Path of Destruction

by Drew Karpyshyn

  He wasn’t yet certain why Zannah had been so eager to ally herself with a Lord of the Sith. It could have been a simple act of desperation: She was alone, with nowhere else to turn for her survival. Or maybe she saw the dark side as a path to vengeance against the Jedi, a way to make them all suffer for the death of her bouncer friend. It was even possible she had simply sensed Bane’s power and lusted to claim it as her own.

  Whatever her true motivations, Zannah had been more than willing to swear fealty to the Sith and her new Master. However, it was neither her spirit nor her willingness that made her worthy of being his apprentice. The Dark Lord had chosen her for one reason, and one reason only.

  “You are strong in the Force,” he explained, his voice still betraying no hint of emotion or the agony he endured. “You must learn to use it. To call on its power. To bend it to your purpose. As you did when you killed the Jedi.”

  He saw a flicker of doubt cross her face. “I don’t know how I did that,” she muttered. “I didn’t even mean to do it,” she continued, suddenly uncertain. “It just sort of … happened.”

  Bane detected a hint of guilt in her voice. He was disappointed, but hardly surprised. She was young. Confused. She couldn’t truly understand what she had done. Not yet.

  “Nothing just happens,” he insisted. “You called upon the power of the Force. Think back to how you did it. Think back to what happened.”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “I don’t want to,” she whispered.

  The girl had already endured immeasurable pain and suffering since her arrival on Ruusan. She had no wish to revisit those awful experiences. Bane understood; he even sympathized with her. He, too, had suffered during his childhood, a victim of countless savage beatings at the hands of Hurst, his cruel and abusive father. But he had learned to use those memories to his advantage. If Zannah was to become the heir to the dark side’s legacy, she had to confront her past. She had to learn how to draw upon her most painful memories. She had to transform and channel them to allow her to wield the power of the dark side.

  “You feel sorry for those Jedi now,” Bane said, his voice casual. “You feel regret. Remorse. Maybe even pity.” The easy tone fell away quickly as his voice began to rise in both volume and intensity. “But these are worthless emotions. They mean nothing. What you need to feel is anger!”

  He took a sudden step toward her, his right fist clenched before him to punctuate his words. Zannah flinched at the unexpected movement, but didn’t retreat.

  “Their deaths were not an accident!” he shouted as he took another step forward. “What happened was not some mistake!”

  A third step brought him so close that the shadow of his massive frame enveloped the girl like an eclipse. She cowered slightly but held her ground. Bane froze, blocking out the pain in the back of his skull and reining in his fury. He crouched down beside her and relaxed his clenched fist. Then he reached out slowly with his hand and placed it gently on her shoulder.

  “Think back to what you felt when you unleashed your power against them,” he said, his voice now a soft, seductive whisper. “Think back to what you felt when the Jedi murdered your friend.”

  Zannah dropped her head, her eyes closed. For several seconds she was still and silent, forcing her mind to relive the moment. Bane saw the emotions crossing her face: grief, sorrow, loss. Beneath his massive hand on her frail shoulder, she trembled slightly. Then, slowly, he felt her anger begin to rise. And with it, the power of the dark side.

  When the girl looked up again her eyes were open wide; they burned with a fierce intensity. “They killed Laa,” she spat. “They deserved to die!”

  “Good.” Bane let his hand fall from her shoulder and took a step back, the hint of a satisfied smile playing across his lips. “Feel the anger. Welcome it. Embrace it.

  “Through passion, I gain strength,” he continued, reciting from the Code of the Sith. “Through strength, I gain power.”

  “Through passion, I gain strength,” she said, repeating his words, responding to them. “Through strength, I gain power.” He could sense the dark side building within her, growing in intensity until he could almost feel its heat.

  “The Jedi died because they were weak,” he said, taking a step back. “Only the strong survive, and the Force will make you strong.” As he turned away, he added, “Use it to keep up. If you fall behind again, I will leave you here on this world.”

  “But you still haven’t told me what to do!” she shouted after him as he marched away.

  Bane didn’t reply. He’d given her the answer, though she didn’t know it yet. If she was worthy of being his apprentice, she’d figure it out.

  He felt a sudden surge of power rushing toward him, concentrated on the heel of his left foot as she tried to trip him up to slow him down. Bane had braced himself for some kind of reaction the moment he’d turned his back on her. He’d pushed her to the edge; he’d have been disappointed if she had done nothing. But he’d been expecting a broader, more basic assault—a wave of dark side energy meant to hurl him to the ground. A focused strike against a single heel was much more subtle. It showed intelligence and cunning, and though he was ready for it, the strength of her attack still surprised him.

