Path of Destruction

by Drew Karpyshyn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  There was a brief lull in the action as the two combatants paused to reevaluate their strategies, each breathing heavily. Sirak twirled his weapon in a quick, complex sequence that brought the saber under his right arm, around behind his back, over his left shoulder, and around to the front. Then he smiled and did it in reverse.

  Bane watched the extravagant flourish with a sinking feeling. Sirak had been toying with him in the first few passes, dragging the fight out so his victory would seem more impressive. Now he was showing his true skill, using sequences that blended several forms at once, switching rapidly among different styles in complex patterns Bane had never seen before.

  It was just one more sign of the Zabrak’s superiority. If Bane tried to combine different styles into a single sequence, he’d probably gouge out an eye or smack himself in the back of the head. It was clear he was overmatched; his only hope was that his enemy would get careless and make a mistake.

  Sirak moved in again, his training saber moving so quickly that Bane could hear the sizzle as it split the air. Bane leapt forward to meet the challenge, trying to call up the power of the dark side to anticipate and block the dual blades moving too fast for his eyes to see. He felt the Force flowing through him, but it seemed distant and hollow: the veil was still there. He was able to keep the paralyzing edges of Sirak’s saber at bay, but it required him to concentrate all his attention on controlling his own blade … leaving him vulnerable to the real purpose of the attack being unleashed against him.

  Bane’s skull exploded as Sirak’s forehead slammed into his face. Pain turned his vision into a field of silver stars. The cartilage of his nose gave way with a sickening crunch, a geyser of blood gushing forth. Blind and dazed, he was able to parry the next strike only by instinct guided by the faintest whisper of the Force. But Sirak spun as his saber was turned away and delivered a back roundhouse kick that shattered Bane’s kneecap.

  Screaming, Bane collapsed, his free hand slamming into the ground as he braced his fall. Sirak crushed the fingers under his boot, grinding them into the unyielding stone of the temple roof. A knee came up, fracturing his cheek and jawbone with a thunderous crack.

  With a last, desperate burst Bane tried to hurl his opponent backward with the dark side. Sirak brushed the impact aside, easily deflecting it with the Force-shield he had wrapped himself in at the start of the duel. Then he moved in close to finish the job with his blades. The first blow hit with the impact of a landspeeder slamming into an irax, breaking Bane’s right wrist. The training saber dropped from his suddenly nerveless grasp. The next strike took him higher up on the same arm, dislocating his elbow.

  A simple kick to the face sent jagged bits of tooth shooting out of his mouth and bolts of pain shooting through his broken jaw. He slumped forward, barely conscious, as Sirak stepped back and lowered his saber, reaching out with a free hand to grab Bane around the throat with the crushing grip of the Force. He raised his arm, lifting the muscular Bane as if he were a child, then hurled him across the ring.

  Bane felt another bone snap as he crashed to the ground, but his body had passed into a state of shock and there was no longer any pain. He lay motionless in a crumpled, twisted heap. Blood from his nose and mouth clogged his throat. A coughing fit racked his body, and he heard rather than felt the grinding of his broken ribs.

  Everything began to go dim. He caught a glimpse of a pair of blood-flecked boots striding toward him, and then Bane surrendered himself to the merciful darkness.

  Kopecz shook his head as he studied the battle plan Kaan had laid out on a makeshift table in the middle of his tent. The holomap of Ruusan’s terrain showed the positions of the Sith forces as glowing red triangles floating above the map. The Jedi positions were represented by green squares. Despite this high-tech advancement, the rest of the map was a simple two-dimensional representation of the surrounding area’s topography. It did nothing to convey the grim devastation that had left Ruusan a virtual wasteland, ravaged by war.

  Three great fleet battles had taken place high above the world in the past year, scattering debris from the losing side across the sparsely populated world each time. Scorched and twisted hulls that had once been ships had crashed into the lush forests, igniting wildfires that had reduced much of the small world’s surface to ash and barren soil.

  Ruusan, despite its meager size, had become a world of major importance to both the Republic and the Sith. Strategically located on the edges of the Inner Rim, it also stood at what most considered the border between the Republic’s dangerous frontier and its safe and secure Core. Ruusan was a symbol. Conquering it represented the inevitable advance of the Sith and their conquest of the Republic; liberating it would be emblematic of the Jedi’s ability to drive the invaders away and protect the Republic’s citizens. The result was an endless cycle of battles, with neither side willing to admit defeat.

  The First Battle of Ruusan had seen the invading Sith fleet rout the Republic forces using the elements of surprise and the strength of Kaan’s battle meditation. The second battle saw the Republic try to reclaim control of Ruusan and fail, driven back by the enemy’s superior numbers and firepower.

  The third battle in the skies above Ruusan marked the emergence of the Army of Light. Instead of Republic cruisers and fighters, the Sith found themselves facing a fleet made up primarily of one- and two-crew fighters piloted exclusively by Jedi. The common soldiers who had joined Kaan’s army were no match for the Force, and Ruusan was saved … for a time.

  The Sith had responded to the Army of Light by amassing the full numbers of the Brotherhood of Darkness into a single army, then unleashing it on Ruusan. The war that had ravaged the world from on high moved down to the surface, with far more devastating consequences. Compared with space fleet battles, ground combat was brutal, bloody, and visceral.

  Kopecz slammed his fist down on the table. “It�
��s hopeless, Kaan.”

  The other Dark Lords gathered in the tent murmured in agreement.

  “The Jedi positions are too well defended; they have all the advantages,” Kopecz went on angrily. “High ground, entrenched fortifications, superior numbers. We can’t win this battle!”

  “Look again,” Kaan replied. “The Jedi have spread themselves too thin.”

  The big Twi’lek studied the map in more detail and realized Kaan was right. The Jedi perimeter extended too far out from their base camp. It took him barely a moment to realize why.

  The clash between the armies of Jedi and Sith, led by Jedi Masters and Dark Lords, had shaken the foundations of the world. The power of the Force raged unchecked across the battlefields like the thunder of an exploding star. Towns, villages, and individual homes caught up in the storm had been wiped out, leaving only death and destruction behind. Civilians caught up in the wake of war had been forced to flee, becoming refugees of an epic battle between the champions of light and dark.

  Seeing their suffering, the Jedi had sought to console, comfort, and protect the innocent citizens of Ruusan. They planned their strategies around defending civilian settlements and homesteads, even at the expense of resources and tactical advantage. The Sith, of course, made no such concessions.

  “The Jedi’s compassion is a weakness,” Kaan continued. “One we can exploit. If we concentrate our full numbers on a single point, we can breach their lines. Then the advantage will be ours.”