

They were inside the mansion of Sepp Omek, though the Huntress doubted that was the man’s real name. Not that it mattered. She hadn’t needed a name to track him here to the estate on Ciutric IV. The Sith Lord had covered his tracks well, hiding his true identity behind layers of middlebeings and go-betweens and making it virtually impossible for anyone to connect him to the events on Ambria through normal methods. But all his careful preparations couldn’t guard against the Iktotchi’s unique powers. Guided by the images in her dreams and her infallible instincts the Huntress had found her quarry, as she always did.

“How long till he gets here?” Captain Jedder wanted to know.

“Soon,” she replied. “Tell your team to get into position.”

Her visions had shown her the house would be empty when they arrived, just as they had shown her that the owner would be returning this very same night.

“Can you be more specific?” Jedder asked. “Twenty minutes? An hour? Two?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” she muttered absently, her eyes picking out locations for them to set their trap.

She had already scouted out the estate in detail, committing every room to memory as she had gone through and disabled every alarm and anti-intruder system on the grounds. She had even managed to slice her way past the security panel on the small building at the rear of the grounds. At first she had thought it might be some kind of arsenal or weapons bunker, but once she managed to open the door she realized it was a library. Instead of datapads or holodisks, however, the shelves had groaned under the weight of ancient leather-bound books and scrolls of yellowed parchment.

There was something else inside the building that had given her pause, however. Resting on a pedestal near the back of the library was a small, four-sided crystal pyramid. The Huntress had no need to steal from her victims; she had ignored the priceless works of art and other valuables scattered around the mansion. But there was something oddly compelling about this piece. Unsure what it could be, she had somehow felt drawn to it, and she’d slipped it into one of the pockets beneath her robe before continuing her investigation of the grounds.

Once she was done she had signaled for Jedder and the others that it was safe to come in and begin their preparations.

“Something wrong?” the captain asked.

“No,” she replied, annoyed at herself for getting distracted. “Just looking for places to set your team up.”

This job was unlike any the Huntress had ever taken before. It wasn’t simply the mercenaries she was working with, or the fact she was supposed to take her victim alive. Ever since she had visited the small camp on Ambria, the tall, bald man and the blond woman had haunted her dreams. Some of what she had seen had helped lead her here to Ciutric, but there were other images, too: bewildering, troubling visions that she was unable to decipher.

She had been witness to dozens of battles between the pair. She had watched the man kill the woman, yet she had also seen the woman kill the man. She understood these were visions of the future, each a possible reality that might or might not come to pass. Usually when she caught glimpses of the future, however, there was purpose or meaning behind them. The visions would help direct and guide her actions. Yet this seemingly random collage of images did nothing but confuse her, and so she had done her best to ignore them and focus on the job she had been hired for.

The princess had offered her twenty well-trained mercenaries for the job, and she had been as good as her word: twelve men and eight women, all with prior military experience, had accompanied the Huntress to the world.

She had also sent along Captain Jedder, a senior member of the Doan Royal Guard. The Doan noble houses had a long history of supplementing their numbers with hired soldiers for particularly dangerous missions, and Jedder had handpicked this particular team from crews he had worked with in the past.

Technically, the mercs answered to Jedder, though he, in turn, answered to the Huntress. That was fine by her. Mercenaries had been known to cut and run if things went bad on a job, but if they had worked with the captain in the past they were more likely to stick with the battle plan right to the end.

The front entrance to the mansion was open and spacious. The door opened onto a large foyer, which flowed into an oversized sitting room furnished with two couches and a large glass table. A spiral staircase led off to one side, curling up to a balcony that overlooked the sitting room.

“We should try to take him here, when he first comes in,” she said. “He’ll sense that something is wrong right away, so we need to hit him fast.”

“Set up a pair of sonic detonators on either side of the door,” Jedder said into his radio. Instantly two of the soldiers ran over to comply with his orders.

“I fought against the Sith, you know,” Jedder told her as the Huntress turned slowly in place, scoping out the rest of the room. “Twenty years ago. During the war. I was barely more than a kid.”

“That’s probably why the princess sent you along,” the Iktotchi replied absently.

“I’m surprised she didn’t send Lucia with us,” Jedder noted. “She fought for the Sith during the war. Probably knows their tactics better than anyone.”

She cares for Lucia, the Huntress thought. She knows how dangerous this mission will be. She’s not expendable like the rest of us.

Out loud she told him, “Position two of your team with the stun rifles up on that balcony at the top of the stairs. That should give them a clear shot down here into the foyer.”

“I wish we had carbonite guns,” Jedder lamented. “Freeze him solid.”

The Huntress had already considered and discarded that idea.

“Same problem as the force pikes. You have to get in too close for them to be effective. And the carbonite will only freeze him for a few minutes. What are we supposed to do when he thaws out?”

“The tangle guns aren’t any better,” he countered. “A lightsaber will slice through the webbing like it was made of flimsi.”

“They aren’t meant to hold him,” the Iktotchi explained. “They only have to slow him down long enough for me to administer the senflax.”

She held up a long, thin blade to illustrate her point. The edge was coated with the potent neurotoxin. According to the princess, any wound deep enough to draw blood would get the poison into his system.

“After the toxin is introduced, we’ll have to keep the pressure on,” she reminded the captain. “If we even give him a chance to breathe, he’ll recognize that the drug is in his system. He might have some way to counter it with the Force.”

“How long after you cut him before that stuff starts to take effect?”

“Thirty, maybe forty seconds.” Assuming Serra knows what she’s talking about.

“That’s a long time for a bunch of soldiers to go toe-to-toe with a Sith.”

There really wasn’t anything she could say to reassure him, so she didn’t bother with an answer.

“Make sure your unit remembers that this is a two-stage attack,” she told him. “The first stage needs to distract him long enough to give me an opening. After that, hit him with everything we’ve got.”

“Can you really see the future?” the captain asked after passing on her instructions to the team.

“Sometimes. The future is always in motion. It’s not always clear.”

“Are we going to get out of this alive?”

“Some of us might,” she replied, not mentioning the vision she had of Jedder’s broken body lying lifeless on the mansion’s marble floor.

When Bane returned to Ciutric, he was surprised to find Zannah’s ship still gone, but he was grateful that she wouldn’t be waiting for him back at the mansion. He was in no shape to do battle with her now; he was even too tired to come up with a lie to explain his absence without raising her suspicions. Yet as his airspeeder approached his mansion on the horizon, he knew that even if Zannah had been waiting for him, his journey would still have been worthwhile. Andeddu’s knowledge was his now; over the past few days his brain had processed the raw information he had stolen to the point of full comprehension. He fully understood the ritual of essence transfer; he had learned the techniques that would allow him to move his consciousness from his own failing body into another. He just needed to select an appropriate victim.

Finding a new body to inhabit was the most difficult part of the ritual. He needed someone physically strong enough to withstand the massive quantities of dark side energy he would call on over the coming years, but at the same time he needed someone mentally vulnerable enough for him to overpower their will. The best candidate would be an engineered clone body, an empty shell with no thoughts or identity of its own. But creating a suitable clone could take years, and Bane wasn’t convinced he had that much time left.

He would have to try to possess the body of a living victim … a very dangerous course of action. He would only have one chance: no matter the outcome, his own body would be destroyed in the process. And if his target possessed a will strong enough to resist his assault, the attempt would fail, banishing his spirit to the void for all eternity.

He brought the airspeeder in for a landing and climbed from the vehicle, pausing only to grab his travel pack—a simple duffel bag with the Holocron tucked safely away inside. With slow, heavy steps he approached the front door of the mansion.

Has to be someone young. Under thirty.

He opened the door and stepped inside, letting it swing shut behind him.

Naïve and inexperienced. Maybe—

He froze. Someone else was in the mansion. He could feel the intruders everywhere: hiding around corners in the hallways, crouched on the stairs, ducking behind the furniture, perched on the balcony above.

All this flashed through Bane’s mind in less than a tenth of a second—just enough time for it to register before the sonic detonators on either side of him went off.

Their earsplitting shriek staggered Bane, causing him to stumble forward into the room and away from the door and possible escape. His hands instinctively flew up and clutched at his ears, his travel pack dropping to the floor. And then the enemy fell upon him.

They poured out like a swarm of insects, bursting into view from every side. Four soldiers armed with stun rifles sent a barrage of bolts raining down from the balcony; Bane—still reeling from the sonic detonators—barely had enough time to throw up a protective barrier to shield him from the assault.

As he did so, he felt something fighting him. Some power was trying to block his ability to call upon the Force to shield himself. It wasn’t strong enough to stop him, but it did hinder his efforts just enough so that a flicker of energy passed through the barrier.

His muscles seized as he was hit; his back arched and his arms and head were thrown back. Every nerve in Bane’s body lit up as if it were on fire. The pain lasted only an instant, but it was enough to knock him to the floor in a crumpled heap.

He didn’t stay down, however. He sprang back to his feet, simultaneously drawing his lightsaber with his right hand as he sent a blast of lightning out from the fingertips of his left. The violet bolts should have incinerated all four of his targets on the balcony, yet again the strange power interfering with his ability to draw upon the Force hindered his efforts.

Three of the victims were electrocuted, dying before they even had a chance to scream. The fourth, however, managed to throw herself back from the balcony’s edge, evading the deadly attack.

Bane never got a chance to finish her off. A pair of soldiers emerged from a hallway on the left, and three more appeared from the hall on the right. They opened fire with tangle guns, sending out long streams of sticky, synthetic webbing.

The soldiers were smart; they coordinated their efforts. Two fired at his feet, looking to glue him to the floor. The others aimed for the chest and torso, looking to pin his arms to his sides with the viscous strings. But Bane wasn’t about to let himself become immobilized.

Leaping up, he grabbed on to the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, holding himself with his free hand. Swinging his legs to build momentum, he launched himself up over the railing and onto the balcony, giving him the advantage of higher ground.

He came down with a heavy thud, the inexplicable power that still impeded his connection to the Force robbing him of a graceful landing. The bodies of the three dead soldiers were scattered about him. To his right were the stairs leading back down to the foyer; straight ahead was a long hall leading to another wing of the mansion.

A female Iktotchi stood at the far end of the hall, a long, thin knife held in each hand. She grinned at Bane, and in that moment he knew who was interfering with his ability to use the Force.

She broke into a run, charging down the hall toward him. Bane dropped into a fighting crouch to meet her attack, knowing her knives were no match for his lightsaber. It was only then that he noticed the flash grenades lying by the dead bodies at his feet.

They exploded with a burst of intense light and chemical smoke that blinded Bane. Disoriented, he fell back against the balcony’s railing. An instant later he felt the sole of the Iktotchi’s boots strike him hard in the chest, sending him tumbling backward over the banister to the marble floor four meters below.

He hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his body, leaving him gasping for air. The impact jarred his lightsaber from his grip, sending it skittering across the floor. An instant later his prone form was enveloped by the webbing from the tangle guns, pinning him to the ground.

Blind and immobilized, Darth Bane’s fury saved him. Years of training allowed him to focus all his pain and rage in one single instant, drawing on it so he could unleash the full power of the dark side. Once again he felt the Iktotchi’s barrier opposing his efforts, but this time he tore through it like it wasn’t even there.

For a moment it was as if the world around him was frozen in place. Though his eyes were still suffering the effects of the flash grenade, the Force rushing through his body gave him an otherworldly awareness of his surroundings—the scene was burned into his brain in exquisite detail.

The soldiers were scattered about the foyer, scrambling to take up new positions in preparation for the next stage of the battle. They were well trained, but he could still sense their fear: they knew the fight was far from over. The Iktotchi had leapt over the railing in pursuit of him. She hung poised in the air above him, her twin blades held out to either side as she braced for landing. Bane could even see himself lying on the floor, buried beneath a thick, wet blanket of rapidly drying chemical adhesive.

The frozen tableau lasted only a fraction of an instant, but it told the Dark Lord everything he needed to know. And then the instant was gone, and everything became a blur of motion again.

The Iktotchi landed just as Bane unleashed a wave of crackling electricity that burned away the webbing of the tangle guns. She dropped to one knee and tried to stab her knives into him as he lay on the floor, but through the Force Bane saw her coming. He managed to roll aside, escaping with only a long, deep cut along one of his forearms as he scrambled back to his feet.

In response to his call, his lightsaber flew up from the floor and into his waiting hand, but the Iktotchi was already retreating. Now that he was no longer helpless, she was eager to fall back and let others step in.

Several more flash grenades exploded around him, but Bane was unaffected; he was no longer relying on his physical sight to guide him. Fresh streams of webbing arced across the room toward him, but this time he incinerated them while they were still in the air. Half a dozen concussion grenades tossed in from every side clattered on the floor at his feet. As they exploded, Bane simply enveloped himself in the Force, creating a protective cocoon that absorbed the impact and left him standing completely unharmed.

Two men popped up from behind a nearby couch and fired at him from point-blank range with their stun guns. Bane slapped the incoming bolts away with his lightsaber, then thrust out a hand to send the couch slamming straight back into the wall, crushing the men who had been using it for cover.

Then he was on the move, bearing down on two of the soldiers carrying tangle guns. He sliced them both in half horizontally with a single blow from his lightsaber, carving a perfect line just above their belts. Another volley of stun bolts came too late to save them; Bane was already gone.

A single flip and he was back on the balcony again, face-to-face with the Iktotchi.

“You can’t escape,” he told her.

“I wasn’t trying to,” she hissed back at him, lunging forward with her knives.

She was quicker than Bane expected, coming in low and fast. He didn’t have time to simply chop her down; instead he had to spin out of the way.

He tried to take one of her arms with his lightsaber on a counterthrust as she slipped past, but the Iktotchi anticipated his move and managed to contort her body so that his blade caught nothing but air.

They had switched positions from their first engagement; she was now the one standing with her back to the balcony railing. Bane thrust out with the Force, the impact sending her hurtling backward over the railing as her kick had done to him less than a minute earlier.

Somehow the Iktotchi managed to turn in the air so that she landed on her feet. Because of this, she was able to spring to safety when Bane sent a blast of lightning hurtling down toward her. Instead of her charred corpse, it left only a smoking circle on the floor.

Soldiers were firing their stun guns at him again from the stairwell. Bane didn’t even bother to strike back at them; he simply dodged their attack by vaulting over the railing and dropping back down to the floor below. The soldiers were nothing to him; it was the Iktotchi he was interested in now. She was the only opponent who posed any real threat. Eliminate her and he could deal with the soldiers at his leisure.

He landed on the floor in a crouch, absorbing the impact. And then everything went black.

The Huntress couldn’t say how long it had been since she’d carved her senflax-coated blade through the flesh of the Sith Lord’s forearm, but the neurotoxin had to take effect soon.

Jedder was dead, crushed against the wall by a piece of flying furniture. At least five other soldiers were already down, too. The Sith Lord was focusing his efforts on her.

The Iktotchi knew she couldn’t beat him. He was too strong. The tricks she had used against the Jedi had slowed him down at first, but now they had no effect at all. The senflax was her only hope of surviving.

She saw the Sith leaping down from the balcony, coming after her. He hit the floor, turned toward her, and collapsed. The big man lay on his side, eyes open and seeming to stare right at her. The pupils were bloodshot from the chemicals in the flash grenades.

The Huntress waited until he blinked. Then, seeing no other signs of movement, she held up her hand and shouted, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

She thought briefly that his paralysis might be a trick, then discarded the notion. The Sith didn’t need subterfuge to win the battle; it was obvious he had them overmatched. The only explanation was that Serra’s drug had finally worked its magic. According to the instructions she had been given, they had four hours before they needed to administer the next dose.

With Jedder dead, the hired soldiers were staring at her, waiting for their next orders. The Huntress closed her eyes and reached out with her mind, seeking guidance. Someone else was coming: the blond woman from the camp on Ambria.

“You three go bring the airspeeders around to the front of the house,” the Huntress barked. “The rest of you gather up the bodies. Don’t leave anything behind that could link this to the princess.”

The survivors hustled to follow her commands.

She didn’t bother to tell them to hurry; they were already moving as fast as they could, eager to get away from this place where so many of their comrades-in-arms had fallen.

On an impulse, she bent down and retrieved the now extinguished lightsaber from where it lay on the floor beside the fallen Sith. She turned the curved handle over, inspecting it carefully.

She ignited the weapon and was surprised by its weightlessness.

“What about this?” one of the soldiers asked, holding up the duffel bag the Sith had dropped in the first few seconds of the attack.

“Take it with us,” she said absently, not even bothering to look over. “Give it to the princess.”

Infatuated with her new toy, she made a few slow, experimental swings with the unfamiliar weapon before extinguishing it and secreting it away in one of the pockets inside her robe, just as she had done with the strange crystal pyramid from the library out back.

Five minutes later they had the prisoner and their casualties in the back of the speeders, and they were heading to the drop shuttle that would take them back to Doan.

15

As Zannah brought the Victory in to touch down in her designated hangar at the Ciutric IV starport, she felt a sudden sense of uneasiness.

“Something wrong?” Set asked from the passenger’s seat, picking up on her discomfort.

I’m about to challenge my Master in a battle to the death, and I’m still not sure if I made a mistake picking you as my apprentice.

“It’s nothing.”

Set shrugged. He was sitting with his chair reclined, his legs stretched out, and his feet resting on the dash. If he was feeling any anxiety himself, it was well masked.

With the ship on the ground, Zannah cut the engines. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong, but she had come too far to turn back now.

Is this a premonition of my own death? Will Bane end my life tonight?

“What now?” Set asked, sitting up and swinging his legs down to the floor.

When he had first accepted Zannah’s offer, she had sensed a clear reluctance in him. Over the course of the trip to Ciutric, however, he seemed to have warmed to the idea. Now he appeared almost eager … though Zannah was aware this could all be an act.

“When we arrive at the estate you need to wait outside,” she said out loud. “My Master doesn’t like uninvited guests.”

“I’ll hide in the bushes like a scared little Kath pup,” he promised.

“This isn’t a game,” she warned him.

“Everything’s a game,” he replied. “This is just one you really can’t afford to lose.”

“If I lose, you might end up dead, too.”

“Or I could end up as your Master’s new apprentice,” he countered with a sly grin.

“You wouldn’t find him nearly as tolerant of your impertinence.”

“Then I truly hope you win. Is that all, Master?”

When Zannah nodded, Set rose from his seat and executed a deep bow, his head dipping down so low his long hair tumbled forward to hang like a silver curtain covering his head and face.

“Lead and I will follow,” he offered, though there was something almost mocking in his tone.

She couldn’t help but wonder what Bane would have done in response to Set’s irreverent behavior. The consequences would no doubt have been harsh. Zannah, however, was content to let the Dark Jedi have his fun. She had wounded his ego, humiliating him by so easily overpowering him during their confrontation. It was important to let him regain his confidence. And if his jests made it easier for him to accept his role as apprentice, she was willing to put up with them … to a point.

Set understood all this, of course. She knew he was pushing her, testing the limits and boundaries of their relationship. At the same time, Zannah had been testing him. So far he had been smart enough to know where to draw the line.

Leaving their bags on the ship, Zannah and Set made their way from the hangar to the small customs building at the front of the starport. Chet, the young customs officer who had spoken to her the last time she’d left Ciutric, was on duty again.

“Good evening, Mistress Omek,” he said with a tilt of his head. “I’ll have someone bring your speeder around.”

“Thank you, Chet.”

“Want me to send someone for your bags?”

“I’ll pick them up in the morning.” If I’m still alive.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Set chimed in.

Zannah silenced him with a glare.

Chet obviously caught the exchange, but what he made of it Zannah wasn’t sure. A few seconds of silence passed before the customs official said, “May I speak with you alone for a moment, Mistress Omek?”

Curious, Zannah nodded at Set, who turned and walked away in the other direction, looking mildly offended.

“Had an unregistered drop ship enter atmosphere a few hours ago,” Chet whispered once Set was out of earshot. “Touched down in the jungle about a hundred kilometers east of the starport.”

Odd, Zannah thought.

Ciutric IV was located at the nexus of several key trade routes, but the tariffs and taxes charged by the customs stations were minimal. No legitimate merchant would incur the risk of landing in the untamed jungle just to avoid some paperwork and save a handful of credits. And there weren’t any smuggling operations active in the region; if there were, she and Bane would have known about them.

“Any idea who they were?”

Chet shrugged. “They landed outside our jurisdiction, and they didn’t send off an emergency beacon, so nobody bothered to send a patrol to investigate.”

She wasn’t surprised at the lack of official urgency generated by the unregistered vessel. Ciutric was generally a law-abiding world; as a result planetary security was somewhat lax. It was one of the reasons Bane had chosen to take up residence here.

She was intrigued, however. Did the drop ship have anything to do with the unease she’d felt upon landing?

“You said they touched down to the east?” Our estate is on the eastern edge of the city.

“Yeah. Showed up on the sensors a couple of hours before your brother got back.”

“My brother?”

“Oh,” Chet said, mildly surprised. “I just assumed you knew. He left the day after you did. Just got back tonight.”

“Any idea where he went?”

The customs official shook his head. “Sorry.”

Zannah’s mind was spinning with a thousand possibilities as the valet arrived with her speeder. Bane almost never left Ciutric. If he had business, people came to him … or he sent Zannah. Something must have come up that was too important for him to wait for her to get back. Either that, or he had business he wanted to deal with personally. And if that was the case, was it possible he had sent her to Doan as a way to get rid of her temporarily?

She could think of only one reason Bane would have wanted to keep her from knowing about his journey: he was looking for someone to replace her!

“Trouble?” Set asked, wandering over to see what was going on.

“It’s fine,” Zannah replied, not wanting to reveal her apprehension to either of the men.

She climbed into the speeder and nodded at Set to do the same.

“Thanks for the update, Chet.”

As the speeder roared to life and took to the air, she began to consider her options. If Bane was alone, she would challenge him as she planned. However, if Bane had found someone else to become his heir things would get more complicated.

If Bane had cast her aside, did the Rule of Two still apply to her? Or would Bane and his new apprentice combine their strength to defeat her as an enemy of the Sith? If that happened, she wouldn’t be able to survive alone.

If things went bad, she didn’t really know if the Dark Jedi sitting beside her would come to her aid, but she didn’t have any real choice. She had decided to confront Bane tonight, and she wasn’t about to turn back now. She’d waited too long for this moment, put it off too many times before.

“Be on your guard when we land,” she warned Set.

“I’m always on guard,” he assured her.

Zannah’s apprehension continued to mount as she approached the estate, but as she drew nearer she realized she couldn’t sense her Master’s presence. Puzzled, she brought the speeder in to land and saw that the front door was wide open.

“Wait here,” she instructed Set.

With one hand on the hilt of her lightsaber, she approached the open door cautiously and peeked inside. At first glance the damage was almost more than she could comprehend. The plaster on the walls was cracked and burned in at least a dozen places; the marble floors were scratched and scorched. Sticky strands of synthetic webbing and flakes of ash were everywhere.

Every piece of furniture she could see was either smashed or overturned. Carefully, she made her way upstairs, still wary despite not sensing anyone else in the building.

A quick inspection of the various rooms assured her that there was no immediate danger, and she sheathed her lightsaber. It seemed as if most of the damage had been confined to the foyer and the sitting room just off the mansion’s entrance. If there were answers to be had, she’d most likely find them there.

When she returned to the front of the manse, she wasn’t surprised to see that Set had disobeyed her orders. He was sitting on a chair that had survived relatively unscathed, his legs crossed and a glass of wine in his hand, casually waiting for her to arrive. A freshly opened bottle stood beside him on the floor.

“Your Master has excellent taste,” he said, raising the glass and drinking a toast to the absent host.

It was clear from the evidence that someone had attacked Bane in the mansion, and it was only logical to assume they must have been on the drop ship. Who they were and why they had come, however, were still mysteries she couldn’t solve.

“I told you to wait in the speeder,” she said, descending the stairs and closing the mansion door.

“I was bored,” he answered with a shrug, taking another sip of wine before changing topics. “Looks like that confrontation you were expecting isn’t going to happen after all. I guess you’re the new Sith Master by default.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Zannah muttered. “Besides, Darth Bane’s still alive. If he was dead I would have felt it.”

“Somehow I was afraid you’d say that,” he said, bending forward to grab the wine bottle and refill his empty glass. “Any idea who might have done this?”

“None of our enemies even knows the Sith still exist,” Zannah reminded him.

“I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me,” Set noted. A second later he added, “Master.”

“Bane just arrived back on Ciutric tonight.” She saw no reason not to tell him what she had learned. “And Chet told me an unidentified drop ship touched down near the estate a short time before he arrived.”

“You think the two are related?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” she replied. After a moment she decided to come clean with Set. “I think Bane might have sent me to Doan just to get me out of the way for a while. I think he was actually interested in something completely unrelated.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Set replied, holding up what appeared to be a small blue button.

“Where did you find that?”

“Wedged into the wreckage of what used to be a couch over there in the corner,” he replied, tossing it to her.

She reached out with one hand, easily snatching it from the air. A splash of dried blood was smeared across the surface, partially obscuring the gold insignia.

“That’s the symbol of the Doan Royal House,” Set told her as she studied the button.

“Doan?” Zannah was more confused than ever. “Why would someone from Doan come here? How would they even find us?”

Set shrugged. “You’re the Master. You tell me.”

Zannah didn’t answer right away. Chewing on her lower lip, she analyzed the situation carefully, examining it from every angle. There were still too many unknowns for her to come up with a perfect plan, but she knew what had to be done.

“We need to go to Doan.”

“Hold on a second,” Set protested, holding up his hands. “Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, even if your Master’s still alive it looks to me like he’s probably a prisoner.”

“Yes … a prisoner on Doan.”

“So, what? We’re going to rescue him just so you can try and kill him yourself?”

That would be in accordance with the Rule of Two, Zannah thought. But there were other, more practical, reasons to go.

“My Master is smart, powerful, and cunning. He’s too dangerous to ignore. If they’re holding him prisoner, he might find a way to escape. If he does, he will come after me … but it will be at a time and place of his choosing, not mine.

“Even if he never escapes, it’s likely whoever took him will interrogate him for information. He may reveal something that exposes my existence to the Jedi … or some other enemy. I’m not willing to take that chance.

“Plus, I want to know who attacked him, and why. And if they did capture him, I want to know how they did it. What tactics did they use to bring down such a formidable opponent, and how can I make sure it never happens to me?”

“So this is all about you tying up loose ends?”

She heard reluctance in his voice—the same reluctance she’d sensed when she’d first offered to take him on as her apprentice. Set had spent much of his life running from problems rather than solving them. She knew he’d rather avoid his enemies than seek a way to destroy them. In time, she would cure him of this. As his Master, she would teach him the ways of the Sith.

For now, however, she simply needed his help.

“I have to go meet with someone,” she said, remembering that Chet had told her Bane had met with Argel Tenn only a few days before all this had begun. It was possible the collector had found some interesting Sith manuscript that had prompted Bane to leave Ciutric.

“Am I coming with you?”

Zannah shook her head. “You need to find out everything you can about Doan. If the royal family was involved, where would they take my Master? And how can we find him?”

Set gave a dissatisfied snort. “So now I’m a glorified librarian?”

“Meet me back here in two days,” Zannah said, ignoring his complaint. “By then I’ll have figured out what to do next.”

When Zannah returned to the mansion after meeting with Argel Tenn, she was mildly surprised to find Set there waiting for her. She had half expected him not to show up. The mission she had sent him on had been important, but it had also been a test of his commitment. If he was having second thoughts about becoming her apprentice, sending him away would have given him the perfect opportunity to try to disappear. The fact that he had come back was a sign that maybe he was a suitable choice after all.

She was relieved to see that things seemed to be improving with Set, because her meeting with Argel Tenn had not gone well. At first he had refused to discuss his business with Bane, claiming discretion was the cornerstone of his business. Zannah had done her best to persuade him to make an exception through nonviolent means; she knew Argel had access to rare Sith manuscripts, and she didn’t want to throw away a potentially valuable resource.

However, much to her dismay, he had shown a surprising integrity when it came to protecting his clients’ confidentiality. In the end she’d had to turn to less pleasant methods to make him talk. Of course, by resorting to brutal interrogation she had revealed herself as something more than just an interested collector, and after that she couldn’t leave him alive.

The risk of Argel telling someone about her was too great; the information might make it back to the Jedi and cause them to investigate. Above all else it was critical that the Sith remained hidden, so Zannah was left with no choice but to eliminate Argel.

The real tragedy was that she never did manage to get anything more than a single name out of him: Darth Andeddu. Argel hadn’t known why Bane was interested in this particular Sith Lord, and without more to go on Zannah was stuck.

“Welcome back, Master,” Set said by way of greeting. “You’ll be happy to hear that I’ve learned everything one could possibly ever want to know about a miserable little pit of a world like Doan.”

“Too bad I didn’t send you to find out about Darth Andeddu,” she muttered, letting her frustrations boil up to the surface.

“Did you say Andeddu?” Set asked, obviously startled. “The immortal God-King of Prakith?”

Zannah’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “You’ve heard of him?”

“Ah, so now I have something to teach you,” Set said with a grin, recovering from his initial surprise. “Does that make me the Master?”

Zannah was in no mood for his jokes. “Tell me what you know about Andeddu.”

To his credit, Set picked up on her tone and took on a more serious demeanor.

“My last few years with the Jedi were spent serving under an Ithorian Master named Obba,” he explained.

“I’ve heard of him. He’s on the Council of First Knowledge.”

Ever since their battle against the Jedi on Tython, Bane had insisted they both know the name and reputation of every Master in the Order.

Set raised one eyebrow. “Impressive.”

“Consider that your first lesson. Know your enemy as well as you know yourself.”

“Noted. May I continue?”

Zannah nodded.

“While under Master Obba’s insufferable tutelage, much of my time was spent researching the histories of the ancient Sith. The hammerheaded old fool had this grand idea he could best serve the light by making a catalog of every known Sith Holocron, then sending out his agents to round them up and bring them back to the Jedi Temple for safekeeping.

“In my research, I happened on several references to a man named Darth Andeddu. The Jedi had worked hard to remove all mention of him from the galactic record, but as a member of the Order I had access to the original confiscated materials.”

“Get to the point,” Zannah warned him.

“Of course. Andeddu ruled over the world of Prakith as a god. At least, he did until the hyperlanes into the Deep Core collapsed, effectively cutting the planet off from the rest of the galaxy.

“There was, however, some evidence to support the theory that Andeddu created a Holocron during his reign. Master Obba believed it was still on Prakith, though he felt a journey into the Deep Core to retrieve it was too dangerous. To be honest, I kind of agreed with him.”

“What’s so special about Andeddu’s Holocron?” Zannah demanded. “You nearly swallowed your tongue when I mentioned his name.”

“If the legends are to be believed, Andeddu’s Holocron contains the secret of eternal life.”

Zannah cursed under her breath as all the pieces tumbled into place. Somehow Bane must have learned of Andeddu’s Holocron and gone to Prakith to claim it. He was trying to become immortal!

That’s why he had sent her off to Doan: so she wouldn’t find out what he was up to. Despite everything he had taught her about the Rule of Two, he wasn’t willing to accept the idea that his apprentice would one day surpass him. He actually thought that if he could find a way to stop the ravages of time and age, he could rule the Sith forever.

This is a betrayal of everything you taught me. You said you were teaching me all your secrets; you said the legacy of the Sith would one day be mine to carry on. You lied to me!

“Do you think it’s possible your Master actually went to Prakith and found Andeddu’s Holocron?” Set asked, making no effort to conceal the naked hunger in his voice.

“Bane’s journeyed into the Deep Core before,” she admitted, remembering his trip to Tython.

“So you finally decided to tell me your Master’s name.”

Zannah uttered another silent swear. She had meant to keep that information to herself as long as Bane was alive. But the realization of what he had done, of how he had betrayed the Rule of Two, had her rattled.

“I still don’t understand how this ties in with Doan,” Set wondered aloud.

That was one piece of the puzzle Zannah hadn’t figured out yet, either, though she had a feeling it was all connected somehow.

“Whoever attacked him must have come for the Holocron,” she guessed. “Whoever took Bane would have taken the artifact as well.”

“So you think it’s on Doan?”

It was obvious Set was more interested in claiming the Holocron than in finding and dealing with Bane. But Zannah had no idea who or what she would face when she went back to the mining world, and she suspected she’d need all the help she could get.

“You may not have been willing to risk a trip into the Deep Core to claim Andeddu’s Holocron, but are you willing to travel back to Doan one more time?”

Set graced her with another of his extravagant bows.

“Lead the way, Master.”

16

Serra sat alone in the small, windowless office, trying to gather her courage. The only furnishings were a simple desk and the chair she currently occupied. The unadorned walls were a depressing shade of brown, their stone surface rough and unfinished. A small safe had been built into the rock wall, and a single door led out into the hall beyond.

The princess wasn’t naïve. She understood that the room reflected the opinion most offworlders had of Doan; they saw it as an ugly, grimy pit. She knew that those who lived in the strip mines on the planet’s surface felt the same. But she had seen the planet’s true beauty.

Built on the plateaus atop the rock columns towering high above the choking clouds of dust and pollution, the cities of the nobility were blessed with bright blue skies nearly every day of the year. Each morning the rising sun reflected off the burnished spires of castles built on plateaus hundreds of kilometers to the east, lighting them up like candles in the gray of the early dawn. In the evening the sandstorms rolling across the desert seemed to dance on the horizon, alive with flickering bursts of color as the setting sun flashed off quartz chips caught up in their swirling embrace.

Even after all these years, it could still take her breath away … just as it had when she first came to Doan. After leaving her father’s camp on Ambria she had traveled the worlds of the Outer Rim, using what he had taught her to help the less fortunate and establishing her reputation as a skilled healer. When the crown prince contracted a mysterious illness, the king had hired her to tend to his son.

She had instantly recognized the symptoms of Idolian fever, a deadly but treatable infection. For three months she nursed him slowly back to health, and by the time Gerran recovered the two of them were in love.

You saved his life then. But you didn’t have the power to save him from the terrorists. If you were stronger, he might still be alive.

Serra shook her head in momentary confusion. The thought had been in her own voice, but it had somehow seemed alien … as if someone else was speaking inside her head.

Except for herself, the office was clearly empty. The door was closed, and with the sparse furnishing there was no place for someone to hide. She cast a wary glance at the small, four-sided pyramid sitting on the edge of the desk.

It had been stashed away almost carelessly in a small duffel bag the mercenaries had brought back to her. Serra’s connection to the Force was strong enough for her to feel the power inside the artifact, trapped beneath the surface, just waiting to be released.

Why didn’t the Iktotchi claim this for herself? She should have sensed its power, too—even hidden inside the bag. Something else must have drawn her attention.

Picking up the pyramid and holding it at arm’s length, she crossed the room to the wall safe. Punching in the combination, she unlocked it and placed the pyramid inside then closed the door, sealing it safely away. The man in the dungeon was a Sith Lord; anything he possessed was an instrument of the dark side. Serra wasn’t interested in exploring its power; she was only interested in him.

He had arrived three days ago, yet she still had not gone to speak with him. As per her instructions, he had been kept drugged and helpless the entire time. Now she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer; it was time to go face her demons. Her face set in grim determination, she left the office and marched through the twisting halls of Doan’s infamous Stone Prison, heading for the interrogation cells.

When she had first learned about the vast dungeon complex built into the rock several kilometers below the castle, Serra had been horrified. Historically, the nobility had used the Stone Prison to make political opponents vanish. Trapped at the heart of a rock column several kilometers high and hundreds of meters in diameter, any prisoners inside would be shielded from detection by scanners. A person could disappear forever in the underground labyrinth, spending the rest of their years in shackles, tortured for information or simple sadistic pleasure without any hope of salvation.

In the event a rescue was somehow attempted, the entire complex was rigged so it could be collapsed with a series of explosions that would kill not only the prisoners but their would-be saviors as well. The carefully engineered detonator charges would activate in a precisely timed sequence, destroying the dungeon room by room while allowing the guards time to escape. The Royal Manse and other buildings on the surface thousands of meters above would suffer only a few mild—though unmistakable—tremors as the entire complex below was reduced to rubble.

Gerran had still been alive when Serra learned all this. He had explained that the Stone Prison hadn’t been used in over forty years; it was a relic of a more brutal and repressive era. In response to public pressure brought to bear by the Senate, it had been closed down. It wasn’t even staffed any longer. Yet at the urging of his betrothed, he swore that once he was king he would have the infamous dungeon permanently sealed: a gesture to symbolize the new relationships he wished to forge between the nobles and the miners.

But Gerran was dead now, just like her father. And she was the one who had hired mercenaries to capture her enemy and bury him forever inside the Stone Prison’s cold, dark cells. She couldn’t help but wonder what they would think of what she had done. What would they say if they were here right now?

Serra pushed the thought from her mind. They weren’t here. Her father and her husband were both gone, forever taken from her. And she was left to deal with the Sith Lord alone.

It took her nearly ten minutes to make her way from the office through the maze of passages and rooms to where the prisoner was being held. Although the corridors she traveled were illuminated by pale lights in the ceiling, many of the halls led off into darkness—her mercenaries had only reopened one small section of the complex. The rest of it was still deserted.

The man she was going to see was being held in one of the maximum-security cells, accessible only by a single staircase guarded by locked durasteel doors at the top and bottom. The mercenaries standing guard on the other side of the door at the top unlocked it at her approach, and she quickly made her way down the steep stairs.

The door at the bottom similarly opened for her, revealing a small ten-meter-by-ten-meter guard station. Another locked durasteel door on the far wall led into the prisoner’s cell; a small viewing window had been built into the door. There were two tables in the room. The larger stood off to the side of the door Serra had just entered. The smaller was on wheels; measuring only a meter by half a meter, it had been pushed against the wall beside the cell door.

Six of the soldiers she had sent to apprehend the prisoner were here, along with Lucia and the Huntress. The guards were seated in chairs around the larger table, playing cards. The two women were on opposite ends of the room, distancing themselves from those at the table and each other. Lucia was leaning against the wall for support, while the Huntress sat on the stone floor, her legs crossed, hands in her lap and her eyes closed. It looked as if she might have been meditating.

As Serra entered, the guards jumped up to stand at attention, as did Lucia. The Huntress opened her eyes and looked up at the princess, but otherwise made no move. Serra wasn’t even sure what the assassin was still doing here; she had already been paid for her services. But for some reason she had chosen to stay, as if she had some vested interest in the outcome of events.

The princess shook her head. She had more important things she needed to worry about than the assassin.

“The prisoner is still sedated?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” one of the guards replied. “He was given another dose an hour ago.”

She nodded and made her way over to the wheeled table in the corner. Atop the table were nearly three dozen hypodermic needles, color-coded by label according to their contents. Serra had prepared each of the needles herself. The ones marked with a green sticker contained senflax; they needed to keep the prisoner drugged at all times to prevent him from escaping. The others—red, black, and yellow—were filled with various compounds she would need during her interrogation.

From the corner of her eye she saw Lucia making her way from the wall toward her. Once at her side, her friend spoke in a whisper soft enough that only she would be able to hear.

“This isn’t like you. Why are you doing this?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she replied just as quietly.

“Hiring this assassin was one thing,” Lucia continued, her voice rising only slightly with carefully held-in-check emotion. “But hiring mercenaries to secretly reopen the Stone Prison? What if the king finds out?”

“He won’t,” Serra assured her. “This has nothing to do with Gerran, or Doan.”

The dark-skinned woman refused to let it go.

“Holding someone for torture and interrogation? It’s not right. You know that.”

“He’s a Sith. Not a soldier like you were. A Dark Lord. He doesn’t deserve your pity. Or mine.”

Lucia shook her head and turned away, but not before Serra clearly saw the frustration and disappointment in her face.

“Open the door,” the princess called out to the guards. “I want to speak with the prisoner. Alone.”

At her words the Huntress sprang to her feet, causing Lucia to step forward protectively.

“I want to come with you,” the Iktotchi explained.

“Why?” Serra demanded, suddenly suspicious.

“Who else could have captured him for you?” she replied, avoiding the question. “Have I not earned the right?”

“If she goes, I go, too,” Lucia insisted, crossing her arms.

Serra could have refused them. But deep inside she still didn’t want to face the monster from her past alone. And what harm was there now if they learned her secrets? She had concealed her true identity all these years only because her father feared retribution from this man. With him as her prisoner, she had no reason left to hide.

“The three of us, then,” she conceded, grabbing the little table and wheeling it into position to bring it inside with them. “Lock the door behind us,” she instructed the guards.

Lucia was worried about the princess. Ever since their visit to the Jedi Temple she had sensed something different about her, but she had never suspected she was capable of going to such extreme lengths. She hadn’t known mercenaries had been hired to reopen the Stone Prison; if she had, she would have tried to talk Serra out of such a foolish and dangerous plan. The princess must have known she would object, however, and so she hadn’t told Lucia what was happening until after the prisoner was safely secured in his cell.

She had known about the dungeons, of course. As part of the princess’s official security detail, she needed to memorize every possible entrance and exit to the castle. Up until three days ago, however, she had only ever seen blueprints. Coming face-to-face with the Stone Prison was an entirely different experience.

As soon as she stepped off the long turbolift ride down from the surface she had sensed the evil of this place. The stale air had an underlying stench of death. Too many dark and unspeakable things had happened here over the centuries.

Since then Lucia had kept a careful eye on her friend. She could see something eating away at her, and she feared the unholy gloom of the Stone Prison would only make things worse. The princess was obsessed with the man in the dungeon, yet at the same time she was unable to face him. Lucia knew it had something to do with her past, but when she had tried to broach the subject the princess had refused to discuss it.

Left with no other options, she had been forced to wait for Serra to make the next move. Now that she was about to face the prisoner for the first time, Lucia was determined to be at her side. She might not understand what her friend was going through, and she might not agree with what she was doing, but she was still going to be there in case the princess needed her.

As the three women entered the cell, Lucia was surprised at how much smaller it was than the room on the other side of the door: just three meters square. The cell was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a single sputtering light overhead. The prisoner was restrained against the far wall. His arms were extended out to either side above, his hands shackled by chains dangling from iron rings set into the ceiling. His legs were similarly splayed, his ankles cuffed to the wall behind him.

Because of the drug he was unable to stand erect; his weight sagged forward, pulling the chains supporting him tight and putting incredible strain on his wrists and shoulders. The pain in his joints would have been excruciating, were it not for the numbing effects of the senflax coursing through his system. His head was slumped down, his paralyzed muscles making it impossible for him to look up as they entered.

Serra selected a needle with a red label from the table and injected it directly into the carotid artery running up the side of his thick neck. An instant later his head snapped up and back in reaction to the powerful stimulant.

Seeing his face, Lucia gasped in surprise. The other two glanced at her momentarily, but when she shook her head they dismissed her reaction as unimportant and returned their attention to the man in chains.

It had been more than twenty years, but Lucia had recognized him instantly. Des had been her commanding officer—her leader, her hero. Without him none of the Gloom Walkers would have survived the war. He had saved their lives on Kashyyyk. He saved them again on Trandosha. Time after time he had brought them through impossible situations against overwhelming odds, right up until their final mission together on Phaseera. And then Lieutenant Ulabore had ordered the enforcers—the Sith military police—to arrest him.

She had never heard from Des again; like the rest of the unit she assumed he had been executed for disobeying orders and striking a superior officer. And even though she had believed him to be dead, she had vowed she would never forget the face of the man who had once meant everything to her.

When she saw him hanging from the shackles in the cell, she hadn’t been able to contain her gasp of surprise. Fortunately neither the princess nor the Huntress had realized why she had gasped, and Lucia recovered enough to avoid another outburst. But though she managed to keep her emotions from showing on the surface, inside her world had exploded.

She doubted whether Des had recognized her. He was drugged, for one thing. And she was only one face among many in the unit. He was the leader they all looked up to; he was the one they idolized. In the Gloom Walkers, she was just a low-ranking sniper, one of a dozen junior troopers in the squad. Did she really expect he’d remember her after all this time?

Not that it mattered; she didn’t dare say anything with Serra and the Huntress standing right there. The princess was obsessed with the prisoner; she was gripped by some madness that had driven her to previously unthinkable acts. If she discovered that Lucia and Des knew each other, there was no telling what she would do. Or what she might order the Iktotchi to do.

And so Lucia was forced to just stand there, helpless to do anything to help Des. Just like the day the enforcers had dragged him away. Serra instantly recognized the face from her nightmares. He was older, but his features were unmistakable: the bald head; the thick, heavy brow; the cruel set of his eyes and jaw.

Beside her Lucia gasped loudly as the prisoner fixed the three women with his cold, merciless gaze. Serra glanced over and saw a strange expression on the ex-soldier’s face; something had obviously upset her.

Lucia was the bravest person the princess had ever met, yet she was clearly distraught. Was it possible she was actually afraid of this man, even while he was chained? Or did she feel sympathy for him? She knew Lucia disapproved of what she was doing. Did her friend think she was a monster now? Or was it something else?

Her friend’s unexpected reaction unsettled Serra, and she fought the instinct to turn and flee from the man in the cell. She had nothing to fear from her prisoner this time. This time he was the victim, not her.

No matter what Lucia thinks, I have to do this.

“Do you know who I am?” she demanded.

His answer came slowly. The stimulant she had given him only countered the physical effect of the senflax; the toxin still clouded his mind, dulling his focus and concentration.

“An enemy from my past.”

The words were slightly slurred, and it was impossible to read anything into the flat, emotionless tone. She couldn’t tell if he actually recognized her, or if he was just making a generalization based on the fact that she had taken him prisoner.

“My name is Serra. Caleb was my father,” she told him. She wanted him to know. She wanted him to understand who had done this to him.

“Is this revenge for him,” he asked after a long moment, the senflax making his mind lethargic, “or for what I did to you?”

“Both,” she replied, picking up a needle marked with a black sticker. Again, she injected it into his neck. This time, however, the effects were markedly different.

His eyes rolled back in his head and his teeth slammed shut, narrowly missing his tongue. Then his body began to convulse, causing his chains to rattle madly.

Lucia turned away in disgust, unable to watch. The Huntress leaned in closer, enthralled by his chemical-induced torment. Serra let the seizure continue for a full ten seconds before injecting him with one of the yellow needles to counter the effects.

“Do you see the kind of punishment I can inflict on you?” she asked. “Now do you understand what it is like to be at the helpless mercy of another?”

He didn’t answer right away. His breathing was ragged, his face and bare scalp covered in sweat from the pain he had just endured. A spastic tremble had seized his left hand, causing it to twitch and flex madly in its iron cuff.

“You have no lessons to teach me,” he gasped. “I understand suffering in ways you will never comprehend.”

“Why did you kill my father?” Serra asked, picking up another black needle and holding it up for him to see.

“Caleb did not die by my hand.”

She stabbed the needle into his neck, inducing another seizure. She let this one continue nearly twice as long before administering the antidote. She expected him to pass out from the pain, but somehow he managed to stay conscious.

“Lies will be punished,” she warned him.

“I did not kill your father,” he insisted, though his voice was so weak she could barely hear him.

“I told you that I saw another in my visions,” the Huntress reminded her. “A young woman with blond hair. Perhaps she was the killer.”

Serra glared at the Iktotchi before turning her attention back to the man in chains.

“Is this true?”

He didn’t answer, though a cunning smile played at the corner of his lips.

“Tell me what happened to my father!” Serra shouted, slapping him across the face. Her nails raked his cheek, slicing the flesh with four long, deep furrows. Blood welled up quickly into the wounds and began to run down toward his chin.

Bane didn’t answer, however. Jaw clenched, Serra reached down to grab another of the black needles, but Lucia seized her wrist.

“He didn’t kill your father!” the bodyguard shouted. “Why are you still doing this?”

Serra yanked her wrist free angrily. “He may not have done the deed, but he’s the reason my father is dead,” she insisted. She turned back to the prisoner. “Do you deny that?”

