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By
Jason Cunningham *** The
Frontier. Out there on the Rim, removed from the narcissism and debauchery of
the core worlds, life and death were not regulated as stringently as the taxes.
Out there dreams could still come true; real ones, not holos or spice-induced
hallucinations. Out there forgotten worlds lay seemingly dormant, perhaps for
the best. Galactic refuse and civilizations none too cosmopolitan. Out there,
magic still held dominion.
*** You
are gone now, my sweet one, my dark death’s head. Ah, I knew the moment would
come. Inevitable, really. I knew your secrets, and you knew that I did. I could
never hope for a more pure, refined extension of my will. You might have once
been the Chosen One, but instead you were the arrow that pointed to him.
Singularly focused on your will to serve the darkness, you were too pure… I.
Korriban. A name from the distant past. Thousands of years ago the great Sith War had rolled through the galaxy like a plague of fire, charring nameless dozens of worlds in its unholy hunger. A conflict of ideology, as so many are, but on a scale previously unimaginable. The Dark Ones, the chaos lords, led their armies of super-warriors in thrall against the noble order of the Jedi Knights and the armies of the Republic. And at the center of the maelstrom, the Force. The embodiment of all that is mystical. The energy field that surrounds and binds the universe, some would call it. The Dark Ones fed on their hatred, their anger, their fear and aggression. The dark side made them mighty, incredibly so. Their masters felt it was the only true manifestation of that power, and they managed to sway countless others to this view as well. Convinced by persuasion, or convinced by the blade. Convinced by the very nature of the Force they were made to swear allegiance to. The Light Ones held a different philosophy, of course, a different ideology. Through passivity, through harmony, through order and discipline the Jedi cultivated their connection with the Force. Illuminated guardians of the Galactic Republic for a thousand generations, the light side of the Force was like the state religion. Many cults of this mystical energy existed; some warrior, some philosopher, some artisan, but the most famous and most powerful were unquestionably the Jedi. The Holy Jedi, a paradox: servants more powerful than their masters. They provided protection to the wealthiest and most powerful alliance of peoples in over twenty millennia of recorded history. Naturally, this very duty made them influential in their own right. Power and influence attract the notice of ambitious men, covetous men. Whether those particular attributes were gained through just means was of no consequence –others will always hate out of envy. These were rejected by the Order of the Jedi. Very many were rejected, actually, as admittance into the order was no casual undertaking. The ultimate authority, the Jedi Council itself, screened all candidates. Sitting in their monolithic spire, high above the petty political squabbling of the Senate, these Masters determined the worthiness of the prospective knight. Many felt the call, but few were chosen. Those who were accepted into the order soon faced their fears; training was difficult, arduous. Meditation, physical exertion, studies (both martial and metaphysical), and combat exercises comprised the pupil’s days and nights. In a galaxy of indulgence, the Jedi apprentice was required to abstain. The Order had a high failure rate, naturally, as training grew more difficult each passing day. The prospective knights were required to cultivate the most serious mindset. The Jedi felt a strange kind of pride at their high failure rate amongst entered apprentices, a self-congratulatory elitism which reassured the Order that the final product was the cream of the crop. Others felt differently however. Those rejected and those expelled did not forget their shame so easily. Some, through their own (or because of others’) insecurities never even made the attempt. One does not shrug off or forget how close to great power one comes so easily. These apprentices, these novices, these apparent failures many times moved off on their own in search of alternative enlightenment. And most of these did not soon forget their humiliation at the hands of the smug Jedi. The rejected and unworthy alike wandered the many systems of the Republic, seeking the forbidden ways of the Force denied to them by the pompous Jedi Council. Always rumors there were, and with these rumors, promise of excitement and adventure. Rumors of ancient scrolls, of powerful artifacts, of sleeping masters. Hushed whispers of the gateway to absolute power, of skills unknown even by the most exulted Jedi. A second nature of the Force. The
Dark Side. As the masterless apprentices and adepts wandered throughout the known galaxy, a feeling began to come over them, each individually. One by one this feeling (for that is the only description for it) reached out to their minds. At first it was nothing but a dark flutter behind the eyelids, a twinge of ice in their bowels. Over time, however, the twinge became a call, and the call became a pull. Soon the feeling no longer felt strange, no longer felt alien. It became, in fact, alluring. The wanderers soon began to converge, from all points across the galaxy. A trickle at first, in dribs and drabs the wanderers came. Their numbers steadily increased over time, till an icy river of power-hungry beings flowed into that system on the outskirts of known space. Inevitably the wanderers converged on a single world, and began to meet each other face to face. Cautious at first, then increasingly suspicious, eventually the beings fed off of each other’s fears, letting their superstitions and unfounded hate well up into unbridled aggression. Then suddenly, in the midst of the rage, at the precipice of the chaos came a voice. They stopped, their weapons falling to the hard cold ground, as their minds became a mass of confusion. A voice that was not heard with ears but deep inside the mind. A voice that touched the individual souls of each and every being present like an icy finger. Welcome my children. In time, you will call me Master. That was thousands of years ago, a long time to forget the atrocities inflicted on the galaxy by the Sith Lords and their legions of Dark Jedi. The light-side Jedi assembled of course, waging their crusade against the tide of evil. Whole systems burned as the Republic militaries and the Jedi fought against the Sith and their evil allies, the Mandalorians, who were led by their masked berserker warlord. The conflict raged as the fight was taken from planet to planet: on land, under the sea, and in space. Annihilation became a way of life and death was a constant companion. Many battles were won and lost on both sides of the line. Hundreds of thousands, then millions of lives were made forfeit during the onslaught. The darkness threatened to swallow everything… Some say it was the superior training and skill of the Jedi that ultimately gained the final victory. Some say it was the greedy ambition of the Dark Lord known as Bane which led to the downfall of the Sith. Many more say that the light side of the Force is inherently more powerful than the dark side. Be they as they may, the tide of battle turned. The Dark Ones were pursued across the galaxy: to starry Ithul, to Mandalore’s scarred plains, to the deep jungles of Yavin 4. Finally, the battle was taken to Korriban, the homeworld of the
Sith, where the Dark Lord Bane
himself was ultimately vanquished. Or so it was thought…
***
The youth picked his way over a barren landscape, eyes attempting to adjust to the odd shimmering light that coruscated off the blasted features. I feel nothing but death, thought the youth… and yet I do not fear… A deep mist hung thick around his booted feet, and dewy drops of condensate beaded on the smooth metallic grip of his oversized lightsaber handle. As he crested the summit of a small rise, the youth paused at the top to survey his surroundings more closely. For as far as the eye could see, bleak grey ruins dominated the scene, with the occasional circular impression of an aged crater. It was obvious that nothing had lived here for millennia. II.
This deep out, everyone is suspicious, thought Kizil Bash. Interstellar transport was fairly affordable and routine within the core systems, but ships were harder to come by as one ranged further and further outward from the hub. The very act of booking passage to systems on the frontier hinted at unsavory business. This was where civilization broke down, where beings took their lives into their own hands. The protective touch of the Jedi was felt lightly, if sometimes not at all. Here men made their own laws. Men like Kizil Bash, who viewed the other passengers on the unregistered transport with eyes as cold as the deep vacuum of space. Many boring hours in hyperspace lay ahead of Bash, and he decided some mindless conversation with others might pass the time. “Hey now, the hyperdrive motivator on this vessel sounds a bit irregular, wouldn’t you say?” Bash asked offhand to a group of three apparent merchants. The trio stopped their hushed game of high-stakes Sabaac and looked slowly toward the bulky figure. Initially indignant, one of the merchants offered a guarded reply.
