Star Wars: The Old Republic: Revan

by Drew Karpyshyn

  “Could be them,” Canderous admitted, reaching out one of his massive hands to give T3 a friendly pat on the head. The droid squawked an indignant protest, and he quickly pulled his hand back.

  “Doesn’t look like there’s a landing strip at the camp,” Revan noted. “See any place for us to touch down?”

  The display zoomed out as T3 adjusted the Hawk’s scanners to pan rapidly back and forth across the snow. A few seconds later they zoomed in again.

  “Perfect,” Revan said with a smile. “Nice work, Tee-Three.”

  “Uh … that’s not a landing strip,” Canderous cautioned. “It’s a giant snowdrift.”

  “With the landing gear shot, we’re going to need something to cushion the blow when we hit the ground.”

  “You really think this’ll work?”

  “Sure,” Revan replied. “But you’d better strap yourself in, just in case.”

  Canderous scrambled to lock in his safety belt as Revan sent the Hawk into its descent. T3 scooted across the cockpit to the metal braces anchored to the floor and locked his wheels in with a metallic thunk.

  Fighting wind and gravity, Revan struggled to keep the damaged ship level as he took it down. Seconds before they touched ground, a blast of wind grabbed the Ebon Hawk and pitched it hard to starboard. Revan jammed the stick to port, desperately trying to keep the ship from flipping over. It slammed into the snowbank at a forty-five degree angle, carving a fifty-meter-long trench in the powder before finally coming to rest.

  Looking through the small cockpit window, Revan could see nothing but blue-white flakes; the entire front half of the ship was buried in the drift. But the sensors indicated that, apart from the already damaged landing gear, the Hawk had survived relatively unscathed. More important, so had its passengers.

  Revan carefully unbuckled his safety belt, knowing he would have bruises where the straps had dug into him during the collision. Beside him, Canderous was doing the same. T3 simply unlocked his wheels from the braces and rolled free.

  “I guess sometimes it’s not so bad being a droid,” Canderous groaned as he stood up, rubbing his right shoulder with his left hand.

  “You mean like when you’re marching through a blizzard?” Revan asked. “This snowdrift’s at least five kilometers from the campsite.”

  Canderous only grunted in reply.

  While the big Mandalorian gathered the gear and supplies for their trek from the cargo hold, Revan and T3 ran diagnostics on the Hawk to determine the full extent of the damage.

  “Doesn’t look too bad,” Revan commented when they were done. “Think you can fix it up while we head off to the camp?”

  T3 beeped twice.

  “It’s going to be hard for you to keep up out there in the snow,” Revan reminded him. “Besides, someone has to stay and guard the ship.”

  The astromech reluctantly whistled his consent.

  “You get started on repairs; I’ll go give Canderous a hand.”

  It took them almost an hour before they were ready to venture out into the frigid wasteland. They were bundled up head-to-toe in thick winter garb: snow pants, hooded jackets, scarves, goggles, heavy boots, and fur-lined gloves—all of it white to provide camouflage in case they ran into trouble.

  Canderous had armed himself with a heavy repeating blaster carbine. He offered a similar weapon to Revan, but the Jedi shook his head.

  “You don’t want to be swinging that lightsaber around when we get to the camp,” Canderous said. “Jedi aren’t too popular out here.”

  Revan frowned, then nodded. He knew Canderous had a point, but he didn’t relish the idea of lugging the massive gun along. He picked up a pair of blaster pistols. “I’ll get by with these,” he said, sliding them into the straps on either hip.

  “Suit yourself,” Canderous said with a shrug. Then he added, “When we get to the camp, let me do the talking. Remember: these are my people.”

  “I can live with that,” Revan said, hitting the switch to lower the cargo hold’s loading ramp. “But if we’re going to get there before dark, we’d better get moving.”

  They maneuvered the hoversled they had loaded up with supplies down the ramp and out into the raging blizzard. The howling wind threatened to knock them off their feet and made conversation almost impossible. The swirling snow almost blinded them, but Revan had entered the camp’s coordinates on a portable locater to keep them on track, and he used hand gestures to communicate their route to Canderous. The heavy layers of clothing made the subzero conditions bearable; the hard labor of trudging through the snow over uneven terrain helped warm them up, too.

  After almost two hours of slow progress, Revan saw the dim outline of a small mountain ahead of them. He signaled to Canderous, indicating that the camp was on the other side. The Mandalorian nodded, and signaled back that they needed to step up the pace. Revan nodded his agreement. The light around them was fading as Rekkiad’s sun—invisible through the storm—slowly set. The last thing they needed was to have to press on in total darkness.

  As they skirted the base of the mountain and reached the leeward side, the wind died to almost nothing. It wasn’t long before they could see the soft glow of lights from the camp.