“Caleb was weak,” the man muttered. “When he ceased to be of use, he was destroyed. This is the way of the dark side.”

Serra picked the needle up from the table.

“This won’t bring your father back,” Lucia pleaded.

“I want him to see what it’s like to be helpless and afraid,” Serra hissed. “I want him to know what it’s like to be a victim. I want him to understand that what he did to my father—to me—was wrong!”

“The weak will always be victims,” the prisoner said, his voice growing stronger. “That is the way of the universe. The strong take what they want, and the weak suffer at their hands. That is their fate; it is inevitable. Only the strong survive, because only the strong deserve to.”

“You only believe that because you don’t know what it’s like to suffer!” the princess shot back at him.

“I know what it means to suffer,” he replied, his words no longer thick and slurred. “I used to be a victim. But I refused to accept my lot in life. I made myself strong.”

As he spoke, drops of blood from the gashes on his cheek fell from his chin and splashed to the floor.

“Those who are victims have no one to blame but themselves. They do not deserve pity; they are victims because of their own failures and weaknesses.”

“But it didn’t matter how strong you were!” Lucia said, suddenly jumping into the discussion. “Don’t you see that? You still ended up as a prisoner!”

“Had I been stronger I would not have been captured,” he countered, a fierce light burning in his eyes. “If I am not strong enough to escape, I will continue to suffer until I die. But if I am strong enough to escape …”

Serra slammed the black needle down and grabbed one of the green, injecting him with another dose of senflax.

“You will never leave this dungeon alive,” she promised as her victim slipped back under the influence of the drug, his eyes glazing over as his head lolled forward again.

Even drugged and chained, he’s still cunning enough to be dangerous.

Caught up in arguing with him, she had almost missed the signs of the senflax wearing off. She had thought it would be hours before he needed another shot, but she had underestimated the effects of the other drugs she had been pumping into his system. She’d have to be more careful in the future.

“Right now I am weak,” the man mumbled with his head staring down at the floor, refusing to give up. “Powerless. You inflict suffering on me because you are strong enough to do so. Your actions prove the truth of what I believe.”

Serra shook her head angrily. “No. My father taught me to help those in need. The strong should raise the weak up, not trample them down. He believed in that, and so do I!”

Somehow the prisoner managed to lift his head, fixing her with his bleary-eyed stare.

“Your father’s beliefs got him killed.”

The princess raised her hand to slap him again, then froze, struggling to control the flood of grief and rage that threatened to overwhelm her.

“You’re not thinking straight,” Lucia said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You need to calm down.”

Her friend was right. He was inside her head. She needed to get out of the room and regroup. The last shot she’d given him would keep him helpless for at least another hour. Time enough for her to collect her thoughts before facing him again.

Lowering her hand, she turned her back on him without saying a word, leaving the Huntress and Lucia alone with him in the cell.

17

As the princess stormed out of the cell, Lucia resisted the urge to go after her. She knew Des’s words had hurt; normally she would have gone to comfort her friend. But everything had changed when she’d walked into the cell and recognized the man chained to the wall.

The Huntress was staring at her, smiling. The Iktotchi was evil. Twisted. She had enjoyed watching Serra torture the victim; she had relished in his suffering. Lucia suspected she took pleasure in Serra’s emotional torment, as well.

She returned the assassin’s gaze but refused to speak. For a moment their eyes locked, and then the Iktotchi turned away with an air of indifference, as if Lucia was beneath her notice. The bodyguard continued to stare at her back as the Huntress followed in the princess’s wake, leaving her alone with the prisoner.

At first a part of her had actually wondered if Des deserved what was being done to him. After all, he was a Sith Lord now. She had fought on the side of the Sith during the war, but she was only a soldier. Like Lucia herself, most of her comrades-in-arms had enlisted because they saw no other way to escape the suffering and hopelessness of their lives. They had turned against the Republic out of desperation, but they were still decent men and women.

The Sith Lords, however, were monsters. Ruthless and cruel, they cared nothing for the soldiers who followed them. Sometimes it even seemed they enjoyed the death and suffering inflicted on the enlisted personnel under their command. Their mere presence inspired terror in the ranks, and at night the troops would share stories of the horrors they inflicted on their enemies … or their allies who had failed them.

Lucia never thought she could feel pity for a Sith Lord. But she also never imagined Des would become one of them.

If Des really had murdered Caleb, Lucia reasoned, then he had brought this on himself. But when questioned, he insisted he wasn’t the one who had killed the healer, and Lucia was convinced he was telling the truth. Even the Iktotchi assassin had seemed to believe him. But despite all the evidence—the accounts of the Jedi, the Huntress’s mention of a mysterious blond woman at the scene, and the refusals of Des himself—Serra had not been swayed from her course. The princess had refused to listen to facts or reason. Her hatred blinded her to everything else.

She had stormed off in anger, but Lucia knew it was only a matter of time until she returned to subject Des to another round of torture. She had seen the madness in Serra’s eyes. The princess hungered for revenge.

Lucia recognized that look; she had seen it in the eyes of her fellow soldiers when the enforcers had dragged Des away in cuffs. Whether he was guilty of the crime didn’t matter: Serra was going to make her prisoner suffer for the death of her father. And there was nothing anyone could say or do to make her change her mind.

And even if he didn’t kill Caleb, he’s still a monster. He probably deserves to die.

During the interrogation, she had listened with growing horror to the words coming from the prisoner’s mouth. It was clear Des had embraced the teachings of the dark side in ways she could never have imagined. He was not the man she remembered; the camaraderie of the Gloom Walkers meant nothing to the creature he had become.

But it means something to me.

Lucia still believed in the ideals of the Gloom Walkers. They looked out for one another; they counted on one another to survive. There was honor in their code of unity, symbolized in the secret greeting reserved only for other members of the unit: a closed fist rapped firmly on the breastbone, just above the heart.

Whatever Des was now, she still owed him her life. He had saved her—the entire unit—too many times to count. Yet when the enforcers had taken him away she had been powerless to help him. Now fate was giving her another chance to repay her debt.

A small pool of blood was forming on the floor, dripping from where Serra had sliced open his cheek.

You’re not just doing it for Des, Lucia told herself, turning her attention to the color-coded needles resting on the cart.

Serra’s hatred would only fester and grow. She’d become more and more twisted each time she returned to inflict pain on her helpless victim. The loss of her husband had pushed her to the edge of madness, and this would take her over the brink.

She had watched as the princess had administered the various drugs, pumping them directly into Des’s system through the thick artery in his neck. She didn’t fully understand what the compounds were or what they did, but she had seen enough to gain some understanding of each one’s effects.

The black needle induced the spasms Serra had used to torture her victim; the yellow caused the convulsions to end. The green seemed to force Des back into his stupor. But the red needle—the one her mistress had given him at the start of the interrogation—had seemed to wake him up. It had to be some kind of stimulant or antidote, something to offset the drugs that kept him helpless and nonresponsive.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure nobody in the guard room just outside was watching, she picked up one of the red hypodermics.

There were too many mercs for her to fight her way out—trying to win Des his freedom that way would only get them both killed. But she didn’t have to break Des out to save him. He had always been capable of looking after himself, even before he gained the mystical powers of a Sith Lord. She knew he was more than capable of escaping on his own if she just gave him a little help.

She gently pushed the tip of the needle into his thigh, hoping the drugs would enter his system more slowly and less violently than when Serra had plunged them into his neck. She knew it was possible she might accidentally overdose him, but even if Des died it was better than leaving him alive to be tortured over and over again.

Placing the needle back on the cart, she turned and quickly left the room. She didn’t have time to wait around and watch the effects. She needed to find the princess. If the drug worked as she suspected, he’d quickly regain his faculties. And once he was able to call upon the terrible power of the dark side, no cell in the galaxy would be capable of holding him.

She made her way back into the guard room. The mercenaries had returned to their card game, oblivious of what she had done. Serra and the Huntress were nowhere in sight.

“Where did the princess go?” she demanded.

There was a long silence before one of the mercenaries grudgingly looked up from the hand and answered, “She didn’t say. She just left.”

“And you let her go off alone?” Lucia demanded angrily.

“That Iktotchi was with her so we just …,” the man answered, his voice trailing off under her withering glare.

She realized they were mere hired guns. They didn’t care for anything but the credits they’d been promised.

“Lock the cell door,” Lucia spat out. “If anything goes wrong, hit the alarm.” That should give me enough of a warning to get the princess out of here in time.

Two of the soldiers reluctantly got up and moved to obey her orders as Lucia climbed the staircase to the hall above.

She didn’t care that when Des broke free he’d slaughter the guards. These men and women weren’t her friends or colleagues. She knew they’d kill her without a second thought if the price was right. They were mercenaries; their lives meant nothing to her.

But she still cared about Serra. Despite what she had done, she was still loyal to her mistress. She was still sworn to protect her life. When Des broke free, she knew he’d come looking for the princess. When the alarms went off warning of the prisoner’s escape, Lucia wanted to be there to help Serra get away to safety.

And if he catches us before we get away, she silently tried to reassure herself, maybe he’ll remember me. Maybe I can convince him to let Serra live.

First, however, she had to find her.

18

Doan’s scarred and ugly terrain rolled beneath them as the Victory sped low across the planet’s surface.

In the cockpit Zannah braced herself as the sensors picked up a fierce sandstorm several hundred kilometers in the distance. Beside her Set was seated in his customary position: chair leaning back, feet up on the dash.

Making a slight change in her approach vector brought her on a collision course with the storm. She didn’t bother to give Set any warning as the Victory was engulfed by the whirling vortex.

The stabilizers kept the ship from suffering any real harm, but the cabin bucked violently as the vessel was buffeted by the howling winds. Set was sent tumbling from his chair, but he managed to roll with the momentum as he hit the ground and came up on his feet.

“You did that on purpose,” he accused, using the back of his chair to steady himself in the turbulence.

“You need to be alert and aware of your surroundings at all times,” she instructed him. “Always be on your guard.”

“I thought the information I gave you might have earned me a break from any more lessons today,” he grumbled as he sat back into his copilot’s chair and buckled the restraints.

“You were wrong.”

Despite her words, Set had proved himself to be quite valuable. In addition to telling her about Darth Andeddu and his Holocron, he had actually come up with the most likely place Bane was being held.

“They probably took your Master to the Stone Prison,” he had declared shortly after they had begun their journey.

“The Stone Prison?”

“A dungeon built centuries ago by the nobility on Doan to house political prisoners,” he’d explained. “I found all sorts of references to it in the historical archives.”

“What kind of defenses do they have?” she’d asked.

“Pretty standard. Anti-aircraft cannons. Armed guards inside. And they can set off a series of explosion to bring the whole place down as a last resort.”

Zannah had scowled. “We’ll have to avoid detection when we go in.”

“That might be easier than you think,” Set had answered with a smile. “The Stone Prison hasn’t been used for almost two generations.”

It all made sense to Zannah. A small team of elite guards or mercenaries could keep a single prisoner secured in the abandoned facility without attracting unwanted attention. All the infrastructure they needed—holding cells, interrogation rooms—would still be there. If they stayed deep inside the heart of the complex, nobody would even know they were there. Secrecy, as she well understood, was often the best protection from your enemies. But when your secrets were exposed, it could leave you vulnerable.

“They won’t be expecting anyone to assault the prison, so I doubt they’ll even activate the external defenses,” Set had continued, speaking aloud the very thoughts running through Zannah’s mind. “A small team couldn’t spare the bodies to operate the stations, and powering the systems up would be like sending off a flare to alert everyone they were there.”

It was at that point that Zannah realized Set, for all his seeming overconfidence and carefree attitude, actually liked to be prepared. He wasn’t afraid to improvise and adapt, but he had the sense to know what he was heading into … at least in the short term. The trick would be teaching him to apply the same kind of diligence to long-term plans, then have the patience to bear them out.

The Victory passed through the eye of the sandstorm and out the other side, continuing on toward the tall stone column looming far in the distance. Even though they were enjoying a smooth ride once more, Zannah was pleased to see that Set didn’t lean back and put his feet up again.

He was learning, and he’d shown several flashes of real potential during their time together. Maybe there was hope for him yet … or maybe, Zannah had to admit, she was just so desperate to find an apprentice she was willing to overlook his flaws.

“There. That column up ahead. That’s the one we want.”

Dusk had fallen and Zannah could just make out the silhouette of the massive stone pillar in the distance. From here it looked like an enormous candle: tall and straight, the top aglow with hundreds of lights from the royal family’s estate that had been built on the wide, flat plateau at its apex.

Zannah brought the shuttle in low, skimming less than twenty meters above the ground to stay below the radar of the royal estate perched nearly five kilometers above them.

The Victory was picking up hundreds of life-forms when she scanned the column, but they were all concentrated in the buildings of the plateau. There was no evidence of life inside the pillar, but that was to be expected. The scanners wouldn’t be able to penetrate the mountain of stone.

Reaching out with the Force, however, presented Zannah with a very different picture. She could feel something dark and powerful pulsing at the heart of the column. She recognized the presence of her Master, though from this distance it was impossible to get anything more than a vague sense that he was hidden somewhere inside.

“There should be hidden landing ports for the prison about halfway up the column,” Set assured her. “They’ll probably look like small caves. Easy to miss.”

The Victory was less than a hundred meters from the pillar when Zannah angled its nose sharply upward. The ship reacted instantly, arching into a steep ascent, the g-forces pinning the two passengers back in their seats. The shuttle steadied in a perfectly vertical climb less than ten meters from the rock wall, running parallel to its contours as Zannah looked for a place to land.

It was too dark for a visual, but the ship’s sensors provided her with a digital topography of the pillar’s surface racing beneath the hull. What from a distance had looked smooth and sheer was, in fact, rough and irregular. Wind and erosion had sculpted grooves and channels in the rock, and the face was pockmarked with thousands of small, irregularly shaped openings. Most were nooks or fissures that went less than ten meters deep. Others were actual tunnels that extended deeper into the rock. Only a handful were large enough to accommodate a shuttle, however.

“Hold on,” Zannah warned an instant before pulling hard back on the stick.

The Victory peeled away from the column into a backward loop. At the same time Zannah sent them into a half-barrel roll so that they finished right-side up, with the nose of the vessel pointed toward the opening she’d chosen. The landing thrusters fired at full force as the shuttle’s momentum sent them rocketing into the mouth of the cavern, braking hard before settling into a perfect three-point landing.

Set didn’t say anything, but Zannah saw him raise a brow in appreciation. She could have chosen a less dramatic maneuver to reach her destination, but she knew her would-be apprentice preferred doing things with a certain stylistic flair. Impressing him with her piloting skills was just one more small way to secure his respect and loyalty.

Through the cockpit window Zannah could see only darkness. She flicked on the Victory’s external lights, illuminating the cavern. The rock walls surrounding them were sharp and jagged, but the floor was smooth and even. A single passage led off to one side, the tunnel too perfectly straight to have been shaped by nature.

“There are probably about a dozen other landing bays like this one,” Set informed her as they exited the shuttle. “Each one with a passage leading into the lower levels of the complex.”

“It’s too bad you weren’t able to find any holomaps of the layout,” she commented, not wanting him to get too cocky.

“Maybe we should split up,” Set suggested. “With two of us searching we’ll have a better chance of finding him.”

“I’m going in alone,” Zannah informed him. “You’re going to stay here and guard the ship.”

“Guard the ship? From whom?”

“Whoever took Bane might have someone patrolling the entrances. If they find our ship undefended they can disable it, cutting off our only method of escape.”

“Fine,” Set replied curtly after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll sit here and watch the shuttle like your personal Cyborrean battle dog.”

“I assume you’ll be able to handle anyone who stumbles across this landing bay without too much trouble.”

“Everyone except your Master,” he assured her.

Even I’m not sure I can handle him.

Satisfied with Set’s answer, Zannah cracked a glow stick. Guided by its pale illumination, she made her way down the tunnel and into the Stone Prison.

Set watched his new Master’s back, following her progress until she turned around a corner and disappeared, leaving him alone in the small landing bay.

He leaned casually against the Victory’s hull, thinking back on their arrival. He considered himself a pretty good pilot, but he would never have attempted a move like the backward barrel roll Zannah had used to bring them in to land. He knew she was just showing off for his benefit. Still, it had been impressive.

After a few minutes he began to pace restlessly back and forth, kicking at small stones in the dirt. Set didn’t like taking orders, and he didn’t like sitting around doing nothing.

Don’t do anything stupid now. She was talking earlier about how important patience is. This is probably another test.

Obba, his Master before he had left the Jedi, had often encouraged his students to meditate when they had no other tasks or duties. He claimed it centered the mind and spirit. But Set had never been a fan of meditation. He preferred to be doing something—anything—to sitting around in a trance lost inside his own thoughts.

He squatted down and rummaged around on the ground until he had collected five fist-sized stones. He brushed the dust off as best he could, inspecting them for sharp edges that might cut his palms or fingers. Then, satisfied with his finds, he began to juggle, hoping it would help pass the time.

He started with simple tosses, getting a feel for the weight and balance of each stone. Then he shifted into a cascade, the rocks dancing in a circular, looping pattern as they leapt from hand to hand. Next he added in catches behind his back, alternating every other toss front-to-back without ever breaking his rhythm.

Peering around the cavern, he spotted another suitably sized rock on the floor a few meters away. Still juggling, he moved toward it with shuffling steps until he was close enough to slip the toe of his boot under the stone’s edge. A quick flick of the foot sent it high into the air, where it joined the others in his pattern.

He repeated this trick several more times, moving around the cavern in search of more rocks, adding both numbers and complexity to the trick until, upon reaching ten objects being juggled simultaneously, he let them all drop to the ground in disgust.

You didn’t come here to play games.

Zannah had been gone less than ten minutes, and already he was unbearably bored.

She could be gone for hours. You’re not going to make it.

Closing his eyes to help him focus, Set reached out with the Force, probing the area around him. At first he didn’t feel anything; Zannah had disappeared deep into the complex.

Concentrating intently, he pushed his awareness out even farther. Beads of sweat began to form on his brow, but after nearly a minute he began to detect faint signs of life. All living beings were attuned to the Force on some level, and the Jedi had trained him to sense their presence through it. Ordinary people were barely noticeable, as easy to miss as a dim light on a sunny afternoon. Those with power—men and women like Zannah or other Jedi—burned with a much greater intensity.

To his surprise, Set felt several strong, distinct flares as he extended his awareness out. He had expected to sense Zannah and her Master, but they were not alone. It was difficult to say exactly how many others there were, or their precise location; sensing others through the Force was a rather inexact science. But they were definitely there.

And they’re not Jedi.

Those who served the light side had a certain unmistakable aura about them … as did those who called upon the dark side.

Maybe Bane’s already found himself another apprentice. Zannah could be in for a little surprise.

In normal circumstances Zannah would have certainly felt the other presences just as he had, but Set knew she was focused on one thing—finding Bane. With her mind concentrating so intently on pinpointing the exact location of her Master, it was possible she might not notice anyone else. Not until she was virtually right on top of them.

Set hesitated, uncertain what he should do. Did Zannah need his help? If she did, would he bother?

If you want to bail, this is your best chance. Just jump into that shuttle and fly on out of here.

If he left and Zannah died, it was unlikely anyone else would ever know he had been here. He wouldn’t have to worry about her Master coming after him; he could pretend none of this had ever happened. If Zannah survived, however, he had no doubt that she’d come looking for revenge. And since he wouldn’t be around to see the final outcome of her confrontation with Bane, he’d have to spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder just in case.

Not much different from what you do now. You’ve managed to stay one step ahead of the Jedi all these years; how much harder can it be to stay one step ahead of the Sith at the same time?

But there were other considerations. If he left, he was throwing away the chance to learn from Zannah. She was stronger than he was, much stronger. She could teach him things he’d never learn from anyone else. It wasn’t easy to turn his back on that kind of power.

Torn between the two options, Set tried to extend his awareness out even farther in the hope of learning more. He was already approaching the limits of his abilities, but he knew this was the most important decision of his life. He couldn’t afford to get it wrong.

A sharp pain was building in his forehead; it felt like someone was sticking a long needle into his skull right between his eyes. He wasn’t used to this kind of prolonged effort; when he called on the Force it was for quick bursts of action. But he ignored the pain, gritted his teeth, and made one final push.

And then he felt it. Living creatures were not the only things with an affinity for the Force. Most of Set’s adult life had been spent seeking out objects imbued with its power: initially on behalf of the Council of First Knowledge, then later on his own. He had become highly adept at recognizing the unique energy signatures projected by the talismans of the dark side; they called out to him more strongly than they did to most others.

That was why, despite the fact it was on the very fringes of his awareness, he was able to sense it. It was like nothing he had ever felt before; something so strong and powerful it caused him to gasp with yearning.

Andeddu’s Holocron. It has to be.

Zannah had said her Master had gone to Prakith to find it. Whoever had captured Bane must have taken the Holocron for themselves.

Set opened his eyes and shook his head, collapsing his awareness back to his immediate surroundings. His looming headache was gone, replaced by an aching desire to claim the Holocron for himself.

He had only a vague idea of where to find it. Once he was inside the Stone Prison, though, he was confident he’d be able to zero in on it quickly. For him, tracking a Holocron was much easier than locating a person.

Zannah had commanded him to guard the ship, but he wasn’t worried about anyone accidentally discovering it. He hadn’t sensed anyone even remotely close to the landing bay.

The question is, can you get the Holocron and get back here before Zannah finishes with Bane?

It was risky. If she returned to discover he was gone, she might decide to end his apprenticeship … and his life. Even if she didn’t, she might just take the Holocron for herself, and Set knew he wouldn’t be strong enough to stop her.

But if you find the Holocron, who says you have to bring it back here?

Whoever had brought Bane to the Stone Prison had to be using one of the other landing bays for their own vessels. How hard could it be to steal one of those instead?

The secret of eternal life versus the undying hatred of a Sith Lord. Is it worth it?

That was one question Set had no trouble answering. Taking a glow lamp, he entered the Stone Prison through the same passage Zannah had gone down less than fifteen minutes earlier.

19

Bane could feel the hard iron of his shackles cutting into his wrists, and a grim smile played across his lips. The pain indicated that the sedative was wearing off. The dull gray fog that had clouded his thoughts was clearing, leaving his mind sharp and focused.

Once again he could feel the power of the dark side. It was strong in this place; the misery and suffering of centuries hung in the air here. Bane could almost hear the screams of all the countless victims still echoing off the walls.

The memories of the last hour were hazy and confused, but he knew enough. His capture had been orchestrated by Caleb’s daughter and the mysterious Iktotchi who had stood at her side during the interrogation. And he owed his release to their other companion.

He didn’t know why the dark-skinned woman had injected him after the others had left. Despite his drugged state at the time, he was certain it wasn’t an accident or mistake. She had known what she was doing. Who she was and why she had done it, however, were beyond him.

Not that her identity or her reasons mattered in the immediate future. She had given Bane all the help he needed, and soon he would be ready to make his move.

The pain had spread beyond his wrists. His shoulders felt like they were being ripped from his sockets from bearing the brunt of his weight. The deep gashes on his cheek burned, and he could feel the small rivulets of blood creeping along his face and down along the line of his jaw before dripping to the floor.

It’s time.

He lifted his head to make sure the door to his cell was still closed; he wanted to catch his captors by surprise. Then he began to gather the power of the Force. An instant later the cuffs on his wrists and ankles shattered, exploding into a million pieces at a mere thought from Bane.

He fell to the floor, his weary muscles unprepared to support his weight. It took him a moment to gather himself, and then a rush of adrenaline surged through his body and he was back on his feet.

Bane felt naked without his lightsaber, but he wasn’t exactly helpless without it. There were plenty of other ways to dispatch his enemies.

Three quick strides brought him to the durasteel door of his cell. He reached out and placed his left palm flat against the surface, then used the Force to blow it outward. It flew across the room, striking and killing one of the guards sitting at a table playing cards.

The remaining five guards scrambled to their feet, grabbing for their weapons. Bane lashed out with the Force. The fury of his attack was muted by the last lingering effects of the drugs in his system, but it was still strong enough to knock them all to the floor and send the table flying into the wall, where it cracked in half.

Bane fell on the guards like an enraged animal, moving so quickly he was nothing but a blur. He brought his boot down on the throat of his nearest opponent, crushing his windpipe. He wrapped his muscular forearm around the next man’s neck from behind in a choke hold, braced his other palm against his chin, and wrenched his head to the side, breaking his neck.

The last three opponents were back on their feet, blasters drawn. Bane yanked a short vibroblade from the belt of the man with the broken neck and plunged it into the belly of a woman before she could bring her pistol to bear. She doubled over from the fatal blow, releasing her grip on her weapon.

Bane dropped to the floor and caught it before it hit the ground, ducking under the bolts fired from the remaining two enemies as he rolled onto his back and fired a pair of perfectly placed shots. The guards both toppled over backward, their faces erased by the impact of a blaster bolt at point-blank range.

Another locked durasteel door blocked the only exit. Bane tossed the blaster aside and tore the door off its hinges. Up above, someone triggered the alarm, and a deafening klaxon began to blare.

Beyond the door was a narrow staircase, similarly barricaded at the top. The Dark Lord charged up the steps and threw himself shoulder-first into the door at the top. It burst open from the impact, sending him tumbling into the room beyond.

The four guards up here had been alerted by the blaster shots being fired down below; unlike the first wave they weren’t caught off guard by his violent entrance. Weapons already drawn, they opened fire.

But Bane’s visceral, primal assault on the squad in the room below had fueled the cycle of rising emotion and mounting dark side power. He met their assault with an explosion of crackling energy that rippled out in a violet wave from his body at the center.

The incoming bolts were absorbed harmlessly into the ionic storm, the blasters themselves melted in the hands of their owners. The stench of burned flesh mingled with their screams of agony and the relentless, hammering song of the alarms, further feeding Bane’s power.

Crouched on one knee, he clenched both fists then threw his arms out to either side, fingers splayed wide. The resulting Force wave pummeled the guards, sending them hurtling backward so they bounced off the walls hard enough to leave cracks in the stone.

Bane rose to his feet in the center of the carnage. Half a dozen bodies lay strewn about him, bones shattered, internal organs crushed into pulp. One choked out a pink, frothing spray with his final breath; all the others were still.

To his dismay, he saw neither Caleb’s daughter nor the Iktotchi among the dead. He had sensed a few guards fleeing the room as he had charged up the staircase, but he hadn’t felt either of those two women among them. He also didn’t recognize any of the corpses as the dark-skinned woman who had saved him, though he was—for the moment—less interested in her.

He had found Serra once before. During his first meeting with Caleb, the healer had tried to trick him with a simple illusion to hide his daughter. But Bane had sensed the little girl cowering behind the façade; he had tasted her fear. Yet it was more than that. Like her father, the girl had power that could be sensed through the Force.

You can’t hide from me. I will find you.

Calling up the long-buried memory, he reached out with his mind, concentrating on picking out her unmistakable presence.

She’s here. Still in the facility. But she’s not alone.

His awareness had spread through the halls of the dungeon, whispering over the minds of all who walked the halls. He had sensed Serra, along with several other powerful individuals. Yet there was one in particular that had drawn his attention.

Zannah. What is she doing here?

Was his apprentice somehow involved in his capture? Had she come here to rescue him? Or maybe to stop him from escaping?

Whatever the explanation, Bane knew one thing for certain: He didn’t want to face Zannah right now. Not while he was still recovering from the toxins Serra had used to render him helpless, and certainly not without his lightsaber.

She was searching for him; he could feel her reaching out, drawing ever closer. Still, there were ways to counter her efforts: subtle manipulations of the Force could confuse and misdirect her.

Fooling Zannah while tracking Caleb’s daughter at the same time was possible in theory, though few individuals had the discipline to maintain the balance between two such mentally intensive tasks. But Bane’s will was as strong as his body.

If he was quick, cunning, and careful he had a chance to find his quarry while still getting out of the prison alive.

Tears of anger, shame, and frustration were streaming down the princess’s face. She had held them in check as she had passed the guards, but with nobody around to see her she had finally let them go.

Her plan to avenge her father’s death and free herself from the traumatic memories of her childhood had so far failed miserably. She had wanted the Sith Lord to admit he was wrong. She had wanted him to apologize and ask forgiveness for Caleb’s death. She had wanted him to beg her for mercy.

She had convinced herself that if this happened it would help her deal with the senseless death of not just her father, but also her husband. She had thought it would help restore some type of meaning to a cruel and random universe. She had hoped it would bring her peace.

But nothing had gone the way she had planned. The prisoner was completely unrepentant. He had twisted everything she had done and said into some perverse justification for what he believed in. He almost made it seem that Caleb’s death was right.

And he turned your best friend against you.

As much as the words of the Sith disturbed her, the actions of Lucia had upset her even more. The bodyguard had been the one who hired the Huntress to avenge Gerran’s death. But now she seemed determined to oppose Serra’s quest to avenge Caleb.

It made no sense to the princess. She had expected Lucia to stand by her during the confrontation, to support her as she faced the demon of her past. To shore up her strength so she could conquer her fears and triumph over his evil. Instead she had defended him.

How could you turn your back on me like that? When I needed you the most?

Serra had fled the interrogation cell to escape the madness, not even paying attention to where she was going. Moving with long, quick strides, she had rushed heedlessly down the maze of halls without any purpose or direction.

She didn’t know where she was going or what she was trying to do. She just needed to think. To try to make sense of it all. To be alone.

Only she wasn’t alone.

The physical exertion had helped bring her swirling emotions back under control, and after several minutes she began to regain some semblance of composure. The tears stopped and her pace slowed. It was only then she heard the footsteps of someone following a few meters behind her.

She stopped short, bringing up a hand to wipe at her eyes before turning around. She was hoping to see Lucia. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with the Iktotchi assassin.

“Why are you sneaking along behind me?” she demanded.

“If I was sneaking, you wouldn’t have heard me,” the Huntress replied with her implacable calm. “I was following you, but I made no effort to mask my presence.”

“Then why were you following me?”

“I wanted to see what you would do. I’m curious to learn how you will react to your failure.”

Serra’s lip twitched, but she managed to keep the rest of her face expressionless, mirroring the other woman’s emotionless demeanor.

There was no point in denying what had happened; the Iktotchi had witnessed the entire exchange. But the princess wasn’t willing to admit defeat.

“I will pick myself up from failure and try again,” she declared. “Next time I speak with him I’ll be ready for his tricks.”

“There won’t be a next time,” the Huntress replied. “You had him in your power. His very life was in your hands. But you chose to let him live, and now it is too late. His fate and his future have slipped through your grasp. You are powerless once again.”

The words were spoken without spite or malice, which made them sting all the more. Serra realized there was something evil about this woman. She wasn’t just a hired assassin. She used her ability to sense the future so she could spread suffering and death.

“I don’t want you here anymore,” Serra told her, her voice firm. “Your job is done and you’ve already been paid. So go.”

“The future is muddied right now,” the Iktotchi admitted. “Events teeter on a knife-edge, and I cannot foresee which way they will fall. I want to stay and see what happens when the prisoner breaks free.”

“He will never break free!” Serra snapped. “I won’t let that happen!”

“You can’t stop it. It’s already too late,” the Huntress replied. “Lucia has betrayed you. I saw it in her eyes when you left. She wants to save the man you want to destroy.”

Serra shook her head, but though she wanted to deny it she couldn’t speak the words.

She was defending him during the interrogation. Trying to protect him.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” she asked, perplexed. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“As you said, I have already been paid. My job was to deliver him to you. Nothing more.”

“So why are you telling me now?”

The Iktotchi didn’t answer, but the first hint of emotion played across her face as the corners of her lips curled up into the hint of a cruel smile.

She feeds on the misery of others.

Serra started to say, Lucia would never betray me, but her words were cut off by the sudden clanging of the Stone Prison’s alarms.

In that instant she knew everything the Huntress had told her was true. The prisoner had broken free, and Lucia had helped him.

“No!” Serra shouted, clasping her head in her hands as for the second time today her world came crashing down around her. “No!”

The Iktotchi was grinning now, transforming the tattoos on her lower lip into fangs.

“No!” the princess shouted again, her voice rising up over the alarms.

He can’t escape. Not now. Not after everything that’s happened.

“No!”

Serra turned and fled down one of the nearby corridors, a last, desperate plan forming in her mind.

20

As soon as Lucia was out of sight of the guards watching Des, she broke into a brisk jog. She knew she didn’t have much time before he escaped, and she needed to find the princess before that happened. But figuring out where Serra had gone was no easy matter.

Dozens of passages branched off from the main corridor on either side, leading to other cell blocks in the wing, or to completely new areas of the dungeon complex. Fortunately only a small section of the Stone Prison had been reopened. Most of the halls Lucia passed were still dark and deserted: she didn’t think the princess would have gone down any of these.

Even so, there was a lot of area to cover. She had started with the administrative office for the maximum-security wing, only to find it empty. After that she had backtracked, moving quickly up and down the halls that were illuminated, occasionally calling out Serra’s name in what she hoped came across as a calm, normal voice.

She needed to find her, but she also didn’t want to make her suspicious. Lucia had no intention of revealing what she had done. She had helped Des because she felt it was right, but she doubted Serra would understand.

Her hope was that she would be at the princess’s side under the guise of a supportive friend when the alarms went off. As her bodyguard, it would make perfect sense for her to whisk Serra away to safety at that time, and her friend would never have to know the truth about how Des escaped.

Unfortunately, the first part of her plan fell apart when she heard the alarms ring out a few minutes later.

She cursed under her breath and broke into a full run. Her plan could still work: if she found Serra she could still convince her to leave without exposing her betrayal. But now she was in a race against Des to see which one of them could find the princess first.

Where could she be?

The clanging alarms made it hard to think. Lucia skidded to a stop, taking a moment to collect her thoughts.

From the corridor off to her right she heard the princess scream out “No!”—her voice carrying even over the cacophony of the alarms.

She had to be close! Turning, Lucia ran down the hall in the direction of the sound. She came to another intersection: the corridor branched right, left, and continued straight ahead. Pausing, she listened for another clue, but heard nothing.

Thinking back to the blueprints she had memorized when she had first joined the Royal Guard, she remembered that the corridor on the left led deeper into the dungeon, toward an area that was still closed. That left only two options.

She continued on straight ahead, knowing the hall carried on for about twenty meters before turning sharply and ending in an old guard barracks. The room was on the same power grid as the maximum-security wing, so it would be illuminated. But it wasn’t being used: the hired mercenaries had been given lodging in the barracks on the other side of the wing.

Lucia was guessing the princess had gone there to find some privacy as she struggled to deal with her emotions. She guessed wrong. Finding the barracks empty, she was forced to double back and take the other branch, knowing precious seconds had been lost.

Running at a full sprint, she dashed down the hall and around the corner, nearly barreling into the Huntress. The Iktotchi stepped quickly to the side to avoid the collision. At the same time Lucia pulled up short, throwing herself off balance so that she stumbled and fell. Her knee smacked hard into the floor and skidded across the rough stone, tearing a hole in her trousers and scraping away a layer of skin.

“Have you seen the princess?” she asked as she got back to her feet, ignoring the warm blood already welling up from the deep scrapes on her injured knee.

“She knows what you did,” the assassin said. “She knows you betrayed her.”

The unexpected accusation caught Lucia off guard; she didn’t even try to deny it.

“How?”

“I told her.”

Lucia was stunned, unable to fathom how her secret had been exposed. And then she remembered the rumors that claimed the Iktotchi could see the future and read minds. She was on the verge of asking why the Huntress would let this happen only to tell Serra of her betrayal after the fact, but then she remembered whom she was dealing with.

She did it to hurt her. She’s as much a monster as any Sith.

For a moment she thought about going for her blaster. She wanted to kill the Huntress. She’d be doing the galaxy a favor. But despite her outrage, she knew she had no chance of killing the assassin. Attacking her would result only in Lucia’s own death, and it would do nothing to help the princess.

You can still find Serra. Even if she knows what you did, maybe you can still convince her to get away before Des finds her. You can still save her.

“Which way did she go?” she asked, wondering if the Iktotchi would even bother to tell her.

“She ran off that way,” the assassin replied, tilting her horned head to indicate the direction.

Lucia’s mind flashed back to the blueprints of the complex, and she knew where Serra was heading. The princess was still determined to kill Bane. She was going to the control room to detonate the Stone Prison’s self-destruct sequence.

Not bothering to waste another second on the Huntress she turned and ran off down the corridor in pursuit, her gait clumsy and uneven because of her bloody and rapidly swelling knee.

The Huntress watched the princess’s bodyguard rush off down the hall. She knew what lay at the end; in her visions she had seen the walls of this prison come crashing down in a series of explosions.

For an instant she had thought the bodyguard was going to try to kill her. She was somewhat disappointed when it didn’t happen. Yet she knew Lucia’s end was inevitable: she had seen it.

She turned and made her way with purposeful strides in the other direction, heading for the main hangar bay: a large cavern where she and the mercenaries had landed their shuttles. There was no point in sticking around, not when she knew the self-destruct sequence was going to be activated in a few minutes. Yet when she reached the hangar, she hesitated.

The prisoner’s escape hadn’t surprised her. She knew he was not destined to die chained like an animal. She had seen him too many times in her dreams, locked in battle with the blond woman from her visions on Ambria. Her subconscious mind was obsessed with them, and the Huntress suspected she finally knew why.

Her life had become stagnant, hollow. She moved from job to job, but she had no real purpose, no greater goal. Despite her ability to see visions of the future, she had never sought to shape it. She had always felt a greater destiny awaited her, yet she had made no effort to pursue it.

From her pocket, she drew out the lightsaber hilt and the small pyramid she had taken on Ciutric. These were instruments of power; she could feel the importance of them. They had significance and meaning. They had purpose.

She knew the Jedi claimed the light side had triumphed over the dark. They claimed the Sith were extinct. Yet the Huntress also knew this was a lie. The Sith still lived; she had tasted their power. And she had found it intoxicating.

Securing the lightsaber and the pyramid back under her robe, she made her way over to lean against the guardrail of the large metal balcony overlooking the landing pads. From her vantage point she could look out across the tops of the four vessels parked below, giving her a clear view of Doan’s night sky through the wide entrance on the cavern’s far side.

Two of the ships were unremarkable: shuttles owned by the mercenaries the princess had hired to staff the station. The third was the princess’s personal vessel: newer than the others, it bore the blue and yellow symbol of House Doan on either side. And then there was her own vessel, the Stalker. Smaller than any of the other ships, its shining black hull and blood-red trim still made it stand out.

After a moment she made her way slowly down the stairs, but when she reached the ground below she didn’t board her ship. Instead, she began to wander slowly up and down the aisles between the vessels, idly running her hand across their hulls.

She felt compelled to wait a little while longer. Something important was about to happen, something more than the spectacular implosion of the Stone Prison. She could feel it coming on the currents of the Force. She couldn’t quite grasp what the event was—sometimes the future could be as slippery as a fleek eel. But she knew it had something to do with her visions, and she intended to wait around long enough to see this through.

Her destiny depended on it.

Zannah knew she was getting close. The part of her journey through the Stone Prison’s maze of rooms and halls had been conducted in near total darkness. Only the pale green light of her glow stick had guided her—that, and the Force.

She could feel her Master’s presence deep inside the complex, drawing her forward. Even so, she made several wrong turns and came across a number of dead ends as she moved silently through the darkness. The layout of the dungeon was intentionally confusing to thwart any efforts to rescue those held captive within its walls.

Yet Zannah had persevered, never giving in to frustration or anger even when she was forced to turn around and go back the way she had come. Eventually, she knew, she would reach her destination.

Up ahead she saw a faint glimmer of light spilling from around a corner, and she knew her patience had been rewarded. Moving forward, she found herself traveling through an illuminated corridor. She had reached the section of the facility that had been reopened; Bane had to be nearby.

Tossing her glow lamp aside, she proceeded forward cautiously, keeping her awareness open to warn her before she ran across any guards even as she continued to home in on the cell where they were holding her Master.

She had gone less than a hundred meters when she felt a sudden and powerful disturbance in the Force. An instant later alarm bells rang out, and Zannah knew what had happened—Bane had escaped!

Her lightsaber ignited with a buzzing hum, and she picked up her pace. She was no longer trying to sense any guards who might be ahead: with Bane on the loose she needed to focus on him. Her Master would be on the move, and she had come too far to lose him now.

The alarms continued to ring out. Zannah ignored them, focusing instead on the flashes of power she felt through the Force, each one a beacon bringing her ever closer to Bane.

She darted down a hall and around a corner. Up ahead she saw a door swinging freely on its hinges.

He’s there. In that room or one just beyond it. She could sense his presence, his unmistakable power.

Creeping along the wall she approached the edge of the door, then ducked into a roll and somersaulted through into the room beyond.

The scene inside gave testament to the fact that Bane had been here. The mangled bodies of guards littered the room. A durasteel door hung askew on its hinges, revealing a steep staircase leading down to another room below.

The dark side had been unleashed here only a few minutes ago. She could still feel its lingering power.

She approached the staircase carefully, probing with her mind into the room below. Again, she felt the unmistakable power of her Master.

He’s trapped.

She broke off her efforts to track Bane and instead concentrated on using Sith sorcery to mask her own presence as she raced down the stairs. There was no need for her to be silent; with the alarms echoing throughout the prison, there was little chance he would hear her footsteps.

She burst into the lower chamber only to be disappointed yet again. Another pile of dead guards were gathered around the remains of a table, but Bane was nowhere to be found. She had been tracking an echo of his power, and somehow she had missed the real thing.

That’s impossible. Unless …

Bane knew she was here! He had tricked her, leaving his imprint on this room to lure her here while he made his escape. But she knew he couldn’t have gone far.

She turned to head back up the stairs, then paused for a moment to examine the bodies. One looked as if he had been killed by Bane’s bare hands. One was stabbed with a vibroblade. Two others had been shot with a blaster at close range.

Curious, Zannah made her way back to the room above. The bodies here were, quite simply, broken. Limbs twisted at grotesque angles, the bones beneath the skin shattered and splintered.

There was nothing remarkable about how they had died; she had seen Bane use similar tactics many times in the past. Zannah was interested, however, in what was missing. There were no lightsaber wounds.

Bane had been unarmed when he took on these foes. It was possible he had found and reclaimed his lightsaber since then. But if he hadn’t—if he was wandering the halls of the prison without it—he was vulnerable. As powerful as Bane was, Zannah believed she was his equal. And without his lightsaber he had virtually no hope of defeating her.

Closing her eyes and blocking out the earsplitting sound of the alarms, she reached out with the Force once more. This time she ignored the powerful dark side imprint Bane had left on the guard rooms. It took only a few seconds for her to pick up his trail again. As she suspected, he was still inside the prison.

I’m coming, Master. And only one of us will leave here alive.

Set knew he was close. He had left the darkness of the unlit tunnels behind as he had gone deeper and deeper into the Stone Prison, drawn forward by the call of Darth Andeddu’s Holocron.

The section of the complex he was in now was lit, though it still seemed deserted. He had expected to run into somebody: a patrol, a guard wandering the halls. Whoever had taken Zannah’s Master must have done it with a small team: twenty, maybe thirty people at most.

Despite this, he was bracing for an encounter soon. He had reached a long hall with a closed wooden door at the end. He was certain the Holocron was inside the room beyond, and he fully expected it to be guarded by at least half a dozen armed soldiers.

Gathering himself, he drew his lightsaber and raced down the hallway, leaping toward the door. He hit it square with both feet, knocking the door open as he flew into the room.

Much to Set’s surprise, there were no guards waiting for him. The only witnesses to his grand entrance were an old wooden desk and chair. He felt a second of panic when he didn’t see the Holocron anywhere in the small office; then he noticed the safe built into the wall.

There was a combination pad, but Set ignored it. Using his lightsaber, he simply cut several long horizontal and vertical slices in the door. The glowing blade carved through the thick metal with ease, reducing the front of the safe to several heavy chunks that fell to the floor.

The Holocron was the only thing inside. Set reached out slowly, trembling slightly as he wrapped his fingers around the obsidian pyramid. He drew it reverently from the safe, cradling it with both hands.

He nearly dropped his prize when alarm bells began to ring throughout the prison.

Whirling to the door he whipped out his lightsaber, his left hand still clutching the Holocron. He dropped into a fighting stance, bracing himself to meet the reinforcements he expected to burst into the room.

For several seconds he didn’t move, listening for the sound of running feet or the shouts of soldiers. Hearing nothing, he carefully reached out with the Force—only to find he was still alone.

The alarms were still blaring away, and it took a minute for Set to realize they had nothing to do with him.

They spotted Zannah. Or her Master’s escaped.

Extinguishing his lightsaber, he tucked it back into his belt.

Nobody’s going to be worrying about you. Not with a couple of Sith Lords wreaking havoc in one of the other wings.

He had what he had come for; it was time to leave Doan. Hopefully he would never have to come back again.

Set still intended to stick with his original plan of stealing one of the other ships, rather than risk running into Zannah by going back to where they had landed her shuttle. He just needed to look around until he found the hangars where the other vessels were being stored.

Shouldn’t be too hard. Just stick to the lit halls and keep out of everyone else’s way. Let them fight it out while you sneak off with the real prize.

Fortunately, that was something Set was very good at.

The echoing alarms chased Serra as she ran down the long hall toward the Stone Prison’s emergency control room. She punched in the code to the access panel, her fingers stabbing frantically at the keys as she kept glancing over her shoulder, fearing her enemy would appear in the hall behind her at any second.

The panel beeped sharply, and an ACCESS DENIED message popped up on the readout.

“No,” she whispered to herself. “No.”

When she had married Gerran, he had shared his personal access code with her. As the crown prince, his code was supposed to override every electronic security system in the royal family’s estate.

Maybe the king didn’t trust you. Maybe he disabled it when Gerran died.

No, that couldn’t be it. The code had worked on all the other locks here in the Stone Prison. Without it, she would never have been able to reactivate the generators that powered this section of the complex.

She tried to punch the code in again, her fingers trembling with desperate urgency. The alarms overhead were an inescapable reminder that every second she lost made it more and more likely that her prisoner would find a way to escape the dungeon before she destroyed it.

Once again, the harsh beep and ACCESS DENIED message were the only results.

Maybe Gerran’s code doesn’t work on this door. Maybe only the king is authorized to use the self-destruct sequence.

Slamming her palm against the door in frustration, Serra was unable to hold back the tears any longer. Beaten, she sank slowly to her knees, her face pressed up against the cold metal door.

For several seconds her body was racked by ragged, hitching sobs. Everything had gone wrong. Lucia had betrayed her; the dark man of her dreams was going to escape. Everything she had worked to accomplish had fallen apart.

This isn’t like you.

Although she hadn’t heard it in more than a decade, she instantly recognized the voice.

“Father?” she said aloud, though of course Caleb was nowhere to be found but inside her own head.

You’re stronger than this.

She nodded, not even caring if the voice she was listening to was nothing but a figment of her own imagination. Blocking out the alarms, she took a long, deep breath and carefully analyzed the situation.

It didn’t make any sense for the king to be the only one with access to this room. He couldn’t be expected to come here in person if there was ever a prison break or a riot. The warden would have access. Probably the guard captain, as well. And if the king trusted any of his servants with the code, he would also have trusted his son.

You’re rushing. Making mistakes. Try again. Slowly.

She rose to her feet and began to punch in the code for a third attempt. This time when she felt the panic threatening to possess her fingers, she fought back by calling up the image of her father’s face, calm and certain. Taking slow, deep breaths, she took extra care to hit the buttons in the correct sequence. For a second nothing happened; then there was a soft chime and the door swung slowly open.

Relief flooded over her, and Serra tried to laugh at her own foolishness in entering the number wrong twice before getting it right. What came out was a strangled croak that bordered on the hysterical, startling her back into silence.