“Yessss… it certainly sssseemsss a bit…twitchy…”
the smallest of the three, a Twi’lek named Rid
Valubela replied in the common tongue. He felt it best not to be rude to the
curious passenger. For Kizil Bash was a warrior. More than that, he was a member
of an underground sect of Force adepts, a cult of warrior-priests known as the
Krath. Said to be extinct (like so many fearsome animals), the Krath were known only as legends to most of the Republic. The closer one got to the Rim however, the more myth could take on a healthy reality. Many strange tales came back to the core worlds from the outlying regions, and the small groups of passengers on the chartered pirate freighter were wary of the aura emanating from the Paladin. For Bash’s strength lay in the dark side, the violent and aggressive nature of the Force. While not regarded in the manner of Jedi or especially the infamous Sith, dark servants had been known of from time to time, and it was best not to cross them lightly. The Paladin looked haughtily toward the two mute partners. “Ha ha, and you two, have you no opinion? Come now, what think you?” The other two merchants looked at each other briefly, then spoke with trepidation. “Yes, quite irregular friend. The operators must look into that sometime.” A pregnant pause. A slight scowl. “Perhaps a phase imbalance in the motivator…” ventured the third, pulling his vibrantly hued robes about him in an uncomfortable gesture. The potbellied little man silently fingered the trigger of his snub-nosed blaster underneath the folds. A slight sweat broke out on his forehead. “Ha ha, yes yes that sounds about right!” the Paladin bellowed, in an insincere display of jocularity. Bash liked to fool with strangers when he was bored, and he had nothing but time to kill right now. “This hyperspace is a wonderful thing is it not? Well of course, I don’t understand all of the mathematics involved, certainly, but it allows species from all over the galaxy to mingle together!” “Yesss, indeed it doessss…” responded the T’wei’lek gambler, more at ease now by the warrior’s apparent friendly behavior. Others on the transport turned away from the potential excitement, to retreat further into their own musings. Among these was a young handsome humanoid male, head bald except for a ridge of horn-like protrusions arrayed like a crown. The youth sat in quiet contemplation, staring intently at a tiny lizard-like animal on his arm. Occasionally he would reach out and feed it something small. Bash noticed the young man, with his unusual extravagant dress and powerfully built features. His green eyes focused most importantly on the object slung across the youth’s back. At first glance, it appeared to be a long metal cylindrical handle, just under the length of a man’s arm. Upon closer scrutiny (and with certain technical and historical knowledge) Bash came to the realization that the object was in fact a weapon. An ancient weapon by the looks of it, meticulously designed and eccentrically shaped. It was the weapon of a Jedi. A lightsaber. The Paladin turned his attention back to the uncomfortable merchant trio, who took the pause as leave to resume their game. He put an end to that thinking soon enough. “You, for instance!” Bash said, quickly redirecting his gaze from the oblivious youth to the tallest of the merchants, a human wearing a turban and possessing a face much like a weathered bantha. The man jumped with a slight start. “Where might a fellow like you be from?” It was obvious that the matter was none of the Paladin’s business, but the merchant felt obliged to answer. "I happen to hail from Coruscant, sir. And yourself?” he replied with his own question, a hint of arrogance in his voice. This was certainly not lost on the Paladin. “Coruscant…you don’t say? Hmmm….my….the capital, eh? Most impressive!” exclaimed Bash, louder than necessary. The gamblers began to feel uncomfortable once again. The merchant with the turban was increasingly agitated at this undue attention, and wished the armored figure would simply leave him alone. “And how is business in the opulent galactic Capital? I hear it is quite rewarding to be a merchant these days!” Bash had already become tired of his play, as the weapon slung across the lizard-boy’s back had held his attention. He turned on the clearly relieved gamers and moved closer to the youth, still engrossed in his small pet. “You there,” Bash directed to the seated form, “you are dressed in a most interesting manner, are you perhaps from the Malastare system?” “No”, replied the youth, without looking up. Bash was mildly taken aback by the stoic reply, but his insatiable curiosity was also piqued. “That is an interesting little friend you have young man”, said Bash gesturing to the lizard, “is he trained?” “No.” Now Bash became irritated, he felt he needed to get a response out of the persnickety lad. “That object on your back. It is in fact a lightsaber, is it not?” At this the youth stopped his attentions to his small companion and looked up. He had fiery, enchanting saffron eyes that seemed to smolder in their intensity. The lizard scampered up the arm of the youth’s tunic and disappeared. The normally indifferent youth, so far so quiet on several topics presented, demonstrated he could in fact speak at length and eloquently on subjects that interested him. “Yes, it is. It is an ancient weapon that I have come to hold through extraordinary circumstance”, began the youth. “I have had the weapon now for quite some time, since I was a little boy, in fact,” Bash nodded and grunted, as if to say ‘continue’. “Since I have possessed it for so long and have spent so much time with it naturally it has become a part of me, almost an extension of my will. Sometimes I feel it is my only true equal,” Continuing his enthusiasm, he added, “It was forged generations ago by Master Vodo-Siosk Baas.” It was now Bash’s turn to become indignant. “See here young fellow, that seems an interesting story and all of that, but Baas was a legendary Master Jedi. That is quite a boast for one so young as you are. Much less for one who is not even a Jedi Knight”, These last words, the warrior seemed to spit out between his teeth. “I suppose you consider yourself very good handling that weapon, eh?” Bash prodded mischievously. He had grown tired of these young fighters with their force pikes and laser-swords, lone guns who bragged about their skills and secret fighting methods. “Actually, I am on a search for worthy opponents,” the youth replied magnanimously. This caused Bash to raise an eyebrow. “I have heard tell legends of a sect of warriors called the Krath, and look forward to challenging their best swordmasters to a duel. I specifically seek the one called Aegripa. Do you, by chance, know of him?” This was too much for the warrior-priest, who could not stand to listen to the arrogant youth any longer. In matters of the Force and battle he felt he held much authority. “Look here young man,” Bash began loudly and pompously, “no one much minds young men bragging about their exploits and abilities, but you have gone too far.” The other passengers in the hold began to stir nervously and look toward the lecturing Paladin. The youth sat, placid. “You have boasted that you possess a rare ancient Jedi weapon. You have also bragged about your prowess using it, and then have gone so far as to have made a public challenge against forces you can barely comprehend!” Bash began to build momentum, while the passengers listened and the youth sat immobile. “It is past time I tell you who you are speaking to laddie…” the Paladin continued. “I am Kizil Bash, Paladin of the Seventh Citadel of the Krath, instructed in war and in the Craft by my patron Master Aegripa!” Bash exclaimed triumphantly. “I have half a mind to teach you a sharp lesson about the price of such petty bravado!” This said, he stormed off to the rear of the hold, grumbling about youths that know not their place. The Paladin stood, one foot on the lower railing, chin in hand quietly. He felt a pull at his left sleeve. “Excuse me, sir”, said the youth, in an even voice. Again the youth tugged, “Sir…” he requested, his tone still calm. Bash spun around, irritated. “Yes what is it?” he spat. The youth spoke with a voice so low and controlled as to almost be hypnotic. “Sir, you have spoken loudly enough so that these fellow passengers could hear, spoken of my so-called boasts and suspicious of my skill. You have insulted my honor, and, in effect called me a liar. Since you are yourself a warrior, you must understand that I now must reclaim my honor.” What’s this, Bash thought, what could this upstart have in mind? “I intend on demonstrating my skill in front of these passengers, to show that I am not merely boasting.” The youth looked larger in stature than he did when seated, very athletic and powerfully built. “I will ask you to test me and be witness to my skills”, the youth declared loud enough for all within the hold to hear. The air seemed charged, alive. “I’d be delighted, young man!” Bash announced equally loud. “Let’s see now… you three, stop that game!” he bellowed at the gambling merchants he so recently was pestering. “Hand over those Sabacc cards, for I will put them to good use!” The warrior-priest reached a gauntleted fist into their midst and snatched several of the cards. “If you are as skilled as you boast, young one, you should have no problem with this little test!” Bash was almost jubilant. “If you are a swordsman, a real swordsman, you should have no problem cutting down each one of these playing cards before they hit the ground after I toss them all into the air!” Bash exclaimed, to the gasps of the huddled passengers. The youth paused, waiting for the furor to die down. He addressed the smirking Paladin directly, “Your test is equitable sir, and I will endeavor to meet success,” the youth stated in a low, even tone. “Well, anytime you are ready then, my boy!” Bash beamed. “I am ready, sir”, came the immediate reply. The passengers, all generally unimpressed by the random comings and goings of life, were circled around the scene expectantly, with baited breath. The statuesque youth pulled himself to his full form, closed his eyes briefly, and then stood at the ready. Bash fanned the 12 cards out in his fingers waiting for the youth to draw his saber, but coming to the conclusion that the arrogant youngster planned to perform the impossibly difficult simultaneous draw and strike, threw the cards into the air in a swift motion. There was a moment of total confusion as the youthful form moved in an arcing, balletic blur. There was the unmistakable sharp snap of laser blade ignition, the smell of ozone, and then the involuntary scream of Kizil Bash. Bash fell back, grappling at his chest, for the youth had executed a movement that culminated in the blade flashing toward the warrior-priest’s heart. “Wh-wh-whaaat?” yelled the Krath, after the realization that the laser blade from the youth’s weapon had found it’s way into the muscle of his chest, where the tip of the antique crimson blade had just burned through his sacred initiate’s tattoo from the Krath Sect. The shaken warrior fell flat on his posterior, hands grappling at his cauterized flesh, as 24 halves of Sabacc cards rained down upon his trembling head. “Now do you understand?” asked the youth, lizard perched vigilant on his shoulder. *** My hand reached across the cosmos, through time and space, stirring the stagnant pool the Jedi left in their vainglorious wake. Despite the incomprehensible distance of the void you were the first to feel it, though you could never have known. The others had been closer, and many arrived before thee. Beings of power converged from all points in the galaxy, drawn by my call. The first ones arrived, filled with trepidation, unsure of purpose and questioning their own sanity. All of my children, so much the same; beautiful in your rage, so powerful in your hatred. Magnificent in your savageness, and vulnerable in your fear. I loved you all, each of you my vengeance incarnate. From the outset of the gathering, however, I knew that there would indeed be one yet to come. It would be you who would once again announce our presence to the galaxy, like the proud cock crowing at dawn. The sleeping madness was waking, wiping away the sand from its wild eyes. III.
