Rule of Two (4 page)

“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

D
arth 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.