The room inside was small, with a single control panel and another door on the other side. Beyond the second door was a small tunnel that led to a small emergency pod, allowing whoever entered the self-destruct sequence to escape before the prison came crashing down.

She approached the console and examined the controls. It was simple enough: There was a button to initiate the self-destruct sequence, a number pad for her to enter her access code, and another button to confirm the command. There was a CANCEL key on the number pad, but no ABORT button; once the self-destruct was confirmed there was no way to stop it. After that, anybody inside would have less than five minutes to escape before charges wired into the ceiling, walls, and floors detonated in rapid succession, collapsing the entire prison.

This was it: Her last chance to stop the man who had terrorized her as a child. Her last chance to rid the galaxy of a Dark Lord of the Sith. She pressed the INITIATE button down, and the console lit up in response. Next, she punched in her access code, slowly, to make sure there were no mistakes. But when the CODE ACCEPTED—CONFIRM SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE warning popped up on the screen, Serra hesitated.

If she did this, her life on Doan was over. The king had no idea she was using the Stone Prison for her personal vendetta; if she did this her secret would be exposed. The explosions that would destroy the complex would send tremors through the floors of the Royal Manse on the plateau thousands of meters above; everyone would know what had happened.

He would know she had put her personal wants and desires above those of the royal family. Her actions would almost certainly be considered high treason: the best she could hope for would be permanent banishment from the planet.

And what about Lucia? She would probably be killed in the explosions. Although her bodyguard had betrayed her by helping the prisoner to escape, was Serra willing to condemn her friend to death without even giving her a chance to explain her actions?

Unable to make a decision, Serra stood frozen, her finger hovering above the button marked CONFIRM as the alarms continued to ring out.

21

Set had always prided himself on being able to extricate himself from virtually any predicament. He had a knack for working himself free from a bind, and a natural talent for finding the outs in any situation. So he wasn’t surprised when, after less than ten minutes, he managed to stumble across the prison’s main landing bay.

It was much larger than the secondary entrance he and Zannah had arrived at. The alarms that had been all but deafening inside the cramped corridors were merely thunderous here in the massive chamber.

Set was perched atop a large metal balcony overlooking the room. Below he could see four vessels, spaced about ten meters apart. All of them appeared to be unguarded. Pleased with himself, he tapped the Holocron he had tucked away inside his vest pocket as he studied his options.

Just like a buffet: plenty to choose from.

Two of the ships were standard, run-of-the-mill passenger shuttles, their hulls weathered and dented. He quickly dismissed them as unworthy of stealing. The third was the largest of the group, and appeared to be in mint condition. It was also marked with the crest of the royal family.

Set smiled. There was something appealing about the idea of escaping Doan in a shuttle owned by the ruler of the planet. It definitely had a certain flair. And then he saw the fourth vessel.

We have a winner.

The smallest of the lot, the ship was sleek and stylish, with red trim and a black hull. The perfect vehicle for a man of Set’s discriminating taste.

Eager to escape, the Dark Jedi made his way down the staircase and across the hangar, his lightsaber clutched in his right hand. When he reached his chosen shuttle, he let out a low whistle of appreciation and reached up to stroke the smooth, dark hull.

“Look but don’t touch,” a soft female voice whispered in his ear.

Set snapped his hand back and whirled around, his lightsaber springing to life as he slashed at the empty air behind him.

Just out of range of his attack stood an Iktotchi in a black cloak. Her hood was thrown back to reveal the long curved horns that curled down along her neck and under her chin. Black tattoos marked her lower lip, and her small, pointed teeth were bared in an eager grin.

Set wasn’t normally one to shy away from a fight, not if he thought he could win. But there was something unsettling about this red-skinned opponent. It was practically impossible to sneak up on a Jedi, yet Set hadn’t felt her presence until she’d spoken.

Careful. That probably isn’t the only trick up her sleeve.

“Nice ship,” he said, extinguishing his lightsaber and letting his hand fall casually to his side. “How many credits did that set you back?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he pounced toward her, his reignited lightsaber carving a deadly figure-eight pattern meant to disembowel his unsuspecting foe even as she answered his question.

The Iktotchi wasn’t fooled. Instead of replying to his query, she took a quick step back and to the side, nimbly avoiding his attack.

“Too slow,” she admonished.

The two adversaries turned to face each other again, and Set paused to consider the situation. He had Andeddu’s Holocron; all he needed now was a ship and he was home free. But standing between him and escape was an unknown, though obviously skilled, opponent. She didn’t appear to be armed, but she could easily have blades, blasters, or any number of other weapons hidden in the folds of her cloak. He decided it might be a good idea to try to talk his way out of the situation.

“My name is Medd Tandar,” he lied, trying to project an air of noble self-importance into his voice. “I’m here on behalf of the Council of First Knowledge. Step aside in the name of the Jedi Order.”

“You’re no Jedi,” she replied.

“Not anymore,” Set confessed. “But I used to be.”

He sliced the air half a dozen times with his lightsaber. He spun around, the humming blade dancing and twirling, before ending the demonstration with a backflip.

The Iktotchi was obviously unimpressed by his display of martial prowess, and Set realized he wasn’t going to intimidate her into backing down.

“The Jedi teach you any useful tricks?”

“A few,” Set replied, thrusting out with the Force.

A wave of raw energy rippled out toward his enemy, but Set knew instantly something was very wrong. Instead of the exhilarating rush of power he normally felt, there was a cramping ache in the pit of his stomach that caused him to double over.

The concussive wave that should have sent the Iktotchi flying twenty meters was reduced to nothing more than a hard shove. It hit her full in the chest, but she simply absorbed the impact by falling into a backward roll that ended with her still on her feet.

A pair of short vibroblades appeared in her hands while Set staggered backward, clutching at his stomach and trying not to throw up.

With horror, he realized she was disrupting his ability to draw on the Force. He’d seen this talent mentioned in a number of ancient texts, but he’d never encountered it himself … and he didn’t know how to counter it. His only option was to try to fight through.

Gritting his teeth, he stood up straight. Feeding on the pain and his mounting anger, he tried once more to summon up the power of the dark side. He felt a small surge in response to his efforts, but it was a thin trickle rather than the flood he had been hoping for. Still, it was better than nothing.

The Iktotchi lunged in with her twin blades, and Set staggered awkwardly out of the way, barely avoiding her attack. She moved faster than any opponent he had ever faced. Or maybe her ability to interfere with the Force was just making him slower than he’d ever been. In either case, the outcome was the same … and it wasn’t good for Set.

He ducked his head and darted under the nose of the black and red shuttle to the far side, knowing his best chance of survival would be to keep ten tons of metal between the two of them.

He couldn’t see her anymore, but by concentrating he was just barely able to sense her position. The effort made his head spin; it was like trying to see with mud in his eyes.

She was stalking him slowly, cautiously creeping around the tail end of the ship. And in that moment Set realized his opponent had no formal training in the ways of the Force. She was operating on instinct. She had never been taught the most basic skills—like how to sense the location of opponents even when they were out of sight.

Set turned and made a dash for one of the other vessels, reaching his new hiding place just before she emerged from behind the black shuttle’s thrusters. Crouching down to peer beneath the belly of the ship he was using for cover, he could see her turning her head from side to side, trying to figure out where he had gone.

“I love a good chase,” she called out, her lips curling into a feral smile. “That’s why the call me the Huntress.”

This isn’t going to end well.

Bane could still feel the lingering effects of the drugs in his system. He’d done what he could to burn them away with the fire of the dark side, but the Sith were not as adept as the Jedi at cleansing their systems of impurities. The last dregs of the chemicals would simply have to break down naturally over time.

Until then he would be at less than full strength. A fraction slower in thoughts and actions, less adept at wielding the power of the Force. And he was still without his lightsaber.

Despite all this, he was confident victory was only minutes away. The alarms were still ringing throughout the dungeon, but he knew there would be no guards rushing in to answer their call. The few mercenaries who had survived his attack were in full retreat, leaving Caleb’s daughter defenseless.

Sometimes vengeance needed to be cold and calculating. There were times when it was better to be careful, patient. But sometimes retribution could not be deferred. Sometimes action needed to be fueled by anger and hate; it needed to burn with the heat of animal emotion.

Peace is a lie; there is only passion. Through passion I gain strength. Through strength I gain power.

He could sense he was closing in on Serra’s location. His stride quickened as he marched purposefully down the empty corridors toward his revenge.

Through power I gain victory. Through victory my chains are broken.

He had been careless, weak. He had allowed himself to be captured. He had let himself become a victim. For that he had suffered. But now he was strong again. Now it was someone else’s turn to suffer.

“Des!” a voice from behind him shouted out over the alarms.

The mention of the name he had left behind twenty years ago caused the Sith Lord to stop dead in his tracks. He turned slowly, and found himself face-to-face with the dark-skinned woman who had aided his escape.

She was breathing hard, as if she had been running. Her pants were torn over the left knee; the edges of the rip were bloody. Her face was a mixture of conflicting emotions: fear, desperation, and hope.

“Do you remember me, Des? It’s Lucia.”

For a second Bane simply stared in confusion at the woman standing before him. Then he began to think back to his youth. To a time when he was not Darth Bane, Lord of the Sith, but rather Des, a simple miner from Apatros.

The memories were buried deep, but they were still there. The weekly beatings from Hurst, his father. Long, grueling shifts digging cortosis from the rock while choking on clouds of dust stirred up by his hydraulic jack. His escape from the misery of Apatros, and his assignment to the Gloom Walkers.

It was like trying to recall a dream upon waking. These were scenes from someone else’s life; they didn’t feel real to him. But as he cast his mind back, other memories began to surface: long nights sitting watch on Trandosha, forced marches through the forests of Kashyyyk.

Stirring up the ghosts of the past brought back the face of Ulabore, the cruel and incompetent commanding officer who had inadvertently turned Des over to the Sith and set him on the path of his true destiny. But there were other faces, too—the men and women of his unit, his brothers- and sisters-in-arms. He remembered the blue eyes and cocksure grin of Adanar, his best friend. And he remembered a wide-eyed junior trooper, a young sniper named Lucia.

Bane had intelligence and foresight. He had the wisdom and vision to redefine the Sith Order so that it could begin its long, slow ascent to galactic domination. He had schemed and planned for nearly every conceivable situation he might one day find himself in. Yet he had never prepared himself for this.

He knew many of the former soldiers who served in Kaan’s armies had become mercenaries and bodyguards, but he had never considered the possibility of ever running into someone who had known him before his transformation through the dark side. After joining the Sith, he hadn’t allowed himself to wonder or care about what had happened to the people from his past. He had needed to learn to survive alone, to rely on nobody but himself. Attachment to family and friends was a weakness, a chain to bind and drag you down.

Now someone from the life he had worked so hard to forget was standing between him and his revenge. She was an obstacle in his way, one to be easily overcome. He knew he could cast her aside as easily as he had disposed of the guards outside his cell.

Instead, he asked, “Why did you help me?”

“We served together in the Gloom Walkers,” she answered, as if that explained everything.

“I know who you are,” he told her.

She hesitated, as if she expected him to say more. When he didn’t, she continued to speak.

“You saved my life on Phaseera. You saved all our lives. And not just then. You were there in every battle we fought, watching over us. Protecting us.”

“I was a fool back then.”

“No! You were a hero. I owe you my life a dozen times over. How could I not help you?”

At first he thought she was a sentimental idiot, blinded by irrational nobility and spouting foolish drivel. But then he realized what was really going on, and it all began to make sense. She had released him hoping to win his favor. She was after something. That was why she had betrayed Caleb’s daughter—for her own personal gain.

“What do you want?” he demanded, the alarms a constant reminder that time was running short.

“I want … please … I’m begging you … let Serra live.”

Her request made no sense. Lucia’s actions were the only reason Serra’s life was in danger.

“Why? What use is her life to me?”

The woman didn’t answer right away. She was searching for something to offer, but in the end she had nothing.

“Look into your heart, Des. Think back on the man you used to be. I know you turned to the dark side to survive. Becoming a Sith was the only way you could survive. Please, Des; I know part of what you used to be still lives inside you.”

“My name is not Des,” he said, his voice rising as he stood up to his full height so that he towered over Lucia. “I am Darth Bane, Dark Lord of the Sith. I feel neither pity nor gratitude nor remorse. And Caleb’s daughter must pay for what she did to me.”

“I won’t let you do this,” she declared, spreading her stance wide and bracing herself before him.

“You can’t stop me,” he warned her. “You can’t save her by sacrificing yourself. Are you willing to throw your life away for no purpose?”

Lucia didn’t budge. “I already said I owe you my life. If you want to take it now, that is your right.”

Bane’s mind flashed back to his first encounter with Caleb on Ambria. The healer had stood before him as Lucia did now, utterly defiant despite the knowledge he was no match for a Sith Lord. Yet Caleb had known he had something Bane needed; Lucia could make no such claim. There was nothing to stop him from extinguishing her life in a single instant.

He began to gather the dark side, the power slowly building. But before he could unleash it he was hit by a wall of thunderous force rolling out from a corridor to his left. Instinctively he threw up a defensive shield, absorbing the blow. Despite this, he was slammed against the opposite wall, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Lucia was not so fortunate. Unable to call upon the Force to protect herself, she was sent careering down the corridor, flipping and twisting. Her skull smashed against the stone half a dozen times as her body ricocheted off the walls and ceiling, reducing it to a bloody, misshapen mess. Her corpse finally tumbled to a stop thirty meters away where the hall made an abrupt ninety-degree turn.

Bane was back on his feet in an instant, turning to face his foe.

“You couldn’t bring yourself to kill her,” Zannah said, her voice filled with contempt. “You’ve become weak. No wonder you tried to violate the Rule of Two.”

She was standing with her double-bladed lightsaber drawn, the hilt grasped firmly in her hand. Her arm was extended, holding the weapon out in front of her, the twin blades horizontal to the floor. It was a defensive posture, one meant to guard against a sudden attack from an armed opponent. He realized Zannah didn’t know that he hadn’t found his lightsaber yet.

“I have lived by the principles of the Rule of Two ever since I created it,” Bane replied. “Everything I have done has been in accordance with its teachings.”

Zannah shook her head.

“I know you went to Prakith. I know you went after Andeddu’s Holocron. I know you were searching for the secret of eternal life.”

“I did that out of necessity. I taught you everything I knew about the dark side. I waited years for you to challenge me. But you were content to toil in my shadow, to remain an apprentice until the ravages of age robbed me of my power.”

All thoughts of Lucia were gone, swept away along with the memories of his past life. The only thing he cared about was this confrontation, for he knew the fate of the Sith hinged on the outcome.

“You are unworthy of becoming the Master, Zannah. That was why I went to Prakith.”

“No,” Zannah said, her voice calm and cold. “You won’t turn this back on me. You said you were training me so that I would one day succeed you. You said it was my destiny to become the Master.

“Now you want to live forever. You want to cling to the mantle of Dark Lord of the Sith and deny me what is mine!”

“That mantle must be earned,” Bane countered. “You wanted to wait, to take it by default.”

“You taught me patience,” she reminded him. “You taught me to bide my time.”

“Not in this!” Bane shouted. “Only the strongest has the right to rule the Sith! The title of Dark Lord must be seized, wrenched from the all-powerful grasp of the Master!”

“That is why I am here,” Zannah said with a grim smile. “I have found an apprentice of my own. I am ready to embrace my destiny.”

“Do you really believe you can defeat me?”

Bane let his right hand drop to his hip, feinting as if he was preparing to draw his lightsaber. His only chance to survive was to somehow trick her into backing down.

Zannah’s eyes flickered, drawn by the subtle motion. He kept his hand open, his massive palm completely covering the place where she would normally be able to see the hilt of his lightsaber clipped to his belt. With his mind he tried to project an image of his hook-handled weapon resting just beneath his empty fingers.

His apprentice didn’t move. She stayed in her defensive stance, her brow furrowing as she weighed her chances. Then her gaze fell on Bane’s left hand, quivering ever so slightly with one of the uncontrollable tremors.

“You allowed yourself to be captured by mercenaries,” she said, slowly twirling her weapon and taking a confident step forward.

Bane held his ground, clenching the fingers of his left hand so that they dug into the palm, stilling the tremor.

“You couldn’t bring yourself to kill the woman who stood in your way.”

She took another step toward him, casually tossing her lightsaber from one hand to the other. Had Bane been armed, it would have been the perfect opening to launch a sudden attack.

When he failed to do so, she tilted her head back and laughed.

“You even let yourself get trapped in these halls without your lightsaber.”

She took another step forward and Bane responded by taking several steps back.

The double-bladed lightsaber began to pick up speed, slicing the air in quick, circular patterns.

She had one final thing to say before she launched herself at him.

“Your time is over, Bane.”

22

Serra stood as if she was paralyzed, her finger hovering just above the button that would confirm the Stone Prison’s self-destruct sequence and initiate the destruction of the facility and everyone in it. She had been standing in this exact position for several minutes, unable to push the button.

Do it! Who cares about Lucia? She betrayed you! Do it!

The princess took a deep breath, then let her hand fall. But instead of hitting confirm, she pressed the key marked CANCEL. There was a soft beep, and the glowing keyboard became dark as it powered down.

She couldn’t do it. As much as she didn’t want the prisoner to escape, she simply couldn’t bring herself to condemn Lucia to death. The older woman had been more than her bodyguard; she had been Serra’s confidante and closest friend. Whatever she did, there must have been a reason. And she owed it to her friend to find out what that reason was.

Leaving the small confines of the emergency control room behind her, Serra headed back out into the hall. With the alarms ringing, there was no need to worry about the sound of her footsteps giving away her position. She set off in a brisk jog, making her way back up the long hall toward the cells where the prisoner had been held in search of her friend.

He’s looking for you, and he won’t need to hear your footsteps to hunt you down. Do you really think you can find Lucia before he finds you?

The princess understood the risk. But she had already lost her husband and her father; she wasn’t about to lose her best friend, too. Even if that meant confronting the monster from her nightmares one more time.

Winding her way through the corridors of the complex, she headed back to where the Iktotchi had first told her of Lucia’s betrayal. Before she got there, however, she saw a body lying up ahead, crumpled against the wall where the passage bent around a sharp corner.

“No,” she whispered under her breath as she broke into a run. “No!”

She recognized Lucia’s body long before she crouched down before her. Her arms and legs jutted out at bizarre angles, the bones snapped clean through. These injuries were nothing compared with the trauma that had been inflicted to her face and skull.

As Serra knelt over her friend’s corpse she didn’t cry any tears, however. Instead of grief, she felt only a strange numbness fall across her mind.

This is your fault. If you hadn’t been so set on seeking revenge, if you hadn’t brought the prisoner here, none of this would have happened. Lucia would still be alive.

The voice inside her head spoke the truth, but Serra still felt nothing. It was as if her emotions, so damaged by the deaths of Gerran and Caleb, had finally shut down completely.

Then she became aware of a strange high-pitched hum behind the clang of the alarms—not the sound of any lightsaber she had ever heard, and not a sound her ears found comfortable. She rose and walked farther down the hall toward the source of the noise, leaving Lucia’s broken body behind her.

As she drew nearer, she began to hear other sounds: grunts of exertion, short exclamations of anger and pain, the heavy thump of feet on the stone floor. She recognized them as the sounds of battle.

No blasters, though.

Reaching the intersection of another corridor, she saw a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye. Turning to the left she saw two figures at the far end of the passage, less than twenty meters away from where she stood. She recognized the prisoner instantly. The second figure she had never seen before, yet she knew who this was.

The blond woman the Huntress spoke of.

They were facing each other, clearly locked in an intense struggle. The prisoner was nearly twice the size of his opponent, but she was clearly the aggressor. The woman was armed with a double-bladed lightsaber, but the prisoner had no weapon as far as Serra could tell. He was backing up warily, his eyes locked on the woman as she approached. She was closing in on him slowly, trying to back him into a corner and cut off his retreat.

Just before she had him pinned, however, a bolt of violet lightning shot forth from his palm. The woman countered by catching the bolt with one of her lightsaber blades. It absorbed the energy, emitting the strange, high-pitched hum Serra had heard earlier.

The two combatants were so focused on each other that neither had noticed Serra. She should have been terrified. She should have turned and fled, running back the way she had come. Yet she felt only the empty calm that had settled over her on discovering Lucia’s body.

Without any real sense of urgency, she turned and walked back down the hall to where her friend lay on the floor. Crouching down, she seized the muscular woman by her wrists and began to drag her down the hall, groaning under the strain as she walked backward.

Burdened by the weight, she made her way slowly back to the control room. The muscles in her neck, shoulders, and lower back began to throb almost immediately, but Serra didn’t stop. The sensation was muted, as numb and distant as her feelings of grief.

Eventually she reached the control room, but she didn’t pause at the self-destruct console. Instead, she dragged Lucia through the door at the back and, with some difficulty, hoisted her into the hold of the small escape shuttle. Then she returned to the keypad and punched in the self-destruct code. This time there was no hesitation before she pushed the CONFIRM button.

The sound of the alarms changed. Instead of the relentless clang-clang-clang warning of an escaped prisoner, it became a long, whooping wail.

Serra knew she had only a few minutes before the first series of explosions would begin, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Not yet.

Time seemed to stand still as she stood by the console, waiting expectantly. Hours seemed to pass, though in truth it was only a matter of minutes. And then she felt a small tremor beneath her feet … the shock wave from the first detonation in the deepest level of the facility. A few seconds later it was followed by another tremor, and then another after that.

Satisfied, she turned and headed out to the escape shuttle. The destruction of the Stone Prison had begun.

The Huntress had never faced a more frustrating opponent. Despite the lightsaber in his hand, the man refused to stand and fight. He ducked and ran back and forth between the hulls of the ships, moving from one hiding place to another, always a step ahead of her.

She could have sheathed her vibroblades and drawn the twin blasters tucked inside the folds of her cloak, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Her adversary was too quick for her to ever get a clear shot, and even if she did he’d probably just slap the bolt away with his lightsaber.

She caught a glimpse of him darting across the aisle between her shuttle and the one parked beside it. She didn’t chase him, though: she turned and ran behind her own shuttle, taking a path parallel to his in the hope of cutting him off.

Chewing the ground up with long, effortless strides she raced around the side of the ship, hoping to flank her unsuspecting opponent. Instead she came within a centimeter of being decapitated as his lightsaber came hurtling through the air toward her.

She let herself collapse to the ground, falling awkwardly back and to the side as her legs shot out from under her. The maneuver was ungainly, but it saved her life. The deadly energy blade whistled by her ear, slicing a thumb-sized chunk out of one of her horns before circling back on a tight arc and returning to her opponent’s hand.

Ignoring the stinging pain from her horn she scrambled back to her feet, vibroblades ready. But her opponent didn’t press his advantage; he disappeared again, vanishing around the nose of the ship.

Her injury wasn’t serious; Iktotchi horns contained no vital organs or major arteries. Even if completely severed the wound would not be life threatening, though it would be agonizingly painful. In time the missing chunk would even grow back, leaving no evidence of how close she had come to dying in the hangar.

But she had nearly died. She realized her opponent was cunning; he had wanted her to see him, knowing she’d double around to try to cut him off.

She had underestimated him and he had manipulated her, goading her into a careless mistake. He had set a trap and she had walked right into it. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Set crouched down behind one of the ships, gasping for breath. To some extent he had been able to resist the Iktotchi’s strange ability. He was able to fight through her ability to draw on the Force, but the effort had left him exhausted.

And it still messed you up enough so that she was able to dodge your lightsaber.

The Dark Jedi frowned at the memory of how close he had come to ending this battle, even as he forced himself to get up and get moving again. He couldn’t stay in one place for more than a few seconds, not unless he wanted to end up dead. He knew she’d be more careful now; he’d missed his best chance.

The Iktotchi was too quick for him to beat in a straight-up fight … not with her disrupting his connection to the Force and slowing him down. So far he’d managed to avoid a direct confrontation, but he couldn’t keep running for much longer. He had a stitch in his side, and his lungs felt like they were going to burst. Unless something happened to change the situation, the outcome was inevitable.

As if in answer to his prayers, there was a sudden change in the sound of the alarms. It took Set only a moment to figure out what had happened, and a new escape plan began to form in his mind.

The Huntress heard the change in the sound of the alarms, and she knew that they had maybe five minutes before the detonations began, and maybe ten before the entire complex was reduced to rubble.

Her opponent noticed the change as well.

“Hear that?” he called out from somewhere on the other side of the hangar. “This whole place is going to come crashing down around our ears. Why don’t we each just hop on one of these shuttles and get out of here before that happens?”

“I still have enough time to find you,” she shouted back, slowly heading in the direction of his voice. It sounded like he was near one of the shuttles on the far side of the room. “You’re getting tired. Wearing down. You won’t last much longer.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” he answered as she stepped from behind one of the ships, giving her a clear view of the man she had been chasing.

He was leaning casually against the side of one of the shuttles, near the thrusters at the rear. He glanced toward her but made no attempt to hide. Instead he just stood there, holding his lightsaber casually at his side.

Wary of walking into another trap, the Huntress began a cautious approach. As she took her first step, the silver-haired man pulled his arm back and brought his lightsaber down hard against the shuttle’s hull. There was a shower of sparks, and the blade bit a full centimeter into the ship’s reinforced exterior plating.

The man pulled his arm back and struck again, hitting precisely the same spot, the glowing blade carving even deeper this time. It was only on the third blow that the Huntress realized what he was doing.

The third chop brought the lightsaber deep enough to sever one of the shuttle’s fuel lines. Her opponent flung himself backward and she threw herself to the floor as a stray spark ignited the flammable liquid. Hundreds of tiny metal shards that had once been a fuel cell were sent hurtling through the air. The shuttle bucked once, its tail leaping a full meter off the ground from the force of the blast. A thick cloud of greasy black smoke curled up from the gash the lightsaber had left in the hull.

“Amazing weapons, aren’t they?” the man noted as she picked herself up from the ground. “Cut through almost anything.”

His face was cut and scraped from flying debris, but somehow—probably through shielding himself with the Force—he had managed to avoid the worst of the explosion. Before she could reply, he had ducked around the corner of the shuttle, disappearing from sight once again.

A few seconds later she heard the unmistakable sound of the lightsaber shearing through metal yet again from the far side of the hangar.

She broke into a run, heading in the direction of the noise. She was only halfway there when another explosion knocked her to the ground. When she got back to her feet she saw that a second shuttle had been disabled.

Knowing his next target, she turned and ran toward the Stalker. She pulled up short when she came around a corner and saw her opponent standing beside her shuttle, his hand gently gliding along the hull.

“What are you doing?” the Huntress shouted.

“All I want is to get out of here alive,” he explained. “But for some reason you seem intent on killing me.”

“You took the first swing at me,” she reminded him. “When I caught you about to steal my ship.”

“A simple misunderstanding,” he said, waving his hand to dismiss her accusations. “There are two shuttles left. You take yours and leave the other one for me, and we never have to see each other again.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then I destroy your shuttle and we see if you can stop me before I get to the last one. My guess is you can’t, and then we’re both stuck here when these walls come crashing down.”

“You’re a coward,” the assassin shot back. “You wouldn’t even stand and fight me. Now you expect me to believe you’d sacrifice yourself to trap us both here?”

“I’m a realist,” the man explained. “If we fight, I’m dead. If I trap us here, I’m dead. Either way the outcome is the same … but if I destroy the shuttles, then at least I take you with me.”

She didn’t answer right away. It was possible he was telling the truth: people did desperate things when cornered.

Her thoughts seized on the hooked handle in her belt; he wasn’t the only one armed with a lightsaber. She briefly considered trying to use the weapon she’d taken from the Sith Lord’s mansion to block the attack if he tried to damage her shuttle, then dismissed the idea. She had no training or experience; she’d never even held a lightsaber until a few days ago. Even if she did, by the time she crossed the distance between them the damage could have been done.

Next, she tried to calculate her odds of getting to the last remaining shuttle before her enemy could disable it. She might be able to beat him there, but as soon as she climbed inside the cockpit he’d be able to run up and wreak havoc on the engines.

Finally, she weighed the possibility that he wouldn’t actually go through with his threat. Even when faced with a hopeless situation, few people would have the strength of will to destroy their only chance of escape. There was a very good chance he was bluffing.

But even if he was, what did she gain by calling his bluff?

She didn’t know anything about this man: who he was, how he got here, or why he had shown up in the first place. What did she really accomplish by killing him? And what did she lose by letting him go?

The only reason she hadn’t left yet was the belief that this was where she would find her destiny. Whether this man lived or died was of no consequence compared with that.

A deep thrumming boom rolled through the cavern. The silver-haired man swayed slightly on his feet.

“We’re running out of time,” he warned, cocking his arm back and taking aim.

“We have a deal,” she shouted.

“Stay where I can see you,” the man warned, backing away from her carefully.

Keeping his eye on her, he scooted over to the other shuttle. He disappeared around the far side of the vessel. She heard him fumbling with the access panel as he sliced the security systems, followed by the unmistakable whoosh of the boarding ramp descending. A few seconds later he reappeared, visible in the cockpit viewport.

The Huntress simply watched, knowing there was nothing she could do. Unlike a lightsaber, neither her vibroblades nor her blasters were capable of inflicting any serious damage on the hull of a shuttle. She momentarily considered drawing the lightsaber and mimicking the trick he had used against her, but even if she was able to damage his vessel, it just meant he would still be here, and she’d have to find some way to get to her own ship before he returned the favor.

The shuttle engines roared to life as it rose up and turned to face the exit, hovering for an instant just below the chamber’s high ceiling. She could clearly see the Doan royal crest on the side, as well as the silver-haired man inside the cockpit. He waved to her and flashed a self-satisfied smile, and then the thrusters kicked in and the ship swooped away, flying out of the hangar and disappearing into the night sky.

For the first time in the Huntress’s life, someone she had wanted to kill had gotten away. Yet it would be a small price to pay if she managed to find what she was truly looking for.

23

Zannah wasn’t used to being the aggressor. In all the times she and Bane had sparred he had been the one pressing the action. Her lightsaber style was built on a foundation of parries and counterstrikes, hiding behind her virtually impenetrable defense while waiting for her opponent to make a mistake.

This confrontation was completely different. Yet even though Bane had no lightsaber, that didn’t mean he was helpless. Zannah knew she couldn’t simply rush in: despite his bulk, Bane was incredibly quick and agile. He had also learned close-quarters pit-fighting tactics during his days as a miner and soldier. She had to be wary of letting him get close enough to grapple her; she couldn’t let him get the opportunity to use his size and strength against her.

There was also his incredible command of the Force to contend with. Simple tactics like pushing an opponent from across the room were impractical against any foe with proper training. Both she and Bane knew how to surround themselves with an invisible field of energy that absorbed or repelled the most basic tricks taught to any Jedi or Sith. But Bane could unleash devastating bolts of dark side lightning from his hands almost at will.

As long as she was careful, she was able to avoid them or intercept them with her lightsaber. This caution, however, allowed her Master to keep her off balance just enough to stay alive.

The pair were entwined in an intricate dance. She swept in low, spinning and twirling her lightsaber. He leapt up high, planting his feet on the wall at his side and pushing off hard, sending himself into a tumbling roll just beyond the reach of her blade’s arc.

Back on his feet, he sprang backward as Zannah stabbed her blade straight forward, keeping just out of range. She pursued him down the length of the hall, jabbing and thrusting her weapon and sending the Dark Lord into a full retreat. Bane fought back with short, concentrated bursts of lightning, aiming at her boots to disrupt her footwork and keep her off balance.

Zannah took quick stuttering steps to avoid the attack and keep him from gaining a reprieve. Bane feinted as if he was going to fall back to the right, then lunged forward, flipping over her head and reaching down with a huge hand to seize her wrist.

She ducked out of the way, lashing out with a kick as he landed behind her. Bane spun, grabbed her ankle, and wrenched the boot to the side, trying to snap the bone. Zannah rolled with the violent motion, her entire body spinning along a horizontal plane. At the same time she brought her lightsaber back up over her shoulder to slice Bane’s arm off at the elbow, but caught only air as he released his hold and fell back once more.

She had him cornered against the wall with nowhere to go. As she moved in for the kill another burst of lightning came toward her. She caught it with her lightsaber, but the impact drove her backward a step, giving Bane just enough room to duck down beneath her coup de grâce and scramble clear of the wall.

They had switched positions, each facing the opposite way as they began the dance yet again. The ebb and flow of their battle fell into a rhythm of feints and counters, their dance keeping time to the clanging alarms as she forced him back up the hall she had chased him down only moments before.

Zannah suspected if their positions were reversed, Bane might have ended the confrontation already. Yet she knew her victory was inevitable. Her Master was in an impossible situation. He needed to do everything exactly right just to keep her at bay for another pass. He had no margin for error, and even the Dark Lord of the Sith couldn’t sustain perfection forever. The only way she could lose would be to make a careless mistake.

The best Bane could hope for was to try to frustrate her with his elusiveness. But Zannah understood patience. She had waited twenty years for this moment, and she was content to play their battle out as long as necessary.

They reached the end of the hall, and Zannah thought she had Bane trapped. This time she used her lightsaber to slap aside the violet bolts of lightning rather than trying to absorb them and stumbling back. Bane still had one more trick up his sleeve, however.

She was less than a meter away, her blade already slashing in for the killing blow, when she felt all the hair on the back of her neck rise. A shimmering purple cocoon of dark side energy enveloped Bane, a fragile shell holding back a storm of pure power.

She tried to pull back but it was too late. As her blade bit into the cocoon the energy was released in a sudden burst that sent both of them flying backward. Bane slammed hard into the wall against his back and crumpled to the ground. Zannah was tossed ten meters farther, landing hard on the stone floor.

They rose to their feet at the same time, neither seriously injured. But yet again Bane had managed to thwart her attack and work himself out of a corner.

Zannah merely shrugged and began another slow, relentless advance. She paused for a moment when the sound of the alarms changed.

She knew almost instantly what had happened. They had only a few minutes to escape before the explosions buried them alive.

There were two options: break off the battle and run for the ship, or throw caution to the wind and take one last reckless charge at her Master. She couldn’t let Bane get away. She had to end this now!

As she gathered herself to charge, Bane fired off another bolt of lightning. She ducked to the side and it whizzed past her ear, striking the wall and sending up a shower of dust and stone flecks.

Despite missing her the first time, Bane followed it up with another blast on the exact same trajectory. Turning her head to follow the course of the misguided bolt, Zannah saw where the first had hit the wall. The stone had been disintegrated in a fist-sized hole, revealing something that looked like bright red plastic beneath it.

She recognized it as the casing of a demolition charge just in time to throw herself backward, using the Force to shield herself from the worst of the explosion. She was thrown clear as the entire wall blew out, sending huge chunks of stone spewing into the passage. The ceiling was shredded, tearing loose massive blocks that tumbled to the ground.

Choking on the cloud of dust and smoke, Zannah picked herself up. The passage in front of her was completely blocked by rubble and debris from the blast. She could feel Bane on the other side of the rocks; he had survived the blast, just as she had. But now they were separated by tons of impassable stone.

She walked slowly over to the collapsed section of the hallway and placed a hand on the edge of one of the massive stones blocking her way. Even using the Force, it would take hours to clear a path. There was no way to deny the truth: she had him, and she had let him get away.

The vibrations of another explosion, this one far away in some deep chamber of the dungeon, rumbled up through the floor, reminding her she was out of time. Cursing her missed opportunity, she turned and ran back the way she had come, racing for her ship.

Overhead, the evacuation alarms continued to wail.

Bane had hoped his apprentice would be caught off guard by his unexpected tactic. There was a small chance she would actually be killed by the explosion, buried under the collapsing rock. But as he picked himself up in the aftermath, he could sense she was still alive. Despite the fact she had been trying to kill him, the knowledge brought him a small measure of satisfaction. He had trained her well.

The primary goal of the explosion hadn’t been to kill her, anyway. The desperate ploy was actually Bane’s last chance to escape a battle he knew he couldn’t win. In that he had been successful … though if he wanted to survive he still had to find a way out of the prison before the whole place came crashing down.

He had no real sense of where he was in the labyrinthine dungeon. Before Zannah found him, he had been following Caleb’s daughter, letting the Force guide him with no real conscious thought as to the path he was taking.

Reaching out with his mind, he sensed that the princess was gone now. But Bane had slaughtered more than a dozen guards during his escape; they had to have shuttles somewhere in the facility. And even if he didn’t know where to find them, he knew he could trust in the Force.

He broke into a run, darting left and right down passages as they opened up without any thought or hesitation, doing his best to ignore the incessant howls of the evacuation alarms.

Throughout his life, even before he had known who and what he was, he had been guided by the Force. During his military career he had led a charmed life, somehow leading the Gloom Walkers virtually unscathed through some of the war’s bloodiest campaigns. He had simply considered himself lucky, or blessed with good instincts.

He skidded around a corner, his boots losing traction for a second. At the same time, he felt the shock wave of a massive explosion rippling up from chambers somewhere far below. He fought for his balance and managed to keep his feet, accelerating down the next hall.

It was impossible to tell if he was going in the right direction; the unadorned stone walls looked the same in every passage. He felt the reverberations of a second distant explosion, reminding him that he was running out of time. Yet the slope of the corridor was leading him upward, which encouraged him.

It was only after he had began his training at the Sith Academy on Korriban that he realized his incredible run of fortune had actually been a manifestation of the Force. Even before he was aware of its power it had acted through him, shaping the events of his life by guiding and directing his choices and actions.

Learning to harness that power—to take control of his destiny, rather than to let it keep controlling him—had allowed him to ascend to his current position. The Force had become a tool; its power was his to command and bend to his will.

But here, only minutes away from complete annihilation, Bane allowed himself to revert to the ways of his youth. Focusing on trying to find a way out would require effort and concentration that would only slow him down. He couldn’t think and plan; he had to react and hope.

He wheeled around another corner, sprinted down a short hall, and charged out onto a steel balcony overlooking a massive, high-roofed chamber. He arrived just in time to see a shuttle with the Doan royal crest rising up and flying away. For an instant he thought the princess might be on board. However, when he reached out he felt a very different presence piloting the craft … someone with a powerful connection to the dark side. Bane couldn’t allow his attention to be drawn by the mysterious individual escaping in the shuttle, however: he had a far more pressing problem.

From his vantage point atop the balcony he could clearly see the Iktotchi who had led the ambush against him back at his mansion. She was dressed in the same black cloak, and she was standing beside a black and red shuttle.

She had been looking at the escaping vehicle, but as it sped away she turned to face Bane. Seeing him, an expression of satisfaction flickered across her features.

“I have been waiting for you,” she called out to him.

The last time they had fought she had bested him; this time he was unarmed and drained from his battle with Zannah. Yet he was still confident he could defeat her. Without the advantage of surprise and twenty mercenaries backing her up, she was no match for him one-on-one. And if she cut him with her poisoned blades again, he’d be ready to burn away the toxin before it overwhelmed his system.

Bane grabbed the railing of the balcony and pulled himself over, ignoring the tremor caused by another explosion from inside the facility.

His feet were already moving as he hit the floor below, driving him toward his foe. To his surprise, the Iktotchi didn’t retreat as he bore down on her. She didn’t even draw her weapons. Instead, she dropped to one knee and bowed her head, holding her hands out palms up as if presenting him with an offering.

The unexpected reaction caused him to pull up short a few meters from her. At this distance he could clearly see she was holding the hooked handle of his missing lightsaber and what appeared to be his own Holocron in her hands.

“A gift, my lord,” she said, tilting her head to look up at him.

“You tried to kill me,” Bane said warily, not taking his eyes off her.

“I was hired to capture you,” she corrected. “It was just a job. Now that job is finished.”

Reaching out, Bane took the hilt from her hand. His fingers slipped around the familiar curved grip, and he ignited the blade.

The Iktotchi rose to her feet but showed no fear.

“Why are you still here?” Bane asked.

“I knew you had broken free,” she explained. “I hoped you might come here during your escape.”

“You had a premonition I would find you?” Bane was aware the Iktotchi were supposed to have precognitive abilities, but he had only the vaguest idea of how powerful or accurate their visions might be.

“Night after night I have seen you in my visions,” she answered. “Our destinies are intertwined.”

“What if your destiny is to die at my hand?” he asked, raising up his blade.

“Neither of us is fated to die in this place, my lord.”

As if in opposition to her words, another explosion from inside the facility rocked the chamber.

“What do you want from me?”

“Let me study under you,” she implored, seemingly oblivious to the rapidly mounting danger from the collapsing prison. “Instruct me in the dark side. Teach me the ways of the Sith.”

“Do you realize what you are asking?” Bane demanded.

“My existence has no meaning,” the Iktotchi explained. “You can give my life purpose. You can guide me to my destiny.”

“What can you offer me in return?”

“Loyalty. Devotion. A shuttle to escape this prison before it collapses. And Caleb’s daughter.”

The next explosion was close enough that they could actually hear it echoing from down the hall.

“I accept,” Bane said, extinguishing his lightsaber after a moment’s consideration.

Less than a minute later they were aboard the Iktotchi’s shuttle, leaving the Stone Prison and the final, violent throes of its destruction behind them.

Zannah was retracing her steps, following the long route back through the dungeon and up to the small hangar where she hoped Set and her shuttle would still be waiting for her. Her entire body was infused with the Force, her legs propelling her along so fast the wind caused her hair to stream out behind her.

As she ran she could feel the tremors rising up from deep within the dungeon, each blast a little nearer than the one before it. The explosion Bane had caused had been a single charge set off by his crackling bolt of lightning. These explosions were far more powerful: eight or ten charges in close proximity all detonating at the same time, collapsing not a small stretch of corridor but rather an entire section of the facility.

By the time she crossed from the lit halls of the reopened areas of the dungeon into the darkened passages of the unused wing where she had first come in, the explosions were close enough for her to hear them as well as feel the vibrations through the floor. They were coming more frequently now, too. Instead of every ten seconds, they pounded out in a steady rhythm.

She plunged into the blackness, not even bothering with a glow stick. Her breath was ragged and irregular, but her stride never faltered. Every muscle and nerve in her body was tingling with the power of the Force, her senses heightened to supernatural levels. She didn’t need to see to find her way: like a bat she could hear the alarms echoing off the walls, floor, and ceiling, painting a sonar image of her surroundings. The rumbling boom-boom-boom of the charges rang out in counterpoint to the wail of the alarms.

When she burst into the hangar where her shuttle waited, she was surprised by two things. The first was how bright the lights from her shuttle seemed after the total darkness of the subterranean passages she had been racing through. The second was that Set Harth was missing.

She’d always suspected he might cut and run, but she couldn’t think of a reason Set would disappear but still leave her shuttle behind. She didn’t have time to worry about it now, however. She heard the roar of another explosion, this one so close it actually made the walls of the hangar shake.

Jumping into the shuttle she fired it up as another detonation caused the entire vessel to rock back and forth on its struts. Fighting not to be thrown from the pilot’s chair, Zannah pulled back on the stick and the ship rose up off the ground. Banking sharply, she turned it toward the entrance and jammed her fist down on the thrusters.

The Victory sprang forward, hurtling through the cavern’s mouth as the final explosion set off the charges built into the hangar walls, collapsing the entire structure behind her.

Safely away, Zannah punched in a trajectory and activated the autopilot, letting the ship skim across Doan’s surface as she tried to catch her breath. The mad dash to freedom had left her both mentally and physically exhausted. Her body was covered in sweat, and the muscles of her thighs and calves were quivering as she slumped in her seat, threatening to cramp up at any second.

She had survived, but she could hardly call the mission a success. She had let Bane slip through her fingers, and she had no doubt her Master had found a way to escape the Stone Prison’s destruction just as she had. On top of that, she had lost her apprentice.

She didn’t know if Set had escaped or if he had perished in the blast, and she had no easy way to find out. The connection she had forged with Bane over twenty years was strong enough to stretch across the breadth of the galaxy: she would feel his death no matter where or when it happened. Set had been her apprentice for only a few days. She would sense him if he was in close proximity, as she would any individual who possessed a powerful affinity for the Force, but there was no special bond between them.

But Set was the least of her problems. Bane was still out there, and as soon as he found another lightsaber he’d come looking for her … unless she found him first.

The problem was, Zannah had no idea where to begin her search.

24

The Stone Prison’s escape shuttle was small in size and lacked the luxuries of the princess’s personal ship, but it had been fitted with a Class Five hyperdrive and was well provisioned for interstellar travel. Theoretically, if there was ever a need to activate the dungeon’s self-destruct sequence, there was also a strong possibility that key members of the royal family or their staff might be forced to flee Doan.

In Serra’s case this was actually true. She could only imagine the political fallout she had caused. The king’s father had decommissioned the Stone Prison; officially it was still inactive. Its destruction would lead to a host of questions as to what exactly was going on in the complex beneath the royal family’s estate. Any investigations would turn up nothing, of course: the demolition charges had been carefully engineered to inflict maximum structural damage. Any proposed recovery operation would prove too expensive and impractical. Whatever secrets the Stone Prison held would be buried forever.

That wouldn’t stop the rumors and speculation, though. The miners already mistrusted the nobility; discovering the infamous dungeons had been reopened—even temporarily—would stir up bad blood and reopen old wounds. Sympathy and recruitment for the rebels would increase.

Her own disappearance would add to the confusion, but in the long run it would be better if she just disappeared. She had sworn loyalty to House Doan and she had betrayed them, bringing trouble and misfortune down on Gerran’s kin. If the king and everyone else believed she was dead, sealed away forever beneath ten thousand tons of rock, it would be easier for them to clean up the mess she had left behind.

Unable to return to her home on Doan, she had charted a course for the only other place in the galaxy she had ever known happiness. However, as she brought the shuttle in to land on the edge of her father’s camp on Ambria, it wasn’t joy she was feeling.

In the space of only a few short months it seemed as if she had lost everything. Alone, confused, and racked by guilt, she had come here in the hope of finding peace … for herself, and for her friend.

It was early evening; the last light of day was just fading over the horizon as she unloaded Lucia’s body. Laying her friend gently on the ground, she returned to the shuttle and found a small shovel tucked away in the supplies at the back.

The sandy ground was soft, making her chore far easier than it would have been on most other worlds. Even so, it took her more than an hour of steady digging before the grave was complete. As best she could, she lowered Lucia’s body into the hole she had dug, then picked up the shovel and buried her friend.

The desert heat had faded quickly with the setting of the sun, and once her exertions were over, the chill made Serra shiver. But the physical activity had been cathartic. The numbness that had clouded her thoughts and emotions had faded.

A light breeze kicked up, and she shivered. Instead of going to the shuttle, however, she crossed the camp and sought shelter in her father’s old, abandoned shack.

Inside, she huddled in a corner and closed her eyes. She could still feel her father’s presence here. Even though he was gone, being in this place made it easy to call up memories: his face, his voice. She was able to draw solace from them, as if her father’s quiet strength and wisdom were somehow being passed from the place he had lived nearly all of his adult life into her.

It was only now that she realized how wrong she had been. Caleb had always warned her about the evils of the dark side, yet when the time came she had ignored his words. And everything that had gone wrong—all the blood that now stained her hands—could be traced back to her own hatred and desire for revenge.

It had begun with Gerran’s death. Instead of grieving and moving on, she had clung to her sorrow until it transformed into bitter anger that consumed her every waking moment. In desperation, Lucia had hired an assassin to seek revenge on her behalf in the hopes it could somehow save her friend from the darkness that had enveloped her. Instead, she had unwittingly set in motion the wheels of Serra’s downfall.

The Huntress had slain the Jedi Medd Tandar. This led to the involvement of the Council and the king. When Lucia confessed her actions to Serra, she should have been horrified. Her father would have been. She should have told the king about the assassin, leaving Lucia’s name out of it to protect her friend. She could have averted all the suffering that was to come with one simple act of honesty. Instead, she chose to deceive him, hoarding the secret and reveling in the terrible crime committed on her behalf.