The transport had jumped out of hyperspace with a rumbling growl. The passengers, heretofore silent in the wake of the explosive display of violent skill, began a nervous chatter that came with the false security of their imminent arrival to their destination. The youth had resumed his seat on the deck of the hold, lotus-fashion. Breathing steady, spirit placid, he resumed his attentions to his small reptilian companion. He never once turned to look at the disgraced and enraged Paladin, who had retreated to the most isolated section of the vessel to nurse his flesh and replay the horrifying events of the recent past over and over again in his mind. He swore silent oaths and epithets and shuddered at each breath of singed air he drew. How could this be, he lamented. Who is this youth who so shamed me? Bash’s rage at his defeat and humiliation burned within him, and his eyes bore into the back of the seated youth’s horned head. He was vaguely aware of the charged atmosphere and the wide-eyed and fear-stricken passengers pretending not to notice him. He considered drawing his own saber and cutting the youth down. But he knew, knew in his heart this would be suicidal. He felt the power of the youth’s aura, and had witnessed his technique. No, a live blade would not take him. Bash let go his wounded chest and placed his hands together under his sable cloak, slowly weaving his fingers into the nine sacred forms, the ones that would focus the dark Krath magic. With the insertion of the secret and conditional 10th form, he would show the young arrogant swaggerer what real power was. As the Paladin drew close to the completion of his suit, he began to experience a backlash of dark power; an ebb at first but then slowly building like a black tsunami of strength –Bash released his fingers suddenly and snapped into real-time, cold sweat upon his brow. The youth turned and looked directly at him, locking eyes. The two stared hard at each other for a long silent moment, the shaken Paladin finally dropping his gaze. I will need help, thought Bash.
The motley assortment of passengers waded their way through the beggars and merchants, denizens of all the local docking bays. The talk amongst them was of an encounter in the ship’s hold, of a spectacular horned youth with a magnificent crimson blade. Barlaam and Joasaph overheard these whispers with some alacrity. Sturdily built and well conditioned, Joasaph was the taller of the two young warrior-priests, whereas Barlaam was stocky and compact. Both entered apprentice Paladins of the Krath Sect, they had been instructed to await their patron’s arrival and to conduct him safely to the citadel. When all of the passengers had seemingly disembarked, the two young warriors looked at each other quizzically, both were wondering if they had the wrong platform or the wrong ship. Nervously, they began to advance toward the exit ramp, when the familiar form of their patron approached them. Something was wrong, however, and both recognized it immediately. Patron seemed to be walking stiffly; he was pale and wincing in pain. Barlaam and Joasaph questioned Bash about his condition, but he silenced them. “It is nothing”, snapped the Paladin, “conduct me to my quarters.” Both apprentices knew better than to push an answer from their patron, but both also felt quavering tremors that could not be left open to interpretation. Power was at work. As the day drew to a close and night wrapped its arms around the land, Kizil Bash had retired to his quarters and ordered that his meal be brought to him and left. Barlaam and Joasaph decided they needed to act on their suspicions. “The people leaving the transport earlier today, it sounded as if they were speaking of a recent conflict,” said Barlaam. “Yes, much the impression that I received. Do you suspect as I that perhaps Patron was somehow involved?” inquired Joasaph. “Perhaps, but…he seems strange. It almost seems as if he had been…injured. I cannot accept it,” Barlaam said resolute. “Well, there is only one way to find out,” Joasaph looked at Barlaam and stood up abruptly. “We will find out what precisely what happened on that craft today, if we have to wring a few necks to get the information so be it!” Both apprentice warriors marched out of the citadel with a determined stride.
The local town was festive in its atmosphere that evening, alive with talk of fantastic things, plump with the booty of ill-gotten gains. Voices rose and fell in a mellifluous wave, merchants bartered with customers. Speeders and beasts of burden ferried their cargoes to all parts of the municipality. Transports rose lazily in the distance, supported by invisible repulsorlifts, before blasting into the upper atmosphere. Through this scene Barlaam and Joasaph waded a path. The duo muscled their way through crowds of species seeking various pleasures, looking for information that would lead them to a satisfactory answer regarding their harried patron. Although young and still not as street-smart as Bash, the duo knew where the most likely place to find answers lay.
The
pleasure slave quarters. Barlaam and Joasaph wove their way into the town’s infamous red light district, past the brash lights and brassy music. Past enticing open doorways which promised multiple pleasures of the flesh. Onward they strode, their mission the only thing occupying their thoughts. After several hours’ worth of intense and sometimes violent interrogation, Barlaam and Joasaph had satisfied themselves that they were in possession of the facts, but this knowledge did not ease the burdens upon their hearts. “I still cannot believe it!” Barlaam whined sullenly. He was continually wiping the back of his gloved hand over his forehead and eyes. “Patron, humiliated! What went wrong? “Silence stupid!” barked Joasaph. “It is obvious that Patron Kizil was taken by surprise, or at the very least was physically ill. In either event, we know what our duty is!” the warrior said, as if making a solemn vow. He placed a hand on Barlaam’s shoulder and beckoned him to his feet. “We shall avenge our patron and bring honor back to the citadel. Come, we know where the damned effete boy is retiring for the night.” The two warriors had managed to locate the youth through information given them by an intimidated (and slightly battered) bartender. “Alright, I am with you,” replied Barlaam, but let us get several of the others to insure our victory. We could do it ourselves, of course,” he ventured, less sure of himself than he sounded, “but it is better to be prepared”. “Agreed. Let’s off!” exclaimed Joasaph, as the two apprentices broke into a steady run.
The night held its breath as the hour of the wolf approached. The sounds of revelry faded like mist, to be replaced by a low-level but ever-present buzz. It would be easy to slip into a drowsy dreamlike trance. Easy if you did not have revenge in your heart. Easy, maybe, if bloodlust did not coarse through your veins. The six young apprentices stealthily approached the hostel where their newly avowed enemy lay, unaware and unarmed. Joasaph and Barlaam led the ambush party to what would be a glorious victory for the Citadel. “Now maintain loose combat formation,” Joasaph instructed in a harsh whisper. He was the leader of nearly all martial classes in the Citadel, and the other boys always looked to him for direction. “We will take the bastard with shock and numbers. There will be no phony tricks this time,” Joasaph hissed. The others grunted their agreement. Silently they stalked, bypassing the front entrance, in favor for a rear access. Barlaam, always most force-sensitive, felt a twist in his stomach. “Ah, comrades…. hold a moment….I feel something…” Barlaam began to stammer to the disdain of his adrenaline-driven companions. But as they forced Barlaam ahead despite his protest, shouldering through the rear access, their fate had already been decided. Two died before they could even scream; dismembered and quartered in a moment, exploding in a burst of charcoal gore. Two stumbled forward into the hostel, careening on the sickening refuse that spattered the floor. Two others tumbled backward out into the open. The youth with blazing eyes stepped into the doorway, filling it. His heavy, two-handed crimson saber had tasted its second blood of the night. ***
It
rose up from the ground like an artificial mountain, impossibly high. The first
and only sign of intelligence demonstrated anywhere on this blasted and barren
rock. The youth saw it first from several kilometers distance, but as time
passed and his approach brought him nearer, he knew that his quest was almost at
an end. When he reached the base of the monument, he fell to his knees, and
raised his eyes skyward. A dark grey five-sided pyramid stood before him; its
base as big as a city, its top lost among the polluted haze that passed for
clouds. He removed the glove from his left hand, and placed his palm against the
monument’s side. The youth closed his eyes and rested in the shadow of the
monolith for an incalculable period of time. When he opened his eyes at long
last, he had his answer. A door stood open before him. IV.