  Gradually more details of the camp came into view. There were roughly a dozen small tents set up only a few meters away from a sheer wall of ice at the mountain’s base. Set away from the tents was a roughly constructed shack; Revan noticed a pair of generators hooked up to it, no doubt to provide power and heat, and he guessed it doubled as a meeting room and a supply center for any stores that would suffer if left out in the cold.

  Several sleds were scattered among the tents, some laden with supplies, others empty.

  On the far side of the camp were four large, tarp-covered mounds. Revan’s heart sank.

  As part of the terms of the surrender, he’d ordered the Mandalorians to disassemble their infamous Basilisk war droids—great metal beasts the Mandalorians often rode into combat. Judging by the size of the covered objects, and by whatever hints of shape weren’t obscured by the tarps, some of the defeated had chosen to ignore his decree.

  “One more step and we paint the snow with your brains!” a voice shouted out.

  Four sentries rose up into view from behind the drifts, two on either side of Revan and Canderous. Dressed in heavy cold-weather clothes of mostly blues, golds, and browns, they were armed with blaster rifles, which they had carefully trained on the interlopers.

  “Lay your weapons down and identify yourselves!” The speaker—a male—was the sentry closest to Revan on his left.

  Out of the corner of his eye, the Jedi could see that Canderous was holding his ground, careful to avoid any sudden movement but not making any effort to obey the order. Revan decided the smart thing to do would be to follow his lead.

  “My name is Canderous of Clan Ordo,” the big man shouted. “And I don’t lay down my weapons for anyone!”

  From the stunned silence it was clear his name had gotten their attention.

  “How do we know you’re really Canderous?” one of the other sentries demanded. This was also a man’s voice, deeper than the first.

  “Well, Edric,” Canderous replied, “I could punch you in the face until I straightened out that crooked beak of yours, but we’d probably all freeze to death before I finished.”

  The sentry barked out a laugh, slung his gun over his shoulder, threw his arms wide, and ran to enclose Canderous in a fierce hug. “It’s good to see you again, brother!” he shouted.

  Revan was relieved to see that the other sentries had also lowered their weapons. They came forward to form a tight circle around Canderous as they clasped his hands, slapped him on the back, and offered loud traditional greetings in Mando’a.

  After a few minutes the one Canderous had called Edric spoke up again.

  “Let’s get you and your friend out of the cold,” he said in Basic. “Leave your sled; we’ll have someone else come get it.”

  T
he other three sentries stayed at their post as Edric led Revan and Canderous through the camp toward the supply shack in the center. As they passed the tents, heads poked out to see what was happening; shortly a small crowd had grown in the newcomers’ wake. Revan could hear a buzz of excitement building, but his Mando’a was too rusty, and he couldn’t pick out what was being said.

  At the door of the building, Edric stamped his boots clear of snow before going inside; his guests did the same.

  The first thing Revan noticed was the warmth. His goggles fogged up, and he was only too happy to remove them to get a better view of the surroundings.

  As he had suspected, the shack served as both supply hut and meeting room. There were seven or eight Mandalorians already inside the building, lounging among the crates and packages, using them as makeshift furniture. In one corner was a massive pile of coats, scarves, and gloves. Edric was already stripping off his cold-weather gear and tossing it on the pile. Revan quickly and gratefully followed suit.

  Canderous didn’t have a chance to do the same. The instant he removed his goggles and unzipped his hood to expose his face, he was swarmed. Another round of traditional Mando’a greetings rose up from the well-wishers, and Revan couldn’t help but notice the pure joy on his friend’s face as he was reunited with the other members of his clan.

  One of the things Revan had always admired about the Mandalorians even as he’d fought them was their loyalty. The ties that held a clan together went beyond friendship and even family; it was an essential part of the culture, ingrained in children from the day they were born or adopted into the clan.

  Not wanting to detract from the moment, he stood a respectful distance away. He was just beginning to wonder how much longer the celebratory reception would continue when the door swung open and a tall, broad-shouldered figure forced its way into the room.

  The door slammed shut, and everything went silent. Nobody spoke as the figure peeled away the layers of clothing, revealing the face of an attractive woman. She had olive skin, and her straight, shoulder-length black hair was streaked with purple and red highlights. Her high, sharp cheekbones were tattooed with intricate blue swirls. Her eyes were also blue, but so pale they looked like shards of ice.

  Unlike everyone else they had come across, she didn’t rush over to greet Canderous. Instead, she glared at him without saying a word.

  “Su cuy’gar, Canderous,” she finally said.

  It was a common Mandalorian greeting, but something about the way she said it made Revan think the literal translation of the words—So you’re still alive—was closer to her true intent.

  “Su cuy’gar, Veela,” he replied softly.

  She took a step toward him, then snapped her head to the side to stare at Revan. She was tall enough to look him in the eye.

  Without looking back at Canderous, she asked him in Mando’a, “Do you want me to speak Basic so the Outsider can understand us?”

  “I understand well enough,” Revan replied in her native tongue.

  Veela arched her eyebrow in mild surprise, then turned her attention back to Canderous. “What are you doing here?”