That lie had resulted in her trip to Coruscant, where she had learned about her father’s fate. Looking back, she had no doubt Caleb had given his life rather than submit to the will of the dark side. But instead of honoring his memory and following his example, she let her grief twist and pervert her sense of justice. Yet again she let anger and hate rule her actions, and Lucia was sent out to hire the Huntress for a second job.

When the dark man of her dreams was captured, Serra was given yet another chance to turn away from the abyss. She could have turned him over to the authorities. Instead she chose to imprison and torture him.

By this point she had sunk so far into the pit of darkness that even Lucia had sensed her corruption. Her friend had tried to warn her. She had recognized what Serra was turning into. But now Lucia was dead, as well.

Anger, revenge, deception, cruelty, hate: these were the ways of the dark side. Ever since Gerran’s death Serra had allowed them to dominate her life, drawing her farther and farther down the path. And it was only now, cowering alone in the corner of a hut in the middle of the desert, that she understood the true price.

The dark side destroys. It can’t bring peace or closure; it only brings misery and death.

Caleb had understood this. He had tried to teach her. But she had failed him, and it had cost her everything.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she whispered, reaching up to wipe a tear from her eye. “Now I understand.”

What was done could not be undone. She would have to live with the burden of her crimes. But going forward she would not allow herself to be seduced by the dark side again. Whatever fate awaited her, whatever consequence or punishment befell her, she would accept it with stoic calm and quiet strength.

I am still my father’s daughter.

Bane was well aware how close he had come to dying at Zannah’s hand in the Stone Prison. Yet he was still alive, proof of his enduring strength and power. He had gone in a prisoner, but he had emerged more powerful than when he had entered. Andeddu’s Holocron may have been lost, most likely buried forever in the dungeon’s collapse, but he had already claimed its most precious knowledge: the secret of essence transfer. And though his apprentice was still alive, he might just have found her replacement.

He studied the Iktotchi carefully as she worked the shuttle’s controls, making subtle adjustments to keep them on course as they left the calm vacuum of space and descended into the turbulence of Ambria’s atmosphere.

She had told him her name was the Huntress, and that she had spent the past five years as a freelance assassin, honing her ability to identify and exploit weakness in her targets. It was hard to argue with the results; in her brief encounters with Bane she had already demonstrated both notable ambition and incredible potential. Her achievements were even more impressive when one considered that she had never been given any formal training in the ways of the Force. Everything she did came from natural ability. Pure instinct. Raw power.

Her ability to disrupt the Force in others only gave further testament to her strength. She had never been trained in this rare and difficult technique; she simply unleashed it against her enemies through sheer force of will: crude but effective.

However, it was her other talent that truly intrigued the Dark Lord.

“How did you track me to Ciutric?” he asked as the shuttle dropped down toward the planet’s desert surface.

“My visions,” the Huntress explained. “If I concentrate, they allow me to see images: people, places. Sometimes I catch glimpses of the future, though they do not always come true.”

“The future is never static,” Bane told her. “It is constantly shaped by the Force … and those with the power to control the Force.”

“Sometimes I also see visions of the past. Memories of what was. I saw you here on Ambria. With a young blond woman.”

“My apprentice.”

“She still lives?”

“For now.”

On the horizon they could see the first light of Ambria’s sun stretching out toward them. As the bright yellow beams fell across the nose of the shuttle, Bane couldn’t help but wonder how far the Iktotchi’s abilities could extend if she was given proper instruction and guidance.

He had the wisdom to interpret events and foresee their most likely outcome, but he rarely experienced true visions of the future. He was able to manipulate the galaxy around him, driving it inexorably toward a time in which all bowed down to the Sith, but it was a struggle to keep everything on course. His long-term plans to wipe out the Jedi and rule the galaxy were in a constant state of flux, reacting to unexpected and completely unforeseeable events that altered the social and political landscape.

Each time this happened, Bane had to retreat and regroup until he was able to evaluate and properly react to the changes. But if the Huntress could learn to properly harness her power, the Sith would no longer be limited only to reacting. They could anticipate and predict these random changes, preparing for them long before they happened.

And there was an even greater possibility. Bane knew fate was not preordained. There were many possible futures, and the Force allowed her to see only examples of what might be. If she could learn to sort through her visions, separating out the various divergent timelines, was it possible she could actually control them, too? Could she one day have the power to alter the future simply by thinking about it? Could she use the power of the Force to shape the very fabric of existence and make her chosen visions become reality?

“In the hangar you said you were waiting for me,” Bane noted, anxious to get a better understanding of her talent. “Your visions told you I was coming?”

“Not exactly. I had a sense of … something. I could feel the significance of the moment, though I didn’t know what would happen. My instincts told me it would be to my benefit to wait.”

Bane nodded. “Are your instincts ever wrong?”

“Rarely.”

“Is that why we’re here on Ambria? Your visions—your instincts—told you Caleb’s daughter would come here?”

“The princess met me here when she hired me to find you,” the assassin replied. “This place haunts her. I didn’t need a vision to know this was where she would run.”

The Dark Lord smiled. She was smart as well as powerful.

A few minutes later the ship touched down on the edge of Caleb’s camp, landing beside a small escape shuttle.

Disembarking from the craft, Bane was reminded of the power trapped within Ambria’s surface. The Force had once devastated this world before its power was trapped by an ancient Jedi Master in the depths of Lake Natth. Now the planet was a nexus of both dark and light-side power.

He noticed a freshly dug grave a few meters off to one side, but he didn’t give it a second glance. The dead were of no consequence to him.

With long, purposeful steps he made his way across the camp toward the dilapidated shack. The Huntress followed at his side, matching him stride for stride.

Before he reached his destination, however, the princess emerged from the hut to confront him. She was unarmed and alone, but unlike their last meeting in the prison cell, he didn’t sense any fear in her this time. There was a sense of serenity about her, a tranquillity that reminded Bane of his first meeting with her father.

Bane’s own mood had changed as well. He was no longer driven by an unquenchable desire for bloody vengeance. In the Stone Prison he had needed to draw strength from his anger to survive and defeat his enemies. Here, however, he was in no danger. Afforded the luxury of careful consideration, he had realized that there was no need to kill her … not if he could make use of her skills.

They stood face-to-face, staring at each other, neither speaking. In the end, it was Serra who broke the silence.

“Did you see the grave when you landed? I buried Lucia there last night.”

When Bane didn’t respond, she slowly reached up and wiped a single tear away from her eye before continuing.

“She saved your life. Don’t you even care that she’s dead?”

“The dead have no value to the living,” he told her.

“She was your friend.”

“Whatever she was is gone. Now she is nothing but decaying flesh and bone.”

“She didn’t deserve this. Her death was … pointless.”

“Your father’s death was pointless,” Bane said. “He had a valuable skill; twice he saved my life when no other could have healed me. Had it been my choice I would have left him alive in case I ever needed his services a third time.”

“He would have never helped you by choice,” Serra countered. There was no anger in her voice, though her words had the steely ring of truth.

“But he did help me,” Bane reminded her. “He was useful. I could have a use for you as well, if you share his talent.”

“My father taught me everything he knew,” she admitted. “But, like him, I will never help a monster like you.”

She turned to address the Iktotchi standing silently by Bane’s side.

“If you follow this man he will destroy you,” she warned. “I’ve seen the rewards given to those who walk the path of the dark side.”

“The dark side will give me power,” the Huntress replied confidently. “It will guide me to my destiny.”

“Only a fool believes that,” the princess replied. “Look at me. I gave in to my hate. I let it consume me. My desire for revenge cost me everything and everyone I care about.”

“The dark side will devour those who lack the power to control it,” Bane agreed. “It’s a fierce storm of emotion that annihilates anything in its path. It lays waste to the weak and unworthy.

“But those who are strong,” he added, “can ride the storm winds to unfathomable heights. They can unlock their true potential; they can sever the chains that bind them; they can dominate the world around them. Only those with the power to control the dark side can ever truly be free.”

“No,” Serra replied, gently shaking her head. “I don’t believe that. The dark side is evil. You are evil. And I will never serve you.”

There was a quiet defiance in her words, and Bane sensed nothing he could say or do would ever persuade her. For a brief moment he considered attempting the ritual of essence transfer, then quickly dismissed the idea. The ritual would consume his physical form, and if he failed to possess her body his spirit would be trapped forever in the void. Her will was as strong as her father’s, and he didn’t know if he was powerful enough to overcome it.

He didn’t need to do this now. He still had several years before his current body failed completely. It was better to wait and try to find a technician to create a clone body. That, or find someone younger and more innocent.

“She is of no use to us, Master,” the Iktotchi noted, an eager gleam in her eye. “May I kill her for you?”

He nodded, and the Huntress stepped forward, advancing slowly on the other woman. Bane sensed the assassin liked to savor the kill, reveling in the fear and pain of her victims. But Serra made no move to defend herself. She didn’t try to run, or beg for mercy. Instead, she stood perfectly still, willing to meet her fate with mute acceptance.

Recognizing she would get no satisfaction from Caleb’s daughter, the assassin ended Serra’s life.

25

Zannah’s fingers hesitated over the Victory’s nav panel as she pondered her next destination. Ever since escaping the Stone Prison, she had kept the shuttle in a low-level orbit around Doan.

She didn’t want to go back to Ciutric. Bane was still alive and she needed to find him, but she didn’t think he’d be returning to their home anytime soon.

For a time she had considered heading to Set’s estate on Nar Shaddaa. If he was dead, he certainly couldn’t object if she used his place as a temporary base while she set out to hunt down her Master. And if he happened to be there when she arrived—if he had somehow escaped the dungeon’s collapse—then Zannah had plenty of questions for him.

However, the more she thought about confronting the man she had chosen as her apprentice, the less the idea appealed to her. Looking back, it was clear to her that Set had been a mistake. Overeager to assume the role of Dark Lord, she had convinced herself that he was an acceptable choice. Desperate to find an apprentice of her own, she had ignored his obvious flaws.

Set was a dangerous man—one she suspected she might have to deal with later on if she discovered he was still alive—but he wasn’t fit to be a Sith. His affinity for the Force was strong, and he willingly embraced many of the dark side’s more self-serving aspects. But he lacked discipline. He was consumed by worldly wants and desires that clouded his greater vision. Worst of all, he clearly lacked ambition.

Zannah had lured him into her service with a combination of threats to his life and promises of power. But she had been deceiving herself as much as Set. It was obvious he had no real desire to rule the galaxy. He was content with his lot in life, and was unwilling to make the sacrifices necessary to turn himself into something more. And for some reason, she had been unable to see it. Maybe she was afraid to look. Maybe Set reminded her too much of herself.

The words Bane had thrown at her when she accused him of violating the Rule of Two still rang in her mind.

I waited years for you to challenge me. But you were content to toil in my shadow.

Was he right? Was it possible that on some level she was afraid of taking on the responsibility of Sith Master? No. She had tried to kill him.

Tried and failed, even though Bane didn’t have his lightsaber. Was it possible she hadn’t really been trying to beat him? Had some small part of her subconscious mind held her back just enough so that Bane could survive until he saw his chance to escape?

No. That’s what he wants me to think.

Bane’s words had been a ploy. He was trying to undermine her confidence, looking for any edge that would let him survive. But he was wrong. Zannah had truly wanted to kill him in the halls of the dungeon. And yet somehow he still managed to live.

Zannah was forced to admit that there was another, even more disturbing, possibility. Was Bane simply stronger than she was? If she couldn’t defeat him when he was unarmed, what chance would she have once he reclaimed his lightsaber?

No. That didn’t make sense, either. Bane may have escaped with his life, but her Master did not win that battle. Her lightsaber had given her a huge advantage; it had forced Bane to be on the defensive. So why hadn’t she been able to finish him?

She had obviously made a tactical error. But what was it?

The question gnawed at her as she sat back in her seat and crossed her arms, the nav computer still awaiting its next destination. She bit down on her lip, concentrating. The answer was there; she just had to figure it out.

In her mind she replayed the scenario, analyzing it over and over again. She had been patient, careful. Because of this her Master had been able to keep her at bay despite her advantage. But if she had been more aggressive during the duel, she would have opened herself up to a potentially lethal counterattack.

Was that the answer? Did she have to risk defeat to claim victory?

Zannah shook her head. That wasn’t it. Bane had taught her that risk should always be minimized. Gambles relied on luck. Take enough chances and sooner or later luck will turn against you, even with the Force on your side.

And then it came to her. She had tried to defeat him using brute force; she had fought the battle on his terms.

She would never be Bane’s equal in physical strength. He would always be superior to her in martial skill. So why had she tried to defeat him in lightsaber combat, when her true talents lay elsewhere?

She had fallen into his trap. He had pretended to have a weapon, knowing she would see through his bluff. Bane had wanted her to focus on his missing lightsaber above all else. He was goading her into battle.

Using her lightsaber to defeat an unarmed opponent was the simplest, most obvious path to victory … one Bane had expertly led her down. But the most obvious path was rarely the best one.

Bane didn’t fear her blades. There was only one thing she possessed that he was wary of: Sith sorcery. Zannah could do things with the Force that Bane couldn’t even attempt. She could attack the minds of her opponents, turning their own thoughts and dreams against them.

During her apprenticeship, Bane had encouraged her in her studies of the magical arts. He had given her ancient texts filled with arcane rituals, urging her to expand her knowledge and push the boundaries of her talent. He had directed her training so that she could achieve her full potential. But he did not realize just how far she had come.

In addition to the tomes her Master had provided, Zannah had sought out her own sources of hidden Sith knowledge over the years. Practicing in secret, she had progressed far beyond Bane’s expectations, learning new spells to unleash the dark side in ways he had never even imagined.

Next time we meet, Master, I will show you just how powerful I have become.

She had a feeling that meeting would be soon. Bane was out there, somewhere. Plotting and planning for their next encounter. If she didn’t find him soon, Zannah knew, then he would find her.

Night was falling by the time the Huntress returned to the camp. Bane had ordered her to bury Serra’s body—not out of a sense of respect or honor, but simply to keep away scavengers and remove the corpse before it began to decay. To her credit, the Iktotchi hadn’t protested or questioned his command: she either understood the need or trusted his judgment.

While she was gone, Bane had collected kindling from a small woodpile at the back of the hut and started a fire to ward off the chill. The Iktotchi now stood before him, the glow of the flames transforming her red skin to a bright, sinister orange.

“You said you want me to teach you,” he noted, crouching down to stir the fire with a stick. He held it in his left hand, his grip tight to keep the tremor from returning.

“I want to learn the ways of the Sith.”

“If you are to become my apprentice, you must cast away the chains of your old life. You must sever all ties to family and friends.”

“I have none.”

“You will not be able to return to your home; you must be willing to leave behind all your worldly possessions.”

“Wealth and material goods mean nothing to me,” she replied. “I crave only power and purpose. With power, anything you want or need can simply be taken. With purpose, your life has meaning.”

Bane nodded approvingly, stirring the fire once more before continuing.

“If you become my apprentice, who you were will cease to exist. You must be reborn in the ways of the dark side.”

“I’m ready, my lord.” There was no mistaking the eagerness in her voice.

“Then choose a new name for yourself, as a symbol of your new and greater existence.”

“Cognus,” she said after a moment’s consideration.

Bane was impressed. She understood that power rested not in her blades or her bloodlust, but in her knowledge, wisdom, and ability to see the future.

“A good name,” he said, setting the stick down and rising to his full height. As he did so, the Iktotchi dropped to one knee before him and bowed her head.

“From this day forward you are Darth Cognus of the Sith,” he said.

“I am ready to begin my training,” Cognus replied, still down on one knee before him.

“Not yet,” he said, walking past her and heading to the shuttles on the far side of the camp. “There is still one important matter to take care of.”

Cognus jumped up to follow him. “Your old apprentice,” she guessed.

Or was it a guess?

Bane stopped and turned back toward her. “Have you seen what will happen between me and my apprentice?”

“Ever since I came to this world to meet the princess I have dreamed of you both,” Cognus admitted. “But the meaning is unclear.”

“Tell me what you’ve seen,” Bane ordered.

“The details are always changing. Different locations, different worlds, different times of the day or night. At times I see her dead at your feet, other times she is the victor.

“I have tried to make sense of it, but there are too many contradictions.”

“The future of the Sith is precariously balanced between Zannah and myself,” Bane explained. “Whoever survives our confrontation will control the destiny of the Sith, but our strength is too evenly matched for you to foresee the outcome.”

The Iktotchi didn’t reply, pondering his words in silence.

Bane left her alone to think on her first lesson, continuing on to her vessel. He passed the twin graves without a second glance.

Climbing inside the shuttle, he set the commtransmitter to the frequency of Zannah’s personal shuttle and sent out a coded distress signal.

Zannah had drifted off into a restless sleep, only to be awakened by a slow, steady beep from her control console. Examining the source, she saw it was a long-range distress call. Instead of being broadcast across multiple band lengths, however, this one was coming in on the Victory’s private channel. Only one person besides her knew that frequency.

Curious, she decoded the message. It comprised only four words: Ambria. The healer’s camp.

Her first thought was that Bane was setting a trap for her, trying to lure her in. But the more she thought about it, the less likely that seemed. It was obvious who the message was from. If he was setting a trap, why reveal himself like this when it would only put her on her guard?

Maybe he just wanted this to end. Before drifting off to sleep, Zannah had been thinking about what he said to her before their confrontation in the halls of the Stone Prison.

Only the strongest has the right to rule the Sith! The title of Dark Lord must be seized, wrenched from the all-powerful grasp of the Master!

If Bane still believed in the Rule of Two—if he still believed it was the key to the survival and eventual dominance of the Sith—then this message was a challenge, an invitation to his apprentice to come to Ambria and end what they had begun in the Stone Prison.

She had to admit, it was better than wasting years chasing each other across the galaxy, setting traps and plotting each other’s destruction. Bane had reinvented the Sith so that their resources and efforts would be focused against their enemies rather than each other. When the apprentice challenged the Master it was meant to be decided in a single confrontation: quick, clean, and final.

Now, however, the Order had been fractured. They were no longer Master and apprentice, but competing rivals for the mantle of Sith Lord. They were effectively at war, and as long as they both lived, the Sith would be divided. Was it so hard to believe that, for the sake of the Order, Bane wanted to end it with a duel on Ambria? If Bane still honored the Rule he had created, then the message could be taken at face value.

But what about Andeddu’s Holocron?

She had initially thought he was seeking eternal life so that he could defy the Rule of Two by living forever. Now she wasn’t so certain. Would immortality really be a violation of the Rule’s underlying principles? The secrets inside the Holocron might keep Bane from aging, but she didn’t think they could protect him from falling in battle. If she was strong enough to defeat him, she would still earn her place as Master, just as Bane had intended when he first found her as a young girl on Ruusan.

Now she wondered if the Holocron was just a safeguard to keep the Order strong. Perhaps Bane saw it as a way to protect against an unworthy candidate ascending to the Sith throne simply because the Master became weak and infirm with age.

Zannah leaned forward and plotted in a course for Ambria, wondering what had made Bane choose the healer’s camp as the location of their final encounter.

The world was steeped in the energies of the dark side; for the first decade of her apprenticeship Bane and Zannah had dwelled there near the shores of Lake Natth. But he wasn’t calling her back to their camp; he was waiting for her at Caleb’s.

Two times the Dark Lord had nearly died there. Did that have anything to do with his choice of location? Or was there some other explanation?

It was still possible she was about to walk into a trap. Ambria was a sparsely inhabited world. It would be easy to make preparations there without drawing unwanted attention.

Yet her instincts told her that wasn’t what Bane was plotting. And if her instincts were wrong about something as important as this, then she deserved whatever was waiting for her.

Either way, she reasoned as the ship made the jump into hyperspace, this will all be over soon.

Night had passed on Ambria, giving way to the scorching heat of day. With the rising of the sun, Bane and Cognus had retreated inside the shelter of the hut. There the Dark Lord had sat cross-legged on the floor, meditating and gathering his strength in preparation for Zannah’s arrival.

“She’ll probably show up with an army at her heels,” the Iktotchi warned.

Bane shook his head.

“She knows she must face me alone.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Sith used to be as plentiful as the Jedi. Unlike the Jedi, however, those who served sought to tear their leaders down. Their ambition was natural; this is the way of the dark side. It is what drives us, gives us strength. Yet it can also destroy us if not properly controlled.

“Under the old ways, a powerful leader would be brought down by the combined strength of many lesser Sith working together. It was inevitable, a cycle that repeated over and over. And each time, the Order as a whole grew weaker.

“The strongest were killed, and the weak tore the Sith apart with their petty wars of succession. Meanwhile, the Jedi remained united, confident in the knowledge their enemies were too busy fighting one another to ever defeat them.”

“You discovered a way to break this cycle,” Cognus chimed in.

“Now everything we do is guided by the Rule of Two,” Bane explained. “One Master, one apprentice. This assures that the Master will only fall to a worthy successor.

“Zannah knows that if she is to rule in my place, she must prove she is more powerful by defeating me herself.”

Cognus nodded. “I understand, Master. I will not interfere when she arrives.”

As if on cue, the sound of a shuttle’s engines roared through the camp. The two of them rose to their feet and stepped out into the desert heat just as Zannah’s ship touched down.

She emerged a few seconds later. As Bane had predicted, she was alone.

He marched forward to meet her, Cognus hanging back near the entrance to the hut. He stopped in the center of the camp. Zannah took her stand halfway between the shuttles and where Bane now stood, eyeing the Iktotchi in the background suspiciously.

“She will not interfere,” Bane assured her.

“Who is she?”

“A new apprentice.”

“She has sworn allegiance to you?”

“She is loyal to the Sith,” Bane explained.

“I want to learn the ways of the dark side,” Cognus called out to Zannah. “I want to serve under a true Sith Master. If you defeat Bane, I will swear my loyalty to you.”

Zannah tilted her head to the side, studying the Iktotchi carefully before nodding her agreement to the offer.

“Who lies in the graves?” she asked, turning her attention back to Bane.

“Caleb’s daughter and her bodyguard,” he replied. “She was the one who imprisoned me. She fled here when the Stone Prison was destroyed.”

He felt no need to explain in any further detail. Zannah didn’t need to know who Lucia was, or her connection to Bane.

“I wondered why you chose this place to meet,” Zannah muttered. “I thought it might have some symbolic meaning for you.”

Bane shook his head.

“The last time we were here you were too weak to even stand,” his apprentice reminded him. “You were helpless, and you thought I had betrayed you to the Jedi.

“You said you would rather die than be a prisoner for the rest of your life. You wanted me to take your life. But I refused.”

“You knew I still had things to teach you,” Bane recalled. “You swore you would not kill me until you had learned all my secrets.”

“That day is here,” Zannah informed him, igniting the twin blades of her lightsaber.

Bane drew out his own weapon in response, the shimmering blade rising up from the curved hilt with a low hum.

The two combatants dropped into fighting stances and began to circle slowly.

“I have surpassed you, Bane,” Zannah warned him. “Now I am the Master.”

“Then prove it.”

He lunged toward her, and the battle began.

26

Zannah expected Bane to come at her aggressively, but even so she was caught off guard by the ferociousness of his attack.

He opened with a series of two-handed overhead chops, using his great height to bring his blade hacking down at her from above. She easily blocked each blow, but the momentum of the crushing impact caused her to stagger back, throwing her off balance.

She recovered quickly, however, spinning out of the way when he followed up with a low, looping swipe meant to hew her off at the knees. She retaliated with a quick jab with the tip of one of her blades toward Bane’s face, but he ducked his head to the side and came back with a wide-arcing, single-handed slash at chest level.

Zannah intercepted his blade with one of her own, angling her weapon so that the momentum of Bane’s attack was redirected downward, sending the tip of his lightsaber into the dirt. This should have exposed him to a counterthrust, but he was already reacting to her move, driving his entire body forward into Zannah’s before she could bring her weapon up.

His weight slammed into her, knocking her back as Bane snapped his neck forward. Zannah threw her head back just in time, and the head-butt that would have smashed her face glanced off her chin instead.

Scrambling to stay on her feet, Zannah raised her weapon back up, spinning the handle so that the twirling blades formed a defensive wall that repelled Bane’s next half a dozen blows.

During her years under Bane, they had sparred hundreds of times. During these sessions she had always known he was keeping something in reserve for the day they would inevitably fight for real. Only now did she realize just how much he had been holding back.

He was faster than she could ever have imagined, and he was using new sequences and unfamiliar moves he had never revealed during their practice sessions. But somehow she had survived the initial flurry, and now she knew what to expect.

The next exchange had a more familiar feel. Bane pressed the action with a devastating, complex combination of attacks, but Zannah was able to intercept, parry, or deflect each one. Her defensive style was simple, but performed correctly it was nearly impenetrable.

Recognizing this, Bane backed off and changed tactics. Instead of a savage, relentless pressure meant to overwhelm her, he settled into a pattern of feints and quick thrusts, probing and prodding her defenses in search of a weakness as the two of them settled in for a long battle of attrition.

Zannah had fought him once before, back when he was still encased in his orbalisk armor. She remembered it had been like battling a force of nature: the chitinous parasites covering his entire body had been impervious to lightsaber attacks, allowing him to attack with pure animal rage. She had survived that encounter only by convincing Bane she hadn’t betrayed him, and in the end he had let her live.

His style back then had been brutish and simple, though undeniably effective. Now, however, his technique was more advanced. Unable to simply bully his way heedlessly forward, he had developed an unpredictable, seemingly random style. Each time she thought she could anticipate where the next attack was coming from, he changed tactics, disrupting the rhythm of the battle and causing her to give ground.

She was being driven back in a slow retreat, and she realized he was herding her toward the shuttles, hoping to pin her against the metal hull with no place to go. Zannah was content to play along, taking quick, careful steps backward over the soft, sandy terrain as she began to gather her power.

The key was subtlety. She couldn’t let Bane sense what she was doing or he would launch into another wild flurry of attacks, forcing her to focus all her energy on keeping him at bay. She had to give him the illusion he was controlling the action, when in fact she was only a few seconds away from unleashing a burst of dark side sorcery that would rip his mind apart.

Bane circled wide trying to come in on her left flank. Zannah simply altered the angle of her retreat, taking several more steps backward to keep him at a safe distance as she swatted away a few token slashes and strikes.

With her attention split between the enemy in front of her and the Sith spell she was preparing to cast Zannah didn’t notice how close she was to the freshly dug graves. Her heel caught on the uneven ground as she backed up, throwing her off balance as she fell awkwardly to the ground and landed on her back.

Bane was on her in an instant, his lightsaber slashing viciously, his heavy boots kicking and stomping at her prone body. Zannah thrashed and twisted on the ground, her lightsaber flailing desperately to parry Bane’s blade. She felt a sharp crack as the toe of his boot caught her in the ribs, but she rolled with the impact and managed to end up back on her feet.

Her vision was blurred with stars, pain shooting through her left side with each gasp as she tried to catch her breath. Bane didn’t let up, coming at her with a frenetic assault. The next few seconds were a blur as Zannah relied purely on instincts honed over twenty years to parry the wave of blows, miraculously keeping him from landing a lethal strike.

Zannah threw herself into a back handspring, flipping head over heels three times in quick succession just to put some space between her and Bane. Before the fourth one she suddenly stopped and went into a crouch, thrusting forward with her lightsaber like a spear to impale her opponent as he charged after her in pursuit … only Bane wasn’t there.

Anticipating her move, he had stopped several meters away.

Gritting her teeth against the pain from her broken rib, Zannah rose to her feet. Bane hadn’t killed her, but her survival had come with significant cost. She was tired now, the desperate scramble to escape after tripping on the grave had pushed her one step closer to physical exhaustion. She felt the broken rib with each ragged breath, and she sensed that the injury would make it harder for her to pivot and turn, limiting the effectiveness of her defensive maneuvers.

She couldn’t wait any longer. She’d wanted to surprise Bane, slowly gather her strength before unleashing it so he wouldn’t be able to properly defend against it. But she knew she wouldn’t survive another clash of lightsabers.

Opening herself up to the power of the dark side, Zannah reached out and touched the mind of her Master.

Bane sensed the attack, bracing himself.

He had encouraged Zannah’s training in Sith sorcery, knowing she might very well use it against him one day. If it turned out he wasn’t strong enough to survive, then he wasn’t worthy of being the Dark Lord of the Sith.

That didn’t mean he was unprepared, however. Dark side sorcery was complex; it attacked the psyche in ways that were difficult to explain and even more difficult to defend against. Bane had no talent for it, yet he had done his best to study the techniques. What he learned was that the only real counter was the victim’s strength of will.

Zannah’s assault began as a sharp pain in his skull, like a hot knife stabbing directly into his brain before carving down to slice the two hemispheres in half. Then the knife exploded, sending a million burning shards in every direction. Each one burrowed into his subconscious, seeking out buried fears and nightmares only to rip them free and haul them to the surface.

Bane let out a scream and dropped to his knees. When he stood up the sky was thick with a swarm of flying horrors. Their wings were torn and ragged, leather flaps of skin hanging from exposed bone. Their bodies were small and malformed, their twisted legs ending in long, sharp talons. Their flesh was a sickly yellow: the same color as the faces of the miners who had died on Apatros after being trapped in a gas-filled chamber.

Their features were inhuman, but their burning eyes were unmistakable: each creature was staring at him with the hate-filled gaze of his abusive father. As one, they swooped down on him, their mouths screeching out a cry that sounded like his father’s name: hurst, hurst, hurst!

Swinging his lightsaber wildly at the demon flock, Bane crouched low to the ground, his free hand coming up to cover his face and ward off the talons clawing at his eyes. As the swarm enveloped him, he caught a glimpse of Zannah standing a few meters away, her face frozen in a mask of intense concentration.

Bane knew it was a trick; the beasts weren’t real. They were just figments of his imagination born from the repressed memories of his childhood, his greatest fears manifested in physical form. But he had conquered these fears long ago. He had turned his fear of his abusive father into anger and hate—the tools that had given him the strength to endure and eventually escape his life on Apatros.

He knew how to defeat these demons, and he struck back. Unleashing a primal scream, he channeled his terror into pure rage and lashed out with the dark side. It tore through the swarm in a burst of searing violet light, utterly obliterating them.

Zannah watched as Bane huddled against the ground, his lightsaber flailing wildly at invisible ghosts, but she didn’t let her concentration falter. Bane’s mind was strong; if she let up even for an instant he might break free of the spell.

For a second she thought she had won as Bane let out a shriek, but the burst of energy that followed sent her reeling backward.

Regaining her balance she saw that Bane was on his feet again, and she knew he had resisted the spell. But she still had one more surprise for her Master.

Again she opened herself up to the dark side. This time, however, she didn’t attack Bane directly. Instead, she let it flow through her, drawing it from the soil and stone of Ambria itself. She called to power buried for centuries, summoning it up to the surface in wispy tendrils of dark smoke snaking up from the sand.

The thin tendrils crawled along the ground, reaching for one another, twining themselves together into writhing tentacles each several meters long.

Then, in response to her unspoken command, the tentacles rose up and lashed out at her foe.

* * *

Bane saw the strange black mist crawling across the dirt and knew this was no illusion. Somehow Zannah had given substance and corporeality to the dark side, transforming it into half a dozen shadowy, serpentlike minions rising up from the ground.

Suddenly the tendrils flew at him. He slashed out with his lightsaber to chop the closest one in half, but the blade simply passed through the black mist with no effect. Bane threw himself to the side, but the tip of the tentacle still brushed against his left shoulder.

The material of his clothes melted away as if it had been splashed with acid. A chunk of flesh beneath simply dissolved, and Bane screamed in agony.

Once, orbalisks had fused themselves to his body with a burning chemical compound so intense it had nearly driven him mad. Ten years ago they had been removed when Bane’s flesh had been literally cooked by a concentrated blast of his own violet lightning. During her interrogation, Serra had pumped him full of a drug that had felt like it was eating him alive from the inside. But the excruciating pain he felt from the mere touch of the dark side tendril was unlike anything Bane had ever experienced before.

The damage was far from life threatening, but it nearly sent Bane into shock. He fell hard to the ground, his jaw slack and his eyes rolling back into his head. His mind was reeling from the brief contact. The pain radiated through every nerve in his body, but what he felt went far beyond any mere physical sensation. It was not the raw heat of the dark side but rather the empty chill of the void itself spreading through him. It touched every synapse in his mind, it clawed at the core of his spirit. In that instant he tasted utter annihilation, and felt the true horror of absolute nothingness.

Somehow he managed to stay conscious, and when the next tentacle coiled in he was able to scramble to his feet and roll out of the way.

His wounded shoulder was still throbbing, but the hollow darkness that had threatened to overwhelm him had faded, allowing him to ignore the pain.

The tendrils were massing for another assault, moving faster as Zannah fed them with a steady stream of power. Bane unleashed violet lightning from his fingers, but when the bolts struck the sinewy black forms they were absorbed with no apparent effect. They were made of pure dark side energy, and there was no way he could harm them.

That left him with only one option—kill Zannah before the tentacles killed him.

He unleashed another lightning blast at his apprentice. She caught the incoming bolts with her lightsaber, rendering them harmless. But her reactions were a fraction slower than normal, and Bane knew it was more than just her injured ribs. The effort to keep the tendrils animated was pushing Zannah’s ability to draw on the Force to its limits, leaving her vulnerable in other areas.

Lightsaber in hand, Bane charged toward her. The tendrils flew to intercept him, but Bane ducked, jumped, and dodged, weaving his way under, over, and around them as he bore down on Zannah.

She brought her lightsaber up to defend against his attack, but without the full power of the Force behind them her movements were awkward and clumsy. She parried the blow, but didn’t react fast enough as Bane dropped down and took her feet out from under her with a sweep of his leg. As she fell he twisted the handle of his lightsaber so that his blade caught one of hers, wrenching the hilt from her grasp and sending her weapon flying across the camp.

With his foe unarmed and helpless at his feet Bane brought his arm down for the coup de grâce, only to have it intercepted midswing by one of the dark side tendrils. It wrapped itself around the elbow. Skin, muscle, sinew, and bone dissolved instantaneously, severing the limb.

His disembodied forearm and fist tumbled harmlessly to the ground, his lightsaber flicking off as the hilt slid from his suddenly nerveless fingers. The Dark Lord didn’t scream this time; the pain was so intense it left him mute as he collapsed to the ground.

Everything went black. Blind and alone, he felt the void closing in. In desperation he reached out with his left hand, clutching Zannah’s wrist as she lay on the ground beside him. With his last act, he summoned all his remaining power and invoked the ritual of essence transfer.

Working at the speed of thought, his mind tapped into the currents of the Force, seizing on the power of the dark side, spinning, shaping, and twisting it into the intricate patterns he had ripped from Andeddu’s Holocron.

The cold darkness swallowing him up vanished, replaced by a searing burst of crimson light as the power of the ritual was unleashed. Bane was aware of his flesh being utterly consumed by the unimaginable heat, reduced to ashes in a thousandth of a second. But he was no longer a part of his own body. His spirit had discarded it like an old shell in favor of a new one.

Bane was suddenly fully aware of his physical surroundings. He could see with Zannah’s eyes, he could hear with her ears. He could feel the intense heat of the ritual’s crimson glow through her skin. But Zannah was still there, too. She sensed his assault; he could feel her terror and confusion as if they were his own. And when she screamed in horror he screamed with her.

The black tendrils vanished as her concentration was shattered, disappearing like smoke on the wind. Instinctively, she fought to repel the invader. Bane could feel her pushing him away, rejecting him, trying to drive him out even as he relentlessly tried to force his way in and snuff out her existence.

It became a battle of wills, their two identities locked together inside Zannah’s mind, grappling for possession of her body. They teetered on the precipice of the void, Bane seeking to obliterate all trace of her identity while she sought to cast him down into the blackness.

For a moment they seemed to be evenly matched, neither gaining nor giving ground. And then suddenly it was over.

27

From a safe distance, the Iktotchi had watched the two figures from her dreams wage battle. She was an impartial observer, having no preference as to which one would emerge victorious. She only wanted to serve whoever proved the stronger.

The conflict had been brief but intense: she had marveled at the speed of their blades, their movements so fast she could barely follow the action. She had felt the awesome power of the Force unleashed through bursts of lightning and the sinister tendrils that crawled up from the ground. She shivered in anticipation with the knowledge that she, too, could one day learn to wield such power.

She had seen Bane knock the woman to the ground and slap her weapon away, only to have his arm hewn off by the touch of one of the black tentacles. And then there had been a flash so bright she had been forced to close her eyes and look away.

When she looked back Bane was gone, his body reduced to a pile of ash. The blond woman still lay on the ground, dazed but alive. The deadly tendrils were nowhere to be seen.

Cautiously she approached the scene. Bane’s severed arm lay on the ground, but the rest of his body had been consumed by the crimson flare. In the instant before she had looked away, however, she had felt something.

Even from a distance, she had sensed an incredible burst of power—the same power she had sensed in Bane himself. She didn’t know how it was possible, but it almost seemed as if the Dark Lord’s life energy had burst free of his physical form in one glorious instant, releasing itself upon the material world. Then, as suddenly as she had sensed the presence, it was gone, vanishing like an animal gone to ground.

Crazy as it might seem, there was only one place she could imagine it could have gone.

The woman on the ground shifted, her eyes fluttering open as she rose slowly to her feet. She moved awkwardly and couldn’t seem to stand up straight, as if she was unfamiliar with how her own limbs and muscles worked … though this could simply have been the result of exhaustion from the battle.

She shook her blond head from side to side, and the motion seemed to restore some sense of her equilibrium. Standing straight and tall, she turned and fixed the Iktotchi with a cold stare.

Knowing how insane her words would sound, Cognus hesitated before asking, “Lord Bane?”

“Bane is gone,” the woman replied, her voice confident and strong. “I am Darth Zannah, Dark Lord of the Sith and your new Master.”

The Iktotchi dropped to one knee, folding her hands in supplication and bowing her head.

“Forgive me, Master.”

“What is your name?” Zannah demanded.

“I am … Darth Cognus.” She had almost answered the Huntress, but she managed to catch her mistake just in time. “Bane had me take the name to symbolize my new life as a Sith apprentice.”

“Then your training has already begun,” Zannah replied. “Did he explain the Rule of Two that guides our Order?”

“He started to. But there was no time for any real lessons before you arrived,” she admitted.

“I will teach you the Rule of Two and the ways of the Sith,” Zannah promised. “In time, I will teach you everything.

“Rise, Cognus,” she added, and the Iktotchi did as she was instructed.

Zannah turned away from her and walked over to pick up her lightsaber from where it had fallen to the ground.

“Eventually you will construct your own lightsaber,” Zannah said, speaking but not turning to look back at her. “For now, take Darth Bane’s.”

Cognus scooped the curved hilt of Bane’s lightsaber up from the ground, unfazed by the gruesome severed limb resting only a few centimeters away.

“Bane reinvented the Sith,” Zannah explained, standing with her back to her new apprentice as she stared out across the vast, empty expanse of the Ambrian desert. “We are his legacy, and though he is gone his legacy will endure.

“Now I am the Master, and you are my chosen successor. One day you will face me just as I faced Bane, and only one of us will survive.

“This is the way of our Order. An individual may die, but the Sith are eternal.”

“Yes, Master,” Cognus answered.

She couldn’t help but notice that, as she was speaking, Zannah was continually clenching and unclenching the fingers of her left hand.

EPILOGUE

Set Harth was too smart to go back to his estate on Nal Hutta. If Zannah had survived the destruction of the Stone Prison it was only a matter of time until she went there to look for him, and he had no desire to ever run into her again.

Luckily, Set had built his life on the underlying principle that he might have to go on the run at any time. He had other mansions on other worlds, from Nar Shaddaa all the way to Coruscant itself, and at least a dozen false identities he could assume if he didn’t want to be found. He wasn’t worried about Zannah, not when he had something far more interesting right in front of him.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shuttle he had stolen from the Stone Prison, Andeddu’s Holocron resting on a small table a few meters away. All his attention was focused on the small holographic figure being projected from the black pyramid’s top.

“It will take years for you to learn the lessons I must teach you,” the gatekeeper warned him, its skeletal features serious and grim. “You must prove yourself worthy before I reveal the ritual of essence transfer to you.”

“Of course, Master,” he said, nodding eagerly. “I understand.”

He had chafed under the tutelage of Master Obba and the Jedi. He had felt serious reservations about serving as an apprentice under Zannah. But Set was more than willing to do whatever the gatekeeper required of him.

For one thing, he knew he only had to answer to the gatekeeper when the Holocron was active. Unlike a living Master, Set was the one who would decide where and when he would begin each lesson.

More important, however, the Holocron was offering him something he actually wanted. Zannah had tried to tempt him with promises of power and the chance to destroy the Jedi and rule the galaxy. But Set already had more than enough power to get what he needed from life.

Plus, you’re charming, smart, and handsome. What more could anyone ask for?

The last thing he wanted was to rule the galaxy. Let the Jedi and Sith wage their endless war. The outcome made no difference to him. He was a survivor; all he wanted was to live a long and prosperous life. And if he learned the secrets of essence transfer, his life would be very long indeed.

He would have to be careful, of course. Never draw too much attention to himself. Try not to cross paths with the Jedi or powerful people like Zannah.

No problem. Basically, just do what you’re already doing.

That, and guard the Holocron as if his life—his long, long life—depended on it.

“Are you ready to begin your first lesson?” the gatekeeper asked.

“You have no idea, Master,” Set replied with a wry grin. “You have absolutely no idea.”

To my wife, Jennifer.
As we start a new chapter in our life,
there is no one I would rather share it with.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to thank Shelly Shapiro for all her comments and feedback on the early drafts. This wasn’t an easy novel to write, but she helped me create a worthy finale to this trilogy.

I also want to thank all the fans who have taken the time to follow Des on his journey from a simple miner to the Dark Lord of the Sith. Embrace the dark side.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DREW KARPYSHYN is the New York Times bestselling author of Star Wars: Darth Bane: Path of Destruction and its sequel, Star Wars: Darth Bane: Rule of Two. He also wrote the acclaimed Mass Effect series of novels, and is an award-winning writer/designer of video games for BioWare. After spending most of his life in Canada he finally grew tired of the long, cold winters and headed south in search of a climate more conducive to year-round golf. He now lives in Texas with his wife, Jennifer, and their cat.

BOOKS BY DREW KARPYSHYN

Baldur’s Gate II: Throne of Bhaal

Temple Hill

Mass Effect: Revelation
Mass Effect: Ascension

Star Wars: Darth Bane: Path of Destruction
Star Wars: Darth Bane: Rule of Two
Star Wars: Darth Bane: Dynasty of Evil

STAR WARS—The Expanded Universe

You saw the movies. You watched the cartoon series, or maybe played some of the video games. But did you know …

In The Empire Strikes Back, Princess Leia Organa said to Han Solo, “I love you.” Han said, “I know.” But did you know that they actually got married? And had three Jedi children: the twins, Jacen and Jaina, and a younger son, Anakin?

Luke Skywalker was trained as a Jedi by Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda. But did you know that, years later, he went on to revive the Jedi Order and its commitment to defending the galaxy from evil and injustice?

Obi-Wan said to Luke, “For over a thousand generations, the Jedi Knights were the guardians of peace and justice in the Old Republic. Before the dark times. Before the Empire.” Did you know that over those millennia, legendary Jedi and infamous Sith Lords were adding their names to the annals of Republic history?

Yoda explained that the dreaded Sith tend to come in twos: “Always two, there are. No more, no less. A Master, and an apprentice.” But did you know that the Sith didn’t always exist in pairs? That at one time in the ancient Republic there were as many Sith as Jedi, until a Sith Lord named Darth Bane was the lone survivor of a great Sith war and created the “Rule of Two”?

All this and much, much more is brought to life in the many novels and comics of the Star Wars expanded universe. You’ve seen the movies and watched the cartoon. Now venture out into the wider worlds of Star Wars!

Turn the page or jump to the timeline of Star Wars novels to learn more.

Fatman shivered, her metal groaning, as Zeerid pushed her through Ord Mantell’s atmosphere. Friction turned the air to fire, and Zeerid watched the orange glow of the flames through the transparisteel of the freighter’s cockpit.

He was gripping the stick too tightly, he realized, and relaxed.

He hated atmosphere entries, always had, the long forty-count when heat, speed, and ionized particles caused a temporary sensor blackout. He never knew what kind of sky he’d encounter when he came out of the dark. Back when he’d carted Havoc Squadron commandos in a Republic gully jumper, he and his fellow pilots had likened the blackout to diving blind off a seaside cliff.

You always hope to hit deep water, they’d say. But sooner or later the tide goes out and you go hard into rock.

Or hard into a blistering crossfire. Didn’t matter, really. The effect would be the same.

“Coming out of the dark,” he said as the flame diminished and the sky opened below.

No one acknowledged the words. He flew Fatman alone, worked alone. The only things he carted anymore were weapons for The Exchange. He had his reasons, but he tried hard not to think too hard about what he was doing.

He leveled the ship off, straightened, and ran a quick sweep of the surrounding sky. The sensors picked up nothing.

“Deep water and it feels fine,” he said, smiling.

On most planets, the moment he cleared the atmosphere he’d have been busy dodging interdiction by the planetary government. But not on Ord Mantell. The planet was a hive of crime syndicates, mercenaries, bounty hunters, smugglers, weapons dealers, and spicerunners.

And those were just the people who ran the place.

Factional wars and assassinations occupied their attention, not governance, and certainly not law enforcement. The upper and lower latitudes of the planet in particular were sparsely settled and almost never patrolled, a literal no-being’s-land. Zeerid would have been surprised if the government had survsats running orbits over the area.

And all that suited him fine.

Fatman broke through a thick pink blanket of clouds, and the brown, blue, and white of Ord Mantell’s northern hemisphere filled out Zeerid’s field of vision. Snow and ice peppered the canopy, frozen shrapnel, beating a steady rhythm on Fatman’s hull. The setting sun suffused a large swath of the world with orange and red. The northern sea roiled below him, choppy and dark, the irregular white circles of breaking surf denoting the thousands of uncharted islands that poked through the water’s surface. To the west, far in the distance, he could make out the hazy edge of a continent and the thin spine of snowcapped, cloud-topped mountains that ran along its north–south axis.

Motion drew his eye. A flock of leatherwings, too small to cause a sensor blip, flew two hundred meters to starboard and well below him, the tents of their huge, membranous wings flapping slowly in the freezing wind, the arc of the flock like a parenthesis. They were heading south for warmer air and paid him no heed as he flew over and past them, their dull, black eyes blinking against the snow and ice.

He pulled back on the ion engines and slowed still further. A yawn forced itself past his teeth. He sat up straight and tried to blink away the fatigue, but it was as stubborn as an angry bantha. He’d given the ship to the autopilot and dozed during the hyperspace run from Vulta, but that was all the rack he’d had in the last two standard days. It was catching up to him.

He scratched at the stubble of his beard, rubbed the back of his neck, and plugged the drop coordinates into the navicomp. The comp linked with one of Ord Mantell’s unsecured geosyncsats and fed back the location and course to Fatman. Zeerid’s HUD displayed it on the cockpit canopy. He eyed the location and put his finger on the destination.

“Some island no one has ever heard of, up here where no one ever goes. Sounds about right.”

Zeerid turned the ship over to the autopilot, and it banked him toward the island.

His mind wandered as Fatman cut through the sky. The steady patter of ice and snow on the canopy sang him a lullaby. His thoughts drifted back through the clouds to the past, to the days before the accident, before he’d left the marines. Back then, he’d worn the uniform proudly and had still been able to look himself in the mirror—

He caught himself, caught the burgeoning self-pity, and stopped the thoughts cold. He knew where it would lead.

“Stow that, soldier,” he said to himself.

He was what he was, and things were what they were.

“Focus on the work, Z-man.”

He checked his location against the coordinates in the navicomp. Almost there.

“Gear up and get frosty,” he said, echoing the words he used to say to his commandos. “Ninety seconds to the LZ.”