“Ha ha ha!” the youth bellowed, lightsaber filling the night sky with the scent of blood and ozone. The light from the weapon glinted off the polished horns around the top of his skull, and reflected off both the pools of entrails and the eight wide eyes now locked upon him. “You thought to take me in the night, like thieves! I know of you brave Krath. Come, fools, I shall be doing the taking!” the youth nearly screamed. No longer the placid model of meditation like he was on the transport, the youth now filled his thoughts with hate and let them overflow into his actions. He allowed the darkness to well up within him, and welcomed it’s cold embrace. The apprentice Paladins, taken by surprise, began to gather their composure, but not by much. Barlaam and Joasaph were still alive, though separated by the doorway. With them were two boyhood companions, all part of the same class as the two slaughtered and stinking corpses that littered both sides of the access. The four stunned boys had instinctively drawn their weapons due to years of repetitive training. Each wielded a long blade in the right hand and a short parrying blade in the left. All of the Krath weapons were of the finest construction, and employed small field generators and high frequency oscillators. They were as formidable as any lightsaber in the right hands. The fear in the hearts of the apprentices began to drive their dark side instincts, and the magic gave them power. The five combatants remained paralyzed for what seemed like an eternity, partly with fear, and partly by the dictates of advanced swordsmanship. The youth slowly and deliberately lowered his saber, keenly aware of the almost imperceptible changes in attitude and stance that the Krath warriors affected. Judging that the element of surprise had been lost, the youth made a blindlingly fast leap and somersault from the elevated doorway position to an area just outdoors, flanking the warriors. Barlaam and his companion, Lonergan, the Paladins who had been outside, each took defensive postures leading with their small parrying blades. Joasaph and Crowther were both unsure how to proceed, as they had to exit the narrow doorway to assist their companions. This of course would have left them extremely vulnerable upon egress. The youth began a slow circle to his right, and Barlaam and Lonergan matched this with their own sidestepping. This is precisely what the youth had desired, since their response had positioned them with their backs to the doorway, unaware of their own companions’ situation behind them. “I await my second Krath test of skill. I hope this proves more challenging than the first one…” the youth taunted. The assembled Krath grew enraged at the remark each to a man, and their former fear of the youth festered into blind hate. “Bastard!” hollered Lonergan. “I will drink your blood!” Lonergan performed a lunging thrust with his rapier, throwing his left hand and leg back to compensate for his shifting center of mass. The youth sidestepped the thrust and turned inside Lonergan, unexpectedly, as most would have turned away toward the outside, or simply retreated. The crimson blade was brought straight down, cleanly cutting Lonergan’s rapier in two. The young paladin instinctively began to raise his parrying blade with the intent to thrust it deep into the youth’s exposed kidneys, but this action was cut short; a second energy blade emerged from the other end of the youth’s lightsaber like a red lightning bolt, severing Lonergan’s left forearm. Within moments, before Lonergan could truly register the pain or horror of his injury, his life was promptly snuffed out when the youth performed a spinning disengagement into a defensive posture. Lonergan’s upper torso and both severed legs fell within meters of his forearm. “Ahhhhhhh, gods!” lamented Barlaam, revolted and overwhelmed by the quick brutal slaughter of yet another boyhood companion by this unknown demon. Crowther was less vocal, promptly vomiting and then quickly staggering down the steps to join Barlaam. Joasaph had slipped away and was nowhere to be seen. The youth retracted one blade of his double-saber and assumed a middle stance, the tip of his blade at throat level of his opponents. The two paladins initiated a coordinated attack on the youth. After wiping the bile from his lips, Crowther began a series of lunges while Barlaam raised his hand and made a pushing motion. A cloud of dust and soil blew up from the ground into the youth’s eyes, blinding him. The youth re-lit his double saber and spun it with one hand rapidly in a defensive circle as he backed away, the other hand rubbing his eyes. The crimson blade flashed perilously close to Crowther’s chest, but the Krath parried it with a glancing blow from his short shielded blade. Barlaam sprinted to the left of the youth in an attempt to get inside his flank, but was thwarted by a backward leap into a handspring, resulting in a flip. Eyes finally clear, the youth bared his sharpened teeth at the two Krath then attacked them with fury. It was at this point that the heretofore-absent Joasaph (who has chosen an alternate exit from the hostel) made his reappearance, screaming a war cry while charging the running youth from his right side. The crimson saber blade flashed down through empty air where only a split-second before Crowther’s arm had been. Barlaam thrusted at the youth’s throat but missed, the blade passing behind the muscular neck. Joasaph, in desperation, threw his parrying blade like a missile at the whirling youth, which hit him squarely in the back but did not cut him. The youth yelled out in brief pain, then ignited his second blade in time to parry two simultaneous strikes, one high, one low. The youth spun the saber in a counter-clockwise turn, pushing Joasaph and Barlaam’s blades respectively out away from their own bodies. This was closely followed by a lightning-fast leap and double kick that felled both Joasaph and Barlaam, who scrambled to their feet in the wake of the youth’s uncanny agility and ferocity. Crowther had used this opportunity to pull a concealed blaster from under his tunic and snap off several wild shots at his continually moving opponent. Crowther’s fright and frustration manifested itself as the youth managed to avoid every shot with his fluid, dance-like turns, finally kicking the blaster out of his hand. Crowther screamed and made a desperate curved thrust at the youth with his remaining weapon, who cut first a third, then two thirds of Crowther’s rapier off in rapid succession. Crowther looked up from his worthless sword in just enough time to see the crimson blade of the youth as it beheaded him. Joasaph and Barlaam glanced at each other, briefly considering the four savaged corpses. Then they dropped their weapons and ran as fast as their legs could carry them.
The eeopie slowly plodded its way down the trail, grunting softly to itself in the night air. It’s burden was light this ride, as compared to the usual passengers. The being upon the beast’s back was humanoid, if not for a rather extended cranium, and weighed not much more than seventy-five kilos. The slender man held the reins of the eeopie in his hands but rode the beast sidesaddle. Aegripa wore a look of consternation upon his brow; his ruminations were about to soon be intruded upon. “Easy now girl,” said the swordmaster soothingly to his mount, as the beast began to rear a bit and whine. Aegripa peered down the dark road, squinting his eyes. His vigilance was rewarded with the puzzling (and pathetic) sight of two of his charges running helter-skelter, seemingly for their lives. “Maaaaasteeeeer! Heeeelp uuuuusss!” screamed the apprentice paladins, neither slowing from their frenzied pace. “Ah, what’s this all about?” queried the master of his paladins. They ignored him and ran past at top speed causing his mount to sidestep and shake its head. “Whoa, steady girl…You two whelps, come back here!” hollered the swordmaster, but much to his chagrin the two young men retreated into the distance. Aegripa began shaking his head, but then slowly stopped and brought his ear up to one side, as if listening intently for something. His eyes suddenly widened and he reached quickly for his weapon. The youth appeared out of the night, striding down the dark path with long powerful steps. His saber was in his right hand, both blades extinguished (temporarily), and the gleam in his fiery eyes was almost as bright as the moonlight reflected off of his sharpened grin. The appearance of the youth startled the eeopie, which reared back on its hind legs, throwing its rider. Aegripa did not fall, but parlayed the throw into a somersault resulting in a dignified dismount. The youth strode to a halt, clearly impressed. “Old man, your agility is inspiring, but I advise you not to stand in the way of the quarry I seek, lest you become prey yourself,” stated the youth. As he finished this declaration a red blade slowly hissed into sight. Aegripa appraised the lad carefully, while drawing his own weapon with his right hand. His left hand unfastened a short cape from around his waist, and this he held draped across his left arm. “If combat is what you desire, then I shall give you your wish. But first answer a question,” the swordmaster asked cryptically. “Very well, old man. Ask your question.” The lightsaber rose to the right side of the youth’s face, poised. The old master slowly shifted his weight to his left leg, while easing his left arm back. He began a complicated twirling of the cape behind him as he extended his rapier out before him in his right hand. “Are you the young man who wounded and publicly humiliated one of my best warriors, paladin Kizil Bash, on a transport earlier this day?” The youth lowered his attitude perceptibly, and furrowed his brow. “I am the one who has done this thing. What make you of it?” the youth put forth. “I am Aegripa, the swordsman you so eagerly claimed to seek. The challenge and test by Kizil was unpardonable, an affront to your honor,” the old man lowered his weapon and began to approach the youth whose lightsaber was still lit. “Completely unacceptable. Please accept my apology. The Krath are certainly a nobler sect than we were portrayed today. Come and speak with me,” Aegripa beckoned. The youth deactivated his saber and slung it over his back. The two approached the other as if they might have been old friends. The youth bowed slightly and spoke. “You are the master Aegripa, I have looked forward to meeting you for some time now. Your reputation is well known, among those who might have reason to know. I need to inform you that it was necessary to kill several of your apprentices who came to challenge me this night,” the youth disclosed, almost apologetically. “Six against one, with four killed and the remainder in terrified retreat? I commend you on your technique and skill. I wish there were more with your heart within our sect.” A small sigh issued forth. “Shameful really. Might it be possible for you to give instruction to some of my students? I can offer you shelter and food, as well as pay for your services,” offered the swordmaster. “I believe that may be possible, Patron Aegripa, but pay is not my first concern, to be frank. What I am interested in cannot be quantified,” the youth paused, and then raised his eyes to meet the old man’s, “There is a magic that you Krath possess, a dark skill, which is sometimes also referred to simply as the force.” Aegripa seemed to consider this a moment. “Precisely what about this dark magic are you interested in, young fighter? What do you want to know?” the wizened master asked. “Everything.” *** The fates had long held their breath for this very moment. My will had brought you here now, through the cold and the dark, finally before me. The others could feel thy presence of course. They whispered amongst themselves at your coming as they waited, shrouded in shadow. All could feel the power that you brought to this forgotten place. Primal and untamed, it coursed through your veins and streamed like a black wake behind you. Your time had finally come, but mine was just beginning. A light pierces the gloom before me, intruding upon this hallowed ground. Now through the light a shadow, cast across the ancient floor, approaches. Come, boy. It is time for you to meet your destiny. V.