  Yet even with as much power and potential as Zannah had, she was no match for a Dark Lord of the Sith. Bane drew upon his own abilities in the Force to absorb the impact of her attack, catching it and amplifying its strength before firing it back at his apprentice. The redirected blow struck Zannah in the chest, hard enough to knock her to the ground. A grunt of surprise escaped her lips as she landed hard on her backside.

  She wasn’t injured; Bane had no intention of harming her. The constant beatings inflicted on him by his father throughout his childhood had helped transform Bane into what he was today, but they had also caused him to hate and despise Hurst. If this girl was to be his apprentice, she had to respect and admire him. He could not teach her the ways of the dark side if she was not willing—even eager—to learn from him. The only thing Hurst’s beatings had ever taught Bane was how to hate, and Zannah already knew that lesson.

  He turned back and fixed his cold gaze on the girl still sitting on a hard, bare patch of dirt. She glared back up at him, furious at the way he had humiliated her.

  “A Sith knows when to unleash the fury of the dark side,” he informed her, “and when to hold back. Patience can be a weapon if you know how to use it, and your anger can fuel the dark side if you learn how to control it.”

  She was still fuming with rage, but he saw something else in her expression now: a guarded curiosity. Slowly she nodded as the meaning of his words became clear, and her expression softened. Bane could still feel the power of the dark side within her; her anger was still there, but she had hidden it below the surface. She was nursing it, feeding it for a time when she could unleash it.

  She had just learned her first lesson in the ways of the Sith. And she was wary of him now—wary, but not afraid. Just as he wanted. The only thing he needed her to be afraid of was failure.

  He turned away from her again and resumed his march, suppressing a shudder as a fresh phalanx of blades carved their way through his thoughts. Behind him he felt Zannah gather the Force once more. This time, however, the girl directed it inward, using it to refresh and rejuvenate her exhausted limbs.

  She sprang up and scurried after him, moving almost effortlessly at a full run. He quickened his pace as his apprentice fell into step beside him, easily able to keep up now that she was propelled by the awesome power of the Force.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “The Sith camp,” he answered. “We need supplies for the journey.”

  “Are the other Sith there?” she wondered. “The ones the Jedi were fighting?”

  Bane realized he hadn’t yet told her what had happened to Kaan and the Brotherhood.

  “There are no other Sith. There never will be, except for us. One Master and one apprentice; one to embody
the power, the other to crave it.”

  “What happened to the others?” she wanted to know.

  “I killed them,” he replied.

  Zannah seemed to think about this for a moment before shrugging indifferently. “Then they were weak,” she said with simple conviction. “And they deserved to die.”

  Bane realized he had chosen his apprentice well.

  2

  The great warship of Lord Valenthyne Farfalla—leader of the Jedi Army of Light since the loss of General Hoth—maintained a slow orbit high above Ruusan’s surface. Fashioned so that her exterior resembled an ancient sailing barge, the vessel had an archaic elegance, a grandeur that some felt was a sign of vanity unbecoming in a Jedi.

  Johun Othone, a young Padawan in the Army of Light, had once shared that opinion. Like many of Hoth’s followers, he had initially regarded Lord Valenthyne as nothing but a prancing fool concerned only with brightly colored shimmersilk shirts, the long flowing curls of his golden hair, and the other trappings of garish and gaudy fashion. Yet in battle after battle against the Brotherhood of Darkness, Farfalla and his followers had proved their worth. Slowly, almost grudgingly, Johun and the rest of Hoth’s troops had come to admire and even respect the man they once had scoffed at.

  Now General Hoth was gone, destroyed along with the Sith in their final confrontation, and in his absence it was Lord Valenthyne who had taken up the banner of leadership. Following Hoth’s orders, Farfalla had organized the mass evacuation of Ruusan before the detonation of the thought bomb, saving thousands of Force-sensitive Jedi and Padawans from its devastating effects by loading them onto the ships of his orbiting fleet.

  It was mere chance that Johun had ended up here on the Fairwind, Valenthyne’s flagship. The vessel was large enough to hold a crew of over three hundred comfortably, but crammed into the hold with nearly five hundred other evacuees, the young man was anything but comfortable. They were packed in so tightly, it was difficult to move; Jedi Masters, Jedi Knights, and Padawans were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder.

  The other ships were just as full. In addition to the Jedi, the vast majority of the non-Force-sensitive troops who had joined Hoth’s cause had also been taken off-world. One of the ships had even been loaded up with several hundred prisoners, the non-Sith followers of Lord Kaan who had quickly surrendered to the Jedi when their dark leader had abandoned them to embark on his final mad plan to destroy the Jedi. There wasn’t any real danger for these ordinary soldiers; the thought bomb only affected those most attuned to the Force. But in the haste to evacuate it had been simpler to just take everyone.