He continued his ritual, checking the charge on his blasters, tightening the straps on his composite armor vest, getting his mind right.

Ahead, he saw the island where he would make the drop: ten square klicks of volcanic rock fringed with a bad haircut of waist-high scrub whipping in the wind. The place would probably be underwater and gone next year.

He angled lower, flew a wide circle, unable to see much detail due to the snow. He ran a scanner sweep, as always, and the chirp of his instrumentation surprised him. A ship was already on the island. He checked his wrist chrono and saw that he was a full twenty standard minutes early. He’d made this run three times and Arigo—he was sure the man’s real name was not Arigo—had never before arrived early.

He descended to a few hundred meters to get a better look.

Arigo’s freighter, the Doghouse, shaped not unlike the body of a legless beetle, sat in a clearing on the east side of the island. Its landing ramp was down and stuck out of its belly like a tongue. Halogens glared into the fading twilight and reflected off the falling snow, turning the flakes into glittering jewels. He saw three men lingering around the ramp, though he was too far away to notice any details other than their white winter parkas.

They spotted Fatman, and one waved a gloved hand.

Zeerid licked his lips and frowned.

Something felt off.

Flares went up from the freighter and burst in the air—green, red, red, green.

That was the correct sequence.

He circled one more time, staring down through the swirl of snow, but saw nothing to cause alarm, no other ships on the island or in the surrounding sea. He pushed aside his concern and chalked his feelings up to the usual tension caused by dealing with miscreants and criminals.

In any event, he could not afford to mess up a drop of several hundred million credits of hardware because he felt skittish. The ultimate buyer—whoever that was—would be unhappy, and The Exchange would take the lost profits from Zeerid in blood and broken bones, then tack it on to the debt he already owed them. He’d lost track of exactly how much that was, but knew it was at least two million credits on the note for Fatman plus almost half that again on advances for Arra’s medical treatment, though he’d kept Arra’s existence a secret and his handler thought the latter were for gambling losses.

“LZ is secure.” He hoped saying it would make it so. “Going in.”

The hum of the reverse thrusters and a swirl of blown snow presaged the thump of Fatman’s touching down on the rock. He landed less than fifty meters from Arigo’s ship.

For a moment he sat in the cockpit, perfectly still, staring at the falling snow, knowing there’d be another drop after this one, then another, then another, and he’d still owe The Exchange more than he’d ever be able to pay. He was on a treadmill with no idea how to get off.

Didn’t matter, though. The point was to earn for Arra, maybe get her a hoverchair instead of that wheeled antique. Better yet, pros-theses.

He blew out a breath, stood, and tried to find his calm as he threw on a winter parka and fingerless gloves. In the cargo hold, he had to pick his way though the maze of shipping containers. He avoided looking directly at the thick black lettering on their sides, though he knew it by heart, had seen such crates many times in his military career.

DANGER—MUNITIONS.
FOR MILITARY USE ONLY.
KEEP AWAY FROM INTENSE HEAT
OR OTHER ENERGY SOURCES.

In the crates were upward of three hundred million credits’ worth of crew-served laser cannons, MPAPPs, grenades, and enough ammunition to keep even the craziest fire team grinning and sinning for months.

Near the bay’s landing ramp, he saw that three of the four securing straps had come loose from one of the crates of grenades. He was lucky the crate hadn’t bounced around in transit. Maybe the straps had snapped when he set down on the island. He chose to believe that rather than admit to his own sloppiness.

He did not bother reattaching the straps. Arigo’s men would have to undo them to unload anyway.

He loosened his blasters in their holsters and pushed the button to open the bay and lower the ramp. The door descended and snow and cold blew in, the tang of ocean salt. He stepped out into the wind. The light of the setting sun made him squint. He’d been in only artificial light for upward of twelve hours. His boots crunched on the snow-dusted black rock. His exhalations steamed away in the wind.

Two of the men from Arrigo’s freighter detached themselves from their ship and met him halfway. Both were human and bearded. One had a patched eye and a scar like a lightning stroke down one cheek. Both wore blasters on their hips. Like Zeerid, both had the butt straps undone.

Recognizing neither of them rekindled Zeerid’s earlier concerns. He had a mind for faces, and both of the men were strangers.

The drop was starting to taste sour.

“Where’s Arigo?” Zeerid asked.

“Doin’ what Arigo does,” Scar said, and gestured vaguely. “Sent us instead. No worries, though, right?”

No Scar shifted on his feet, antsy, twitchy.

Zeerid nodded, kept his face expressionless as his heart rate amped up and adrenaline started making him warm. Everything smelled wrong, and he’d learned over the years to trust his sense of smell.

“You Zeerid?” Scar asked.

“Z-man.”

No one called him Zeerid except his sister-in-law.

And Aryn, once. But Aryn had been long ago.

“Z-man,” echoed No Scar, shifting on his feet and half giggling.

“Sound funny to you?” Zeerid asked him.

Before No Scar could answer, Scar asked, “Where’s the cargo?”

Zeerid looked past the two men before him to the third, who lingered near the landing ramp of Arigo’s ship. The man’s body language—too focused on the verbal exchange, too coiled—reinforced Zeerid’s worry. He reminded Zeerid of the way rooks looked when facing Imperials for the first time, all attitude and hair trigger.

Suspicion stacked up into certainty. The drop didn’t just smell bad, it was bad.

Arigo was dead, and the crew before him worked for some other faction on Ord Mantell, or worked for some organization sideways to The Exchange. Whatever. Didn’t matter to Zeerid. He never bothered to follow who was fighting who, so he just trusted no one.

But what did matter to him was that the three men standing before him probably had tortured information from Arigo and would kill Zeerid as soon as they confirmed the presence of the cargo.

And there could be still more men hidden aboard the freighter.

It seemed he’d descended out of atmospheric blackout and into a crossfire after all.

What else was new?

“Why you call that ship Fatman?” No Scar asked. Arigo must have told them the name of Zeerid’s ship because Fatman bore no identifying markings. Zeerid used fake ship registries on almost every planet on which he docked.

“ ’Cause it takes a lot to fill her belly.”

“Ship’s a she, though. Right? Why not Fatwoman?”

“Seemed disrespectful.”

No Scar frowned. “Huh? To who?”

Zeerid did not bother to answer. All he’d wanted to do was drop off the munitions, retire some of his debt to The Exchange, and get back to his daughter before he had to get back out in the black and get dirty again.

“Something wrong?” Scar asked, his tone wary. “You look upset.”

“No,” Zeerid said, and forced a half smile. “Everything’s the same as always.”

The men plastered on uncertain grins, unclear on Zeerid’s meaning.

“Right,” Scar said. “Same as always.”

Knowing how things would go, Zeerid felt the calm he usually did when danger impended. He flashed for a moment on Arra’s face, on what she’d do if he died on Ord Mantell, on some no-name island. He pushed the thoughts away. No distractions.

“Cargo is in the main bay. Send your man around. The ship’s open.”

The expressions on the faces of both men hardened, the change nearly imperceptible but clear to Zeerid, a transformation that betrayed their intention to murder. Scar ordered No Scar to go check the cargo.

“He’ll need a lifter,” Zeerid said, readying himself, focusing on speed and precision. “That stuff ain’t a few kilos.”

No Scar stopped within reach of Zeerid, looking back at Scar for guidance, his expression uncertain.

“Nah,” said Scar, his hand hovering near his holster, the motion too casual to be casual. “I just want him to make sure it’s all there. Then I’ll let my people know to release payment.”

He held up his arm as if to show Zeerid a wrist comlink, but the parka covered it.

“It’s all there,” Zeerid said.

“Go on,” said Scar to No Scar. “Check it.”

“Oh,” Zeerid said, and snapped his fingers. “There is one other thing …”

No Scar sighed, stopped, faced him, eyebrows raised in a question, breath steaming out of his nostrils. “What’s that?”

Zeerid made a knife of his left hand and drove his fingertips into No Scar’s throat. While No Scar crumpled to the snow, gagging, Zeerid jerked one of his blasters free of its hip holster and put a hole through Scar’s chest before the man could do anything more than take a surprised step backward and put his hand on the grip of his own weapon. Scar staggered back two more steps, his mouth working but making no sound, his right arm held up, palm out, as if he could stop the shot that had already killed him.

As Scar toppled to the ground, Zeerid took a wild shot at the third man near the Doghouse’s landing ramp but missed high. The third man made himself small beside the Doghouse, drew his blaster pistol, and shouted into a wrist comlink. Zeerid saw movement within the cargo bay of Arigo’s ship—more men with ill intent.

No way to know how many.

He cursed, fired a covering shot, then turned and ran for Fatman. A blaster shot put a smoking black furrow through the sleeve of his parka but missed flesh. Another rang off the hull of Fatman. A third shot hit him square in the back. It felt like getting run over by a speeder. The impact drove the air from his lungs and plowed him face-first into the snow.

He smelled smoke. His armored vest had ablated the shot.

Adrenaline got him to his feet just as fast as he had gone down. Gasping, trying to refill his lungs, he ducked behind a landing skid for cover and wiped the snow from his face. He poked his head out for a moment to look back, saw that No Scar had stopped gagging and started being dead, that Scar stayed politely still, and that six more men were dashing toward him, two armed with blaster rifles and the rest with pistols.

His armor would not stop a rifle bolt.

A shot slammed into the landing skid, another into the snow at his feet, another, another.

“Stang!” he cursed.

The safety of Fatman’s landing ramp and cargo bay, only a few steps from him, somehow looked ten kilometers away.

He took a blaster in each hand, stretched his arms around to either side of the landing skid, and fired as fast he could he pull the trigger in the direction of the onrushing men. He could not see and did not care if he hit anyone, he just wanted to get them on the ground. After he’d squeezed off more than a dozen shots with no return fire, he darted out from the behind the skid and toward the ramp.

He reached it before the shooters recovered enough to let loose another barrage. A few bolts chased him up the ramp, ringing off the metal. Sparks flew and the smell of melted plastoid mixed with the ocean air. He ran past the button to raise the ramp, struck at it, and hurried on toward the cockpit. Only after he’d nearly cleared the cargo bay did it register with him that he wasn’t hearing the whir of turning gears.

He whirled around, cursed.

In his haste, he’d missed the button to raise the landing ramp.

He heard shouts from outside and dared not go back. He could close the bay from the control panel in the cockpit. But he had to hurry.

He pelted through Fatman’s corridors, shouldered open the door to the cockpit, and started punching in the launch sequence. Fatman’s thrusters went live and the ship lurched upward. Blasterfire thumped off the hull but did no harm. He tried to look down out of the canopy, but the ship was angled upward and he could not see the ground. He punched the control to move it forward and heard the distant squeal of metal on metal. It had come from the cargo bay.

Something was slipping around in there.

The loose container of grenades.

And he’d still forgotten to seal the bay.

Cursing himself for a fool, he flicked the switch that brought up the ramp then sealed the cargo bay and evacuated it of oxygen. If anyone had gotten aboard, they would suffocate in there.

He took the controls in hand and fired Fatman’s engines. The ship shot upward. He turned her as he rose, took a look back at the island.

For a moment, he was confused by what he saw. But realization dawned.

When Fatman had lurched up and forward, the remaining straps securing the container of grenades had snapped and the whole shipping container had slid right out the open landing ramp.

He was lucky it hadn’t exploded.

The men who had ambushed him were gathered around the crate, probably wondering what was inside. A quick head count put their number at six, so he figured none had gotten on board Fatman. And none of them seemed to be making for Arigo’s ship, so Zeerid assumed they had no intention of pursuing him in the air. Maybe they were happy enough with the one container.

Amateurs, then. Pirates, maybe.

Zeerid knew he would have to answer to Oren, his handler, not only for the deal going sour but also for the lost grenades.

Kriffing treadmill just kept going faster and faster.

He considered throwing Fatman’s ion engines on full, clearing Ord Mantell’s gravity well, and heading into hyperspace, but changed his mind. He was annoyed and thought he had a better idea.

He wheeled the freighter around and accelerated.

“Weapons going live,” he said, and activated the over-and-under plasma cannons mounted on Fatman’s sides.

The men on the ground, having assumed he would flee, did not notice him coming until he had closed to five hundred meters. Faces stared up at him, hands pointed, and the men started to scramble. A few blaster shots from one of the men traced red lines through the sky, but a blaster could not harm the ship.

Zeerid took aim. The targeting computer centered on the crate.

“LZ is hot,” he said, and lit them up. For an instant pulsing orange lines connected the ship to the island, the ship to the crate of grenades. Then, as the grenades exploded, the lines blossomed into an orange cloud of heat, light, and smoke that engulfed the area. Shrapnel pattered against the canopy, metal this time, not ice, and the shock wave rocked Fatman slightly as Zeerid peeled the ship off and headed skyward.

He glanced back, saw six, motionless, smoking forms scattered around the blast radius.

“That was for you, Arigo.”

He would still have some explaining to do, but at least he’d taken care of the ambushers. That had to be worth something to The Exchange.

Or so he hoped.

Darth Malgus strode the autowalk, the steady rap of his boots on the pavement the tick of a chrono counting down the limited time remaining to the Republic.

Speeders, swoops, and aircars roared above him in unending streams, the motorized circulatory system of the Republic’s heart. Skyrises, bridges, lifts, and plazas covered the entire surface of Coruscant to a height of kilometers, all of it the trappings of a wealthy, decadent civilization, a sheath that sought to hide the rot in a cocoon of duracrete and transparisteel.

But Malgus smelled the decay under the veneer, and he would show them the price of weakness, of complacency.

Soon it would all burn.

He would lay waste to Coruscant. He knew this. He had known it for decades.

Memories floated up from the depths of his mind. He recalled his first pilgrimage to Korriban, remembered the profound sense of holiness he had felt as he walked in isolation through its rocky deserts, through the dusty canyons lined with the tombs of his ancient Sith forebears. He had felt the Force everywhere, had exulted in it, and in his isolation it had showed him a vision. He had seen systems in flames, the fall of a galaxy-spanning government.

He had believed then, had known then and ever since, that the destruction of the Jedi and their Republic would fall to him.

“What are you thinking of, Veradun?” Eleena asked him.

Only Eleena called him by his given name, and only when they were alone. He enjoyed the smooth way the syllables rolled off her tongue and lips, but he tolerated it from no others.

“I am thinking of fire,” he said, the hated respirator partially muffling his voice.

She walked beside him, as beautiful and dangerous as an elegantly crafted lanvarok. She clucked her tongue at his words, eyed him sidelong, but said nothing. Her lavender skin looked luminescent in the setting sun.

Crowds thronged the plaza in which they walked, laughing, scowling, chatting. A human child, a young girl, caught Malgus’s eye when she squealed with delight and ran to the waiting arms of a dark-haired woman, presumably her mother. The girl must have felt his gaze. She looked at him from over her mother’s shoulder, her small face pinched in a question. He stared at her as he walked and she looked away, burying her face in her mother’s neck.

Other than the girl, no one else marked his passage. The citizens of the Republic felt safe so deep in the Core, and the sheer number of beings on Coruscant granted him anonymity. He walked among his prey, cowled, armored under his cloak, unnoticed and unknown, but heavy with purpose.

“This is a beautiful world,” Eleena said.

“Not for very much longer.”

His words seemed to startle her, though he could not imagine why. “Veradun …”

He saw her swallow, look away. Whatever words she intended after his name seemed stuck on the scar that marred her throat.

“You may speak your mind, Eleena.”

Still she looked away, taking in the scenery around them, as if memorizing Coruscant before Malgus and the Empire lit it aflame.

“When will the fighting end?”

The premise of the question confounded him. “What do you mean?”

“Your life is war, Veradun. Our life. When will it end? It cannot always be so.”

He nodded then, understanding the flavor of the conversation to come. She would try to disguise self-perceived wisdom behind questions. As usual, he was of two minds about it. On the one hand, she was but a servant, a woman who provided him companionship when he wished it. On the other hand, she was Eleena. His Eleena.

“You choose to fight beside me, Eleena. You have killed many in the name of the Empire.”

The lavender skin of her cheeks darkened to purple. “I have not killed for the Empire. I fight, and kill, for you. You know this. But you … you fight for the Empire? Only for the Empire?”

“No. I fight because that is what I was made to do and the Empire is the instrument through which I realize my purpose. The Empire is war made manifest. That is why it is perfect.”

She shook her head. “Perfect? Millions die in its wars. Billions.”

“Beings die in war. That is the price that must be paid.”

She stared at a group of children following an adult, perhaps a teacher. “The price for what? Why constant war? Why constant expansion? What is it the Empire wants? What is it you want?”

Behind his respirator, he smiled as he might when entertaining the questions of a precocious child.

“Want is not the point. I serve the Force. The Force is conflict. The Empire is conflict. The two are congruent.”

“You speak as if it were mathematics.”

“It is.”

“The Jedi do not think so.”

He fought down a flash of anger. “The Jedi understand the Force only partially. Some of them are even powerful in its use. But they fail to comprehend the fundamental nature of the Force, that it is conflict. That a light side and a dark side exist is proof of this.”

He thought the conversation over, but she did not relent.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why conflict? Why would the Force exist to foment conflict and death?”

He sighed, becoming agitated. “Because the survivors of the conflict come to understand the Force more deeply. Their understanding evolves. That is purpose enough.”

Her expression showed that she still did not understand. His tone sharpened as his exasperation grew.

“Conflict drives a more perfect understanding of the Force. The Empire expands and creates conflict. In that regard, the Empire is an instrument of the Force. You see? The Jedi do not understand this. They use the Force to repress themselves and others, to enforce their version of tolerance, harmony. They are fools. And they will see that after today.”

For a time, Eleena said nothing, and the hum and buzz of Coruscant filled the silent gulf between them. When she finally spoke, she sounded like the shy girl he had first rescued from the slave pens of Geonosis.

“Constant war will be your life? Our life? Nothing more?”

He understood her motives at last. She wanted their relationship to change, wanted it, too, to evolve. But his dedication to the perfection of the Empire, which allowed him to perfect his understanding of the Force, precluded any preeminent attachments.

“I am a Sith warrior,” he said.

“And things with us will always be as they are?”

“Master and servant. This displeases you?”

“You do not treat me as your servant. Not always.”

He let a hardness he did not feel creep into his voice. “Yet a servant you are. Do not forget it.”

The lavender skin of her cheeks darkened to purple, but not with shame, with anger. She stopped, turned, and stared directly into his face. He felt as if the cowl and respirator he wore hid nothing from her.

“I know your nature better than you know yourself. I nursed you after the Battle of Alderaan, when you lay near death from that Jedi witch. You speak the words in earnest—conflict, evolution, perfection—but belief does not reach your heart.”

He stared at her, the twin stalks of her lekku framing the lovely symmetry of her face. She held his eyes, unflinching, the scar that stretched across her throat visible under her collar.

Struck by her beauty, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to him. She did not resist and pressed her curves against him. He slipped his respirator to the side and kissed her with his ruined lips, kissed her hard.

“Perhaps you do not know me as well as you imagine,” he said, his voice unmuffled by the mechanical filter of his respirator.

As a boy, he had killed a Twi’lek servant woman in his adoptive father’s house, his first kill. She had committed some minor offense he could no longer recall and that had never mattered. He had not killed her because of her misdeed. He’d killed her to assure himself that he could kill. He still recalled the pride with which his adoptive father had regarded the Twi’lek’s corpse. Soon afterward, Malgus had been sent to the Sith Academy on Dromund Kaas.

“I think I do know you,” she said, defiant.

He smiled, she smiled, and he released her. He replaced his respirator and checked the chrono on his wrist.

If all went as planned, the defense grid should come down in moments.

A surge of emotion went through him, born in his certainty that his entire life had for its purpose the next hour, that the Force had brought him to the moment when he would engineer the fall of the Republic and the ascendance of the Empire.

His comlink received a message. He tapped a key to decrypt it.

It is done, the words read.

The Mandalorian had done her job. He did not know the woman’s real name, so in his mind she had become a title, the Mandalorian. He knew only that she worked for money, hated the Jedi for some personal reason known only to herself, and was extraordinarily skilled.

The message told him that the planet’s defense grid had gone dark, yet none of the thousands of sentients who shared the plaza with him looked concerned. No alarm had sounded. Military and security ships were not racing through the sky. The civilian and military authorities were oblivious to the fact that Coruscant’s security net had been compromised.

But they would notice it before long. And they would disbelieve what their instruments told them. They would run a test to determine if the readings were accurate.

By then, Coruscant would be aflame.

We are moving, he keyed into the device. Meet us within.

He took one last look around, at the children and their parents playing, laughing, eating, everyone going about their lives, unaware that everything was about to change.

“Come,” he said to Eleena, and picked up his pace. His cloak swirled around him. So, too, his anger.

Moments later he received another coded transmission, this one from the hijacked drop ship.

Jump complete. On approach. Arrival in ninety seconds.

Ahead, he saw the four towers surrounding the stacked tiers of the Jedi Temple, its ancient stone as orange as fire in the light of the setting sun. The civilians seemed to give it a wide berth, as if it were a holy place rather than one of sacrilege.

He would reduce it to rubble.

He walked toward it and fate walked beside him.

Statues of long-dead Jedi Masters lined the approach to the Temple’s enormous doorway. The setting sun stretched the statue’s tenebrous forms across the duracrete. He walked through the shadows and past them, noting some names: Odan-Urr, Ooroo, Arca Jeth.

“You have been deceived,” he whispered to them. “Your time is past.”

Most of the Jedi Order’s current Masters were away, either participating in the sham negotiations on Alderaan or protecting Republic interests offplanet, but the Temple was not entirely unguarded. Three uniformed Republic soldiers, blaster rifles in hand, stood watchful near the doors. He sensed two more on a high ledge to his left.

Eleena tensed beside him, but she did not falter.

He checked his chrono again. Fifty-three seconds.

The three soldiers, wary, watched him and Eleena approach. One of them spoke into a wrist comlink, perhaps querying a command center within.

They would not know what to make of Malgus. Despite the war, they felt safe in their enclave in the center of the Republic. He would teach them otherwise.

“Stop right there,” one of them said.

“I cannot stop,” Malgus said, too softly to hear behind the respirator. “Not ever.”

Still heart, still mind, these things eluded Aryn, floated before her like snowflakes in sun, visible for a moment, then melted and gone. She fiddled with the smooth coral beads of the Nautolan tranquillity bracelet Master Zallow had given her when she’d been promoted to Jedi Knight. Silently counting the smooth, slick beads, sliding them over their chain one after another, she sought the calm of the Force.

No use.

What was wrong with her?

Outside, speeders hummed past the large window that looked out on a bucolic, beautiful Alderaanian landscape suitable for a painting. Inside, she felt turmoil. Ordinarily, she was better able to shield herself from surrounding emotions. She usually considered her empathic sense a boon of the Force, but now …

She realized she was bouncing her leg, stopped. She crossed and uncrossed her legs. Did it again.

Syo sat beside her, callused hands crossed over his lap, as still as the towering statuary of Alderaanian statesmen that lined the domed, marble-tiled hall in which they sat. Light from the setting sun poured through the window, pushing long shadows across the floor. Syo did not look at her when he spoke.

“You are restless.”

“Yes.”

In truth, she felt as if she were a boiling pot, the steam of her emotional state seeking escape around the lid of her control. The air felt charged, agitated. She would have attributed the feelings to the stress of the peace negotiations, but it seemed to her something more. She felt a doom creeping up on her, a darkness. Was the Force trying to tell her something?

“Restlessness ill suits you,” Syo said.

“I know. I feel … odd.”

His expression did not change behind his short beard, but he would know to take her feelings seriously. “Odd? How?”

She found his voice calming, which she supposed was part of the reason he had spoken. “As if … as if something is about to happen. I can explain it no better than that.”

“This originates from the Force, from your empathy?”

“I don’t know. I just … feel like something is about to happen.”

He seemed to consider this, then said, “Something is about to happen.” He indicated with a glance the large double doors to their left, behind which Master Dar’nala and Jedi Knight Satele Shan had begun negotiations with the Sith delegation. “An end to the war, if we are fortunate.”

She shook her head. “Something other than that.” She licked her lips, shifted in her seat.

They sat in silence for a time. Aryn continued to fidget.

Syo cleared his throat, and his brown eyes fixed on a point across the hall. He spoke in a soft tone. “They see your agitation. They interpret it as something it is not.”

She knew. She could feel their contempt, an irritation in her mind akin to a pebble in her boot.

A pair of dark-cloaked Sith, members of the Empire’s delegation to Alderaan, sat on a stone bench along the wall opposite Aryn and Syo. Fifteen meters of polished marble floor, the two rows of Alderaanian statuary, and the gulf of competing philosophies separated Jedi and Sith.

Unlike Aryn, the Sith did not appear agitated. They appeared coiled. Both of them leaned forward, forearms on their knees, eyes on Aryn and Syo, as if they might spring to their feet at any moment. Aryn sensed their derision over her lack of control, could see it in the curl of the male’s lip.

She turned her eyes from the Sith and tried to occupy her mind by reading the names engraved on the pedestals of the statues—Keers Dorana, Velben Orr, others she’d never heard of—but the presence of the Sith pressed against her Force sensitivity. She felt as if she were submerged deep underwater, the pressure pushing against her. She kept waiting for her ears to pop, to grant her release in a flash of pain. But it did not come, and her eyes kept returning to the Sith pair.

The woman, her slight frame lost in the shapelessness of her deep blue robes, glared through narrow, pale eyes. Her long dark hair, pulled into a topknot, hung like a hangman’s noose from her scalp. The slim human man who sat beside her had the same sallow skin as the woman, the same pale eyes, the same glare. Aryn assumed them to be siblings. His dark hair and long beard—braided and forked into two tines—could not hide a face so lined with scars and pitted with pockmarks that it reminded Aryn of the ground after an artillery barrage. Her eyes fell to the thin hilt of the man’s lightsaber, the bulky, squared-off hilt of the woman’s.

She imagined their parents had noticed brother and sister’s Force potential when they had been young and shipped them off to Dromund Kaas for indoctrination. She knew that’s what they did with Force-sensitives in the Empire. If true, the Sith sitting across from her hadn’t really fallen to the dark side; they’d never had a chance to rise and become anything else.

She wondered how she might have turned out had she been born in the Empire. Would she have trained at Dromund Kaas, her empathy put in service to pain and torture?

“Do not pity them,” Syo said in Bocce, as if reading her thoughts. Bocce sounded awkward on his lips. “Or doubt yourself.”

His insight surprised her only slightly. He knew her well. “Who is the empath now?” she answered in the same tongue.

“They chose their path. As we all do.”

“I know,” she said.

She shook her head over the wasted potential, and the eyes of both Sith tracked her movement with the alert, focused gaze of predators tracking prey. The Academy at Dromund Kaas had turned them into hunters, and they saw the universe through a hunter’s eyes. Perhaps that explained the war in microcosm.

But it did nothing to explain the proposed peace.

And perhaps that was why Aryn felt so ill at ease.

The offer to negotiate an end to the war had come like a lightning strike from the Sith Emperor, unbidden, unexpected, sending a jolt through the government of the Republic. The Empire and the Republic had agreed to a meeting on Alderaan, the scene of an earlier Republic victory in the war, the number and makeup of the two delegations limited and strictly proscribed. To her surprise, Aryn was among the Jedi selected, though she was stationed perpetually outside the negotiation room.

“You have been honored by this selection,” Master Zallow had told her before she took the ship for Alderaan, and she knew it to be true, yet she had felt uneasy since leaving Coruscant. She felt even less at ease on Alderaan. It wasn’t that she had fought on Alderaan before. It was … something else.

“I am fine,” she said to Syo, hoping that saying it would work a spell and make it so. “Lack of sleep perhaps.”

“Be at ease,” he said. “Everything will work out.”

She nodded, trying to believe it. She closed her eyes on the Sith and fell back on Master Zallow’s teachings. She felt the Force within and around her, a matrix of glowing lines created by the intersection of all living things. As always, the line of Master Zallow glowed as brightly as a guiding star in her inner space.

She missed him, his calm presence, his wisdom.

Focusing inward, she picked a point in her mind, made it a hole, and let her unease drain into it.

Calm settled on her.

When she opened her eyes, she fixed them on the male Sith. Something in his expression, a knowing look in his eye, half hidden by his sneer, troubled Aryn, but she kept her face neutral and held his gaze, as still as a sculpture.

“I see you,” the Sith said from across the room.

“And I you,” she answered, her voice steady.

THE OLD REPUBLIC

(5,000–33 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE)

Long—long—ago in a galaxy far, far away … some twenty-five thousand years before Luke Skywalker destroyed the first Death Star at the Battle of Yavin in Star Wars: A New Hope … a large number of star systems and species in the center of the galaxy came together to form the Galactic Republic, governed by a Chancellor and a Senate from the capital city-world of Coruscant. As the Republic expanded via the hyperspace lanes, it absorbed new member worlds from newly discovered star systems; it also expanded its military to deal with the hostile civilizations, slavers, pirates, and gangster-species such as the slug-like Hutts that were encountered in the outward exploration. But the most vital defenders of the Republic were the Jedi Knights. Originally a reclusive order dedicated to studying the mysteries of the life energy known as the Force, the Jedi became the Republic’s guardians, charged by the Senate with keeping the peace—with wise words if possible; with lightsabers if not.

But the Jedi weren’t the only Force-users in the galaxy. An ancient civil war had pitted those Jedi who used the Force selflessly against those who allowed themselves to be ruled by their ambitions—which the Jedi warned led to the dark side of the Force. Defeated in that long-ago war, the dark siders fled beyond the galactic frontier, where they built a civilization of their own: the Sith Empire.

The first great conflict between the Republic and the Sith Empire occurred when two hyperspace explorers stumbled on the Sith worlds, giving the Sith Lord Naga Sadow and his dark side warriors a direct invasion route into the Republic’s central worlds. This war resulted in the first destruction of the Sith Empire—but it was hardly the last. For the next four thousand years, skirmishes between the Republic and Sith grew into wars, with the scales always tilting toward one or the other, and peace never lasting. The galaxy was a place of almost constant strife: Sith armies against Republic armies; Force-using Sith Lords against Jedi Masters and Jedi Knights; and the dreaded nomadic mercenaries called Mandalorians bringing muscle and firepower wherever they stood to gain.

Then, a thousand years before A New Hope and the Battle of Yavin, the Jedi defeated the Sith at the Battle of Ruusan, decimating the so-called Brotherhood of Darkness that was the heart of the Sith Empire—and most of its power.

One Sith Lord survived—Darth Bane—and his vision for the Sith differed from that of his predecessors. He instituted a new doctrine: No longer would the followers of the dark side build empires or amass great armies of Force-users. There would be only two Sith at a time: a Master and an apprentice. From that time on, the Sith remained in hiding, biding their time and plotting their revenge, while the rest of the galaxy enjoyed an unprecedented era of peace, so long and strong that the Republic eventually dismantled its standing armies.

But while the Republic seemed strong, its institutions had begun to rot. Greedy corporations sought profits above all else and a corrupt Senate did nothing to stop them, until the corporations reduced many planets to raw materials for factories and entire species became subjects for exploitation. Individual Jedi continued to defend the Republic’s citizens and obey the will of the Force, but the Jedi Order to which they answered grew increasingly out of touch. And a new Sith mastermind, Darth Sidious, at last saw a way to restore Sith domination over the galaxy and its inhabitants, and quietly worked to set in motion the revenge of the Sith …

If you’re a reader new to the Old Republic era, here are three great starting points:

• The Old Republic: Deceived, by Paul S. Kemp: Kemp tells the tale of the Republic’s betrayal by the Sith Empire, and features Darth Malgus, an intriguing, complicated villain.

• Knight Errant, by John Jackson Miller: Alone in Sith territory, the headstrong Jedi Kerra Holt seeks to thwart the designs of an eccentric clan of fearsome, powerful, and bizarre Sith Lords.

• Darth Bane: Path of Destruction, by Drew Karpyshyn: A portrait of one of the most famous Sith Lords, from his horrifying childhood to an adulthood spent in the implacable pursuit of vengeance.

Read on for an excerpt from a Star Wars novel set in the Old Republic era.

1/Ring

3645 BBY

Wim Nickter stood just outside the circle, awaiting first blood.

The cold morning air of Odacer-Faustin tasted like ozone, numbing his tongue and lips, making his heart pound harder in his chest until it actually shook the heavy fabric of his wind-resistant tunic. He had climbed the seventy-seven steps to the top of the temple with the other students, muscles aching, sweat from his exertions still drying in the wind. The lightsaber training session was over. Now the duels would begin.

In the three standard years since he’d arrived at the academy, Nickter had come to anticipate these duels with a special kind of excitement. A tall, rangy seventeen-year-old with a thatch of jet-black hair, he gazed into the circle with hungry blue-gray eyes that matched the unforgiving landscape almost perfectly.

Nickter looked down. From the top of the temple, the Sith academy resembled nothing so much as a partially demolished wheel, its spokes radiating crookedly out from the central hub of the tower. Its ancient chambers, enclosed walkways, tunnels, and temples, and the great library that served as its haunted heart had all long ago begun to crumble and deteriorate from decades of accumulated snow and ice, and the constantly shifting tectonic eccentricities of the planetary crust. The result was a sprawling ruin of forgotten spaces—some of them palatial—groaning under tons of age-tortured Sith architecture.

It was here that they’d come, Nickter and several hundred others, to learn everything they needed to know about the dark side of the Force.

Directly across from him, Lord Shak’Weth, the Sith Blademaster, took three steps forward into the open space, turning to regard the students from beneath the hood of his cloak. For a moment, the wind had fallen still; all was quiet except for the scrape of his boots across the flat, uneven surface. The Blademaster’s stony countenance betrayed no hint of expression. The thin, lipless slit of his mouth never moved. No comment was made, nor was any needed. This was the moment when the first challenge would be made, and Nickter—along with all his peers—had heard the rumors.

This was the day that Lussk was going to issue his challenge.

Rance Lussk was the academy’s top student—a Sith acolyte of such fierce promise and potential that few, if any, dared approach him, let alone face him in a duel. These days he spent most of his time in private training sessions with Shak’Weth and the other Masters at the academy. Some said that he’d even sat in meditation with Lord Scabrous himself, up in the tower … although Nickter had his private doubts about this last bit. He hadn’t met a student yet who actually claimed to have been inside the tower.

Even so, he waited, holding his breath.

The group had fallen absolutely silent.

A moment later Lussk stepped forward.

He was an agile, muscular figure in a robe and tunic, with a long face and flaming red hair that he’d grown long, pulled back and kept braided so tightly that it pulled on the corners of his pale green eyes, giving them a slightly slanted look. But his most outstanding feature was the self-contained silence that hovered around him like a lethal cloud. To approach him closely was to experience a climate of dull dread; the one or two times Nickter had accidentally bumped into Lussk in the halls of the academy, he’d actually felt the temperature drop along with the oxygen content. Lussk emanated menace; he breathed it out like carbon dioxide.

Nickter felt his whole body fall still, save his pounding heart, as Lussk turned slowly to regard his fellow acolytes with an indifferent, almost reptilian stare. As far as opponents went, there were only a few worthy of his time. Lussk’s gaze passed over Jura Ostrogoth, Scopique, Nace, Ra’at, some of the most skilled duelists in the group. If challenged, Nickter wondered, would any of them accept? The humiliation of backing down was nothing compared with the potential catastrophe of losing to Lussk in the circle; in his hands even a training blade, with its durasteel shaft and millions of microscopic toxin-filled barbs, could deal out disastrous injury.

Lussk stopped, and Nickter realized that the red-haired acolyte was staring at him.

Lussk’s words hung in the air.

“I challenge Nickter.”

At first, Nickter was certain that he’d misheard. Then the reality sank in and he felt his innards drop, as if the ground itself had abruptly vaporized beneath his feet. Time seemed to have stopped. He was aware of Shak’Weth and all the apprentices turning around to look in his direction, waiting for him to step forward or back down. As a purely practical matter, Lussk’s selection made no sense—although he could hold his own in practice, Nickter was clearly the other student’s inferior, providing no opportunity to hone his skills or even offer the others a good performance.

Still the challenge hovered in the air between them, unanswered.

“Well, Nickter?” the Blademaster asked. “What do you say?”

Nickter lowered his head, feeling a slow familiar warmth crawl into his cheeks and neck. He was aware that a formal reply wasn’t necessary. Simply bowing his head and stepping back would be answer enough, and a moment later the whispers would begin as what little prestige he’d manage to garner here in the last two years began to evaporate around him. It was an unwinnable dilemma, of course, but at least this way he would walk away intact. Several of Lussk’s previous opponents hadn’t been so lucky—the last three had left the academy after losing to him. One had taken his own life. It was as if losing to Lussk had … done something to them, inflicted some profound inner wound from which there was no recovery.

The answer was obvious. Nickter would just step backward and bow out.

And so he was as shocked as any of them when he heard himself say, “I accept.”

The murmur of surprise rippled audibly through the other apprentices. Even Shak’Weth cocked one thorny eyebrow.

Nickter blinked, unable to believe what he’d just said. He hadn’t meant to speak at all. The words had bubbled out of him involuntarily. Looking up at Lussk, seeing the slightest hint of a smile curling at the corners of that small, unremarkable mouth, Nickter realized that, of everyone here, only Lussk was unsurprised by his response.

And for the first time, Nickter saw what was happening.

This wasn’t about dueling at all.

It was about something else entirely.

“Well, then,” Lussk said, beckoning with his free hand. “Come on.”

Before he knew it, Nickter felt himself being sucked forward into the ring, one foot and then the other, dragging the rest of his body along with it. His heart raced as his body registered that this was actually happening. No, his mind protested, I’m not doing this, I don’t want this, but that didn’t matter because all he could see now was Lussk’s smile broadening enough to show a faint yellow glint of canines behind the lips. Nickter knew what was going on, and what was worse, Lussk knew that he knew. Lussk’s eyes were braziers of pure, sadistic pleasure, and their intensity transformed his otherwise plain face, distorting it somehow, making it appear horrible.

They were face-to-face now, close enough that Nickter could feel that terrible coldness spilling out of Lussk’s pores, and Lussk raised his training blade, its shaft hissing up through the air as he placed himself in standard ready position.

Don’t, Nickter wanted to say, his eyes silently pleading, but instead he saw his own blade go up. It was too late. Whatever was being done to him—whatever Lussk was doing to him—

Lussk’s blade swung down hard and fast. Nickter reacted instantly, with instinctive speed and agility ingrained from countless practice sessions. Metal struck metal with a clang that shook the air, reverberating through the circle around them and making it hum like a high-voltage circuit. Something snapped to life inside Nickter, and when Lussk came at him again he was ready, deflecting Lussk’s next thrust with a sharp, unhesitating parry and snapping back with a move that suddenly created an opening between them. From what sounded like far away, Nickter heard the crowd let out a slight, appreciative mutter. He’d already outlasted their most pessimistic expectations.

Lussk charged forward again, and Nickter sprang to deflect the thrust, less skillfully now. That fleeting sense of competence was already gone, stripped away, replaced by a dizzying loss of perspective. How had he gotten so close, so quickly? Lussk was moving too fast, and Nickter’s blade seemed to have come to life all on its own in his hand, jerking and slashing to hold Lussk off, but Lussk’s cold smile told the whole story. I own you, maggot, it said, the strength of the other cadet’s will booming through Nickter’s skull, and you will do as you’re told.

No. Nickter’s jaw clenched, summoning what remained of his resolve. He understood now that his only hope lay in freeing himself, wresting his will away from Lussk’s authority. What the other acolyte was practicing on him now was obviously some advanced Force mind control technique learned from one of the Sith Lords at the academy, perhaps at the knee of Scabrous himself. Had the rumors of his secret tutelage been true after all? Whatever the case, for reasons known only to Lussk, he’d decided to try it out this morning on Nickter, and Nickter had nothing to counter with.

With an audible grunt of effort, Nickter surged forward again, blade at the ready, only to be met by a bemused smirk of contempt, as if Lussk expected nothing else. In a series of moves, Lussk sequenced seamlessly from a brutal and precise Makashi attack to the more acrobatic Form IV, flipping up from a standing position, spinning midair, and landing behind Nickter before he’d even had a chance to react. Too late, Nickter heard the blade hiss off to his right, whipping across his elbow, and he let out a sharp, agonized cry as his hand went numb, fingers springing open to release his blade.

Helpless, disarmed, he felt the cold tip of Lussk’s durasteel come to rest against the back of his neck, biting into the skin just below the base of his skull. There was that awful numb sensation that Nickter knew all too well, the second before the nerve ending registered an overload of pain.

At least it was over.

Now, Lussk’s voice throbbed inside his head. It was low and toneless, an irresistible command. Push yourself backward into my blade.

Nickter resisted, straining forward, muscles drawing taut in his neck—but it was useless. He couldn’t hold back. The pain swelled, doubled back on itself, grew infinitely worse, shrieking through him, and some grim, instinctive part of him knew that he was seconds away from severing his own spinal cord, shorting out his brain, and extinguishing all remaining thought in that final instant of consciousness. He sucked air through his teeth and looked out, as if from some great distance, at the faces of the others outside the circle, staring him down. Their eyes were bright and eager, awaiting the inevitable coup de grâce.

Curse you, Nickter thought, curse every stinking one of you, I hope you all have to endure this torture or worse, I hope you each suffer like I am suffering now, I hope—

With a gasp, Nickter lurched forward, suddenly free, away from the blade, reaching up to place one hand over the painful but ultimately superficial wound it had left just above the bony knob of his vertebral prominence. He could barely manage to keep his hand upright. The battle—both physical and mental—had reduced his body to a blurry hologram of its former self, muscles trembling, wrung to rags, skin and hair drenched in fresh sweat. His head felt like it was going to explode. He couldn’t catch his breath. Turning around to face Lussk on legs that seemed as though they might betray him and buckle at any moment, he caught a glimpse of the other acolyte’s impenetrable green eyes.

You only lived because I let you, those eyes said, and Nickter understood that in the end, Lussk’s act of mercy had sentenced him to the greater humiliation of unwarranted survival.

He looked away, turned, and made his way through the crowd. No one spoke or made a sound as he followed the stony steps downward from the top of the temple to the snow-strafed walkway below.

2/Crack

By noon, news of Nickter’s defeat had traveled through the entire academy. None of the other students had seen what had happened to him afterward, but Jura Ostrogoth assumed that Nickter had gone to the infirmary to be treated for his physical wounds … or back to the dorms to lick his less tangible ones.

“Either way,” Jura told Kindra, the two of them ducking past the crooked slab of stone that marked one of the five entranceways to the academy’s library, “it doesn’t matter now, does it? He was barely scraping by anyway.”

Kindra nodded but didn’t say anything. They were on their way to the dining hall for their midday meal. After a brief reprieve this morning, it was snowing again, harder now—thin, sand-dry pellets seething over the ground in front of them, creeping up over the walkways and drifting up against the academy’s outer walls. Jura, who’d grown up on Chazwa in the Orus sector, was well adjusted to such weather and walked with his robe open at the throat, hardly noticing the wind gusting through its fabric. He’d seen other acolytes from warmer climates trying to affect the same air of brazen indifference through chattering teeth and blue lips, but the cold truly didn’t bother him, never had.

“What about Lussk?” Kindra asked.

Jura cast a sidelong glance at her. “What about him?”

“Did anybody see where he went?”

“Who knows?” He wasn’t quite able to disguise the annoyance in his voice. “Lussk comes and goes as he pleases. Days go by without anyone seeing him. From what I’ve heard …”

He let the words trail off, looking up at the tower that rose from the very center of the academy, an immense black cylinder jutting against the gray sky. Every so often, black vapor would billow up from the top, staining the sky, raining down thick and gritty bits of ash, and the smell was bad enough to make his eyes and nose water. Unlike the cold, Jura had never gotten used to smoke and ash.

“What have you heard?” Kindra asked.

He shook his head. “Just rumors.”

“I’ve heard them, too.” She was staring at him pointedly. “And not just about Lussk.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” she said, and walked past him into the dining hall.

His midday meal in front of him—a stringy lump of mubasa hock and canned montra fruit—Jura Ostrogoth pondered the dining hall around him with a watchful eye. He’d been around long enough to know that violence begat violence, that news of what had happened to Nickter could easily inflame some other apprentice’s desire to move upward in the academy’s pecking order—and Jura was just high enough up to be a target.

He ate alone, as did most of the students, with his back to the wall as much as possible. There wasn’t much talk, just the steady clink of utensils and trays. When you were here, you powered through the meal as quickly as possible and got back to your training sessions, or study, meditation, and Force drills. Time spent socializing was time wasted—it showed weakness, a lack of discipline and vigilance that was practically an invitation to your enemies.

“Jura.”

He paused and looked around. Hartwig was standing there with Scopique by his side. Their trays were full, but neither one of them looked like he was planning on sitting down there.

“What is it?”

“You hear about Nickter?”

“What, at the temple?” Jura shrugged. “That’s old news.”

Hartwig shook his head. “He disappeared.”

“Shocker.” Jura shrugged, turning back to his food. He was peripherally aware of the other apprentices nearby inclining their heads ever so slightly forward to eavesdrop on the conversation, and wondered if there might be more worth hearing. “He’s probably off someplace feeling sorry for himself.”

“No, I mean, he literally disappeared,” Hartwig said. “The med tech, Arljack, told Scopique all about it. One minute he was at the infirmary getting treated for that cut on his arm. Arl went to check on one of the other patients and when he came back, Nickter was gone.”

“So he just walked out.”

Hartwig leaned forward, lowering his voice. “He’s the fourth one this year.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what they’re saying.”

Jura sighed, realizing where the conversation was going. “You’ve been talking to Ra’at too much.”

“Maybe so,” Scopique said, speaking up for the first time, “but maybe in this case, Ra’at knows what he’s talking about.”

Jura turned all the way around and glared at him. Scopique was a Zabrak, and his tribal tattoos and the array of vestigial horns sprouting up from his scalp had always been a source of deep pride. In conversation, he tended to keep his head tilted slightly forward for dramatic effect, and with the light behind him, so that the shadows of the horns cut down over the geometry of his face like daggers. For a moment the two faced each other in tense silence.

“We’ve all heard the same thing,” Jura said, keeping his voice even. “Thinning the herd, the experiments … What’s your point?”

Scopique leaned in close. “Lord Scabrous.”

“What about him?”

“If he is abducting students for his own purposes,” Scopique said, “then someone needs to find out who might be next.”

Jura let out a dry little laugh, but it didn’t come out as dismissive or scornful as he’d hoped. “And how do you plan on getting that information?”

“I’m not,” the Zabrak told him, and pointed at him. “You are.”

“Me?”

“You’re perfect for the job. Everyone knows you have the survival instincts of a hungry dianoga. You’ll find a way.”

Jura pushed back his chair and stood up in one fluid motion. Swinging one hand forward, he reached up and snapped his fingers tight around the Zabrak’s throat, clamping down on the windpipe hard enough that he felt the cartilage pop. It happened so fast that, despite the strength and weight discrepancy, Scopique was caught off guard—but only momentarily. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, almost casual, and quiet enough that only Jura could hear him.

“There’s a saying on my home planet, Ostrogoth. Only a fool turns his back on an unpaid debt. You think about that.” Scopique nodded slightly at Jura’s arm. “Now, because you do still have some value to me, I’ll allow you to remove your hand from my throat voluntarily and save face in front of our peers. But the next time I see you, you will tell me what you’ve found out about the disappearances.” The Zabrak smiled thinly. “Or else the rest of the academy will soon see a side of you that I don’t think you want them to see—a very unflattering side. Do we understand each other?”

Jura’s jaw tightened; he was too angry to trust his voice for a reply. Instead he managed a curt nod.

“Good,” Scopique said. A second later the Zabrak turned and walked away. When he and Hartwig stepped out the door, Jura Ostrogoth carried his untouched meal to the waste receptacle and dumped it in, tray and all.