Shadows played off the bookshelves filled with volumes of arcane lore, cast by the flickering of dozens of candles. Ancient weapons lined the walls of the room, contrasting sharply to the deep-hued tapestries. Hundreds of generations were represented on the dark oaken walls. The sacred knowledge of those generations that had been handed down throughout history was once again being passed in the center of the room to a new disciple. The youth’s brow furrowed in concentration as he forced his hands into unnatural contortions, weaving complex patterns with his fingers. Patron Aegripa watched with eyes long used to such sights. For as long as could be remembered, the Krath Sect had instructed it’s most adept students in the mysteries of the dark Krath Magic. The initiate was taught that through breathing, meditation, chanting and intricate forms made by the hands, one could see the future, influence the weather, or even move objects. With the highest levels of mastery, one could even use the magic as a weapon in combat. “Center the magic within your abdomen,” instructed Aegripa in a soothing tone, “concentrate on your breathing…inhale through your nose…exhale through your mouth.” The youth did as he was told, though a trace of aggravation was beginning to appear in his features. They had been working at this for weeks, and had made no apparent progress. “Good,” Aegripa cooed, “you are progressing rapidly. In several months you should be ready to move small objects. Most apprentice Krath require several years before they can attempt that trick,” the patron said with a smug air of satisfaction. He was proud of his new student, whom he viewed as a protégé. This one will go far, thought Aegripa. I have great things planned for him. The youth was growing uncomfortable after long hours in his unusual posture. He was concentrating on correct breathing, on his hand forms, on his eyelids, on the position of his own tongue in his mouth. A rivulet of perspiration gathered on the tip of his nose, but would not drop off, causing him further annoyance. His mind, while supposed to be blank, was a whirlwind of thoughts. He had plans for himself, for his future. He felt a sense that he was at the doorway to a larger world. He could feel something that could best be described as a calling. A call to was he was still unsure, but he knew that he was on the right path. But this training was so slow, so ineffectual… “Alright, that is enough for today. We shall continue with your meditations in the morning. Clean up this room, sweep the floor, and make sure to bathe before the evening meal. I have been most impressed with your progress to date.” Patron Aegripa left the youth to his duties as he strode out into the courtyard. The youth watched him as he departed, standing up and stretching his sore muscles. As he began rubbing his hands to work out the cramps, he turned his head over his shoulder and looked at his surroundings. He squinted his eyes in concentration, and the flickering candles began to blow out one by one. The light of the last candle revealed the beginnings of a grin on the otherwise serious face. “Hold up!” yelled Sunni. The boy stole a glance over his shoulder to check on Q’uan, who was still climbing up after them. He redirected his gaze back up to an athletic child ahead of him on the steep rocky slope. He looked down at Sunni and Q’uan in slight frustration. “If you two can’t keep up with me, I should leave both of you behind,” hollered the child, who had risen up off his hands and assumed an awkward standing position. “We shouldn’t even be out here in the first place, you know,” admonished Q’uan, a tumble of rocks signaling his difficulty ascending. He had almost reached Sunni’s level, and the other boy proffered an arm to assist him. “Yeah, you know you’re gonna get us into big trouble,” Sunni sniffed. “No one made you come with me. It was your choice,” the leader reminded them. Sunni and Q’uan gained their footing and glanced at each other. Their eyes acknowledged to each other the truth in the older child’s statement. “Are you coming or not?” The two younger boys glanced at each other again. “Just a minute,” Q’uan muttered as he and Sunni began their climb anew. “Woah, check that out. What is it?” asked Sunni out loud, not really expecting an answer. The boy turned his head to look at Q’uan, who had the same wide-eyed expression on his face. He turned to look at the oldest child, who wore a look not of awe, but of insatiable curiosity. “Kham, you’re not thinking about going down there are you?” “No. I’m through thinking about it,” The oldest boy turned away from his two companions and began his way slowly but sure-footed down the incline to the object of their interest. A casual inspection may not have revealed it as anything out of the ordinary, considering the surroundings. It was a raised mound, fairly regular in shape. It was half-buried in the side of a low hill that had vegetation growing in small patches. At the distance the boys were at, it would merely have been just another part of the landscape. However, the oldest boy had brought a pair of ‘borrowed’ electrobinoculars with him, apparently with the knowledge that he would find something of interest that would specifically require them. That the three boys were out this far away from the orphanage was in itself unusual. They had planned several days in advance for this particular journey, and had left before sunrise to make it to the squat mountain that had only ever been beheld at a distance. They would catch hell when they returned, for sure, but the oldest boy had been so sure that something special was to be found out beyond the mound of earth. Something he said he saw in a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. The older children of the orphanage would speak tales about the mountain on occasion, scary tales meant to frighten the kids. Sunni and Q’uan had always looked up to their confidant and headstrong leader, and had resolved to accompany him on his journey beyond the mount despite the frightening tales. The trio of children examined the mound like archaeologists, trying to find the secret passage that would allow them access to the mysterious metal cave. It was the leader who found it, as fate would have it. He seemed to be possessed of a secret knowledge, like external forces were guiding him. After some considerable time clearing away rocks and debris, there was a large enough access for the children. Q’uan has been resourceful enough to bring a small lantern, and it was with this that they first peered into the gloom of the cave. Motes danced in the beam as it swept to and fro over the smooth unbroken walls. “I think it’s a ship’” spoke Sunni. The other two looked at him with sharp disdain. “Of course it’s a ship, you fool!” spat the leader. The look on Q’uan’s face registered similar contempt, but he said nothing. This was short-lived as they pondered the implications of their discovery. After a brief huddle concerning strategy and potential options, the three children came to the conclusion that to make it this far on their quest without entering the mysterious vessel would be a mission failure. Anyway, Kham had made it clear that he would proceed without the other two if he must, so the issue was moot. The leader entered first with the lantern held in front of him, confident but cautious. Q’uan and Sunni followed close behind, bolstered by the unwavering determination shown by their leader, but a little scared nonetheless. As they progressed deeper into the corridor, the light from the outside world appeared to fade more quickly than it should have. Perhaps this was a figment of the boys’ imaginations, but if it was it didn’t console them any. As the trio moved inexorably onward, they took note of the odd material the bulkheads and overhead seem to be constructed out of. “What is this?” said Q’uan in a whisper, but the sound unexpectedly reverberated to make the question startling to the other two boys. Q’uan looked at them sheepishly as he reached out to touch the wall. “It’s not metal or stone,” he spoke in wonder as his fingers caused the surface of the wall to ripple like water in a pond. “Don’t touch it,” hissed Sunni, clearly uneasy with the whole venture. Q’uan withdrew his hand, and all three stared as the ripples dissipated. “If this is in fact a ship as we suspect, then it follows that there must be a bridge or control room. We must find our way there,” said Kham matter-of-factly. “Here, I think I can see a door or hatch up ahead.” After several minutes trek through the passageway, the three adventurers reached the portal in question. It had initially appeared to be much closer, but time and distance seemed distorted within the gloomy confines of the alien vessel. Q’uan and Sunni continued to peer back over their shoulders toward the entrance, but this was hopelessly lost in the distance. Kham felt no such distraction as he stared wordlessly at the strange door before him. At least, he was sure that it had to be a door. There were no controls associated with it as far as he could tell. There was no handle with which to open it either. It stood, round, almost like an orifice, like the tightly shut mouth of some great beast. As Kham assessed various methods of gaining access through the portal, Sunni and Q’uan grew increasingly uneasy. It wasn’t just the strange darkness, which allowed them to see just enough. It wasn’t just the loss of visual contact with their only known egress, or even the shimmering walls that seemed to defy most physical laws. Something had been wrong with this whole expedition from the outset, something that was beginning to manifest itself physically. The atmosphere in the chamber seemed extremely dense, like it was bearing down all over the adventurous boys. Why Kham didn’t seem to notice or even care was baffling to the other two, who only had thoughts of leaving the evil place. “K…Kham, I really think we should go back. We aren’t supposed to be in here,” stammered Sunni. “I think he’s right. Don’t you hear that?” Q’uan asked. The child was referring to a low level but ever-present buzz that could barely be heard on a conscious level. It seemed to be gradually increasing in intensity yet was still indefinable. “Cowards. Turn back if you like,” was all their leader replied. He was crouched down very close to the orifice examining every minute detail. The chamber seemed to fade all at once into an even steeper darkness, but the boys couldn’t be sure if it was simply just a trick of light and shadow. “There’s got to be a way past this.” Kham reached out a hand and touched the alien portal, then yanked it quickly away. The portal appeared to actually wince at his touch then slowly, noiselessly opened, pulling itself aside as if great-unseen muscles were causing it to dilate. Sunni and Q’uan stumbled over each other backing away, and even Kham took a slight step backwards. The three stood in shocked silence, unable to decide what to do next. “Follow me,” Kham said over his shoulder as he stepped within. The room was obviously important, most likely the bridge or some type of central control station, yet there didn’t seem to be external viewscreens. It would appear that this was what the three boys had been looking for, but only Kham seemed pleased with its discovery. Sunni and Q’uan had long since gone form hesitant and were now simply terrified. Roughly pentagonal, the room was like no bridge of a starship the boys had ever seen or heard about. In the center was a raised console standing alone like some altar to technology. There were no visible controls; just engravings like runes or glyphs, but nothing like a switch or lever. A dim light made it’s way from somewhere near the ceiling, and shone more or less onto the central controls though the source was invisible. “I think there’s something behind that thing,” whispered Q’uan. Some type of shape came into view, huddled on the far side of the central console. “We should go see what it is,” ventured Kham, but all remained rooted to the spot. “Come on, let’s all three go look. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” reassured Kham with newfound confidence. The leader jerked his horned head toward the console and began to deliberately make his way around toward it. He paused to look back, waiting for the other two to join him. Once they reluctantly did, he resumed his circuitous path. The three boys may have looked comical in another situation; all wide-eyed, Sunni clinging to Q’uan’s sleeve. Any trace of humor that the boy’s might have found in the predicament faded upon what they discovered on the other side of the central station. Kham gasped audibly, and Sunni nearly tore Q’uan’s sleeve off his shirt. “Gods, who is he?” said Q’uan, in a mixture of disgust and wonder. He had been dead a long time; there was no doubt of that. What remained of the individual’s leathery rotted skin was pulled back off his dusty skull. The figure was seated, it’s back against the altar/console in it’s final resting place. It wore a cloak of finely tailored dark material. The cloak was hooded, and the cowl rose up and over the mummified head, where wisps of hair could be seen protruding. A silver clasp in the shape of two dragons secured the front of the dead creature’s ensemble. Of more interest than the corpse’s clothing was the object in its lap; the skeletal fingers of its left hand still clasped around it in a literal death grip. At first glance, it appeared to be a long metal cylindrical handle, just under the length of a man’s arm. Upon closer scrutiny, Kham came to the realization that the object was in fact a weapon. An ancient weapon by the looks of it, meticulously designed and eccentrically shaped. Unaware until this moment, Sunni and Q’uan both comprehend that the heretofore barely perceptible buzz each had heard within their heads had now swelled into a rumble like the tumult of water over falls. The sound had grown almost deafening and they found difficulty breathing as well. Kham, mesmerized, ignored the phenomena and reached his hand out taking hold of the metallic cylinder. “No Kham, don’t!” cried Sunni but the older boy did not listen. Sunni and Q’uan watched in sheer horror as the cloaked corpse grabbed hold of Kham with it’s right hand and began to bring itself to it’s bony feet. In it’s left it continued to clasp the lightsaber.