  Here on Valenthyne’s personal galleon, however, Johun recognized nearly every face. He had fought beside them for many months, through ambushes, skirmishes, and full-scale battles. Together they had borne witness to death and bloodshed; tasted glorious triumph and endured crushing defeat. Each of them had seen many foes—and too many friends—die as they had waged a seemingly endless campaign against the forces of the dark side.

  Now, as they huddled together in this ship, the war was finally over. Victory was theirs at last. Yet every being aboard wore a grim and somber mask. The extinction of the Sith had come with a terrible price. There was no doubt about what had happened, no hope that any of the Jedi still down on the surface had survived. Orbiting high above Ruusan, they had been safely outside the blast radius of the thought bomb. But through the Force they had heard the agonized screams of their fellow Jedi as their spirits were torn apart and swept up in the swirling vortex of dark side energy. Many of the survivors had wept openly. Most simply endured the suffering in stoic silence, reflecting on the sacrifice others had made.

  Johun—like Farfalla and virtually every other member of the Army of Light—had volunteered to stay behind with General Hoth. But the general had refused. Knowing that those who stayed with him faced certain death, he had ordered all but a hundred of his Jedi followers off the world. None of the Padawans had been allowed to remain. Yet even though he was only following orders, Johun couldn’t help but feel he had betrayed his general by fleeing the planet.

  Across the densely packed hold he could just make out Farfalla, his bright red blouse standing out like a beacon among the sea of mostly brown-clad bodies. He was organizing the rescue parties that would be shuttled back down to Ruusan’s surface to deal with the aftermath of the thought bomb, and Johun was determined to be among them.

  It was difficult to move through the mass of Jedi, but Johun was small and slight. He was nineteen, but he had yet to fill out, and with his slender build, fair skin, and shoulder-length light blond hair—twisted into a tight braid, as was the custom for a young Jedi still in training—he looked at least two years younger. It could be frustrating to be mistaken for a kid, but now, as he twisted and slithered through the throng, he was grateful for his slim physique.

  “Lord Valenthyne,” he called as he drew near. He raised his voice further to be heard above the din. “Lord Valenthyne!”

  Farfalla turned, trying to pick out the owner of the voice from the wall of bodies and faces, then gave a nod of recognition as the young man finally burst into view. “Padawan Johun.”

  “I want to join the rescue teams,” Johun blurted. “Send me back down.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot do that,” the Jedi Master replied with a sympathetic shake of his head.

  “Why not?” Johun demanded. “Do you think I’m too young?”

  “That is not—” Farfalla began, but Johun cut him off.

  “I’m not a kid! I’m nineteen—older than those two for sure!” he insisted, waving his hand in the direction of the nearest rescue team: a group consisting of a middle-aged man with a short beard, a woman in her twenties, and two boys in their early teens.

  “Be aware of your anger,” Farfalla cautioned him, his voice stern.

  Johun was about to reply, but instead bit his tongue and merely nodded. There was no point in getting upset; that would not convince Lord Valenthyne to let him go along.

  “Your age has nothing to do with my decision,” the older Jedi explained once he was assured that Johun had brought his emotions under control. “Fully a third of our forces are younger than you.”

  It was true, Johun realized. The mounting casualties of the Ruusan campaign had forced the Army of Light to accept younger and younger recruits into its ranks. His youth was not the issue; there had to be some other explanation. But instead of asking why he could not go, Johun simply remained silent. Patience would win him more from General Hoth’s successor than incessant, thoughtless questions.

  “Take a closer look at who I am sending down,” Farfalla instructed. “These are brave volunteers, valuable allies in our battle against the Sith. But none of them is attuned to the Force.”

  Surprised, Johun took a second look at the shore party as they made their final preparations. The woman had dark skin and short black hair, and the Jedi realized he had met her once before. She was a Republic soldier named Irtanna, and she had joined their cause a little over a standard year earlier. It took him a moment longer to place the others, until he noticed the resemblance between the bearded man and the two teenagers. They were natives of Ruusan. The man was a farmer named Bordon who had fled before the advancing armies of Lord Kaan during the latest Sith offensive. The two boys were his sons, though Johun couldn’t recall their names.

  “We do not know the full extent of the thought bomb’s effects,” Farfalla continued. “There may be aftershocks that could harm or even kill a Jedi or Padawan. That is why you cannot go.”

  Johun nodded. It made sense; Valenthyne was just being cautious. But sometimes it was possible to be too cautious. “There are other risks on the surface,” he noted. “We don’t know that all the Sith are dead. Some of them may have survived.”

  Farfalla shook his head. “Kaan had some spell, some power, over his followers. They were enthralled to his will. When he led them down into the cave, they all followed him willingly. He had them convinced the
y 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?”