He’d lost his appetite.

Outside the dining hall, back out in the cold, Jura stalked through the snow, fists clenched and trembling at his sides. After he’d gone a few meters from the doorway, where he was sure no one could see, he stepped into a narrow alcove and stared at the stone wall. Fury boiled in his chest.

Or else the rest of the academy will soon see a side of you that I don’t think you want them to see, Scopique’s voice mocked in his head. Do we understand each other?

Jura’s thoughts flashed back four standard years to the day he’d first arrived at the academy, a scared and ignorant kid from the other side of the galaxy. He’d spent his first couple of days keeping a low profile, avoiding everyone, hoping to get his bearings before anybody had a chance to push him around, but that wasn’t how things worked around here. On the third morning, he’d been in the dorm, making up his bunk, when a fist swung out and smashed him hard between the shoulder blades, knocking him to the floor where he lay gasping for air.

When Jura managed to roll over and look up, he saw a gigantic Sith apprentice named Mannock T’sank looming over him. T’sank was stronger and older than Jura, and the smirk on his face was one of nearly homicidal glee.

“You look good lying there on the floor, newbie,” T’sank leered at him. “You know what you’d look even better doing? Licking my boots.” He’d held out one of his filthy leather dung-kickers, waving the toe right under Jura’s nose, close enough that Jura could smell the tauntaun droppings—T’sank had been sentenced to cleaning the paddocks for some minor offense. “Go ahead, newbie. Give them a good tongue-polish.”

Even then, Jura had known this was a test; how he responded would determine the way he was treated forever after in the Academy’s court of public opinion. Grimly, with the air of someone planning his own funeral, he had stood up and told T’sank exactly what he could do with his boot.

The results had been even worse than he’d expected. T’sank punched him in the face so hard that Jura blacked out, and when he woke up his entire head was a gonging carillon of pain. He couldn’t move. There was a dirty rag stuffed in his mouth, crammed so far back that he almost choked on it. Looking down, he saw that he was naked and tied to the bunk by his feet and ankles while T’sank stood over him, grinning with malevolence that bordered on madness. When Jura tried to inhale, he started gagging and panic took hold of him; he lost all control and burst into frightened tears, while T’sank howled with laughter.

And then, abruptly, the laughter had stopped. His last memory of T’sank was the thin, surprised yelp that the sadistic apprentice had let out right before he’d gone flying backward out the door. When Jura had craned his head and looked up through tear-blurred eyes, he’d seen Scopique standing there. The Zabrak had made no immediate move to untie him. Instead he’d been holding what Jura realized was some type of holocam, pointing it at him while the lens autofocused.

“Smile,” Scopique had said from behind the cam, walking around the bunk, still recording Jura where he lay struggling to regain control of baser bodily functions. “Hold on, let me get your good side.”

When he was satisfied with the footage, he’d put the recorder away, yanked the rag out of Jura’s mouth, and untied him.

“Get up,” he told Jura. “Come on.” He glanced back out the half-open doorway, where T’sank had landed, half conscious and crumpled. “I gave him a good shot to the head, but it won’t keep him down forever.”

Jura struggled to his feet, wiped the blood and snot from his nose, and hurriedly struggled back into his robes. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Scopique waved Jura’s gratitude off as if it disgusted him, then ejected the holocartridge from the cam and slipped it into his pocket, giving it a protective little pat. “For safekeeping,” he said, and Jura got the message. None of what happened had been about kindness or mercy. Jura was in his pocket now, and however long he stayed here, the Zabrak wasn’t going to let him forget it.

“And newbie?” Scopique had said, on his way out the door. “Welcome to the academy.”

Welcome to the academy.

Jerked back into the present moment by the blazing flames of his own anger, Jura blinked away the image of the cartridge in the Zabrak’s pocket. Standing here in the shadows between buildings, the urge to lash out was something he could no longer master. He raised both hands and unleashed a burst of dark side energy into the wall itself. Electric heat leapt through his wrists and palms, slamming into the rock, cracking it down the middle.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, momentarily relieved. He knew he should have saved his anger, held on to it and used it in one of the combat drills, but he couldn’t help himself.

Opening his eyes again, he looked at the cracked wall. It had been strong, but now it was damaged, its value weakened in some fundamental way by what had been inflicted on it.

I am that wall.

Turning away, he stepped back out of the shadows, his mind already trying to work out how he was going to get Scopique’s information for him.

RISE OF THE EMPIRE

(33–0 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE)

This is the era of the Star Wars prequel films, in which Darth Sidious’s schemes lead to the devastating Clone Wars, the betrayal and destruction of the Jedi Order, and the Republic’s transformation into the Empire. It also begins the tragic story of Anakin Skywalker, the boy identified by the Jedi as the Chosen One of ancient prophecy, the one destined to bring balance to the Force. But, as seen in the movies, Anakin’s passions lead him to the dark side, and he becomes the legendary masked and helmeted villain Darth Vader.

Before his fall, however, Anakin spends many years being trained as a Jedi by Obi-Wan Kenobi. When the Clone Wars break out, pitting the Republic against the secessionist Trade Federation, Anakin becomes a war hero and one of the galaxy’s greatest Jedi Knights. But his love for the Naboo Queen and Senator Padmé Amidala, and his friendship with Supreme Chancellor Palpatine—secretly known as the Sith Lord Darth Sidious—will be his undoing …

If you’re a reader looking to jump into the Rise of the Empire era, here are five great starting points:

• Labyrinth of Evil, by James Luceno: Luceno’s tale of the last days of the Clone Wars is equal parts compelling detective story and breakneck adventure, leading directly into the beginning of Star Wars: Episode III Revenge of the Sith.

• Revenge of the Sith, by Matthew Stover: This masterfully written novelization fleshes out the on-screen action of Episode III, delving deeply into everything from Anakin’s internal struggle and the politics of the dying Republic to the intricacies of lightsaber combat.

• Republic Commando: Hard Contact, by Karen Traviss: The first of the Republic Commando books introduces us to a band of clone soldiers, their trainers, and the Jedi generals who lead them, mixing incisive character studies with a deep understanding of the lives of soldiers at war.

• Death Troopers, by Joe Schreiber: A story of horror aboard a Star Destroyer that you’ll need to read with the lights on. Supporting roles by Han Solo and his Wookiee sidekick, Chewbacca, are just icing on the cake.

• The Han Solo Adventures, by Brian Daley: Han and Chewie come to glorious life in these three swashbuckling tales of smuggling, romance, and danger in the early days before they meet Luke and Leia.

Read on for an excerpt from a Star Wars novel set in the Rise of the Empire era.

MURKHANA. FINAL HOURS OF THE CLONE WARS

Dropping into swirling clouds conjured by Murkhana’s weather stations, Roan Shryne was reminded of meditation sessions his former Master had guided him through. No matter how fixed Shryne had been on touching the Force, his mind’s eye had offered little more than an eddying whiteness. Years later, when he had become more adept at silencing thought and immersing himself in the light, visual fragments would emerge from that colorless void—pieces to a puzzle that would gradually assemble themselves and resolve. Not in any conscious way, though frequently assuring him that his actions in the world were in accord with the will of the Force.

Frequently but not always.

When he veered from the course on which the Force had set him, the familiar white would once again be stirred by powerful currents; sometimes shot through with red, as if he were lifting his closed eyes to the glare of a midday sun.

Red-mottled white was what he saw as he fell deeper into Murkhana’s atmosphere. Scored to reverberating thunder; the rush of the wind; a welter of muffled voices …

He was standing closest to the sliding door that normally sealed the troop bay of a Republic gunship, launched moments earlier from the forward hold of the Gallant—a Victory-class Star Destroyer, harried by vulture and droid tri-fighters and awaiting High Command’s word to commence its own descent through Murkhana’s artificial ceiling. Beside and behind Shryne stood a platoon of clone troopers, helmets fitting snugly over their heads, blasters cradled in their arms, utility belts slung with ammo magazines, talking among themselves the way seasoned warriors often did before battle. Alleviating misgivings with inside jokes; references Shryne couldn’t begin to understand, beyond the fact that they were grim.

The gunship’s inertial compensators allowed them to stand in the bay without being jolted by flaring antiaircraft explosions or jostled by the gunship pilots’ evasive maneuvering through corkscrewing missiles and storms of white-hot shrapnel. Missiles, because the same Separatists who had manufactured the clouds had misted Murkhana’s air with anti-laser aerosols.

Acrid odors infiltrated the cramped space, along with the roar of the aft engines, the starboard one stuttering somewhat, the gunship as battered as the troopers and crew it carried into conflict.

Even at an altitude of only four hundred meters above sea level the cloud cover remained dense. The fact that Shryne could barely see his hand in front of his face didn’t surprise him. This was still the war, after all, and he had grown accustomed these past three years to not seeing where he was going.

Nat-Sem, his former Master, used to tell him that the goal of the meditative exercises was to see clear through the swirling whiteness to the other side; that what Shryne saw was only the shadowy expanse separating him from full contact with the Force. Shryne had to learn to ignore the clouds, as it were. When he had learned to do that, to look through them to the radiant expanse beyond, he would be a Master.

Pessimistic by nature, Shryne’s reaction had been: Not in this lifetime.

Though he had never said as much to Nat-Sem, the Jedi Master had seen through him as easily as he saw through the clouds.

Shryne felt that the clone troopers had a better view of the war than he had, and that the view had little to do with their helmet imaging systems, the filters that muted the sharp scent of the air, the earphones that dampened the sounds of explosions. Grown for warfare, they probably thought the Jedi were mad to go into battle as they did, attired in tunics and hooded robes, a lightsaber their only weapon. Many of them were astute enough to see comparisons between the Force and their own white plastoid shells; but few of them could discern between armored and unarmored Jedi—those who were allied with the Force, and those who for one reason or another had slipped from its sustaining embrace.

Murkhana’s lathered clouds finally began to thin, until they merely veiled the planet’s wrinkled landscape and frothing sea. A sudden burst of brilliant light drew Shryne’s attention to the sky. What he took for an exploding gunship might have been a newborn star; and for a moment the world tipped out of balance, then righted itself just as abruptly. A circle of clarity opened in the clouds, a perforation in the veil, and Shryne gazed on verdant forest so profoundly green he could almost taste it. Valiant combatants scurried through the underbrush and sleek ships soared through the canopy. In the midst of it all a lone figure stretched out his hand, tearing aside a curtain black as night …

Shryne knew he had stepped out of time, into some truth beyond reckoning.

A vision of the end of the war, perhaps, or of time itself.

Whichever, the effect of it comforted him that he was indeed where he was supposed to be. That despite the depth to which the war had caused him to become fixed on death and destruction, he was still tethered to the Force, and serving it in his own limited way.

Then, as if intent on foiling him, the thin clouds quickly conspired to conceal what had been revealed, closing the portal an errant current had opened. And Shryne was back where he started, with gusts of superheated air tugging at the sleeves and cowl of his brown robe.

“The Koorivar have done a good job with their weather machines,” a speaker-enhanced voice said into his left ear. “Whipped up one brute of a sky. We used the same tactic on Paarin Minor. Drew the Seps into fabricated clouds and blew them to the back of beyond.”

Shryne laughed without merriment. “Good to see you can still appreciate the little things, Commander.”

“What else is there, General?”

Shryne couldn’t make out the expression on the face behind the tinted T-visor, but he knew that shared face as well as anyone else who fought in the war. Commander of the Thirty-second air combat wing, the clone officer had somewhere along the line acquired the name Salvo, and the sobriquet fit him like a gauntlet.

The high-traction soles of his jump boots gave him just enough added height to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Shryne, and where his armor wasn’t dinged and scored it was emblazoned with rust-brown markings. On his hips he wore holstered hand blasters and, for reasons Shryne couldn’t fathom, a version of the capelike command skirt that had become all the rage in the war’s third year. The left side of his shrapnel-pitted helmet was laser-etched with the motto LIVE TO SERVE!

Torso markings attested to Salvo’s participation in campaigns on many worlds, and while he wasn’t an ARC—an Advanced Reconnaissance Commando—he had the rough edges of an ARC, and of their clone template, Jango Fett, whose headless body Shryne had seen in a Geonosian arena shortly before Master Nat-Sem had fallen to enemy fire.

“Alliance weapons should have us in target lock by now,” Salvo said as the gunship continued to descend.

Other assault ships were also punching through the cloud cover, only to be greeted by flocks of incoming missiles. Struck by direct hits, two, four, then five craft were blown apart, flaming fuselages and mangled troopers plummeting into the churning scarlet waves of Murkhana Bay. From the nose of one gunship flew a bang-out capsule that carried the pilot and co-pilot to within meters of the water before it was ripped open by a resolute heat seeker.

In one of the fifty-odd gunships that were racing down the well, three other Jedi were going into battle, Master Saras Loorne among them. Stretching out with the Force, Shryne found them, faint echoes confirming that all three were still alive.

He clamped his right hand on one of the slide door’s view slots as the pilots threw their unwieldy charge into a hard bank, narrowly evading a pair of hailfire missiles. Gunners ensconced in the gunship’s armature-mounted turrets opened up with blasters as flights of Mankvim Interceptors swarmed up to engage the Republic force. The anti-laser aerosols scattered the blaster beams, but dozens of the Separatist craft succumbed to missiles spewed from the gunships’ top-mounted mass-drive launchers.

“High Command should have granted our request to bombard from orbit,” Salvo said in an amplified voice.

“The idea is to take the city, Commander, not vaporize it,” Shryne said loudly. Murkhana had already been granted weeks to surrender, but the Republic ultimatum had expired. “Palpatine’s policy for winning the hearts and minds of Separatist populations might not make good military sense, but it makes good political sense.”

Salvo stared at him from behind his visor. “We’re not interested in politics.”

Shryne laughed shortly. “Neither were the Jedi.”

“Why fight if you weren’t bred for it?”

“To serve what remains of the Republic.” Shryne’s brief green vision of the war’s end returned, and he adopted a rueful grin. “Dooku’s dead. Grievous is being hunted down. If it means anything, I suspect it’ll be over soon.”

“The war, or our standing shoulder-to-shoulder?”

“The war, Commander.”

“What becomes of the Jedi then?”

“We’ll do what we have always done: follow the Force.”

“And the Grand Army?”

Shryne regarded him. “Help us preserve the peace.”

Murkhana City was visible now, climbing into steep hills that rose from a long crescent of shoreline, the sheen of overlapping particle shields dulled by the gray underbelly of the clouds. Shryne caught a fleeting glimpse of the Argente Tower before the gunship dropped to the crests of the frothing waves and altered course, pointing its blunt nose toward the stacked skyline and slaloming through warheads fired from weapons emplacements that lined the shore.

In a class with Mygeeto, Muunilinst, and Neimoidia, Murkhana was not a conquered planet but a host world—home to former Senator and Separatist Council member Passel Argente, and headquarters of the Corporate Alliance. Murkhana’s deal makers and litigators, tended to by armies of household droids and private security guards, had fashioned a hedonistic domain of towering office buildings, luxurious apartment complexes, exclusive medcenters, and swank shopping malls, casinos, and nightclubs. Only the most expensive speeders negotiated a vertical cityscape of graceful, spiraling structures that looked as if they had been grown of ocean coral rather than constructed.

Murkhana also housed the finest communications facility in that part of the Outer Rim, and was a primary source of the “shadowfeeds” that spread Separatist propaganda among Republic and Confederacy worlds.

Arranged like the spokes of a wheel, four ten-kilometer-long bridges linked the city to an enormous offshore landing platform. Hexagonal in shape and supported on thick columns anchored in the seabed, the platform was the prize the Republic needed to secure before a full assault could be mounted. For that to happen, the Grand Army needed to penetrate the defensive umbrellas and take out the generators that sustained them. But with nearly all rooftop and repulsorlift landing platforms shielded, Murkhana’s arc of black-sand beach was the only place where the gunships could insert their pay-loads of clone troopers and Jedi.

Shryne was gazing at the landing platform when he felt someone begin to edge between him and Commander Salvo, set on getting a better look through the open hatch. Even before he saw the headful of long black curls, he knew it was Olee Starstone. Planting his left hand firmly on the top of her head, he propelled her back into the troop bay.

“If you’re determined to make yourself a target, Padawan, at least wait until we hit the beach.”

Rubbing her head, the petite, blue-eyed young woman glanced over her shoulder at the tall female Jedi standing behind her. “You see, Master. He does care.”

“Despite all evidence to the contrary,” the female Jedi said.

“I only meant that it’ll be easier for me to bury you in the sand,” Shryne said.

Starstone scowled, folded her arms across her chest, and swung away from both of them.

Bol Chatak threw Shryne a look of mild reprimand. The raised cowl of her black robe hid her short vestigial horns. An Iridonian Zabrak, she was nothing if not tolerant, and had never taken Shryne to task for his irascible behavior or interfered with his teasing relationship with her Padawan, who had joined Chatak in the Murkhana system only a standard week earlier, arriving with Master Loorne and two Jedi Knights. The demands of the Outer Rim Sieges had drawn so many Jedi from Coruscant that the Temple was practically deserted.

Until recently, Shryne, too, had had a Padawan learner …

For the Jedi’s benefit, the gunship pilot announced that they were closing on the jump site.

“Weapons check!” Salvo said to the platoon. “Gas and packs!”

As the troop bay filled with the sound of activating weapons, Chatak placed her hand on Starstone’s quivering shoulder.

“Use your unease to sharpen your senses, Padawan.”

“I will, Master.”

“The Force will be with you.”

“We’re all dying,” Salvo told the troopers. “Promise yourselves you’ll be the last to go!”

Access panels opened in the ceiling, dropping more than a dozen polyplast cables to within reach of the troopers.

“Secure to lines!” Salvo said. “Room for three more, General,” he added while armored, body-gloved hands took tight hold of the cables.

Calculating that the jump wouldn’t exceed ten meters, Shryne shook his head at Salvo. “No need. We’ll see you below.”

Unexpectedly, the gunship gained altitude as it approached the shoreline, then pulled up short of the beach, as if being reined in. Repulsorlifts engaged, the gunship hovered. At the same time, hundreds of Separatist battle droids marched onto the beach, firing their blasters in unison.

The intercom squawked, and the pilot said, “Droid buster away!”

A concussion-feedback weapon, the droid buster detonated at five meters above ground zero, flattening every droid within a radius of fifty meters. Similar explosions underscored the ingress of a dozen other gunships.

“Where were these weapons three years ago?” one of the troopers asked Salvo.

“Progress,” the commander said. “All of a sudden we’re winning the war in a week.”

The gunship hovered lower, and Shryne leapt into the air. Using the Force to oversee his fall, he landed in a crouch on the compacted sand, as did Chatak and Starstone, if less expertly.

Salvo and the clone troopers followed, descending one-handed on individual cables, triggering their rifles as they slid to the beach. When the final trooper was on the ground, the gunship lifted its nose and began to veer away from shore. Up and down the beach the same scenario was playing out. Several gunships failed to escape artillery fire and crashed in flames before they had turned about.

Others were blown apart before they had even offloaded.

With projectiles and blaster bolts whizzing past their heads, the Jedi and troopers scurried forward, hunkering down behind a bulkhead that braced a ribbon of highway coursing between the beach and the near-vertical cliffs beyond. Salvo’s communications specialist com-linked for aerial support against the batteries responsible for the worst of the fire.

Through an opening in the bulkhead hastened the four members of a commando team, with a captive in tow. Unlike the troopers, the commandos wore gray shells of Katarn-class armor and carried heftier weapons. Hardened against magnetic pulses, their suits allowed them to penetrate defensive shields.

The enemy combatant they had captured wore a long robe and tasseled headcloth but lacked the sallow complexion, horizontal facial markings, and cranial horns characteristic of the Koorivar. Like their fellow Separatists the Neimoidians, Passel Argente’s species had no taste for warfare, but felt no compunction about employing the best mercenaries credits could buy.

The burly commando squad leader went immediately to Salvo.

“Ion Team, Commander, attached to the Twenty-second out of Boz Pity.” Turning slightly in Shryne’s direction, the commando nodded his helmeted head.

“Welcome to Murkhana, General Shryne.”

Shryne’s dark brows beetled. “The voice is familiar …,” he began.

“The face even more so,” the commando completed.

The joke was almost three years old but still in use among the clone troopers, and between them and the Jedi.

“Climber,” the commando said, providing his sobriquet. “We fought together on Deko Neimoidia.”

Shryne clapped the commando on the shoulder. “Good to see you again, Climber—even here.”

“As I told you,” Chatak said to Starstone, “Master Shryne has friends all over.”

“Perhaps they don’t know him as well as I do, Master,” Starstone grumbled.

Climber lifted his helmet faceplate to the gray sky. “A good day for fighting, General.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Shryne said.

“Make your report, squad leader,” Salvo interrupted.

Climber turned to the commander. “The Koorivar are evacuating the city, but taking their sweet time about it. They’ve a lot more faith in these energy shields than they should have.” He beckoned the captive forward and spun him roughly to face Salvo. “Meet Idis—human under the Koorivar trappings. Distinguished member of the Vibroblade Brigade.”

“A mercenary band,” Bol Chatak explained to Starstone.

“We caught him … with his trousers down,” Climber continued, “and persuaded him to share what he knows about the shoreline defenses. He was kind enough to provide the location of the landing platform shield generator.” The commando indicated a tall, tapered edifice farther down the beach. “Just north of the first bridge, near the marina. The generator’s installed two floors below ground level. We may have to take out the whole building to get to it.”

Salvo signaled to his comlink specialist. “Relay the building coordinates to Gallant gunnery—”

“Wait on that,” Shryne said quickly. “Targeting the building poses too great a risk to the bridges. We need them intact if we’re going to move vehicles into the city.”

Salvo considered it briefly. “A surgical strike, then.”

Shryne shook his head no. “There’s another reason for discretion. That building is a medcenter. Or at least it was the last time I was here.”

Salvo looked to Climber for confirmation.

“The general’s correct, Commander. It’s still a medcenter.”

Salvo shifted his gaze to Shryne. “An enemy medcenter, General.”

Shryne compressed his lips and nodded. “Even at this point in the war, patients are considered noncombatants. Remember what I said about hearts and minds, Commander.” He glanced at the mercenary. “Is the shield generator accessible from street level?”

“Depends on how skilled you are.”

Shryne looked at Climber.

“Not a problem,” the commando said.

Salvo made a sound of distaste. “You’d trust the word of a merc?”

Climber pressed the muzzle of his DC-17 rifle into the small of the mercenary’s back. “Idis is on our side now, aren’t you?”

The mercenary’s head bobbed. “Free of charge.”

Shryne looked at Climber again. “Is your team carrying enough thermal detonators to do the job?”

“Yes, sir.”

Salvo still didn’t like it. “I strongly recommend that we leave this to the Gallant.”

Shryne regarded him. “What’s the matter, Commander, we’re not killing the Separatists in sufficient numbers?”

“In sufficient numbers, General. Just not quickly enough.”

“The Gallant is still holding at fifty kilometers,” Chatak said in a conciliatory tone. “There’s time to recon the building.”

Salvo demonstrated his displeasure with a shrug of indifference. “It’s your funeral if you’re wrong.”

“That’s neither here nor there,” Shryne said. “We’ll rendezvous with you at rally point Aurek-Bacta. If we don’t turn up by the time the Gallant arrives, feed them the building’s coordinates.”

“You can count on it, sir.”

REBELLION

(0–5 YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE)

This is the period of the classic Star Wars movie trilogy—A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi—in which a ragtag band of Rebels battles the Empire, and Luke Skywalker learns the ways of the Force and must avoid his father’s fate.

During this time, the Empire controls nearly the entire settled galaxy. Out in the Rim worlds, Imperial stormtroopers suppress uprisings with brutal efficiency, many alien species have been enslaved, and entire star systems are brutally exploited by the Empire’s war machine. In the central systems, however, most citizens support the Empire, weighing misgivings about its harsh methods against the memories of the horror and chaos of the Clone Wars. Few dare to openly oppose Emperor Palpatine’s rule.

But the Rebel Alliance is growing. Rebel cells strike in secret from hidden bases scattered among the stars, encouraging some of the braver Senators to speak out against the Empire. When the Rebels learn that the Empire is building the Death Star, a space station with enough firepower to destroy entire planets, Princess Leia Organa, who represents her homeworld, Alderaan, in the Senate and is secretly a high-ranking member of the Rebel Alliance, receives the plans for the battle station and flees in search of the exiled Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Thus begin the events that lead her to meet the smuggler and soon-to-be hero Han Solo, to discover her long-lost brother, Luke Skywalker, and to help the Rebellion take down the Emperor and restore democracy to the galaxy: the events of the three films A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi.

If you’re a reader looking for places to jump in and explore the Rebellion-era novels, here are five great places to start:

• Death Star, by Michael Reaves and Steve Perry: The story of the construction of the massive battle station, touching on the lives of the builders, planners, soldiers, and support staff who populate the monstrous vessel, as well as the masterminds behind the design and those who intend to make use of it: the Emperor and Darth Vader.

• The Mandalorian Armor, by K. W. Jeter: The famous bounty hunter Boba Fett stars in a twisty tale of betrayal within the galactic underworld, highlighted by a riveting confrontation between bounty hunters and a band of Hutts.

• Shadows of the Empire, by Steve Perry: A tale of the shadowy parts of the Empire and an underworld criminal mastermind who is out to kill Luke Skywalker, while our other heroes try to figure out how to rescue Han Solo, who has been frozen in carbonite for delivery to Jabba the Hutt.

• Tales of the Bounty Hunters, edited by Kevin J. Anderson: The bounty hunters summoned by Darth Vader to capture the Millennium Falcon tell their stories in this anthology of short tales, culminating with Daniel Keys Moran’s elegiac “The Last One Standing.”

• Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor, by Matthew Stover: A tale set shortly after the events of Return of the Jedi, in which Luke must defeat the flamboyant dark sider known as Lord Shadowspawn while the pilots of Rogue Squadron duel his servants amid tumbling asteroids.

Read on for an excerpt from a Star Wars novel set in the Rebellion era.

1

FLIGHT DECK, IMPERIAL-CLASS STAR DESTROYER STEEL TALON, POLAR ORBIT, PLANET DESPAYRE, HORUZ SYSTEM, ATRIVIS SECTOR, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES

The alert siren screamed, a piercing wail that couldn’t be ignored by any being on board with ears and a pulse. It had one thing to say, and it said it loud and clear:

Scramble!

Lieutenant Commander Villian “Vil” Dance came out of a deep sleep at the blaring alarm, sat up, and leapt from his rack to the expanded metal deck of the Ready Room quarters. Save for the helmet, he already wore his space suit, one of the first things an on-call TIE pilot learned to do was sleep in full battle gear. He ran for the door, half a step ahead of the next pilot to awaken. He grabbed his headgear, darted into the hall and turned to the right, then sprinted for the launching bay.

It could be a drill; there had been plenty of those lately to keep the pilots on their toes. But maybe this time it wasn’t. One could always hope.

Vil ran into the assembly area. A-grav on the flight deck was kept at slightly below one g, so that the pilots, all of whom were human or humanoid, could move a little faster and get to their stations a little sooner. The smell of launch lube was acrid in the cold air, and the pulsing lights painted the area in bright, primary flashes. Techs scrambled, getting the TIE fighters to final-set for takeoff, while pilots ran toward the craft. Vil noticed that it was just his squad being scrambled. Must not be a big problem, whatever it was.

Command always said it didn’t matter which unit you got. TIE fighters were all the same, down to the last nut and bolt, but even so, every pilot had his or her favorite ship. You weren’t supposed to personalize them, of course, but there were ways to tell—a scratch here, a scuff mark there … after a while, you got to where you knew which fighter was which. And no matter what Command said, some were better than others—a little faster, a little tighter in the turns, the laser cannons a hair quicker to fire when you touched the stud. Vil happened to know that his assigned ship this rotation was Black-11, one of his favorites. Maybe it was pure superstition, but he breathed just a little easier, knowing that particular craft had his name on it this time around.

The command officer on deck, Captain Rax Exeter, waved Vil over.

“Cap, what’s up? Another drill?”

“Negative, Lieutenant. A group of prisoners somehow managed to take over one of the new Lambda-class shuttles. They’re trying to get far enough away to make the jump to hyperspace. That isn’t going to happen on my watch. The ID codes and tracking will be in your fighter’s computer. Don’t let ’em get away, son.”

“No, sir. What about the crew?” Vil knew the new shuttles carried only a pilot and copilot.

“Assumed dead. These are bad guys doing this, Dance—traitors and murderers. That’s reason enough to cook them, but we do not want them getting away to tell anybody what the Empire is doing out here, do we?”

“No, sir!”

“Go, Lieutenant, go!”

Vil nodded, not bothering to salute, then turned and ran. As he did, he put his helmet on and locked it into place. The hiss of air into his face was metallic and cool as the suit’s system went online. It felt very comforting. The vac suit’s extreme-temp-resistant weave of durasteel and plastoid, along with the polarizing densecris helmet, were the only things that would protect him from hard vacuum. Suit failure could make a strong man lose consciousness in under ten seconds, and die in under a minute. He’d seen it happen.

TIE fighters, in order to save mass, had no defensive shield generators, no hyperdrive capability, and no emergency life-support systems. They were thus fragile, but fast, and that was fine with Vil. He’d rather dodge enemy fire than hope it would bounce off. There was no skill in piloting some lumbering chunk of durasteel; might as well be sitting with your feet up at a turbolaser console back on the ship. Where was the fun in that?

The TIE tech had the hatch up on Black-11 as Vil arrived at the gantry above the ship. It was the work of an instant to clamber down and into the fighter’s snug cockpit.

The hatch came down and hissed shut. Vil touched the power-up stud, and the inside of the TIE—named for the twin ion engines that drove it—lit up. He scanned the controls with a quick and experienced eye. All systems were green.

The tech raised his hand in question. Vil waved back. “Go!”

“Copy that, ST-One-One. Prepare for insertion.”

Vil felt his lips twitch in annoyance. The Empire was determined to erase all signs of individuality in its pilots, on the absurd theory that nameless, faceless operators were somehow more effective. Thus the classification numbers, the anonymous flight suits and helmets, and the random rotation of spacecraft. The standardizing approach had worked reasonably well in the Clone Wars, but there was one important difference here: neither Vil nor any other TIE pilot that he knew of was a clone. None of the members of Alpha Squad had any intention of being reduced to automata. If that was what the Empire really wanted, let them use droid pilots and see how well that worked.

His musing was interrupted by the small jolt of the cycling rack below the gantry kicking on. Vil’s ship began to move toward the launching bay door. He saw the tech slip his own helmet on and lock it down.

Already the bay pumps were working full blast, depressurizing the area. By the time the launch doors were open, the air would be cycled. Vil took a deep breath, readying himself for the heavy hand of g-force that would push him back into the seat when the engines hurled him forward.

Launch Control’s voice crackled in his headphones. “Alpha Squad Leader, stand by for launch.”

“Copy,” Vil said. The launch doors pulled back with tantalizing slowness, the hydraulic thrum of their movement made audible by conduction through the floor and Black-11’s frame.

“You are go for launch in five, four, three, two … go!”

Outside the confines of the Star Destroyer, the vastness of space enveloped Lieutenant Vil Dance as the ion engines pushed the TIE past the last stray wisps of frozen air and into the infinite dark. He grinned. He always did. He couldn’t help it.

Back where I belong …

The flat blackness of space surrounded him. Behind him, he knew, the Steel Talon was seemingly shrinking as they pulled away from it. “Down” and to port was the curvature of the prison planet. Though they were in polar orbit, Despayre’s axial tilt showed more of the night side than day. The dark hemisphere was mostly unrelieved blackness, with a few lonely lights here and there.

Vil flicked his comm—though it came on automatically at launch, a good pilot always toggled it, just to be sure. “Alpha Squad, pyramid formation on me as soon as you are clear,” he said. “Go to tactical channel five, that’s tac-fiver, and log in.”

Vil switched his own comm channel to five. It was a lower-powered band with a shorter range, but that was the point—you didn’t want the enemy overhearing you. And in some cases, it wasn’t a good idea for the comm officer monitoring you back on the base ship to be privy to conversations, either. They tended to be a bit more informal than the Empire liked.

There came a chorus of “Copy, Alpha Leader!” from the other eleven pilots in his squad as they switched over to the new channel.

It took only a few seconds for the last fighter to launch, and only a few more for the squad to form behind Vil.

“What’s the drill, Vil?” That from Benjo, aka ST-1-2, his second in command and right panelman.

“Alpha Squadron, we have a Lambda-class shuttle captured by prisoners. They are running for hyper. Either they give up and come back, or we dust ’em.”

“Lambda-class? That’s one of the new ones, right? They have any guns?”

Vil sighed. That was Raar Anyell, a Corellian like Vil himself, but not somebody you’d want to hold up as a prime example of the human species. “Don’t you bother to read the boards at all, Anyell?”

“I was just about to do that, sir, when the alarm went off. Was looking right at ’em. Had the latest notices right in my hand. Sir.”

The other pilots laughed, and even Vil had to grin. Anyell was a foul-up everywhere except in the cockpit, but he was a good enough pilot that Vil was willing to give him some slice.

His sensor screen pinged, giving him an image of their quarry. He altered course to intercept.

“Anybody else behind on his homework, listen up,” he said. “The Lambda-class shuttle is twenty meters long, has a top speed of fourteen hundred g, a Class-One hyperdrive, and can carry twenty troops in full battle gear—probably a couple more convicts in civvies.

“The ship carries three double-blaster cannons and two double-laser cannons. It can’t accelerate worth a wheep and it turns slower than a comet, but if you get in its sights, it can blow you to itty-bitty pieces. It would be embarrassing to have to inform your family you got shot apart by a shuttle, so stay alert.”

There came another chorus of acknowledgments:

“Copy, sir.”

“Yes, sir!”

“No sweat.”

“Anyell, I didn’t hear your response.”

“Oh, sorry, sir, I was taking a little nap. What was the question?”

Before the squad commander could reply, the shuttle suddenly loomed ahead. It was running as silently as possible, with no lights, but as its orbit brought it across the terminator and out of Despayre’s night side, the sunlight struck rays from its hull.

“There is our target, four kilometers dead ahead. I want a fast flyby so they can see us, and then I want a fountain pattern dispersal and loop, two klicks minimum distance and bracket, one, four, four, and two, you know who you are. I’ll move in close and have a word with whoever they have flying the stolen spacecraft.”

Benjo: “Aw, Lieutenant, come on, let us have a shot, too.”

“Negative. If you had a clue about the vessel, I might, but since you’re just as likely to shoot each other as the quarry, you’ll hold the bracket.”

More acknowledgments, but without much enthusiasm. He couldn’t blame his squad—they hadn’t had any action except drills since they’d been assigned to this project—but his secondary goal was to bring all his men back alive. The primary, of course, was to accomplish their mission. He didn’t need a squad for this; any fighter pilot worth his spit should be able to deal with a lumbering shuttle, even one with the new-vehicle smell still in it. The Lambda’s delta vee wasn’t all that efficient, but with constant drive it could get above the solar plane and far enough out of the planet’s gravity well to engage its hyperdrive fairly soon—and once it was in the chute, they’d never find it. But that wasn’t going to happen.

The pyramid-shaped formation zipped past the fleeing shuttle, close enough for Vil to see the pilot sitting in the command seat. He didn’t look surprised, of course—he would have seen them coming on the sensors. But he couldn’t outrun them, couldn’t dodge, and no way could he take out a full squad of TIE fighters even if he was the best gunner who’d ever lived, not in that boat. And anyway, Vil wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to try.

The squad flowered into the dispersal maneuver as ordered, looping out and away to their assigned positions, angled pressor beams in their arrays providing maneuverability. Vil pulled a high-g tight turn and came around to parallel the shuttle a few hundred meters away, slightly above it. He watched the wing turrets closely. As soon as they started to track him, he jinked to port, then to starboard, slowed, then sped up. They tried to keep up with him, but they were a hair too slow.

Vil toggled to a wide-band channel. They’d hear this back in the Destroyer, he knew.

“Attention, shuttle RLH-One. Turn the craft around and proceed immediately to Star Destroyer Steel Talon’s tractor beam range.”

There was no answer; nothing but the slight hiss of the carrier.

“Shuttle craft, do you copy my transmission?”

Another pause. Then: “Yeah, we hear you, rocketjock. We aren’t of a mind to do that.”

Vil looked at his control panel. They were two minutes away from Minimum Safe Distance—the point far enough from Despayre where they could safely attempt the jump to lightspeed. Jump too close to a planet’s gravity well and the shift would tear the vessel apart. If the guy he was talking to had enough skill to fly the shuttle, he’d know that. His control panel would tell him when he reached MSD, and then it would be over. Lieutenant Dance would have failed a mission, for the first time.

Never happen, he thought. “Turn it around, or we will fire,” he said.

“You’d do that? Just blow us apart? Essentially murder fifteen men—and two women? One of them is old enough to be your granny. You can live with that?”

He was stalling for time, Vil knew. The beings on that shuttle were bad enough to have been sent to the galaxy’s number one prison planet, and the Imperial courts didn’t bother to do that with petty thieves or traffic violators. His granny hadn’t robbed any banks or killed anybody. Not that he knew of, anyway.

“Shuttle pilot, I say again—”

Vil saw the port turret on the shuttle open up. He cut across the craft’s flight path, angling away aft as the starboard gun began firing. He hit his thrusters full, coming up in a half loop and twisting away from the incoming laser-fire.

Even a good gunner couldn’t have spiked him at this angle, and these guys weren’t anywhere close to good enough. Still, the pulsed incandescent beams came close.

“Lieutenant—!” That from Benjo.

“Hold your position, Alpha Squad, there’s no problem here.” Cool and calm. Like discussing what they might be having for dinner.

He zipped Black-11 out of range.

The clock was running down. Less than a minute to MSD.

“Last chance, shuttle. Turn it around. Now.”

In answer, the pilot pulled the shuttle topward so his gunners could get a better angle. They started shooting again.

The shots were wild, but there was always a chance a stray beam could hit you, even by accident. And wouldn’t that be a glorious end to an unblemished career? To be killed by a convict on a milking shuttle?

Enough of this. Vil hit the drive controls and damped the thrust to zero. Then he pushed the throttles to full, angled to port and topside, did a roll and loop, and came around, driving at the shuttle amidships.

He pressed the fire-control button.

Black-11 spat twin laser bolts from the low-temp tips—blip-blip, blip-blip, blip-blip—

Vil Dance was a better-than-average shooter. The bolts ripped into the shuttle, chewed it up, and as he overflew and peeled away to starboard-downside, the Lambda blew apart, shattering into at least half a dozen large pieces and hundreds of smaller ones amid a cloud of flash-frozen air, liquid, and debris.

And pinwheeling bodies.

Vil switched back to tac-five. “Anyell, Lude, move in and check for survivors.” He kept his voice calm, emotionless, no big deal. His pulse was racing, but they didn’t have to know that. Let them think his heart pumped liquid oxy.

“None of ’em were wearing suits, Lieutenant,” Lude said a moment later. “No survivors. Too bad about that brand-new ship.”

“Good hit, Vil,” Benjo said. “Congratulations.”

Vil felt a warm glow of satisfaction. It had been a good hit. And they had been firing at him, so it wasn’t like shooting yorks in a canister. It had been a righteous response.

He switched back to the main op-chan. “Fighter Control, this is ST-One-One, Lieutenant Vil Dance of TIE fighter Alpha Squadron. Mission accomplished. You might want to send out a recovery vessel to pick up the pieces.”

“Copy, ST-One-One,” said Captain Exeter. “Good job.”

“Thank you, sir. Let’s return to base, Alpha Squad.”

Vil smiled as he waited for his team to form up again. This was the best job in the galaxy, being a fighter pilot. He couldn’t imagine a better one. He was young, not even twenty-five yet, and already a legend among his peers—and among the ladies as well. Life was good.

As they started for the Destroyer, Vil saw in the distance the frame of the gigantic battle station that was being built in planetary orbit. They were a hundred kilometers away from the structure, and it was still skeletal, its interior construction only just begun, but even so, it looked impossibly huge at this distance. It was to be the size of a small moon when it was finished, dwarfing the largest Star Destroyer.

Incredible to think about. And if he kept racking up missions like the one just completed, there was a very good chance that he would be assigned as unit commander on board the new station.

He led his squad back to the equatorial launching bay. Looking at the awe-inspiring base, he felt a surge of pride in the Empire, and a feeling of gratitude at being a part of the Tarkin Doctrine’s glorious mission. There was no official appellation or designation, other than battle station, that he knew of for the Grand Moff’s vision, but there was a name for it that everybody he knew, officers and enlisted alike, used.

They called it the Death Star.

THE NEW REPUBLIC

(5–25 YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE)

The destruction of the second Death Star and the death of Emperor Palpatine—the climactic conclusion of Return of the Jedi—has shaken the Empire to its core. While the remnant of the loyal Imperials settles in for a long, drawn-out last stand, the victorious Rebel Alliance and its supporters found a galactic governing authority they name the New Republic. Troops and warships are donated to the cause, as New Republic military leaders forge plans to seize Imperial fortress worlds, invade the Core Worlds, and retake Coruscant itself. Eventually, the Imperial Remnant is pushed back to a small part of the Outer Rim, and the New Republic is finally able to focus on restoring just and democratic government to the galaxy.

At last the heroes of the Rebellion are free to pursue their own lives. Han and Leia marry … but before the birth of their twins, Jacen and Jaina, the galaxy is once again torn asunder by war, as the Imperial forces—under the control of military mastermind Grand Admiral Thrawn—step up their campaign of raids against the New Republic. Even after Thrawn is defeated, the Imperial forces forge on, harrying the New Republic and Luke’s nascent Jedi academy—the start of Luke’s dream to rebuild the Jedi Order from the ground up. Plagues, insurrections, and rogue warlords add to the chaos and push the New Republic back a step for every two steps it takes forward in its quest for peace and prosperity for all. Meanwhile, Leia becomes Chief of State of the New Republic, and the Solos’ third child, a boy they name Anakin, after his grandfather, is born; Luke has met Mara Jade, a secret dark side apprentice to the Emperor whom he helps bring into the light, and the two subsequently fall in love and marry.

Finally, after a series of further setbacks and plots against the young galactic government and Luke’s Jedi, a peace treaty formally ends the long conflict between the New Republic and the remnants of the Empire. The events of these years are the answer to the question … “What happened after the movies?”

If you’re a reader looking to dive into the New Republic era, here are three great starting points:

• X-Wing: Rogue Squadron, by Michael A. Stackpole: A taste of life at the edge, Rogue Squadron and the subsequent X-Wing novels bring to life Wedge Antilles and his brave, sometimes rambunctious fellow pilots in fast-paced adventures that switch smoothly and easily between entertaining repartee and tense battlefield action.

• Heir to the Empire, by Timothy Zahn: The book that reintroduced a generation of fans to Star Wars is full of the elements that made the movies great—space battles, intriguing villains, and derring-do.

• Before the Storm, by Michael P. Kube-McDowell: With a harder sci-fi edge to Star Wars, this novel features the classic heroes Han, Luke, and Leia, and explores everything from military forensics to the nature of the Force.

Read on for an excerpt from a Star Wars novel set in the New Republic era.

1

You’re good, Corran, but you’re no Luke Skywalker. Corran Horn’s cheeks still burned at the memory of Commander Antilles’s evaluation of his last simulator exercise. The line had been a simple comment, not meant to be cruel nor delivered that way, but it cut deep into Corran. I’ve never tried to suggest I’m that good of a pilot.

He shook his head. No, you just wanted it to be self-evident and easily recognized by everyone around you. Reaching out he flicked the starter switches for the X-wing simulator’s engines. “Green One has four starts and is go.” All around him in the cockpit various switches, buttons, and monitors flashed to life. “Primary and secondary power is at full.”

Ooryl Qrygg, his Gand wingman, reported similar start-up success in a high-pitched voice. “Green Two is operational.”

Green Three and Four checked in, then the external screens came alive projecting an empty starfield. “Whistler, have you finished the navigation calculations?”

The green and white R2 unit seated behind Corran hooted, then the navdata spilled out over Corran’s main monitor. He punched a button sending the same coordinates out to the other pilots in Green Flight. “Go to light speed and rendezvous on the Redemption.”

As Corran engaged the X-wing’s hyperdrive, the stars elongated themselves into white cylinders, then snapped back into pinpoints and began to revolve slowly, transforming themselves into a tunnel of white light. Corran fought the urge to use the stick to compensate for the roll. In space, and especially hyperspace, up and down were relative. How his ship moved through hyperspace didn’t really matter—as long as it remained on the course Whistler had calculated and had attained sufficient velocity before entering hyperspace, he’d arrive intact.

Flying into a black hole would actually make this run easier. Every pilot dreaded the Redemption run. The scenario was based on an Imperial attack on evacuation ships back before the first Death Star had been destroyed. While the Redemption waited for three Medevac shuttles and the corvette Korolev to dock and off-load wounded, the Imperial frigate Warspite danced around the system and dumped out TIE fighters and added bombers to the mix to do as much damage as they could.

The bombers, with a full load of missiles, could do a lot of damage. All the pilots called the Redemption scenario by another name: the Requiem scenario. The Warspite would only deploy four starfighters and a half-dozen bombers—known in pilot slang as “eyeballs” and “dupes” respectively—but it would do so in a pattern that made it all but impossible for the pilots to save the Korolev. The corvette was just one big target, and the TIE bombers had no trouble unloading all their missiles into it.

Stellar pinpoints elongated again as the fighter came out of hyperspace. Off to the port side Corran saw the Redemption. Moments later Whistler reported that the other fighters and all three Medevac shuttles had arrived. The fighters checked in and the first shuttle began its docking maneuver with the Redemption.

“Green One, this is Green Four.”

“Go ahead, Four.”

“By the book, or are we doing something fancy?”

Corran hesitated before answering. By book, Nawara Ven had referred to the general wisdom about the scenario. It stated that one pilot should play fleethund and race out to engage the first TIE flight while the other three fighters remained in close as backup. As long as three fighters stayed at home, it appeared, the Warspite dropped ships off at a considerable distance from the Korolev. When they didn’t, it got bolder and the whole scenario became very bloody.

The problem with going by the book was that it wasn’t a very good strategy. It meant one pilot had to deal with five TIEs—two eyeballs and three dupes—all by himself, then turn around and engage five more. Even with them coming in waves, the chances of being able to succeed against those odds were slim.

Doing it any other way was disastrous. Besides, what loyal son of Corellia ever had any use for odds?

“By the book. Keep the home fires burning and pick up after me.”

“Done. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Corran reached up with his right hand and pressed it against the lucky charm he wore on a chain around his neck. Though he could barely feel the coin through his gloves and the thick material of his flight suit, the familiar sensation of the metal resting against his breastbone brought a smile to his face. It worked for you a lot, Dad, let’s hope all its luck hasn’t run out yet.

He openly acknowledged that he’d been depending quite a bit on luck to see him through the difficulties of settling in with the Alliance forces. Learning the slang took some work—moving from calling TIE starfighters “eyeballs” to calling Interceptors “squints” made a certain amount of sense, but many other terms had been born of logic that escaped him. Everything about the Rebellion seemed odd in comparison to his previous life and fitting in had not been easy.

Nor will be winning this scenario.

The Korolev materialized and moved toward the Redemption, prompting Corran to begin his final check. He’d mulled the scenario over in his mind time and time again. In previous runs, when he served as a home guard to someone else’s fleethund, he’d had Whistler record traces on the TIE timing patterns, flight styles, and attack vectors. While different cadets flew the TIE half of the simulations, the craft dictated their performance and a lot of their initial run sequence had been preprogrammed.