Half a hundred sweating brows attempted to take what refuge they could in the shadows of the towering minarets. None to a man could ever remember being driven this hard in all their years of training. Nor had they been. When Patron Aegripa of the Krath Sect announced that he had invited a guest instructor to teach fighting skills to the students, most found this not of much interest. When this new instructor revealed itself to be an extravagantly dressed youth, as young as some of the newest apprentice students, resentment started immediately. Had the master lost his mind? It had to be some sort of joke thought some. The master was known to have a wry sense of humor, but these were serious times; with the recent deaths of several senior students by a sinister lone swordsman, and the unexpected exile of the revered paladin Kizil Bash for reasons unknown. Perhaps this was the master’s way of humiliating the apprentices into being better fighters, by suggesting that a boy was a better swordsmen then they –better enough to teach. Point well taken thought most of the Krath, we understand master, we will train harder. But this was no joke. Kneeling around the central part of the main courtyard within the citadel, the paladins apprentice and fellowcraft alike knew that the youth with the crown of horns was certainly nothing to derive amusement from. “You see! Relying on the thrust as your main attack is totally limiting!” stated the youth loudly. Ever since training had begun, the youth had taken his role as instructor with all seriousness. He immediately initiated a hard and fast regime of fighting occupying all the waking hours of the paladins. Master Aegripa watched off in the distance, occasionally bending down to appreciate a small flower or shrub. All the while the senior students complained about their misfortune. “This is some sort of trick,” gasped Trier between breaths, “he may look young but he must be much older to have that much experience” “I…have no…. idea…” panted Chi’ro, clearly exhausted from several hours of continuous fencing. Their side conversation was soon interrupted however. “Silence! You two! Have you something important to contribute to the lesson?” the youth challenged haughtily. He jumped down off the slightly raised dais and strode toward Chi’ro and Trier. “Both of you, up!” he commanded. Trier could hardly contain his contempt toward the boy, but Chi’ro shot him a look and the two rose slowly. “Begging your pardon, instructor, I simply commented that you seemed very young to be teaching martial arts,” Trier challenged. Snickering could be heard in the background. Trier rose to his full height, at least a head taller than the youth. Chi’ro stood with him, slightly shorter. “No offense meant, instructor,” chided Chi’ro wiping the sweat from his brow. “You do seem to know a tremendous amount of theory,” The youth’s fiery eyes gleamed at this display, and a smile played across his lips. “Theory is no good unless it is put to practice, correct? Good! Now the both of you, to the center!” the youth ordered, one hand on his hip while the other thrust out toward the dais. Chi’ro and Trier slowly picked up their blunt fibersteel training sticks and moved doggedly to the combat floor. A loud thuck caused Chi’ro to spin around rapidly in time for a spray of hot blood to splash across his face. The confusion clearly registered as Chi’ro watched the deep crimson blood pool out of the head of Trier that had been smashed in by the brutal youth.
“Never turn your back on an opponent!” chided the youth, as Trier lay unconscious, the crimson pool from his broken skull growing larger by the moment. The gathered Krath gasped and turned pale to a man –all save Chi’ro. As the assemblage including Patron Aegripa looked on, Chi’ro began trembling, his knuckles white around his training weapon. Veins in his head and neck pulsed as his eyes glassed over and focused with terrible intensity on the youthful object of his hate. “Ah, now we get to the heart of it,” the youth said with a smirk. “Yes, that’s right…come, attack! Avenge your fallen companion! Now, attack!” Chi’ro needed no more encouragement from the horned youth. The paladin exploded into action, bringing the training sword down hard in an overhead strike. The youth parried the savage blow and counter-attacked with a horizontal strike to Chi’ro’s ribcage. The Krath let out a gasp and fell to his knees. “Overhead strike defeated by high parry and cut to the chest! You, get up!” the youth commanded. The students watched in disbelief, gathering more closely around the ‘lesson’ in progress. Patron Aegripa took careful notice. Chi’ro was still bent double on one knee, hands around his two cracked ribs. He spat onto the ground and brought himself to his feet using his training weapon as support. The youth paced back and forth slowly, never taking his eyes off his downed opponent. Trier’s head lolled slightly and the whites of his eyes could be seen behind his fluttering lids. The impatient guest instructor spoke again, “Up! Up!”. The injured paladin thrust himself forward hoping to catch the youth off guard. He screamed as he began to swing his weapon with large diagonal slashes. The youth parried each weighty blow as he backed away slightly. “Yes that’s it!” said the youth as he continued to parry strike after strike. Chi’ro’s attack was savage as it was inspired; their weapons clashed high, allowing the paladin to strike the youth’s face with the handle of his weapon. The youth had anticipated the move so the blow was insignificant, however Chi’ro followed up high, low, then high gain. The youth wore a smile now, as he leapt several meters into the air and kicked the paladin’s already injured ribs. Chi’ro winced and gasped, but continued with a forward roll followed by a strong horizontal cut from his knees that took a full 180° arc. He allowed the momentum of this cut to carry him into a sideways roll as the agile youth once again dodged his strike and counter-attacked with a downward swing. Chi’ro grabbed a fistful of dirt and rose with the intention of throwing it into the youth’s eyes, but a sharp smack and a cloud of dust marked where Chi’ro’s face had been just moment’s before. The Krath paladin lay in a crumpled heap on the earth, not far from his companion, hands covering his broken and bloody face. He was twisting in agonizing counter-clockwise circles, slowly propelled by flailing legs. The horned youth stood over him in complete victory. “Now this one was a fighter”, bellowed the youth, as he raised his weapon over his head, poised for the deathblow. “Learn from his example and some day you may face an honorable end in combat!” The youth tensed up his face and arms in preparation for the killing blow while the students watched in stunned horror. “Enough!” commanded Patron Aegripa.