A sharp squawk from Whistler alerted Corran to the Warspite’s arrival. “Great, eleven klicks aft.” Pulling the stick around to the right, Corran brought the X-wing into a wide turn. At the end of it he punched the throttle up to full power. Hitting another switch up to the right, he locked the S-foils into attack position. “Green One engaging.”

Rhysati’s voice came cool and strong through the radio. “Be all over them like drool on a Hutt.”

“I’ll do my best, Green Three.” Corran smiled and waggled the X-wing as he flew back through the Alliance formation and out toward the Warspite. Whistler announced the appearance of three TIE bombers with a low tone, then brought the sound up as two TIE fighters joined them.

“Whistler, tag the bombers as targets one, two, and three.” As the R2 unit complied with that order, Corran pushed shield power full to front and brought his laser targeting program up on the main monitor. With his left hand he adjusted the sighting calibration knob on the stick and got the two fighters. Good, looks like three klicks between the eyeballs and the bombers.

Corran’s right hand again brushed the coin beneath his flight suit. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then settled his hand on the stick and let his thumb hover over the firing button. At two klicks the heads-up display painted a yellow box around the lead TIE fighter. The box went green as the fighter’s image locked into the HUD’s targeting cross and Whistler’s shrill bleat filled the cockpit. Corran’s thumb hit the button, sending three bursts of laser bolts at the lead fighter.

The first set missed but the second and third blasted through the spherical cockpit. The hexagonal solar panels snapped off and spun forward through space while the ion engines exploded into an expanding ball of incandescent gas.

Corran kicked the X-wing up in a ninety-degree snap-roll and sliced through the center of the explosion. Laser fire from the second fighter lit up his forward shields, making it impossible for him to get a good visual line on the TIE. Whistler yowled, complaining about being a target. Corran hurried a shot and knew he hit, but the TIE flashed past and continued on in at the Korolev.

Time to write a new chapter for the book on the Requiem scenario. Corran throttled back almost all the way to zero and let the X-wing decelerate. “Whistler, bring up target one.”

The image of the first TIE bomber filled his monitor. Corran switched over to proton torpedo target control. The HUD changed to a larger box and Whistler began beeping as he worked supplying data to the targeting computer for a missile lock.

“Green One, your velocity is down to one percent. Do you need help?”

“Negative, Green Two.”

“Corran, what are you doing?”

“Making the book a short story.” I hope.

The HUD went red and Whistler’s tone became constant. Corran punched the button and launched the first missile. “Acquire target two.” The HUD flashed yellow, then red, and the pilot launched the second missile.

Numbers scrolled away to zero as the missiles streaked in at their targets. Two kilometers away the first missile hit, shredding the first TIE bomber. Seconds later the second missile hit its target. A novalike explosion lit the simulator’s cockpit, then melted into the blackness of space.

“Acquire target three.”

Even as he gave the order he knew the rate of closure between the bomber and his ship would make the last missile shot all but impossible. “Cancel three.” Corran throttled up again as the third bomber sailed past and brought his ship around. He switched back to laser targeting and climbed right up on the bomber’s stern.

The dupe’s pilot tried to evade him. He juked the double-hulled ship to the left, then started a long turn to the right, but Corran was of no mind to lose him. He cut his speed, which kept the bomber in front of him, then followed it in its turn. As he leveled out again on its tail, he triggered two laser bursts and the targeting computer reported hull damage.

The bomber’s right wing came up in a roll and Corran did the same thing. Had he continued to fly level, the X-wing’s lasers would have passed on either side of the bomber’s fuselage, giving the bomber a few seconds more of life. Keeping the bomber centered in his crosshairs, Corran hit twice more and the bulky craft disintegrated before him.

Pushing his throttle to full, Corran scanned for the fighter he’d missed. He found it two klicks out and going in toward the Korolev. He also found five more TIEs coming in from the other side of the corvette, eighteen kilometers away. Damn, the bomber took more time than I had to give it.

He brought the torpedo targeting program back up and locked on to the remaining fighter. The HUD seemed to take forever before it went red and acquired a lock. Corran fired a missile and watched it blast through the fighter, then turned his attention to the new TIEs.

“Green One, do you want us to engage?”

Corran shook his head. “Negative, Two. Warspite is still here and could dump another flight.” He sighed. “Move to intercept the fighters, but don’t go beyond a klick from the Korolev.”

“On it.”

Good, they can tie the fighters up while I dust these dupes. Corran studied the navigational data Whistler was giving him. The Korolev, the bombers, and his X-wing formed a shrinking triangle. If he flew directly at the bombers he would end up flying in an arc, which would take more time than he had and let them get close enough to launch their missiles at the corvette. That would be less than useless as far as he was concerned.

“Whistler, plot me an intercept point six klicks out from the Korolev.”

The R2 whistled blithely, as if that calculation was so simple even Corran should have been able to do it in his head. Steering toward it, Corran saw he’d have just over a minute to deal with the bombers before they were in firing range on the Korolev. Not enough time.

Flicking two switches, Corran redirected generator energy from recharging his shields and lasers into the engines. It took the acceleration compensator a second to cycle up, so the ship’s burst of speed pushed Corran back into the padding of his command seat. This better work.

“Green One, the Warspite has hyped. Are we released to engage fighters?”

“Affirmative, Three. Go get them.” Corran frowned for a second, knowing his fellow pilots would make short work of the TIE fighters. They would deny him a clean sweep, but he’d willingly trade two TIEs for the corvette. Commander Antilles might have gotten them all himself, but then he’s got two Death Stars painted on the side of his X-wing.

“Whistler, mark each of the bombers four, five, and six.” Range to intercept was three klicks and he had added thirty seconds to his fighting time. “Acquire four.”

The targeting computer showed him to be coming in at a forty-five-degree angle to the flight path of his target, which meant he was way off target. He quickly punched the generator back into recharging lasers and his shields, then pulled even more energy from his quartet of Incom 4L4 fusial thrust engines and shunted it into recharging his weapons and shields.

The resource redirection brought his speed down. Corran pulled back on the stick, easing the X-wing into a turn that brought him head-on into the bombers. Tapping the stick to the left, he centered the targeting box on the first of the dupes.

The HUD started yellow, then quickly went red. Corran fired a missile. “Acquire five.” The HUD started red and Whistler’s keen echoed through the cockpit. The Corellian fired a second missile. “Acquire six.”

Whistler screeched.

Corran looked down at his display. Scrolling up the screen, sandwiched between the reports of missile hits on the three bombers, he saw a notation about Green Two. “Green Two, report.”

“He’s gone, One.”

“A fighter got him?”

“No time to chat …” The comm call from the Twi’lek in Green Four ended in a hiss of static.

“Rhysati?”

“Got one, Corran, but this last one is good.”

“Hang on.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Whistler, acquire six.”

The R2 unit hissed. The last bomber had already shot past the intercept point and was bearing in on the Korolev. The pilot had the wide-bodied craft slowly spinning, making it a difficult target for a missile lock. The Korolev, being as big as it was, would present large enough of a target that even a rolling ship could get a lock on it.

And once he has that lock, the Korolev is so much space junk. Corran switched back to lasers and pushed his X-wing forward. Even though two klicks separated them, he triggered a couple of laser blasts. He knew his chances of hitting were not good at that range, but the light from the bolts would shoot past the TIE and give the pilot something to think about. And I want him thinking about me, not that nerf-vette grazing there.

Corran redirected all power back into the engines and shot forward. Two more laser blasts caused the TIE bomber to shy a bit, but it had pushed into target-acquisition range. The ship’s roll began to slow as the pilot fixated on his target, then, as Corran brought his lasers to bear, the bomber jinked and cut away to port.

The Corellian’s eyes narrowed. Bror Jace has got to be flying that thing. He thinks it’s payback time. The other pilot, a human from Thyferra, was—in Corran’s opinion—the second best pilot in the training squadron. He’s going to kill the Korolev and I’ll never hear the end of it. Unless …

Corran pulled all his shield energy forward and left his aft as naked as the shieldless TIE bomber. Following Jace through a barrel roll, he kept the throttle full forward. As they leveled out again Corran triggered a snapshot at the bomber. It caught a piece of one wing, but Jace dove beneath the X-wing’s line of fire. Here we go!

Corran shoved his stick forward to follow the bomber’s dive, but because his rate of speed was a good twenty percent faster than that of Jace’s ship, the X-wing moved into a broad loop. By the time Corran inverted to finish the turn off, Jace’s bomber came back up and banked in on the X-wing’s tail.

Before the bomber could unload a missile or two into his aft, Corran broke the fighter hard to port and carved across the bomber’s line of fire. Basic maneuver with a basic response. Without even glancing at his instruments, and paying no attention to Whistler’s squealed warning, Corran cut engine power back into recharging his shields. One more second.

Jace’s response to Corran’s break had been a reverse-throttle hop. By bringing the nose of the bomber up in a steep climb, then rolling out in the direction of the turn, Jace managed to stay inside the arc of the X-wing’s turn. As the bomber leveled off, it closed very quickly with the X-wing—too quickly for a missile lock, but not a laser shot.

The TIE bomber shrieked in at the X-wing. Collision warning klaxons wailed. Corran could feel Jace’s excitement as the X-wing loomed larger. He knew the other pilot would snap off a quick shot, then come around again, angry at having overshot the X-wing, but happy to smoke Corran before taking the Korolev.

The X-wing pilot hit a switch and shifted all shield power to the aft shields.

The deflector shield materialized as a demisphere approximately twenty meters behind the X-wing. Designed to dissipate both energy and kinetic weapons, it had no trouble protecting the fighter from the bomber’s twin laser blasts. Had the bomber used missiles, the shields could even have handled all the damage they could do, though that would have been enough to destroy the shields themselves.

The TIE bomber, which massed far more than the missiles it carried, should have punched through the shields and might even have destroyed the fighter, but it hit at an angle and glanced off. The collision did blast away half the power of the aft shield and bounced the X-wing around, but otherwise left the snubfighter undamaged.

The same could not be said of the unshielded bomber. The impact with the shield was roughly equivalent to a vehicle hitting a ferrocrete wall at sixty kilometers per hour. While that might not do a land vehicle much damage, land vehicles are decidedly less delicate than starfighters. The starboard wing crumpled inward, wrapping itself around the bomber’s cockpit. Both pods of the ship twisted out of alignment so the engines shot it off into an uncontrolled tumble through the simulator’s dataspace.

“Green Three, did you copy that?”

Corran got no response. “Whistler, what happened to Three?”

The R2 unit gave him a mournful tone.

Sithspawn. Corran flipped the shield control to equalize things fore and aft. “Where is he?”

The image of a lone TIE fighter making a strafing run on the Korolev appeared on Corran’s monitor. The clumsy little craft skittered along over the corvette’s surface, easily dodging its weak return fire. That’s seriously gutsy for a TIE fighter. Corran smiled. Or arrogant, and time to make him pay for that arrogance.

The Corellian brought his proton torpedo targeting program up and locked on to the TIE. It tried to break the lock, but turbolaser fire from the Korolev boxed it in. Corran’s HUD went red and he triggered the torpedo. “Scratch one eyeball.”

The missile shot straight in at the fighter, but the pilot broke hard to port and away, causing the missile to overshoot the target. Nice flying! Corran brought his X-wing over and started down to loop in behind the TIE, but as he did so, the TIE vanished from his forward screen and reappeared in his aft arc. Yanking the stick hard to the right and pulling it back, Corran wrestled the X-wing up and to starboard, then inverted and rolled out to the left.

A laser shot jolted a tremor through the simulator’s couch. Lucky thing I had all shields aft! Corran reinforced them with energy from his lasers, then evened them out fore and aft. Jinking the fighter right and left, he avoided laser shots coming in from behind, but they all came in far closer than he liked.

He knew Jace had been in the bomber, and Jace was the only pilot in the unit who could have stayed with him. Except for our leader. Corran smiled broadly. Coming to see how good I really am, Commander Antilles? Let me give you a clinic. “Make sure you’re in there solid, Whistler, because we’re going for a little ride.”

Corran refused to let the R2’s moan slow him down. A snap-roll brought the X-wing up on its port wing. Pulling back on the stick yanked the fighter’s nose up away from the original line of flight. The TIE stayed with him, then tightened up on the arc to close distance. Corran then rolled another ninety degrees and continued the turn into a dive. Throttling back, Corran hung in the dive for three seconds, then hauled back hard on the stick and cruised up into the TIE fighter’s aft.

The X-wing’s laser fire missed wide to the right as the TIE cut to the left. Corran kicked his speed up to full and broke with the TIE. He let the X-wing rise above the plane of the break, then put the fighter through a twisting roll that ate up enough time to bring him again into the TIE’s rear. The TIE snapped to the right and Corran looped out left.

He watched the tracking display as the distance between them grew to be a kilometer and a half, then slowed. Fine, you want to go nose to nose? I’ve got shields and you don’t. If Commander Antilles wanted to commit virtual suicide, Corran was happy to oblige him. He tugged the stick back to his sternum and rolled out in an inversion loop. Coming at you!

The two starfighters closed swiftly. Corran centered his foe in the crosshairs and waited for a dead shot. Without shields the TIE fighter would die with one burst, and Corran wanted the kill to be clean. His HUD flicked green as the TIE juked in and out of the center, then locked green as they closed.

The TIE started firing at maximum range and scored hits. At that distance the lasers did no real damage against the shields, prompting Corran to wonder why Wedge was wasting the energy. Then, as the HUD’s green color started to flicker, realization dawned. The bright bursts on the shields are a distraction to my targeting! I better kill him now!

Corran tightened down on the trigger button, sending red laser needles stabbing out at the closing TIE fighter. He couldn’t tell if he had hit anything. Lights flashed in the cockpit and Whistler started screeching furiously. Corran’s main monitor went black, his shields were down, and his weapons controls were dead.

The pilot looked left and right. “Where is he, Whistler?”

The monitor in front of him flickered to life and a diagnostic report began to scroll by. Bloodred bordered the damage reports. “Scanners, out; lasers, out; shields, out; engine, out! I’m a wallowing Hutt just hanging here in space.”

With the X-wing’s scanners being dead, the R2 droid couldn’t locate the TIE fighter if it was outside the droid’s scanner range. Whistler informed Corran of this with an anxious bleat.

“Easy, Whistler, get me my shields back first. Hurry.” Corran continued to look around for the TIE fighter. Letting me stew, are you, sir? You’ll finish the Korolev then come for me. The pilot frowned and felt a cold chill run down his spine. You’re right, I’m no Luke Skywalker. I’m glad you think I’m not bad, but I want to be the best!

Suddenly the starfield went black and the simulator pod hissed as it cracked open. The canopy lifted up and the sound of laughter filled the cockpit. Corran almost flicked the blast shield down on his helmet to prevent his three friends from seeing his embarrassed blush. Nope, might as well take my punishment. He stood and doffed his helmet, then shook his head. “At least it’s over.”

The Twi’lek, Nawara Ven, clapped his hands. “Such modesty, Corran.”

“Huh?”

The blond woman next to the Twi’lek beamed up at him. “You won the Redemption scenario.”

“What?”

The grey-green Gand nodded his head and placed his helmet on the nose of Corran’s simulator. “You had nine kills. Jace is not pleased.”

“Thanks for the good news, Ooryl, but I still got killed in there.” Corran hopped out of the simulator. “The pilot who got you three—Commander Antilles—he got me, too.”

The Twi’lek shrugged. “He’s been at this a bit longer than I have, so it is not a surprise he got me.”

Rhysati shook her head, letting her golden hair drape down over her shoulders. “The surprise was that he took so long to get us, really. Are you certain he killed you?”

Corran frowned. “I don’t think I got a mission end message.”

“Clearly you have too little experience of dying in these simulators because you’d know if you did.” Rhysati laughed lightly. “He may have hit you, Corran, but he didn’t kill you. You survived and won.”

Corran blinked, then smiled. “And I got Bror before he got the Korolev. I’ll take that.”

“As well you should.” A brown-haired man with crystal blue eyes shouldered his way between Ooryl and Nawara. “You’re an exceptionally good pilot.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The man offered Corran his hand. “Thought I had you, but when you shot out my engines, your missile caught up with me. Nice job.”

Corran shook the man’s hand hesitantly. The man wore a black flight suit with no name or rank insignia on it, though it did have Hoth, Endor, and Bakura battle tabs sewn on the left sleeve. “You know, you’re one hot hand in a TIE.”

“Nice of you to say, Mr. Horn—I’m a bit rusty, but I really enjoyed this run.” He released Corran’s hand. “Next time I’ll give you more of a fight.”

A woman wearing a Lieutenant’s uniform touched the TIE pilot on the arm. “Admiral Ackbar is ready to see you now, sir. If you will follow me.”

The TIE pilot nodded to the four X-wing pilots. “Good flying, all of you. Congratulations on winning the scenario.”

Corran stared at the man’s retreating back. “I thought Commander Antilles was in that TIE. I mean it had to be someone as good as him to get you three.”

The ends of Nawara Ven’s head tails twitched. “Apparently he is that good.”

Rhysati nodded. “He flew circles around me.”

“At least you saw him.” The Gand drummed his trio of fingers against the hull of Corran’s simulator. “He caught Ooryl as Ooryl fixed on his wingman. Ooryl is free hydrogen in simspace. That man is very good.”

“Sure, but who is he?” Corran frowned. “He’s not Luke Skywalker, obviously, but he was with Rogue Squadron at Bakura and survived Endor.”

The Twi’lek’s red eyes sparked. “The Endor tab had a black dot in the middle—he survived the Death Star run.”

Rhysati looped her right arm around Corran’s neck and brought her fist up gently under his chin. “What difference does it make who he is?”

“Rhys, he shot up three of our best pilots, had me dead in space, and says he’s a bit rusty! I want to know who he is because he’s decidedly dangerous.”

“He is that, but today he’s not the most dangerous pilot. That’s you.” She linked her other arm through Nawara’s right elbow. “So, Corran, you forget you were a Security officer and, Nawara, you forget you were a lawyer and let this thing drop. Today we’re all pilots, we’re all on the same side”—she smiled sweetly—“and the man who beat the Redemption scenario is about to make good on all those dinner and drink promises he made to talk his wingmates into helping him win.”

THE NEW JEDI ORDER

(25–40 YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE)

A quarter century after A New Hope and the destruction of the Death Star, the galaxy is free of wide-scale conflicts—but the New Republic must contend with many regional brushfires. And Luke Skywalker’s Jedi Order faces its own growing pains: Some New Republic officials want to rein in the Jedi, leading Luke to wonder if the Jedi Council should be restored.

On the planet Rhommamool, Leia Organa Solo, Mara Jade Skywalker, and Jaina Solo meet with a mysterious rabble-rouser named Nom Anor. Anor rejects Leia’s diplomatic entreaties, but she’s more disturbed by what she finds when she reaches out to him in the Force: nothing. It’s as if he isn’t there.

Anor is a secret agent of the Yuuzhan Vong, powerful warriors from another galaxy who regard technology as blasphemous, relying on biological constructs to serve as their starships, weapons, and communicators. Long ago, a devastating war destroyed much of the Yuuzhan Vong’s galaxy and cut them off from the Force, sending their clans across the intergalactic void in search of a new home. Now they are at the edge of the Star Wars galaxy, ready to invade.

As head of the New Jedi Order, Luke is central to the galaxy’s defense; Leia’s skills as a former Chief of State and respected political adviser are also called on. The five-year war shakes the galaxy to its foundations. Technologically advanced worlds within the Yuuzhan Vong invasion corridor are subjected to the newcomers’ biotechnology and altered into strange hybrids combining what they had been with the new Yuuzhan Vong ecosystem. Entire species are enslaved—or eradicated. The New Republic is ill prepared to meet the extragalactic threat, with regional rivalries, political dissension, and concern over the Imperial Remnant limiting the effectiveness of its military response. Wrangling in the Senate snarls the war plans, as do disagreements between planetary fleets and armies, while assassination and war thin the ranks of the New Republic’s leaders. Officers and pilots who battled for so long against the Empire, such as Admiral Ackbar and Wedge Antilles, work feverishly to figure out how to outmaneuver their new enemies.

The invasion sorely challenges the Jedi, as well. Some take it upon themselves to meet the Yuuzhan Vong threat head-on, disdaining foot-dragging by politicians—and some of those skirt the dark side of the Force, giving in to their anger and fear as the Yuuzhan Vong ruin worlds and lives. The Yuuzhan Vong come to recognize the Jedi as the biggest threat to their plans, and begin hunting them down using New Republic traitors and bioengineered killers. At the forefront of the war against the Jedi are the Solo children—now teenagers and Jedi Knights in their own right. By the time the war is over, the Solo family will never be the same again.

The other heroes of the Rebellion, too, face personal struggles and tragedies. Luke fears for the life of his wife, Mara—infected with a Yuuzhan Vong–engineered disease—and for that of his newborn son, Ben, hunted by the Jedi’s enemies. Han and Leia’s losses are even harder to bear, as their oldest friends and children risk everything to stop the Yuuzhan Vong.

If you’re a reader looking to explore the epic tale of the Yuuzhan Vong war and the era of Luke’s New Jedi Order, the best place to start is with the first book in the series:

• The New Jedi Order: Vector Prime, by R. A. Salvatore: The first novel in the series introduces the pitiless Yuuzhan Vong and immediately makes clear that the heroes of the Rebellion are in mortal danger.

Read on for an excerpt from a Star Wars novel set in the New Jedi Order era.

ONE
Fraying Fabric

It was too peaceful out here, surrounded by the vacuum of space and with only the continual hum of the twin ion drives breaking the silence. While she loved these moments of peace, Leia Organa Solo also viewed them as an emotional trap, for she had been around long enough to understand the turmoil she would find at the end of this ride.

Like the end of every ride, lately.

Leia paused a moment before she entered the bridge of the Jade Sabre, the new shuttle her brother, Luke, had built for his wife, Mara Jade. Before her, and apparently oblivious to her, Mara and Jaina sat comfortably, side by side at the controls, talking and smiling. Leia focused on her daughter, Jaina, sixteen years old, but with the mature and calm demeanor of a veteran pilot. Jaina looked a lot like Leia, with long dark hair and brown eyes contrasting sharply with her smooth and creamy skin. Indeed, Leia saw much of herself in the girl—no, not girl, Leia corrected her own thoughts, but young woman. That same sparkle behind the brown eyes, mischievous, adventurous, determined.

That notion set Leia back a bit, for she recognized then that when she looked at Jaina, she was seeing not a reflection of herself but an image of the girl she had once been. A twinge of sadness caught her as she considered her own life now: a diplomat, a bureaucrat, a mediator, always trying to calm things down, always working for the peace and prosperity of the New Republic. Did she miss the days when the most common noise around her had been the sharp blare of a blaster or the hiss of a lightsaber? Was she sorry that those wild times had been replaced by the droning of the ion drives and the sharp bickering of one pride-wounded emissary after another?

Perhaps, Leia had to admit, but in looking at Jaina and those simmering dark eyes, she could take vicarious pleasure.

Another twinge—jealousy?—caught her by surprise, as Mara and Jaina erupted into laughter over some joke Leia had not overheard. But she pushed the absurd notion far from her mind as she considered her sister-in-law, Luke’s wife and Jaina’s tutor—at Jaina’s own request—in the ways of the Jedi. Mara was not a substitute mother for Jaina, but rather a big sister, and when Leia considered the fires that constantly burned in Mara’s green eyes, she understood that the woman could give to Jaina things that Leia could not, and that those lessons and that friendship would prove valuable indeed to her daughter. And so she forced aside her jealousy and was merely glad that Jaina had found such a friend.

She started onto the bridge, but paused again, sensing movement behind her. She knew before looking that it was Bolpuhr, her Noghri bodyguard, and barely gave him a glance as he glided to the side, moving so easily and gracefully that he reminded her of a lace curtain drifting lazily in a gentle breeze. She had accepted young Bolpuhr as her shadow for just that reason, for he was as unobtrusive as any bodyguard could be. Leia marveled at the young Noghri, at how his grace and silence covered a perfectly deadly fighting ability.

She held up her hand, indicating that Bolpuhr should remain out here, and though his usually emotionless face did flash Leia a quick expression of disappointment, she knew he would obey. Bolpuhr, and all the Noghri, would do anything Leia asked of them. He would jump off a cliff or dive into the hot end of an ion engine for her, and the only time she ever saw any sign of discontentment with her orders was when Bolpuhr thought she might be placing him in a difficult position to properly defend her.

As he was thinking now, Leia understood, though why in the world Bolpuhr would fear for her safety on her sister-in-law’s private shuttle was beyond her. Sometimes dedication could be taken a bit too far.

With a nod to Bolpuhr, she turned back to the bridge and crossed through the open doorway. “How much longer?” she asked, and was amused to see both Jaina and Mara jump in surprise at her sudden appearance.

In answer, Jaina increased the magnification on the forward screen, and instead of the unremarkable dots of light, there appeared an image of two planets, one mostly blue and white, the other reddish in hue, seemingly so close together that Leia wondered how it was that the blue-and-white one, the larger of the pair, had not grasped the other in its gravity and turned it into a moon. Parked halfway between them, perhaps a half a million kilometers from either, deck lights glittering in the shadows of the blue-and-white planet, loomed a Mon Calamari battle cruiser, the Mediator, one of the newest ships in the New Republic fleet.

“They’re at their closest,” Mara observed, referring to the planets.

“I beg your indulgence,” came a melodic voice from the doorway, and the protocol droid C-3PO walked into the room. “But I do not believe that is correct.”

“Close enough,” Mara said. She turned to Jaina. “Both Rhommamool and Osarian are ground based, technologically—”

“Rhommamool almost exclusively so!” C-3PO quickly added, drawing a scowl from all three of the women. Oblivious, he rambled on. “Even Osarian’s fleet must be considered marginal, at best. Unless, of course, one is using the Pantang Scale of Aero-techno Advancement, which counts even a simple landspeeder as highly as it would a Star Destroyer. Perfectly ridiculous scale.”

“Thank you, Threepio,” Leia said, her tone indicating that she had heard more than enough.

“They’ve both got missiles that can hit each other from this close distance, though,” Mara continued.

“Oh, yes!” the droid exclaimed. “And given the proximity of their relative elliptical orbits—”

“Thank you, Threepio,” Leia said.

“—they will remain within striking distance for some time,” C-3PO continued without missing a beat. “Months, at least. In fact, they will be even closer in two standard weeks, the closest they will be to each other for a decade to come.”

“Thank you, Threepio!” Mara and Leia said together.

“And the closest they have been for a decade previous,” the droid had to slip in, as the women turned back to their conversation.

Mara shook her head, trying to remember her original point to Jaina. “That’s why your mother chose to come out now.”

“You’re expecting a fight?” Jaina asked, and neither Leia nor Mara missed the sparkle in her eye.

“The Mediator will keep them behaving,” Leia said hopefully. Indeed, the battle cruiser was an impressive warship, an updated and more heavily armed and armored version of the Mon Calamari star cruiser.

Mara looked back to the screen and shook her head, unconvinced. “It’ll take more than a show of force to stop this catastrophe,” she replied.

“Indeed, it has been escalating, by all reports,” C-3PO piped up. “It started as a simple mining dispute over mineral rights, but now the rhetoric is more appropriate for some kind of a holy crusade.”

“It’s the leader on Rhommamool,” Mara remarked. “Nom Anor. He’s reached down and grabbed his followers by their most basic instincts, weaving the dispute against Osarian into a more general matter of tyranny and oppression. Don’t underestimate him.”

“I can’t begin to give you a full list of tyrants like Nom Anor that I’ve dealt with,” Leia said with a resigned shrug.

“I have that very list available,” C-3PO blurted. “Tonkoss Rathba of—”

“Thank you, Threepio,” Leia said, too politely.

“Why, of course, Princess Leia,” the droid replied. “I do so like to be of service. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Tonkoss Rathba of—”

“Not now, Threepio,” Leia insisted, then to Mara, she added, “I’ve seen his type often.”

“Not like him,” Mara replied, somewhat softly, and the sudden weakness in her voice reminded Leia and Jaina that Mara, despite her nearly constant bravado and overabundance of energy, was seriously ill, with a strange and thankfully rare disease that had killed dozens of others and against which the best doctors in the New Republic had proven completely helpless. Of those who had contracted the molecular disorder, only Mara and one other remained alive, and that other person, being studied intently on Coruscant, was fast dying.

“Daluba,” C-3PO went on. “And of course, there was Icknya—”

Leia started to turn to the droid, hoping to politely but firmly shut him up, but Jaina’s cry stopped her abruptly and swung her back to face the screen.

“Incoming ships!” Jaina announced, her voice full of surprise. The telltale blips had appeared on her sensor viewer as if from nowhere.

“Four of them,” Mara confirmed. Even as she spoke, the warning buzzers began to go off. “From Osarian.” She turned her curious expression up to Leia. “They know who we are?”

Leia nodded. “And they know why I’ve come.”

“Then they should know to leave us alone,” Jaina reasoned.

Leia nodded again, but understood better. She had come to the system not to meet with the Osarians—not at first, at least—but with their principal rival, Nom Anor, the cult figure stirring up trouble on Rhommamool. “Tell them to back off,” she instructed Mara.

“Politely?” Mara asked, smiling, and with that dangerous twinkle in her eyes.

“New Republic shuttle,” a halting voice crackled over the comm. “This is Captain Grappa of Osarian First-Force.”

With a flick of a switch, Mara put an image of the captain on the viewscreen, and Leia sighed as the green skin, spiny head ridge, and tapirlike snout came into view.

“Wonderful,” she remarked sarcastically.

“The Osarians have hired Rodians?” Jaina asked.

“Nothing like a few mercenaries to quiet things down,” Leia replied dryly.

“Oh, dear me,” C-3PO remarked, and he shuffled aside nervously.

“You come with us,” Grappa insisted, his multifaceted eyes sparkling eagerly. “To Osa-Prime.”

“Seems the Osarians want to talk with you first,” Mara said.

“They’re afraid that my meeting with Nom Anor will only heighten his stature, both among the Rhommamoolians and throughout the sector,” Leia reasoned, a notion not without credence, and one that she had debated endlessly before making the decision to come here.

“Whatever the reason, they’re closing fast,” Mara replied. Both she and Jaina looked to Leia for instructions, for while the Jade Sabre was Mara’s ship, this was Leia’s mission.

“Princess Leia?” an obviously alarmed C-3PO asked.

Leia sat down in the chair behind Mara, intently studying the screen, which Jaina had switched back to a normal space view. The four approaching fighters were clearly visible.

“Lose them,” she said determinedly, a request that neither of the pilots needed to hear twice. Indeed, Mara had been eager to put the shuttle, with its powerful twin engines and state-of-the-art maneuvering systems, through a real test.

Green eyes sparkling, smile wide, Mara reached for the controls, but then retracted her hands and put them on her lap. “You heard her, Jaina,” she said.

Jaina’s mouth dropped open; so did Leia’s.

“You mean it?” Jaina asked.

Mara’s only reply was an almost bored expression, along with a slight yawn, as if this whole thing was no big deal, and certainly nothing that Jaina couldn’t easily handle.

“Yes!” Jaina whispered, clenching her fists, wearing a smile nearly wide enough to take in her ears. She rubbed her hands together, then reached out to the right, rolling her fingers over the floating-ball control of the inertial compensator. “Strap in,” she ordered, and she dialed it down to 95 percent, as fighter pilots often did so that they could gain a tactile feel to the movements of their ships. Reading the g’s, Jaina had heard it called, and she always preferred flying that way, where fast turns and mighty acceleration could push her back in her seat.

“Not too much,” Leia said with concern.

But her daughter was in her element now, Leia knew, and she’d push the shuttle to its limits. Leia felt the lean as Jaina veered right, angling away from the approaching ships.

“If you run, we shoot you down!” came the uneven voice of Grappa.

“Z-95 Headhunters,” Mara said derisively of the closing craft, an antiquated starfighter, and she flipped off the comm switch and looked back at Leia. “Can’t shoot what you can’t catch,” she explained. “Kick them in,” she added to Jaina, motioning to the primary thrusters, thinking that a burst of the powerful engines would shoot the Jade Sabre right past the befuddled Rodians and their outdated starfighters.

Even as she spoke, though, two more blips appeared on the sensors, streaking out from the shadows around Rhommamool, angling right in line with the Jade Sabre.

“Mara,” Leia said with concern. At that, Mara did reach for the controls. But only for a moment, and then she looked Jaina right in the eye and nodded for the young woman to proceed.

Leia lurched forward in her seat, held back only by the belt, as Jaina reversed throttle and kicked the etheric rudder right. There came a metallic thump behind them—C-3PO hitting the wall, Leia guessed.

Even as the Jade Sabre came to a sudden halt, nose turned starboard, Jaina pumped it out to full throttle and kicked the rudder back to the left, then hard right, fishtailing the ship about in a brutal one-eighty, then working the rudder hard and somewhat choppy in straightening out her direct retreat. As they turned, a laser cannon blast cut across their bow.

“All right, the first four are on our tail,” Mara instructed calmly. The Jade Sabre jolted, hit aft, a blow the shields easily held back.

“Try a—” Mara started to say, but she lost the words, and nearly her lunch, as Jaina pulled a snap roll right, and then another right behind it.

“Oh, we’ll be killed!” came C-3PO’s cry from the doorway, and Leia managed to turn her head to see the droid leaning in against the metal jamb, and then to see him fly away, with a pitiful cry, as Jaina kicked the etheric rudder again, putting the ship into another sudden fishtail.

A pair of Headhunters streaked past the viewscreen, but just for a split second, for Jaina vectored away at a different angle, and at single-engine full throttle, pressing Leia back in her seat. Leia wanted to say something to Jaina then, some words of encouragement or advice, but found her words stuck in her throat. And not for any g forces.

It was the sight of Jaina, the fire in her brown eyes, the determined set of her jaw, the sheer concentration. At that moment, Leia knew.

Her daughter was a woman now, and with all the grit of her father and mother combined.

Mara glanced over her right shoulder, between Jaina and Leia, and both followed her lead long enough to see that two of the initial four had altered course accordingly and were fast closing, laser cannons blasting away.

“Hold on,” a confident Jaina warned, and she pulled back the stick, lifting the Jade Sabre’s nose, then shoved it forward, dropping the shuttle into a sudden, inverted loop.

“We’re doomed!” C-3PO cried from the hallway—the hallway ceiling, Leia knew.

Halfway around, Jaina broke the loop with a snap roll, then kicked her into a fishtail and a barrel roll, bringing her about to nearly their original course, but with the initial four behind them. Now she did kick in both ion drives, as if to use sheer speed to split the gap between the two incoming fighters.

Both angled out suddenly, then turned back in, widening that escape route but giving them a longer shooting angle at the shuttle, and an easier turn to pursue.

“They’re good,” Mara warned, but, like Leia, she found her words lost in her throat, as Jaina, teeth gritted to fight back the g’s, reversed throttle.

“Princess—” The plaintive cry from the corridor ended abruptly in a loud crash.

“Coming in hot!” Mara cried, noting the fighter fast approaching to port.

Jaina didn’t, couldn’t even hear her; she had turned inward now, was feeling the Force coursing through her, was registering every movement of her enemies and reacting instinctively, playing the game three moves ahead. Before Mara had even begun to speak, Jaina had hit the forward attitude adjustment jets, lifting the nose, then she pumped the throttle and kicked the rudder, lifting the Jade Sabre and bringing her nose about to starboard, to directly face the other incoming Headhunter.

And that eager Rodian did come in at them, and hard, and the Jade Sabre’s defensive array screeched and lit up, warning of a lock-on.

“Jaina!” Leia cried.

“He’s got us!” Mara added.

But then the closer ship, coming from port, passed right under the Jade Sabre, and Jaina fired the repulsorlifts, bouncing the Jade Sabre up and sending the poor Headhunter into a wild, spinning roll.

The closing ship from starboard let fly its concussion missile, but it, and the Headhunter, zipped right underneath the elevated Jade Sabre.

Before the three women could even begin to catch their breath, another ship streaked in, an X-wing, the new XJ version of the starfighter, its own laser cannons blasting away from its wingtips. Not at the Jade Sabre, though, but at the Headhunter that had just gone past.

“Who is that?” Leia asked, and Jaina, equally curious, brought the Jade Sabre about hard.

The Headhunter snap-rolled left and dived, but the far superior X-wing stayed on her, lasers scoring hit after hit, depleting her shields and then blasting her apart into a million pieces.

“A Jedi,” Mara and Jaina said together, and Leia, when she paused to collect the Force sensations about her, concurred.

“Fast to the Mediator,” Leia instructed her daughter, and Jaina swung the Jade Sabre about yet again.

“I didn’t know there were any Jedi in the sector,” Leia said to Mara, who could only shrug, equally at a loss.

“Another one’s out,” Jaina informed them, watching the blips on her sensor screen. “And two others are vectoring away.”

“They want no part of a Jedi showing a willingness to shoot back,” Mara remarked.

“Maybe Rodians are smarter than I thought,” Leia said dryly. “Smooth it out,” she instructed her daughter, unbuckling and climbing unsteadily to her feet.

Jaina reluctantly dialed the inertial compensator back to full.

“Only one pursuing,” Jaina informed them as Leia made her way to the door.

“The X-wing,” Mara added, and Leia nodded.

In the hallway outside the bridge, Leia found C-3PO inverted and against the wall, his feet sticking up in the air, his head crunched forward so that his chin was tight against his chest.

“You have to learn to hold on,” Leia said to him, helping him upright. She glanced across the way to Bolpuhr as she spoke, to find the Noghri still standing calmly in the exact spot she had assigned him.

Somehow, she wasn’t amazed.

Jaina took the Jade Sabre at a swift but steady pace toward the distant Mediator. She checked often for pursuit, but it quickly became obvious that the Rodians in their outdated Headhunters wanted no part of this fight.

Leia rejoined them a short while later, to find Jaina in complete control and Mara resting back in her seat, eyes closed. Even when Jaina asked her aunt a question about docking procedures, the woman didn’t respond, didn’t even open her eyes.

“They’ll guide you in,” Leia interjected, and sure enough, a voice from the Mediator crackled over the opened comm, giving explicit directions for entry vector.

Jaina took her in, and Jaina took her down, easily—and after the display of flying she had just given them out with the Headhunters, Leia wasn’t the least bit surprised by her ability to so smoothly tight-dock a ship as large as the Jade Sabre.

That final shudder as Jaina eased off the repulsorlifts and settled the shuttle onto the docking bay floor stirred Mara from her rest. She opened her eyes and, seeing where they were, rose quickly.

And then she swayed and seemed as if she would fall.

Leia and Jaina were there in an instant, catching and steadying her.

She regained her balance and took a deep breath. “Maybe next time you can dial down the inertial compensator to ninety-seven instead of ninety-five,” she said jokingly, straining a smile.

Jaina laughed, but Leia’s face showed her deep concern. “Are you all right?” she asked.

Mara eyed her directly.

“Perhaps we should find a place where you can rest,” Leia said.

“Where we all can rest,” Mara corrected, and her tone told Leia to back off, a reminder that Leia was intruding on a private place for Mara, a place she had explicitly instructed all of her friends, even her husband, not to go. This disease was Mara’s fight alone, to Mara’s thinking, a battle that had forced her to reconsider everything she thought about her life, past, present, and future, and everything she thought about death.

Leia held her stare for a moment longer, but replaced her own concerned expression with one of acceptance. Mara did not want to be coddled or cuddled. She was determined to live on in an existence that did not name her disease as the most pressing and important facet of her entire life, to live on as she had before, with the illness being relegated to the position of nuisance, and nothing more.

Of course, Leia understood it to be much more than that, an internal churning that required Mara to spend hours and tremendous Force energy merely holding it in check. But that was Mara’s business.

“I hope to meet with Nom Anor tomorrow,” Leia explained, as the three, with C-3PO and Bolpuhr in tow, headed for the lower hatch, then moved down to the landing bay. A contingent of New Republic Honor Guard stood waiting there, along with Commander Ackdool, a Mon Calamarian with large, probing eyes, a fishlike face, and salmon-colored skin. “By all reports, we should all be rested before dealing with him.”

“Believe those reports,” Mara said.

“And first, it seems I get to meet with our savior Jedi,” Leia added dryly, looking back behind the Jade Sabre to see the X-wing gliding in to rest.

“Wurth Skidder,” Jaina remarked, recognizing the markings under the canopy on the starfighter.

“Why am I not surprised?” Leia asked, and she blew a sigh.

Ackdool came over to them, then, and extended his formal greetings to the distinguished guests, but Leia’s reaction set him back on his heels—indeed, it raised more than a few eyebrows among the members of the Mediator’s Honor Guard.

“Why did you send him out?” Leia snapped, motioning toward the docking X-wing.

Commander Ackdool started to answer, but Leia continued. “If we had needed assistance, we would have called for it.”

“Of course, Princess Leia,” Commander Ackdool said with a polite bow.

“They why send him out?”

“Why do you assume that Wurth Skidder flew out at my command?” the cool Commander Ackdool dared to respond. “Why would you assume that Wurth Skidder heeds any order I might give?”

“Couple o’ ridge-head parachutes floating over Osarian, if those Rodians had any luck,” came the singsong voice of Wurth Skidder. The cocky young man was fast approaching, pulling off his helmet and giving his shock of blond hair a tousle as he walked.

Leia stepped out to intercept him and took another quick step for no better reason than to make the Jedi stop short. “Wurth Skidder,” she said.

“Princess,” the man replied with a bow.

“Did you have a little fun out there?”

“More than a little,” the Jedi said with a wide grin and a sniffle—and he always seemed to be sniffling, and his hair always looked as if he had just walked in from a Tatooine sandstorm. “Fun for me, I mean, and not for the Rodians.”

“And the cost of your fun?” Leia asked.

That took the smile from Wurth Skidder’s face, and he looked at Leia curiously, obviously not understanding.

“The cost,” Leia explained. “What did your little excursion cost?”

“A couple of proton torpedos,” Wurth replied with a shrug. “A little fuel.”

“And a year of diplomatic missions to calm down the Osarians,” Leia retorted.

“But they shot first,” Wurth protested.

“Do you even understand that your stupidity likely escalated an already impossible situation?” Leia’s voice was as firm and cold as anyone present had ever heard it. So cold, in fact, that the always overprotective Bolpuhr, fearing trouble, glided closer to her, hanging back just behind her left shoulder, within fast striking distance of the Jedi.

“They were attacking you,” Wurth Skidder retorted. “Six of them!”

“They were trying to bring us down to Osarian,” Leia harshly explained. “A not-so-unexpected response, given my announced intentions here. And so we planned to avoid them. Avoid! Do you understand that word?”

Wurth Skidder said nothing.

“Avoid them and thus cause no further problems or hard feelings,” Leia went on. “And so we would have, and we would have asked for no explanations from Shunta Osarian Dharrg, all of us pretending that nothing had ever happened.”

“But—”

“And our graciousness in not mentioning this unfortunate incident would have bought me the bargaining capital I need to bring some kind of conciliation from Osarian toward Rhommamool,” Leia continued, anger creeping in thicker with each word. “But now we can’t do that, can we? Now, so that Wurth Skidder could paint another skull on the side of his X-wing, I’ll have to deal with an incident.”

“They shot first,” Wurth Skidder reiterated when it became apparent that Leia was done.

“And better that they had shot last,” Leia replied. “And if Shunta Osarian Dharrg demands reparations, we’ll agree, with all apologies, and any monies to be paid will come from Wurth Skidder’s private funds.”

The Jedi squared his shoulders at the suggestion, but then Leia hit him with a sudden and devastating shot. “My brother will see to it.”

Wurth Skidder bowed again, glared at Leia and all around, then turned on his heel and walked briskly away.

“My apologies, Princess Leia,” Ackdool said. “But I have no real authority over Jedi Skidder. I had thought it a blessing when he arrived two weeks ago. His Jedi skills should certainly come in handy against any terrorist attempts—and we have heard rumors of many—against the Mediator.”

“And you are indeed within striking distance of surface missiles,” C-3PO added, but he stopped short, this time catching on to the many disapproving looks that came his way.

“I did not know that Jedi Skidder would prove so …” Ackdool paused, searching for the right word. “Intractable.”

“Stubborn, you mean,” Leia said. As they all started away, Leia did manage a bit of a smile when she heard Mara behind her tell Jaina, “Maybe Nom Anor has met his match.”

C-9PO, a protocol droid, its copper coloring tinged red from the constantly blowing dusts of Rhommamool, skittered down an alley to the side of the main avenue of Redhaven and peeked out cautiously at the tumult beyond. The fanatical followers of Nom Anor, the Red Knights of Life, had gone on the rampage again, riding throughout the city in an apparent purge of landspeeders on their tutakans, eight-legged lizards with enormous tusks that climbed right up past their black eyes and curled in like white eyebrows.

“Ride the beasts given by Life!” one Red Knight screamed at a poor civilian as the wrinkled Dressellian merchant was dragged from the cockpit and punched and pushed to the ground.

“Perversion!” several other Red Knights cried in unison. “Life-pretender!” And they set upon the landspeeder with their tubal-iron pummelstaves, smashing the windshield, bashing in the side moldings, crushing the steering wheel and other controls, even knocking one of the rear drive’s cylindrical engines from its mounts.

Satisfied that the craft was wrecked beyond repair, they pulled the Dressellian to his feet and shoved him to and fro, warning him to ride creatures, not machines—or, better still, to use the legs that nature had provided and walk. Then they beat him back down to the ground and moved on, some climbing back atop the tutakans, others running beside.

The landspeeder continued to hover, though it had only a couple of repulsors still firing. It looked more like a twisted lump of beaten metal than a vehicle, tilting to one side because of the unequal weight distribution and the weakened lift capacity.

“Oh, dear me,” the protocol droid said, ducking low as the contingent stormed past.

Tap, tap, tap came the ringing of metal on metal against the top of the droid’s head. C-9PO slowly turned about and saw the fringe of the telltale black capes, and the red-dyed hides.

With a screech, the droid stood up and tried to run away, but a pummelstave smashed in the side of his leg and he went facedown in the red dust. He lifted his head, but rising up on his arms only gave the two Red Knights a better handhold as they walked past, each scooping the droid under one shoulder and dragging him along.

“Got a Ninepio,” one of the pair called out to his lizard-riding buddies, and a cheer went up.

The doomed droid knew the destination: the Square of Hopeful Redemption.

C-9PO was glad that he wasn’t programmed to experience pain.

*   *   *

“It was a stupid thing to do,” Leia said firmly.

“Wurth thought he was helping us,” Jaina reminded, but Leia wasn’t buying that argument.

“Wurth was trying to find his own thrills,” she corrected.

“And that hotshot attitude of his will reinforce the ring of truth to Nom Anor’s diatribes against the Jedi,” Mara said. “He’s not without followers on Osarian.” As she finished, she looked down at the table, at the pile of leaflets Commander Ackdool had given them, colorful propaganda railing against the New Republic, against the Jedi, and against anything mechanical and technological, and somehow tying all of these supposed ills to the cultural disease that engulfed the society of the planet Osarian.

“Why does Nom Anor hate the Jedi?” Jaina asked. “What do we have to do with the struggle between Osarian and Rhommamool? I never even heard of these planets until you mentioned that we’d be coming here.”

“The Jedi have nothing to do with this struggle,” Leia replied. “Or at least, they didn’t until Wurth Skidder’s antics.”

“Nom Anor hates the New Republic,” Mara added. “And he hates the Jedi as symbols of the New Republic.”

“Is there anything Nom Anor doesn’t hate?” Leia asked dryly.

“Don’t take him lightly,” Mara warned yet again. “His religious cry to abandon technology and machines, to look for truth in the natural elements and life of the universe, and to resist the joining of planets in false confederations resonates deeply in many people, particularly those who have been the victims of such planetary alliances, like the miners of Rhommamool.”