The paladins parted like an obedient sea, allowing the revered head of their order to pass unmolested through their midst. The youth monitored his approach with expectant eyes, his posture one of challenge. “Stop this insanity at once!” bellowed Aegripa as he walked regally toward the standing youth and two prostrate paladins. “I have tolerated your erratic behavior these months because you are an exceptionally gifted student, but no more! Injuries during training are an unpleasant reality, but they build skill. Your brutality is inexcusable!” Aegripa came to a halt within meters of the youth, who had lowered his training weapon but hadn’t lowered the combative challenge his eyes presented. Aegripa turned to his students and spoke. “I requested that this individual train you in fighting because of his skill. My plan was have you all benefit from his intense instruction. Now I offer my apologies to you. It was a mistake to allow this monster to abuse you for his own sadistic amusement. This mistake shall be corrected now!” Aegripa turned angrily back to the youth with his dismissal set to issue forth from his lips, but he was subsequently cut off. “Enough prattle old man,” the youth said defiantly as he threw his weapon to the ground. “You have all learned far more from me than I could ever hope to learn from you,” he said with a sneer. “You ungrateful whelp!” shot Aegripa. He was furious with the youth and with his own lack of judgement, and advanced angrily toward him. “How dare you address me in that tone, after all I have taught you! Get out, now, and never return to this place!” “I will go, old man, but it is on my terms and not yours. I will be happy to leave you and your pathetic order. Your feeble skills are laughable, and your magic paltry. Perhaps you can chant and make me disappear!” The shocked students watched in embarrassment as their revered patron turned a bright shade of crimson. When Aegripa finally spoke, it was with grim finality. “You are a menace, arrogant one. You will leave, now, before I cause you to regret your foul words…” Aegripa raised his hands before him and began to weave them into the now familiar patterns that signified working of a magical suit. “Old fool!” yelled the youth as he raised his hand suddenly toward the master paladin. Aegripa was blown rearward several meters and landed on his back, stunned by the incredible power of the youth. “Hand motions, breathing and meditation!” The youth made his way toward the shaken master. “Continue to beg for your power like scraps from a dinner table! The Force is my ally, and mine to command!” It had been two years since the incident aboard the pirate freighter, where the pompous Krath Paladin had his honor ripped from him. The youth, certainly, knew he would not get away with the fearsome act unchallenged. But he had faced this eventuality from the very start. The youth had been aware that the burly warrior-priest had an aura of power about him from the moment they encountered each other. He had made an educated guess that this man was a member of the sect he so sought out, that group of dark side adepts whose warrior skills and powerful magic had terrified beings for generations. The youth had made it his mission to find this sect, this unholy group, for he knew that he must test his prowess against the live blades of masters, for to fail to do so meant failure in life. When the suspicious Paladin had finally admitted his affiliation in a fit of arrogance, the youth instantly decided on his course of action. He knew that the wounding of the fellowcraft Paladin (through his sacred tattoo, no less) would cause a pain that only revenge could hope to ease. And he had guessed, again correctly, that his brethren Krath would attempt to bring this vengeance. After he has used this sect to tap into the potential of the dark side of the Force he knew lay tantalizingly in his grip, he discarded them like so much trash to begin his true quest, the quest that would lead him to ultimate power. These memories ran through his mind as he made his way from the life pod that had so recently deposited him on this forsaken world. The courier that he had commissioned had brought him far, but no amount of money could convince even the mercenary crew to land upon what they considered a haunted world. After threats and the eventual turnover of all his credits, the captain allowed him to take one of the emergency escape pods. The youth disregarded warnings that there was only a limited supply of food and water, and that the communications were short-range at best. All this he left behind as he made his way into the bleak grey distance. The youth paused briefly to gather his courage and steel himself for his procession down the massive corridor. All around him he could feel the pulling and pushing of invisible forms, and he imagined a hundred accusatory eyes upon him. Instinctively he began to reach for his weapon, but checked that impulse. It took nearly an hour to reach the end of the passage, which opened into a circular hall. The youth strode purposefully into the awesome chamber, though his mind was filled with uncertainty. A single shaft of light stabbed down from an unseen point high above to exactly mark the center. Shadows danced along the walls as the travel-weary youth made his way into the light. “Why am I here?” the youth screamed into the void defiantly. VI. At the sound the
light from above flickered, then dimmed to a glimmer of its former luminosity.
From every direction the youth sensed approaching forms. Drawing his lightsaber
and igniting both ends, he wheeled around in a defensive circle, crouched in an
improbably low stance, his left hand held out As if a switch had been thrown, the congregation ceased their approach and gathered in a circle around the youth. They stopped and turned to face the end of the corridor opposite the entrance. Each figure genuflected and bowed its head in the presence of a new arrival. It was a human man, draped in a black cloak, his face mostly concealed by a cowl. There seemed to be a faint shimmering blue glow about his body. This form made a slight gesture with his hand and the youth’s double-lightsaber promptly extinguished itself. The youth staggered under the emotional weight of the event and fell to his knees. Burning tears welled suddenly in his eyes and at long last he knew his place in the order of the universe had been found when finally the hooded figure spoke. “Welcome,
child, I have been expecting you,"
the mysterious and powerful figure intoned. "In time, you will call me
Master." He paused, and he gave the youth a long, slow regard, up and
down. "Come with me.” These last words were a command, if softly spoken. The youth rose up from his knees, and followed as this lord, this power, his new master, turned and retreated along the corridor.
The youth had never known any real master but the stinking squalor and depravity that an orphaned child must endure. The Zabrak were not indigenous to the planet, and racial prejudice ran rampant. Even in the enlightened Galactic Republic there still existed the ancient hatreds. Sidestepping blatant genocide, the Iridonians simply levied heavy taxes against the Zabrak. The most outrageous of these was a tax on children. This resulted in many abandoned Zabrak orphans whom the Iridonians exploited to great effect. The orphanages were little more than labor camps, and conditions were harsh. Like many other Zabrak on Iridonia, the youth was an orphan. He suffered any number of indignities in his young life, as he fought for what little possessions he had, while he in turn was himself forced to resort to petty theft. He trailed behind, at a respectful distance, and knelt again when the cloaked figure took a seat in a small chamber to one side of the long hallway. They were alone. The youth did not raise his eyes. A smile played across the lips of Darth Sidious. “What is your name, boy?” the Sith Lord inquired of the youth whose horned head was still bowed reverently. The youth spoke with a trembling voice. “I have no name but that which you give me.” Ah yes, thought Sidious, so eager to be my servant. “Then rise, child.” The youth got to his unsteady feet but kept his eyes averted. Darth Sidious had had a name waiting for him. “From this moment forth, you shall be called Maul.” He would never again wear rags. He would never again sleep with vermin. He would never again endure the unwanted attentions of older, stronger boys. He would hold the rage and indignity and filth and hate close to his heart to keep it burning. At long last the youth looked into the face of the last Lord of the Sith. And Maul wept with joy. Ritual governed how
the Order was to be perpetuated. Used were the ancient techniques developed by
Lord Bane and passed down through generations of Sith. The training was
difficult but the rewards intoxicating; it was all that Maul had dreamed of, and
more. Instruction under Lord Sidious was the antithesis of the ponderous Krath
approach. Tiresome boring meditation was rare. Emphasis was placed on action;
weapons training was immediate, and powerful Force-skills were nurtured. The
knowledge came in waves: armed and unarmed combat, infiltration, piloting,
stealth, interrogation techniques, and physical conditioning to climatic
extremes. All this was expected of the Sith student and at a brutal pace For
the few who demonstrated the most cunning ingenuity, brute strength or skilled
technique came rewards – the ultimate reward for subservience and exhausting
study was an audience with the Master himself. That was what every adept yearned
for ultimately; a meeting with their Lord. There was always ritual to be observed. Within his private chambers the dread master would sit in quiet contemplation while the student remained reverently knelt. When finally moved by the dark will of the Force, the Lord of the Sith would give his adepts glimpses into the dark side, glimpses enough to tantalize and taint. The will of the Force would slowly be revealed by it’s dark oracle, as the Master would draw aside the veil and allow the adept to peer into the abyss. Anger, fear, aggression… these are what the self-righteous Jedi claimed the dark side originated from and perpetuated. And in part, they were right. It was from the master that Maul learned the history of the Sith and their thousand-year secret war against the ancient enemy, the Jedi. This cold war, this thousand-year plan was known as the Great Work. And great it was indeed. First set in motion by his Dark Majesty Lord Bane, the Sith lay in wait…planning, scheming, massing a thousand-years worth of wealth, material and influence. Gaining complete mastery over the dark side of the Force, until the moment to strike was right. Maul also learned that the Great Work was in its final stages, but he did not yet comprehend his place within it. But once again ritual was to govern this as well. For Maul also learned that it was ritual for there to be two Sith Lords at any given time, no more, no less. Currently there was only the Master. In time, he would be allowed to
express his vengeance, of that he was certain. Years would pass; until then he
would train. And learn.
“Feral,
Nihil, Maul. Come forth,” commanded the Dark Lord of the Sith. The three
chosen stepped forward, slowly, reverently. The rest of the Assembly was
dismissed, the training hall cleared. The chosen three were draped in
nearly identical black garb. Feral raised her head regally, chin high. She
stared “Sith tradition dictates that there shall be only two Dark Lords at any given time, no more, no less,” Sidious spoke slowly, “a Master and an Apprentice. The three of you have been chosen from others to vie for the Apprenticeship. You shall do battle, to the death, and whosoever remains shall be my new Sith Lord,” the Master slipped his hands into his robe and slowly backed away. The chosen three, stunned at the revelation, glanced briefly at each other, then at Lord Sidious. A second later, five energy blades snapped to life.
Three
figures circled each other slowly, all with deadly intent. Feral’s sapphire
eyes were narrowed to slits as the glow from her saber scintillated off her
chromatic skin. She crossed her slender legs behind her as she sidestepped
cautiously, keeping her awareness open to predict the movements of her two
opponents. Ferociously, Maul wheeled his double-ended saber around in twisting circular patterns. He struck first high, then low, then again in an upward blow at Nihil, who blocked the first two with his left saber and the third blow with his right. Maul bared his teeth and snapped off a sharp kick to Nihil’s kidney causing the hulking warrior to wince. Before Maul could press the advantage he had to block a swing at his head from behind by Feral. Nihil threw a punch at Maul’s head, who ducked then swung up into a twisting leap. Nihil’s left saber crashed into Feral’s guard, who feinted low then swung her saber upward, clearing a path for a vicious kick from one muscular leg. Nihil grabbed her ankle with his lower right hand, and was only an instant away from severing her leg when a large rock smashed into the side of the head. Feral fell to the ground out of Nihil’s grasp as one of his hands reached to the injury. Two more rocks flew ---both thrown by invisible commands from Maul, who followed up with a frenzy of blows scarcely blocked by Nihil’s sabers. Lord Sidious watched with great interest at the battle raging before him. A slight smirk crossed his countenance. “Good…good…” he murmured. Sweat glistened on Maul’s head and beaded around the bases of his vestigial horns as he fought Nihil and Feral simultaneously. The double lightsaber spun faster than the eye could follow as he attacked Feral from behind and was himself attacked from behind by Nihil. Feral dropped to the ground in a gymnastic split with her saber raised behind her head, blocking Maul’s downward strike. She immediately swung around in a attempt to leg sweep the horned warrior, but Maul performed a lateral flip and torso twist in answer simultaneously swinging his weapon horizontally at Nihil, who was once again on his feet and lumbering toward the smaller combatants.
The mammoth creature was now laughing again swinging his oversized laserswords
in wide arcs. Feral pushed from a handspring to her feet, and then leapt nearly
four meters into the air. The aerial display distracted Nihil and Maul seized
the opportunity to fearsome effect; the very tip of one energy blade flashed at
incredible speed across Nihil’s abdomen. Feral was on her feet and in an
offensive posture when
The terminal wound seemed only to plunge Nihil deeper into the pit of insanity;
he used his two lower arms to contain the spilling organs, raised his swords
with the remaining limbs and began his attack anew. Feral spat in disgusted
disbelief, backing away from this improbable antagonist. Maul hesitated for only
a moment before breaking into a sprint and vaulting into a double summersault
over Nihil’s head. The rasping voice of Darth Sidious shattered the morbid pause in the fighting. “For Nihil it was not meant to be. Now one of you will fulfill your destiny and take your place at my side.” The battered duo did
not engage one another immediately, but instead backed From beneath his shrouded cowl Lord Sidious’ eyes followed the action as it unfolded.
Maul,
always willing to employ psychology against an opponent, leapt upon the still
torso of Nihil and glared down at the beautiful but deadly Feral. Seemingly
unimpressed, she began somersaulting toward the horned swordsman finishing with a 720°
spin ending in a kick. Maul easily dodged and performed a lateral spin flip in
answer. Turning to face her opponent, Feral raised her weapon in high challenge.
Maul answered with his dual-bladed weapon at his waist, held forward ---
the blade down. Darth Sidious pursed his lips slightly as he watched the horned youth with the double lightsaber approach his female adept, who was on her back, retreating with flailing arms and legs. Maul shook his head in an effort to fling the perspiration and snarled at the fallen woman as he approached within a meter of her. Her eyes were all one solid color so it was difficult to gauge the depth of her fear, but thoughts were premature; the woman’s beautiful face softened as she raised a trembling hand in front of her.
“Please… I beg you… I beg you for
mercy…” The woman’s voice reverberated The loss of his lightsaber, kicked suddenly from his grasp brought him back to reality. The second swift kick, this time directed to his groin, punctuated that. Feral was on him in a flash, delivering a hail of kicks to face and torso. A last jump-scissors kick to the chin sent him reeling, cursing his own stupidity and lack of concentration. Maul stumbled to his feet trying to defend himself from Feral’s strikes long enough to mount his own attack. She threw a right hand to his solar plexus and he sidestepped, turning into her punch and seizing her arm, allowing her own momentum mostly to pull her forward. The horned youth perfectly executed a complicated kick with his left leg behind his back striking Feral in her head; she rolled away in a scramble to grab her fallen saber. Maul extended his gloved hand and once again called upon the invisible dark power that was beginning to consume him. His weapon flew into his hand, ignited and was swinging at his opponent before she could possibly reach hers. Feral froze with the knowledge, waited helplessly for the killing blow that arced toward her and never connected. Maul looked with stunned disbelief as his lightsaber crashed directly into a wall of nothing, scarce centimeters from Feral's skull. More inexplicably the weapon extinguished itself and was yanked from the victorious warrior's grasp, streaking across the chamber and into the waiting hands of the master Dark Lord of the Sith. The bewildered youth raised his eyes to Lord Sidious who gently stroked the silver weapon as he spoke.
“I cannot very well allow you to kill one
skilled such as she. After all, if You have done well, Darth Maul…” Lil intentionally took her time, taking a circuitous indirect route to deliver her message. She would do anything to avoid a meeting with the new apprentice Dark Lord. She was one of the few that were not terrified of the Master; after all he seemed like such a nice old man. She knew not to pester him of course, and to mind her manners, but when she saw him or spoke to him she never knew fear. This was not so with Darth Maul. Lil hated him, hated the way he acted, hated the way he looked. She paused, picking up a small pebble off the ground to examine it, at the same time tracing small circles on the ground with her toe. She hated his smooth deep voice, and shivered at the thought of it. The master had made his choice, however, and that was naturally to be respected.
Obviously the old man found something special in Maul to select him as one of
the three. It was well known how Maul had proved himself in brutal combat with
Feral and Nihil, but the brutality had not ended there. Lord Maul was not to be
trifled with, and the rest of the followers kept their distance. For as much
respect and awe as they had for the Master, they kept the same amount of
terror in reserve for the Apprentice. Lil remembered how
one of the circle, a former Jedi called Kobo Daishi had failed to show the
proper respect to Lord Maul. His internal organs had been twisted into knots and
then squashed into jelly by an unseen grasp. Daishi died vomiting up his own
innards as Maul watched indifferently, black-gloved The Master had done nothing, of course. The murderous act was well within the new Dark Lord’s prerogative. The others detested and feared Maul to the core of their being, but knew better than to ever challenge him, not under any circumstances. Lil made her way around the twisting passage and told herself she could put her task off no longer. This area was deserted -it was wise to maintain as much distance from Lord Maul as possible. She briefly fondled the message cylinder in her small hands and crept through the half-open door of the Apprentice Lord’s chamber. It was gloomy in the room and Lil was about to call out when she heard a peculiar buzzing sound from the far end of the camber, behind a partition. Curiosity drew her against her better judgment, and she tiptoed over to the screen and peered around it. Darth Maul lay on a spartan mat, lightsaber upon his chest. He had changed in the time he had become the new Dark Lord. His face had been tattooed in a hideous array of ancient Sith hieroglyphs, and the horns on his head no longer shone like polished ivory but were dirty and stained, encrusted with plaque. Lil held her breath as she looked at the lounging Dark Lord, his upper body bare to the waist. He was a mass of sinewy muscle, coiled like a spring. Lil blushed at her thoughts, the instinctive appreciation of such prime form and looked away briefly. She quickly looked back as an elusive, sudden motion caught her eye. A large dragonfly lay in three distinct pieces on the chest of Darth Maul. It
had not been there previously; it had been airborne and had been the object of
his attention for the entire span of time. In that one swift, and scarcely seen
movement the Dark Lord had lit his saber and cut the creature into three pieces
in mid flight. The saber landed upon his chest before the pieces of the insect.
Lil let out a small squeak. “Come
Lil, I know you are there watching,” Maul spoke in a syrupy sweet voice.
“Have you something for me?” The Dark Lord’s words held a hint of a
salacious smirk, but his expression never changed and his eyes remained pointed
at the ceiling. Lil
spoke in a quavering whisper. “L…Lord Maul, I didn’t mean to disturb you,
b…but I bear a message from the Master.” In a single fluid
motion Lord Maul sat upright and snatched the cylinder out of Lil’s grip. The
young girl jumped and took a small step back, but kept her attention on the Dark
Lord’s tattooed face, watching his expression as he read his Master’s
message. Darth Maul’s fiery eyes widened then finally closed as he pondered
the implications of Darth Sidious’ plan. The final phase of the Great Work
had been implemented. Maul’s own Infiltrator was at that very moment
being readied for the long trip to Coruscant, the opulent Galactic
Capital and ignorant epicenter of it’s impending demise. On the surface of the
city-planet was the very stronghold of the enemy, the Jedi Temple itself. Lord
Maul snorted derisively at the concept, liking to think of the Temple more as a
stockyard filled with cattle awaiting their slaughter. For the Sith the biding
of time was over. Now, after a thousand years, they would strike. The fine hair on the
back of Lil’s neck stood on end when Lord Maul finally whispered:
“At last…” Epilogue
You are gone now,
taken from me from the most hated of our enemies in the hour of our return. Luck
on the part of the young Jedi perhaps. But there is no such thing as luck. Only
the mysterious will of the Force.
The Republic
congratulates itself over its victory against the Federation fools, while the
Jedi and the bitch Naboo Queen coo reassurances. It was the will of the Force
that led us to this vergence, the slave child whom I have come to know as the
living prophecy of the thousand-year plan. Twilight is upon the Republic. The
final mechanism of the Great Work is set in irrevocable motion.
As the instrument
of the plan you knew no equal, Lord Maul. But you were never the Chosen One and
never could be. Your will to serve the darkness was too pure. Hate? Yes.
Vengeance? Certainly…. Your difference from the Tatooine child was this: you
did not lust. Prophecy is not exclusive to the Jedi.
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