Leia didn’t disagree. She had spent many hours before and during the journey here reading the history of the two planets, and she knew that the situation on Rhommamool was much more complicated than that. While many of the miners had traveled to the inhospitable red planet voluntarily, there were quite a number who were the descendants of the original “colonists”—involuntary immigrants sent there to work the mines because of high crimes they had committed.

Whatever the truth of the situation, though, Leia couldn’t deny that Rhommamool was the perfect breeding ground for zealots like Nom Anor. Life there was tough—even basics like water could be hard to come by—while the prosperous Osarians lived in comfort on white sandy beaches and crystal-clear lakes.

“I still don’t understand how any of that concerns the Jedi,” Jaina remarked.

“Nom Anor was stirring up anger against the Jedi long before he ever came to Rhommamool,” Mara explained. “Here, he’s just found a convenient receptacle for his wrath.”

“And with the Jedi Knights scattered throughout the galaxy, and so many of them following their own agendas, Nom Anor might just find plenty of ammunition to add to his arguments,” Leia added grimly. “I’m glad that my brother is thinking of reestablishing the Jedi Council.”

Mara nodded, but Jaina seemed less convinced. “Jacen doesn’t think that’s such a good idea,” she reminded her mother.

Leia shrugged. Her oldest son, Jaina’s twin, had indeed expressed serious doubts about the course of the Jedi Knights.

“If we can’t bring some sense of order to the galaxy, particularly to isolated planets like Osarian and Rhommamool, then we’re no better than the Empire,” Mara remarked.

“We’re better than the Empire,” Leia insisted.

“Not in Nom Anor’s eyes,” Jaina said.

And Mara reiterated her warning to Leia not to take the man lightly. “He’s the strangest man I ever met,” she explained, and given her past exploits with notorious sorts like Jabba the Hutt and Talon Karrde, that was quite a statement. “Even when I tried to use the Force to gain a better perspective on him, I drew …” Mara paused, as if looking for some way to properly express the feeling. “A blank,” she decided. “As if the Force had nothing to do with him.”

Leia and Jaina looked at her curiously.

“No,” Mara corrected. “More like he had nothing to do with the Force.”

The perfect disconnected ideologue, Leia thought, and she expressed her feelings with a single sarcastic word: “Wonderful.”

He stood on the platform surrounded by his fanatical Red Knights. Before him, ten thousand Rhommamoolians crowded into every open space of the great public square of Redhaven, once the primary trading spaceport of the planet. But those facilities had been leveled in the early days of the uprising, with the Rhommamoolians declaring their independence from Osarian. And more recently, since the coming of Nom Anor as spearhead of the revolution, the place had been renamed the Square of Hopeful Redemption.

Here, the citizens came to declare freedom from Osarian.

Here, the followers came to renounce the New Republic.

Here, the believers came to renounce the Jedi.

And here, the fanatics came to discredit progress and technology, to cry out for a simpler time, when the strength of a being’s legs, and not the weight of his purse, determined how far he could travel, and the strength of his hands, and not the weight of his purse, allowed him to harvest the gifts of nature.

Nom Anor loved it all, the adulation and the fanatical, bordering on suicidal, devotion. He cared nothing for Rhommamool or its inhabitants, cared nothing for the foolish cries for some ridiculous “simpler time.”

But how he loved the chaos his words and followers inflicted upon the order of the galaxy. How he loved the brooding undercurrent of resentment toward the New Republic, and the simmering anger aimed at the Jedi Knights, these supercreatures of the galaxy.

Wouldn’t his superiors be pleased?

Nom Anor flipped his shiny black cape back from his shoulder and held his fist upraised into the air, drawing shrieks of appreciation. In the center of the square, where once had stood the Portmaster’s Pavilion, now was a huge pit, thirty meters in diameter and ten deep. Whistles and whines emanated from that pit, along with cries for mercy and pitifully polite words of protest—the voices of droids collected by the folk of Rhommamool and dropped into the hole.

Great cheers erupted from all corners of the square as a pair of the Red Knights entered from one avenue, dragging a 9PO protocol droid between them. They went to the edge of the pit, took up the poor 9PO by the arms and the legs, and on a three-count, launched him onto the pile of metal consisting of the astromech and mine-sniffer droids, the Redhaven street-cleaner droids, and the personal butler droids of the wealthier Rhommamoolian citizens.

When the hooting and cheering died down, Nom Anor opened his hands, revealing a single small stone. Then he clenched his fist again, squeezing with tremendous power, crushing the stone in his grasp so that dust and flecks of rock splinters slipped out the sides.

The signal to begin.

As one the crowd surged forward, lifting great chunks of stone, the debris from the wreckage of the pavilion. They came to the edge of the pit one after another and hurled their heavy missiles at the pile of droids.

The stoning went on for the rest of the afternoon, until the red glare of the sun thinned to a brilliant crimson line along the horizon, until the dozens and dozens of droids were no more than scrap metal and sparking wires.

And Nom Anor, silent and dignified, watched it all somberly, accepting this great tribute his followers had paid to him, this public execution of the hated droids.

LEGACY ERA

(40+ YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE)

The Yuuzhan Vong have been defeated, but the galaxy has been slow to recover from their depredations, with powerful worlds chafing at the economic burdens and military restrictions put upon them by the nascent Galactic Alliance, once-powerful species seeking to rise again, newly prosperous worlds testing their influence, and long-buried secrets coming to light. The result of all this instability is civil war. Faced with a Galactic Alliance that has fallen away from its values, Luke and the Jedi Order must decide where their loyalties lie—and so, too, must the heroes of the Rebellion.

While hostilities spread across the Core Worlds, lurking in the shadows is a Sith adept who wastes no time in taking advantage of the galactic chaos to wage a very personal war against the Skywalkers and the Solos. Luke will face terrible loss, Han and Leia will be tested as never before, and their daughter, Jaina, will learn just what it means to fulfill her destiny as “the Sword of the Jedi.” And even as the Galactic Alliance pulls the galaxy back from the brink of total disaster, the Skywalker–Solo clan will never be the same again.

The mop-up is difficult. Luke Skywalker is exiled from Coruscant, and while he and his son, Jedi Knight Ben Skywalker, set out on a quest to discover what caused such darkness to befall the galaxy and their family, Han and Leia are left to raise their granddaughter, Allana, and help shepherd the government back into some semblance of order. But little do any of them know that a long-lost tribe of Sith is making its way toward the Core, determined to fulfill their destiny of dominance over the galaxy … and that both Sith and Jedi are about to run headlong into a terrifying creature of untold Force abilities and an insatiable appetite for power …

If you’re a reader new to the Legacy era, here are four great starting points:

• Legacy of the Force: Betrayal, by Aaron Allston: The first in the nine-book Legacy of the Force series, setting the stage for galactic civil war and a fall to darkness.

• Millennium Falcon, by James Luceno: Han Solo’s famous freighter becomes a character in her own right as Han, Leia, their granddaughter Allana, and the droid C-3PO set out on an adventure that brings to light the ship’s colorful, mysterious past.

• Crosscurrent, by Paul S. Kemp: A remnant of the Old Republic comes into Luke Skywalker’s time in a tale of insane clones and time-traveling Jedi and Sith.

• Fate of the Jedi: Outcast by Aaron Allston: The nine-book Fate of the Jedi series blasts off with the new adventures of Luke and Ben Skywalker—Jedi Master and apprentice, father and son—in search of answers to a terrifying question.

Read on for excerpts from Star Wars novels set in the Legacy era.

chapter one

CORUSCANT

“He doesn’t exist.” With those words, spoken without any conscious thought or effort on his part, Luke Skywalker sat upright in bed and looked around at the dimly illuminated chamber.

There wasn’t much to see. Members of the Jedi order, even Masters such as Luke, didn’t accumulate much personal property. Within view were chairs situated in front of unlit computer screens; a wall rack holding plasteel staves and other practice weapons; a table littered with personal effects such as datapads, notes scrawled on scraps of flimsi, datachips holding reports from various Jedi Masters, and a crude and not at all accurate sandglass statuette in Luke’s image sent to him by a child from Tatooine. Inset into the stone-veneer walls were drawers holding his and Mara’s limited selection of clothes. Their lightsabers were behind Luke, resting on a shelf on the headboard of their bed.

His wife, Mara Jade Skywalker, had more personal items and equipment, of course. Disguises, weapons, communications gear, falsified documents. A former spy, she had never given up the trappings of that trade, but those items weren’t here. Luke wasn’t sure where she kept them. She didn’t bother him with such details.

Beside him, she stirred, and he glanced down at her. Her red hair, kept a medium length this season, was an unruly mess, but there was no sleepiness in her eyes when they opened. In brighter light, he knew, those eyes were an amazing green. “Who doesn’t exist?” she asked.

“I don’t know. An enemy.”

“You dreamed about him?”

He nodded. “I’ve had the dream a couple of times before. It’s not just a dream. It’s coming to me through currents in the Force. He’s all wrapped up in shadows—a dark hooded cloak, but more than that, shadows of light and …” Luke shook his head, struggling for the correct word. “And ignorance. And denial. And he brings great pain to the galaxy … and to me.”

“Well, if he brings pain to the galaxy, you’re obviously going to feel it.”

“No, to me personally, in addition to his other evil.” Luke sighed and lay down again. “It’s too vague. And when I’m awake, when I try to peer into the future to find him, I can’t.”

“Because he doesn’t exist.”

“That’s what the dream tells me.” Luke hissed in aggravation.

“Could it be Raynar?”

Luke considered. Raynar Thul, former Jedi Knight, presumed dead during the Yuuzhan Vong war, had been discovered a few years earlier—horribly burned during the war, mentally transformed in the years since through his involvement with the insectoid Killik race. That transformation had been a malevolent one, and the Jedi order had had to deal with him. Now he languished in a well-protected cell deep within the Jedi Temple, undergoing treatment for his mental and physical afflictions.

Treatment. Treatment meant change; perhaps, in changing, Raynar was becoming something new, and Luke’s presentment pointed toward the being Raynar would someday become.

Luke shook his head and pushed the possibility away. “In this vision, I don’t sense Raynar’s alienness. Mentally, emotionally, whoever it is remains human, or near human. There’s even the possiblity that it’s my father.”

“Darth Vader.”

“No. Before he was Darth Vader. Or just when he was becoming Vader.” Luke’s gaze lost focus as he tried to recapture the dream. “What little of his face I can see reminds me of the features of Anakin Skywalker as a Jedi. But his eyes … as I watch, they turn a molten gold or orange, transforming from Force-use and anger …”

“I have an idea.”

“Tell me.”

“Let’s wait until he shows up, then crush him.”

Luke smiled. “All right.” He closed his eyes and his breathing slowed, an effort to return to sleep.

Within a minute the rhythm of his breathing became that of natural sleep.

But Mara lay awake, her attention on the ceiling—beyond it, through dozens of floor levels of the Jedi enclave to the skies of Coruscant above—and searched for any hint, any flicker of what it was that was causing her husband worry.

She found no sign of it. And she, too, slept.

ADUMAR

The gleaming pearl-gray turbolift doors slid open sideways, and warm air bearing an aroma that advertised death and destruction washed over Jacen Solo, his cousin Ben Skywalker, and their guide.

Jacen took a deep breath and held it. The odors of this subterranean factory were not the smells of corrupted flesh or gangrenous wounds—smells Jacen was familiar with—but those of labor and industry. The great chamber before them had been a missile manufacturing center for decades, and no amount of rigorous cleaning would ever be quite able to eliminate the odors of sweat, machine lubricant, newly fabricated composite materials, solid fuel propellants, and high explosives that filled the air.

Jacen expelled the breath and stepped out of the turbolift, then walked the handful of steps up to the rail overlooking the chamber. He walked rapidly so that his Jedi cloak would billow a little as he strode, so that his boot heels would ring on the metal flooring of this observation catwalk, and so his apprentice and guide would be left behind for a moment. This was a performance for his guide and all the other representatives of the Dammant Killers company. Jacen knew he was carrying off his role quite well; the company officials he’d been dealing with remained properly intimidated. But he didn’t know whether to attribute his success to his bearing and manner, his lean, brooding, and handsome looks, or his name—for on this world of Adumar, with its history of fascination with pilots, the name of Jacen’s father, Han Solo, went a very long way.

His guide, a slender, balding man named Testan ke Harran, moved up to the rail to Jacen’s right. Contrasting with the dull grays and blues that were common on this factory’s walls and its workers’ uniforms, Testan was a riot of color—his tunic, with its nearly knee-length hem and its flowing sleeves, was the precise orange of X-wing fighter pilot uniforms, though decorated with purple crisscross lines breaking it down into a flickering expanse of small diamond shapes, and his trousers, belt, and scarf were a gleaming gold.

Testan stroked his lustrous black beard, the gesture a failed attempt to conceal the man’s nervousness. Jacen felt, rather than saw, Ben move up on the other side of Testan.

“You can see,” Testan said, “ar workars enjoy very fan conditions.”

Ben cleared his throat. “He says their workers enjoy very fine conditions.”

Jacen nodded absently. He understood Testan’s words, and it had taken him little time to learn and understand the Adumari accent, but this was another act, a ploy to keep the Adumari off-balance. He leaned forward to give the manufacturing floor below his full attention.

The room was large enough to act as a hangar and maintenance bay for four full squadrons of X-wing snubfighters. Tall duracrete partitions divided the space into eight lanes, each of which enclosed an assembly line; materials entered through small portals in the wall to the left, rolled along on luminous white conveyor belts, and eventually exited through portals on the far right. Laborers in gray jumpsuits flanked the belts and worked on the materials as they passed.

On the nearest belt, immediately below Jacen, the materials being worked on appeared to be compact visual sensor assemblies. The conveyor belt brought in eight such units and stopped. Moving quickly, the laborers plugged small cables into the units and turned to look into monitors, which showed black-and-white images of jumpsuited waists and worker hands. The workers turned the units this way and that, confirming that the sensors were properly calibrated.

One monitor never lit up with a view from the sensor. The worker on that unit unplugged it and set it on a table running parallel to the conveyor belt. A moment later, the other workers on this section unplugged their sensor units and the conveyor belt jerked into motion again, carrying the remaining seven units to the next station.

One lane over, the conveyor belt remained in constant motion, carrying sensor unit housings along. The workers on that belt, fewer in number than the sensor testers, reached out occasionally to turn a housing, to look inside, to examine the exterior for cracks or warping. Some workers, distributed at intervals along the line, rapped each housing with a small rubber-headed hammer. Jacen assumed they were listening for a musical tone he could not possibly hear at this distance over the roar of noise from the floor.

Another lane away from him, the workers were clad not in jumpsuits but in full-coverage hazardous materials suits of a lighter and more reflective gray than the usual worker outfit. Their conveyor belt carried white plates bearing irregular balls the size of a human head but a nearly luminous green. The belt stopped as each set of eight such balls entered the lane, giving the workers time to plunge needle-like sensors into each ball. They, too, checked monitors for a few seconds before withdrawing the needles to allow the balls to continue on. Jacen knew that poisonous green—it was the color of the high explosive Adumari manufacturers used to fabricate the concussion missiles they exported.

While Jacen made his initial survey, Ben kept their guide occupied. “Do you wax your beard?” he asked.

“I do not.”

“It just seems very shiny. Do you oil it?”

Testan’s voice was a little more irritated in tone. “I do not oil it. I condition it. And I brush it.”

“Do you brush it with butter?”

Jacen finally looked to the right, past Testan and at his cousin. Ben was thirteen standard years of age, not tall but well muscled, with a fine-featured freckled face under a mass of flame-red hair. Ben turned, his face impassive, to look at Jacen, then said, “The Jedi Knight acknowledges that this factory seems to meet the minimum, the absolute minimum, required safety and comfort standards of a Galactic Alliance military contractor.”

Jacen nodded. The nod meant Good improvisation. He was exerting no Force skill to communicate words to Ben; Ben’s role was to pretend to act as his mentor’s translator, when his actual function was to convince the locals that adult Jedi were even more aloof and mysterious than they had thought.

“No, no, no.” Testan drew a sleeve over his brow, dabbing away a little perspiration. “We are wall above minimam standards. Those duracrete barriars? They will vent any explosive farce upward, saving the majority of workars in case of calamity. Workar shifts are only two-fifths the day in length, unlike the old days.”

Ben repeated Testan’s words, and Jacen shrugged.

Ben imitated his motion. The gesture caused his own Jedi robe to gape open, revealing the lightsaber hanging from his belt.

Testan glanced at it, then looked back at Jacen, clearly worried. “Your apprentice—” Unsure, he looked to Ben again. “You are very young, are you not, to be wearing such a weapon?”

Ben gave him a blank look. “It’s a practice lightsaber.”

“Ah.” Testan nodded as though he understood.

And there it was. Perhaps it was just the thought of a thirteen-year-old with a deadly cutting implement at hand, but Testan’s defenses slipped enough that the worry began to pour through.

It was like the game in which children are told, “For the next hour, do not think about banthas.” Try as they might, they would, within minutes or even seconds, think about a bantha.

Testan’s control finally gave way and he thought about the banthas—or, rather, a place he wasn’t supposed to go, even to think about. Jacen could feel Testan try to clamp down on the thought. Something in the increased potency of that worry told Jacen that they must be nearer to the source of his concern than during previous parts of their factory tour.

When Testan turned back, Jacen looked directly at him and said, “There is something here. Something wrong.” They were the first words he’d spoken in Testan’s presence.

Testan shook his head. “No. Evrything is fan.”

Jacen looked past him, toward the wall to the far right of the chamber. It was gray and regular, a series of metal panels each the height of a man and twice as wide stacked like bricks. He began a slow, deliberate scrutiny, traversing right to left. His gaze swept the walls, the assembly lines, the elevated observation chamber directly opposite the turbolifts by which they had entered, and continued along the wall to the left.

As his attention reached the middle of the left wall, along the observation balcony, he felt another pulse of worry from Testan. Ben cleared his throat, a signal; the boy, though nowhere near as sensitive in the Force as Jacen, had gotten the same feeling.

Jacen set off along the balcony in that direction. This time the ringing of his boots and billowing of his cloak were a side effect of his speed rather than an act.

“You wish to see the observation chambar?” Testan hurried to keep up. His anxiety was growing, and there was something within it, like a shiny stone at the bottom of a murky pond.

Jacen reached into that pond to draw out the prize within.

It was a memory of a door. It was broad and gray, closing from above as men and women—in dark blue jumpsuits, the outfits of supervisors in this facility—scurried out ahead of its closing. When it settled in place, it was identical to the wall panels Jacen saw ahead of him in the here and now.

Jacen glanced over his shoulder at Testan. “Your thoughts betray you.”

Testan paled. “No, there is nothing to betray.”

Jacen rounded the observation balcony corner, took a few more steps, and skidded to a halt in front of one of the wall sections.

It was here. He knew because he could feel something beyond.

Conflict. He himself was there, fighting. So was Ben. It was a faint glimpse of the future, and he and his apprentice would be in peril beyond.

He jerked his head toward the wall.

Ben brought out his lightsaber and switched it on. With a snap-hiss sound, its blue blade of coherent energy extended to full length.

Ben plunged the blade into the wall panel and began to drag it around in a large circle.

Testan, his voice pained, said, “He told us it was a practice weapon.”

Jacen gave him an innocent look. “It’s true from a certain point of view. He does practice with it.” In his nervousness, Testan didn’t seem to notice that Jacen was understanding him clearly now.

Ben completed his circle and gave the meter-and-a-half-high section he’d outlined a little kick. It fell away into a well-lit chamber, clanging on the floor beyond; the edges still glowed with the heat the lightsaber had poured into them.

Ben stepped through. Jacen ducked to follow. He heard Testan muttering—doubtless an alert into a comlink. Jacen didn’t bother to interfere. They’d just been within clear sight of hundreds of workers and the observation chamber. Dealing with Testan wouldn’t keep the alarm from being broadcast.

The room beyond Ben’s improvised doorway was actually a corridor, four meters wide and eight high, every surface made up of the same dull gray metal rectangles found in the outer chamber, greenish white light pouring from the luminous ceiling. To the left, the corridor ended after a few meters, and that end was heavily packed with tall plasteel transport containers. They were marked DANGER, DO NOT DROP, and DAMMANT KILLER MODEL 16, QUANTITY 24.

To the right, the corridor extended another forty meters and then opened up; the rail and drop-off at the end suggested that it opened onto another observation balcony above another fabrication chamber.

Now making the turn from the balcony into the corridor and running toward them were half a dozen troops armed with blaster rifles. Their orange jumpsuits were reminiscent of X-wing pilot uniforms, but the green carapace armor over their lower legs, torsos, lower arms, and heads was more like stormtrooper speeder bike armor painted the wrong color.

And then behind the first six troops came another six, and then another eight …

Jacen brought his lightsaber out and snapped it into life; the incandescent green of his blade was reflected as highlights against the walls and the armor of the oncoming troops. “Stay behind me,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Ben’s sigh was audible, and Jacen grinned.

The foremost trooper, who bore gold bars on his helmet and wrists, shouted, his voice mechanically amplified: “Stop whar you are! This saction is restricted!”

Jacen moved forward at a walk. He rotated his wrist, moving his lightsaber blade around in front of him in a pattern vaguely reminiscent of butterfly wings. He shouted back, “Could you speak up? I’m a little deaf.”

Ben snickered. “Good one.”

“You may not entar this saction!”

They were now twenty meters from the ranks of troopers ahead.

Jacen continued twirling his blade in a practice form. “Fewer people will be hurt if you just get out of my way.” It was a sort of ritual thing to say. Massed enemy forces almost never backed down, despite the reputation of the Jedi—a reputation that became more widespread, more supernatural, with each year the Jedi prospered under Luke Skywalker’s leadership.

The phrase was ritual in another way, too. Once upon a time, Jacen would have felt tragedy surround him when his actions resulted in the deaths of common soldiers, common guards. But over time he’d lost that sense. There was a wearying inevitability to leaders sending their troops to die against more powerful enemies. It had been happening as long as there were violent leaders and obedient followers. In death, these people became one with the Force, and when Jacen had accepted that fact, his sense of tragedy had largely evaporated.

He took another two steps and the trooper commander called, “Fire!”

The troopers began firing. Jacen gave himself over to the Force, to his awareness of his surroundings, to his sudden oneness with the men and women trying to kill him.

He simply ignored most of the blaster bolts. When he felt them angling in toward him, he twirled his lightsaber blade in line and batted them away, usually back toward the crowd of troopers. In the first few seconds of their assault, four troopers fell to blasts launched by their friends. The smell of burned flesh began to fill the corridor.

Jacen felt danger from behind; felt Ben react to it. Jacen didn’t shift his attention; he continued his march forward. He’d prefer to be able to protect the inexperienced youth, but the boy was good at blaster defense practice. Hard as it was to trust a Jedi whose skills were just developing, he had to. To teach, to learn, he had to trust.

Jacen intercepted the next blaster shot that came his way and batted it toward the trooper commander. It struck the man in the helmet and caromed off, burning out against the ceiling; a portion four meters square of the ceiling’s illumination winked out, darkening the corridor. The commander fell. The shot was probably not fatal—protected by his helmet, the man would have forehead and scalp burns, probably a concussion, but he was unlikely to die.

The strategy had its desired effect. The troopers saw their commander fall. They continued firing but also exchanged looks. Jacen never broke pace, and a trooper with silver stripes on his helmet called “Back, back.” In good order, the troopers began a withdrawal.

Behind him, Jacen heard more blasterfire and the distinctive zap of a lightsaber blade intercepting it, deflecting it. Within the flow of the Force, Jacen felt a shot coming in toward his back, felt it being slapped aside, saw and felt it as it hit the wall to his right. The heat from the shot warmed his right shoulder.

But the defenders continued their retreat, and soon the last of them was around the corner. Jacen’s path to the railing was clear. He strode up to it.

Over the rail, a dozen meters down, was another assembly-line pit, where line after line of munitions components was being assembled—though at the moment all the lines were stopped, their anonymous jumpsuited workers staring up at Jacen.

Jacen’s movement out of the corridor brought him within sight of the orange-and-green defenders, who were now arrayed in disciplined rows along the walkway to Jacen’s left. As soon as he reached the railing they opened fire again. Their tighter formation allowed them to concentrate their fire, and Jacen found himself deflecting more shots than before.

He felt rather than saw Ben scoot into position behind him, but no blaster bolts came at him from that direction. “What now?” Ben asked.

“Finish the mission.” Jacen caught a too-close bolt on his blade near the hilt; unable to aim the deflection, he saw the bolt flash down into the assembly area. It hit a monitor screen. The men and women near the screen dived for cover. Jacen winced; a fraction of a degree of arc difference and that bolt could have hit an explosives package. As inured as he was to causing death, he didn’t want to cause it by accident.

“But you’re in charge—”

“I’m busy.” Jacen took a step forward to give himself more maneuvering and swinging space and concentrated on his attackers. He needed to protect himself and Ben now, to defend a broader area. He focused on batting bolt after bolt back into the ranks of the attackers, saw one, two, three of the soldiers fall.

There was a lull in the barrage of fire. Jacen took a moment to glance over his shoulder. Ben stood at the railing, staring down into the manufacturing line, and to his eye he held a small but expensive holocam unit—the sort carried by wealthy vacationers and holocam hobbyists all over the galaxy.

As Jacen returned his attention to the soldiers, Ben began talking: “Um, this is Ben Skywalker. Jedi Knight Jacen Solo and I are in a, I don’t know, secret part of the Dammant Killers plant under the city of Cartann on the planet Adumar. You’re looking at a missile manufacturing line. It’s making missiles that are not being reported to the GA. They’re selling to planets that aren’t supposed to be getting them. Dammant is breaking the rules. Oh, and the noise you’re hearing? Their guys are trying to kill us.”

Jacen felt Ben’s motion as the boy swung to record the blaster-versus-lightsaber conflict.

“Is that enough?” Ben asked.

Jacen shook his head. “Get the whole chamber. And while you’re doing it, figure out what we’re supposed to do next.”

“I was kind of thinking we ought to get out of here.”

With the tip of his lightsaber blade, Jacen caught a blast that was crackling in toward his right shin. He popped the blast back toward its firer. It hit the woman’s blaster rifle, searing it into an unrecognizable lump, causing her green shoulder armor momentarily to catch fire. She retreated, one of her fellow soldiers patting out her flames. Now there were fewer than fifteen soldiers standing against the Jedi, and their temporary commander was obviously rethinking his make-a-stand orders.

“Good. How?”

“Well, the way we came in—no. They’d be waiting for us.”

“Correct.”

“And you never want to fight the enemy on ground he’s chosen if you can avoid it.”

Jacen grinned. Ben’s words, so adult, were a quote from Han Solo, a man whose wisdom was often questionable—except on matters of personal survival. “Also correct.”

“So … the ends of those assembly lines?”

“Good. So go.”

Jacen heard the scrape of a heel as Ben vaulted over the rail. Not waiting, Jacen leapt laterally, clearing the rail by half a meter, and spun as he fell. Ahead of and below him, Ben was just landing in a crouch on the nearest assembly line, which was loaded with opalescent shell casings. As Jacen landed, bent knees and a little upward push from the Force easing the impact, Ben raced forward, reflexively swatting aside the grasping hand of a too-bold line worker, and crouched as he lunged through the diminutive portal at the end of the line.

Jacen followed. He heard and felt the heat of blaster bolts hitting the assembly line behind him. He swung his lightsaber back over his shoulder, intercepting one bolt, taking the full force of the impact rather than deflecting the bolt into a neighboring line.

No line workers tried to grab him, and in seconds he was squeezing through the portal.

GALACTIC ALLIANCE DIPLOMATIC SHUTTLE, HIGH CORUSCANT ORBIT

One by one, the stars overhead began to disappear, swallowed by some enormous darkness interposing itself from above and behind the shuttle. Sharply pointed at its most forward position, broadening behind, the flood of blackness advanced, blotting out more and more of the unblinking starfield, until darkness was all there was to see.

Then, all across the length and breadth of the ominous shape, lights came on—blue and white running lights, tiny red hatch and security lights, sudden glows from within transparisteel viewports, one large rectangular whiteness limned by atmosphere shields. The lights showed the vast triangle to be the underside of an imperial Star Destroyer, painted black, forbidding a moment ago, now comparatively cheerful in its proper running configuration. It was the Gilad Pellaeon, newly arrived from the Imperial Remnant, and its officers clearly knew how to put on a show.

Jaina Solo, sitting with the others in the dimly lit passenger compartment of the government VIP shuttle, watched the entire display through the overhead transparisteel canopy and laughed out loud.

The Bothan in the sumptuously padded chair next to hers gave her a curious look. His mottled red and tan fur twitched, either from suppressed irritation or embarrassment at Jaina’s outburst. “What do you find so amusing?”

“Oh, both the obviousness of it and the skill with which it was performed. It’s so very, You used to think of us as dark and scary, but now we’re just your stylish allies.” Jaina lowered her voice so that her next comment would not carry to the passengers in the seats behind. “The press will love it. That image will play on the holonews broadcasts constantly. Mark my words.”

“Was that little show a Jagged Fel detail?”

Jaina tilted her head, considering. “I don’t know. He could have come up with it, but he usually doesn’t spend his time planning displays or events. When he does, though, they’re usually pretty … effective.”

The shuttle rose toward the Gilad Pellaeon’s main landing bay. In moments, it was through the square atmosphere barrier shield and drifting sideways to land on the deck nearby. The landing place was clearly marked—hundreds of beings, most wearing gray Imperial uniforms or the distinctive white armor of the Imperial stormtrooper, waited in the bay, and the one circular spot where none stood was just the right size for the Galactic Alliance shuttle.

The passengers rose as the shuttle settled into place. The Bothan smoothed his tunic, a cheerful blue decorated with a golden sliver pattern suggesting claws. “Time to go to work. You won’t let me get killed, will you?”

Jaina let her eyes widen. “Is that what I was supposed to be doing here?” she asked in droll tones. “I should have brought my lightsaber.”

The Bothan offered a long-suffering sigh and turned toward the exit.

They descended the shuttle’s boarding ramp. With no duties required of her other than to keep alert and be the Jedi face at this preliminary meeting, Jaina was able to stand back and observe. She was struck with the unreality of it all. The niece and daughter of three of the most famous enemies of the Empire during the First Galactic Civil War of a few decades earlier, she was now witness to events that might bring the Galactic Empire—or Imperial Remnant, as it was called everywhere outside its own borders—into the Galactic Alliance on a lasting basis.

And at the center of the plan was the man, flanked by Imperial officers, who now approached the Bothan. Slightly under average size, though towering well above Jaina’s diminutive height, he was dark-haired, with a trim beard and mustache that gave him a rakish look, and was handsome in a way that became more pronounced when he glowered. A scar on his forehead ran up into his hairline and seemed to continue as a lock of white hair from that point. He wore expensive but subdued black civilian garments, neck-to-toe, that would be inconspicuous anywhere on Coruscant but stood out in sharp relief to the gray and white uniforms, white armor, and colorful Alliance clothes surrounding him.

He had one moment to glance at Jaina. The look probably appeared neutral to onlookers, but for her it carried just a twinkle of humor, a touch of exasperation that the two of them had to put up with all these delays. Then an Alliance functionary, notable for his blandness, made introductions: “Imperial Head of State the most honorable Jagged Fel, may I present Senator Tiurrg Drey’lye of Bothawui, head of the Senate Unification Preparations Committee.”

Jagged Fel took the Senator’s hand. “I’m pleased to be working with you.”

“And delighted to meet you. Chief of State Daala sends her compliments and looks forward to meeting you when you make planetfall.”

Jag nodded. “And now, I believe, protocol insists that we open a bottle or a dozen of wine and make some preliminary discussion of security, introduction protocols, and so on.”

“Fortunately about the wine, and regrettably about everything else, you are correct.”

At the end of two full standard hours—Jaina knew from regular, surreptitious consultations of her chrono—Jag was able to convince the Senator and his retinue to accept a tour of the Gilad Pellaeon. He was also able to request a private consultation with the sole representative of the Jedi Order present. Moments later, the gray-walled conference room was empty of everyone but Jag and Jaina.

Jag glanced toward the door. “Security seal, access limited to Jagged Fel and Jedi Jaina Solo, voice identification, activate.” The door hissed in response as it sealed. Then Jag returned his attention to Jaina.

She let an expression of anger and accusation cross her face. “You’re not fooling anyone, Fel. You’re planning for an Imperial invasion of Alliance space.”

Jag nodded. “I’ve been planning it for quite a while. Come here.”

She moved to him, settled into his lap, and was suddenly but not unexpectedly caught in his embrace. They kissed urgently, hungrily.

Finally Jaina drew back and smiled at him. “This isn’t going to be a routine part of your consultations with every Jedi.”

“Uh, no. That would cause some trouble here and at home. But I actually do have business with the Jedi that does not involve the Galactic Alliance, at least not initially.”

“What sort of business?”

“Whether or not the Galactic Empire joins with the Galactic Alliance, I think there ought to be an official Jedi presence in the Empire. A second Temple, a branch, an offshoot, whatever. Providing advice and insight to the Head of State.”

“And protection?”

He shrugged. “Less of an issue. I’m doing all right. Two years in this position and not dead yet.”

“Emperor Palpatine went nearly twenty-five years.”

“I guess that makes him my hero.”

Jaina snorted. “Don’t even say that in jest … Jag, if the Remnant doesn’t join the Alliance, I’m not sure the Jedi can have a presence without Alliance approval.”

“The Order still keeps its training facility for youngsters in Hapan space. And the Hapans haven’t rejoined.”

“You sound annoyed. The Hapans still giving you trouble?”

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“Besides, moving the school back to Alliance space is just a matter of time, logistics, and finances; there’s no question that it will happen. On the other hand, it’s very likely that the government would withhold approval for a Jedi branch in the Remnant, just out of spite, if the Remnant doesn’t join.”

“Well, there’s such a thing as an unofficial presence. And there’s such a thing as rival schools, schismatic branches, and places for former Jedi to go when they can’t be at the Temple.”

Jaina smiled again, but now there was suspicion in her expression. “You just want to have this so I’ll be assigned to come to the Remnant and set it up.”

“That’s a motive, but not the only one. Remember, to the Moffs and to a lot of the Imperial population, the Jedi have been bogeymen since Palpatine died. At the very least, I don’t want them to be inappropriately afraid of the woman I’m in love with.”

Jaina was silent for a moment. “Have we talked enough politics?”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

HORN FAMILY QUARTERS,
KALLAD’S DREAM VACATION HOSTEL,
CORUSCANT

Yawning, hair tousled, clad in a blue dressing robe, Valin Horn knew that he did not look anything like an experienced Jedi Knight. He looked like an unshaven, unkempt bachelor, which he also was. But here, in these rented quarters, there would be only family to see him—at least until he had breakfast, shaved, and dressed.

The Horns did not live here, of course. His mother, Mirax, was the anchor for the immediate family. Manager of a variety of interlinked businesses—trading, interplanetary finances, gambling and recreation, and, if rumors were true, still a little smuggling here and there—she maintained her home and business address on Corellia. Corran, her husband and Valin’s father, was a Jedi Master, much of his life spent on missions away from the family, but his true home was where his heart resided, wherever Mirax lived. Valin and his sister, Jysella, also Jedi, lived wherever their missions sent them, and also counted Mirax as the center of the family.

Now Mirax had rented temporary quarters on Coruscant so the family could collect on one of its rare occasions, this time for the Unification Summit, where she and Corran would separately give depositions on the relationships among the Confederation states, the Imperial Remnant, and the Galactic Alliance as they related to trade and Jedi activities. Mirax had insisted that Valin and Jysella leave their Temple quarters and stay with their parents while these events were taking place, and few forces in the galaxy could stand before her decision—Luke Skywalker certainly knew better than to try.

Moving from the refresher toward the kitchen and dining nook, Valin brushed a lock of brown hair out of his eyes and grinned. Much as he might put up a public show of protest—the independent young man who did not need parents to direct his actions or tell him where to sleep—he hardly minded. It was good to see family. And both Corran and Mirax were better cooks than the ones at the Jedi Temple.

There was no sound of conversation from the kitchen, but there was some clattering of pans, so at least one of his parents must still be on hand. As he stepped from the hallway into the dining nook, Valin saw that it was his mother, her back to him as she worked at the stove. He pulled a chair from the table and sat. “Good morning.”

“A joke, so early?” Mirax did not turn to face him, but her tone was cheerful. “No morning is good. I come light-years from Corellia to be with my family, and what happens? I have to keep Jedi hours to see them. Don’t you know that I’m an executive? And a lazy one?”

“I forgot.” Valin took a deep breath, sampling the smells of breakfast. His mother was making hotcakes Corellian-style, nerf sausage links on the side, and caf was brewing. For a moment, Valin was transported back to his childhood, to the family breakfasts that had been somewhat more common before the Yuuzhan Vong came, before Valin and Jysella had started down the Jedi path. “Where are Dad and Sella?”

“Your father is out getting some back-door information from other Jedi Masters for his deposition.” Mirax pulled a plate from a cabinet and began sliding hotcakes and links onto it. “Your sister left early and wouldn’t say what she was doing, which I assume either means it’s Jedi business I can’t know about or that she’s seeing some man she doesn’t want me to know about.”

“Or both.”

“Or both.” Mirax turned and moved over to put the plate down before him. She set utensils beside it.

The plate was heaped high with food, and Valin recoiled from it in mock horror. “Stang, Mom, you’re feeding your son, not a squadron of Gamorreans.” Then he caught sight of his mother’s face and he was suddenly no longer in a joking mood.

This wasn’t his mother.

Oh, the woman had Mirax’s features. She had the round face that admirers had called “cute” far more often than “beautiful,” much to Mirax’s chagrin. She had Mirax’s generous, curving lips that smiled so readily and expressively, and Mirax’s bright, lively brown eyes. She had Mirax’s hair, a glossy black with flecks of gray, worn shoulder-length to fit readily under a pilot’s helmet, even though she piloted far less often these days. She was Mirax to every freckle and dimple.

But she was not Mirax.

The woman, whoever she was, caught sight of Valin’s confusion. “Something wrong?”

“Uh, no.” Stunned, Valin looked down at his plate.

He had to think—logically, correctly, and fast. He might be in grave danger right now, though the Force currently gave him no indication of imminent attack. The true Mirax, wherever she was, might be in serious trouble or worse. Valin tried in vain to slow his heart rate and speed up his thinking processes.

Fact: Mirax had been here but had been replaced by an imposter. Presumably the real Mirax was gone; Valin could not sense anyone but himself and the imposter in the immediate vicinity. The imposter had remained behind for some reason that had to relate to Valin, Jysella, or Corran. It couldn’t have been to capture Valin, as she could have done that with drugs or other methods while he slept, so the food was probably not drugged.

Under Not-Mirax’s concerned gaze, he took a tentative bite of sausage and turned a reassuring smile he didn’t feel toward her.

Fact: Creating an imposter this perfect must have taken a fortune in money, an incredible amount of research, and a volunteer willing to let her features be permanently carved into the likeness of another’s. Or perhaps this was a clone, raised and trained for the purpose of simulating Mirax. Or maybe she was a droid, one of the very expensive, very rare human replica droids. Or maybe a shape-shifter. Whichever, the simulation was nearly perfect. Valin hadn’t recognized the deception until …

Until what? What had tipped him off? He took another bite, not registering the sausage’s taste or temperature, and maintained the face-hurting smile as he tried to recall the detail that had alerted him that this wasn’t his mother.

He couldn’t figure it out. It was just an instant realization, too fleeting to remember, too overwhelming to reject.

Would Corran be able to see through the deception? Would Jysella? Surely, they had to be able to. But what if they couldn’t? Valin would accuse this woman and be thought insane.

Were Corran and Jysella even still at liberty? Still alive? At this moment, the Not-Mirax’s colleagues could be spiriting the two of them away with the true Mirax. Or Corran and Jysella could be lying, bleeding, at the bottom of an access shaft, their lives draining away.

Valin couldn’t think straight. The situation was too overwhelming, the mystery too deep, and the only person here who knew the answers was the one who wore the face of his mother.

He stood, sending his chair clattering backward, and fixed the false Mirax with a hard look. “Just a moment.” He dashed to his room.

His lightsaber was still where he’d left it, on the night-stand beside his bed. He snatched it up and gave it a near-instantaneous examination. Battery power was still optimal; there was no sign that it had been tampered with.

He returned to the dining room with the weapon in his hand. Not-Mirax, clearly confused and beginning to look a little alarmed, stood by the stove, staring at him.

Valin ignited the lightsaber, its snap-hiss of activation startlingly loud, and held the point of the gleaming energy blade against the food on his plate. Hotcakes shriveled and blackened from contact with the weapon’s plasma. Valin gave Not-Mirax an approving nod. “Flesh does the same thing under the same conditions, you know.”

“Valin, what’s wrong?”

“You may address me as Jedi Horn. You don’t have the right to use my personal name.” Valin swung the lightsaber around in a practice form, allowing the blade to come within a few centimeters of the glow rod fixture overhead, the wall, the dining table, and the woman with his mother’s face. “You probably know from your research that the Jedi don’t worry much about amputations.”

Not-Mirax shrank back away from him, both hands on the stove edge behind her. “What?”

“We know that a severed limb can readily be replaced by a prosthetic that looks identical to the real thing. Prosthetics offer sensation and do everything flesh can. They’re ideal substitutes in every way, except for requiring maintenance. So we don’t feel too badly when we have to cut the arm or leg off a very bad person. But I assure you, that very bad person remembers the pain forever.”

“Valin, I’m going to call your father now.” Not-Mirax sidled toward the blue bantha-hide carrybag she had left on a side table.

Valin positioned the tip of his lightsaber directly beneath her chin. At the distance of half a centimeter, its containing force field kept her from feeling any heat from the blade, but a slight twitch on Valin’s part could maim or kill her instantly. She froze.

“No, you’re not. You know what you’re going to do instead?”

Not-Mirax’s voice wavered. “What?”

“You’re going to tell me what you’ve done with my mother!” The last several words emerged as a bellow, driven by fear and anger. Valin knew that he looked as angry as he sounded; he could feel blood reddening his face, could even see redness begin to suffuse everything in his vision.

“Boy, put the blade down.” Those were not the woman’s words. They came from behind. Valin spun, bringing his blade up into a defensive position.

In the doorway stood a man, middle-aged, clean-shaven, his hair graying from brown. He was of below-average height, his eyes a startling green. He wore the brown robes of a Jedi. His hands were on his belt, his own lightsaber still dangling from it.

He was Valin’s father, Jedi Master Corran Horn. But he wasn’t, any more than the woman behind Valin was Mirax Horn.

Valin felt a wave of despair wash over him. Both parents replaced. Odds were growing that the real Corran and Mirax were already dead.

Yet Valin’s voice was soft when he spoke. “They may have made you a virtual double for my father. But they can’t have given you his expertise with the lightsaber.”

“You don’t want to do what you’re thinking about, son.”

“When I cut you in half, that’s all the proof anyone will ever need that you’re not the real Corran Horn.”

Valin lunged.

The STAR WARS Novels Timeline

OLD REPUBLIC 5000–33 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

Lost Tribe of the Sith[*]

Precipice

Skyborn

Paragon

Savior

Purgatory

Sentinel

3954 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

The Old Republic: Revan

3650 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

The Old Republic: Deceived

Lost Tribe of the Sith*

Pantheon

Secrets

Red Harvest

The Old Republic: Fatal Alliance

The Old Republic: Annihilation

2975 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

Lost Tribe of the Sith*

Pandemonium

1032 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

Knight Errant

Darth Bane: Path of Destruction

Darth Bane: Rule of Two

Darth Bane: Dynasty of Evil

RISE OF THE EMPIRE 67–0 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

67 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

Darth Plagueis

33 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

Darth Maul: Saboteur*

Cloak of Deception

Darth Maul: Shadow Hunter

32 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

STAR WARS: EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace

Rogue Planet

Outbound Flight

The Approaching Storm

22 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

STAR WARS: EPISODE II: Attack of the Clones

22-19 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

The Clone Wars

The Clone Wars: Wild Space

The Clone Wars: No Prisoners

Clone Wars Gambit

Stealth

Siege

Republic Commando

Hard Contact

Triple Zero

True Colors

Order 66

Shatterpoint

The Cestus Deception

The Hive*

MedStar I: Battle Surgeons

MedStar II: Jedi Healer

Jedi Trial

Yoda: Dark Rendezvous

Labyrinth of Evil

19 YEARS BEFORE STAR WARS: A New Hope

STAR WARS: EPISODE III: Revenge of the Sith

Dark Lord: The Rise of Darth Vader

Imperial Commando

501st

Coruscant Nights

Jedi Twilight

Street of Shadows

Patterns of Force

The Han Solo Trilogy

The Paradise Snare

The Hutt Gambit

Rebel Dawn

The Adventures of Lando Calrissian

The Force Unleashed

The Han Solo Adventures

Death Troopers

The Force Unleashed II

REBELLION 0–5 YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A New Hope

Death Star

Shadow Games

STAR WARS: EPISODE IV: A NEW HOPE

Scoundrels

Tales from the Mos Eisley Cantina

Tales from the Empire

Tales from the New Republic

Allegiance

Choices of One

Galaxies: The Ruins of Dantooine

Splinter of the Mind’s Eye

3 YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A New Hope

STAR WARS: EPISODE V: THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK

Tales of the Bounty Hunters

Shadows of the Empire

4 YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A New Hope

STAR WARS: EPISODE VI: RETURN OF THE JEDI

Tales from Jabba’s Palace

The Bounty Hunter Wars

The Mandalorian Armor

Slave Ship

Hard Merchandise

The Truce at Bakura

Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor

NEW REPUBLIC 5–25 YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A New Hope

X-Wing

Rogue Squadron

Wedge’s Gamble

The Krytos Trap

The Bacta War

Wraith Squadron

Iron Fist

Solo Command

The Courtship of Princess Leia

A Forest Apart*

Tatooine Ghost

The Thrawn Trilogy

Heir to the Empire

Dark Force Rising

The Last Command

X-Wing: Isard’s Revenge

The Jedi Academy Trilogy

Jedi Search

Dark Apprentice

Champions of the Force

I, Jedi

Children of the Jedi

Darksaber

Planet of Twilight

X-Wing: Starfighters of Adumar

The Crystal Star

The Black Fleet Crisis Trilogy

Before the Storm

Shield of Lies

Tyrant’s Test

The New Rebellion

The Corellian Trilogy

Ambush at Corellia

Assault at Selonia

Showdown at Centerpoint

The Hand of Thrawn Duology

Specter of the Past

Vision of the Future

Scourge

Fool’s Bargain*

Survivor’s Quest

NEW JEDI ORDER 25–40 YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A New Hope

Boba Fett: A Practical Man*

The New Jedi Order

Vector Prime

Dark Tide I: Onslaught

Dark Tide II: Ruin

Agents of Chaos I: Hero’s Trial

Agents of Chaos II: Jedi Eclipse

Balance Point

Recovery*

Edge of Victory I: Conquest

Edge of Victory II: Rebirth

Star by Star

Dark Journey

Enemy Lines I: Rebel Dream

Enemy Lines II: Rebel Stand

Traitor

Destiny’s Way

Ylesia*

Force Heretic I: Remnant

Force Heretic II: Refugee

Force Heretic III: Reunion

The Final Prophecy

The Unifying Force

35 YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A New Hope

The Dark Nest Trilogy

The Joiner King

The Unseen Queen

The Swarm War

LEGACY 40+ YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A New Hope

Legacy of the Force

Betrayal

Bloodlines

Tempest

Exile

Sacrifice

Inferno

Fury

Revelation

Invincible

Crosscurrent

Riptide

Millennium Falcon

43 YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A New Hope

Fate of the Jedi

Outcast

Omen

Abyss

Backlash

Allies

Vortex

Conviction

Ascension

Apocalypse

X-Wing: Mercy Kill

*An eBook novella