  “Is that any way to greet a clan-brother?” Canderous asked.

  “Are you still my clan-brother? You left us after the war. You deserted Clan Ordo to become a mercenary.”

  “There was no Clan Ordo after the war,” Canderous snapped back at her. “Tegris was dead. We had no leader. We were scattered. Broken. Defeated. I wasn’t the only one who left.”

  “We heard you were working for the Jedi,” Veela said, her voice low and hateful.

  In the silence that followed, the sentry called Edric spoke up. “Cin vhetin,” he said, and there was a general murmur of agreement from the others in the room.

  The literal translation of the phrase was “driven snow”—appropriate given the conditions outside. But Revan knew that the true meaning of the phrase was closer to “The past is in the past.” The Mandalorians believed that once you took up the arms and armor of the clan, your past was irrelevant. Edric was saying that whatever Canderous had done over the past few years was irrelevant now that he had returned.

  From Veela’s expression, it was difficult to tell if she agreed with him. But she let the matter of Canderous’s past drop.

  “I’m the leader of this clan now,” she insisted. “I still have a right to know why you’re here.”

  “To help Clan Ordo find Mandalore’s Mask.”

  Veela tilted her head to the side, as if getting a different angle might help her see whether Canderous was being completely honest with her.

  “And what about this Outsider?” she asked, pointing to Revan.

  “He is my friend. My brother. He will help us in our search.”

  “Do you have a name, Outsider?” Veela asked.

  “His name is Avner,” Canderous said, cutting Revan off. “He’s a mercenary. We met while I was working for Davik Kang.”

  “You can’t speak for yourself?” she asked, still focused on Revan. “I thought you understood Mando’a. Am I going too fast for you?”

  “I understand,” Revan answered. “You speak well.”

  There was a gasp from the crowd, followed by the sound of stifled, nervous laughter.

  Revan knew full well the insult he had given. The Mandalorians were warriors; they had nothing but contempt for diplomats and politicians. They valued actions over words, and he’d just implied that Veela was all talk.

  “Brother Canderous vouched for you, so you can stay,” Veela said through clenched teeth. “But if you betray us, I’ll kill you. If your weakness causes one of my people to get hurt, I’ll kill you. If you slow us down, I’ll kill you. Is that clear?”

  “Wait … what was that second one again? Maybe I should write this down.”

  There was another round of stifled laughter. Veela pretended not to hear it as she turned back to Canderous. “Welcome home, brother,” she said flatly.

  She grabbed her winter gear, quickly threw it back on, and left without saying another word. Once she was gone, the others in the room seemed to relax.

  Revan motioned to Canderous, calling him over to join him in the corner before he was swallowed up in a crowd of old friends.

  “Avner?” he whispered in Basic. “That’s the best name you could come up with?”

  “What’s wrong with Avner?”

  “You just rearranged the letters in Revan.”

  “Relax. Nobody out here’s going to—” Canderous stopped abruptly as he noticed Edric ambling toward them.

  “Don’t judge Veela too harshly,” the sentry said, misinterpreting their hushed dialogue. “She’s a good leader, but she has a temper.” He looked at Revan. “You should remember that the next time you provoke her.”

  “I just got caught in the middle,” Revan protested. “Canderous is the one she’s really mad at. I get the sense you two have a history.”

  “You could say that,” the big man admitted. “She’s my wife.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  SCOURGE HAD BEEN WAITING inside the cave on Bosthirda for nearly an hour when he finally heard the faint sound of a speeder landing outside. A few minutes later he heard footsteps coming down the passage. He smiled. Unlike his previous missions for Nyriss, this time he was not plagued with doubts and uncertainties. The anticipation of the coming kill kept him well focused on the task at hand.

  As expected, Darth Xedrix hadn’t come alone. A pair of Sith acolytes—humans, one male, one female—preceded him, striding into the cave, lightsabers drawn. They wore light armor under robes of blue and gold, the colors of their liege.

  The circular cavern was only ten meters in diameter and dark. The only illumination came from their blades and the glowing fungus that clung to the rough rock walls. Scourge crouched in the shadows, wrapped in a cloak of the dark side that both made him invisible to the Force and helped to ward off the chill of the subterranean air. He remained motionless as the pair passed within a few meters
of his hiding place, patiently waiting.

  Darth Xedrix trailed his escort by several paces. Unlike his acolytes, he had not drawn his weapon, and he wore no visible armor beneath his robes. He was several centimeters taller than Scourge, but much thinner. He had thick, shoulder-length white hair, but no beard. His face was lined, though not as extensively or deeply as Nyriss’s, and there was a hint of a stoop to his shoulders and a cautious frailty about the way he moved.

  His appearance recalled Nyriss’s words: He is human—they are a lesser species. Over the decades, the dark side has exacted too great a toll on his body. He is a hollow shell of what he once was.

  Yet Scourge could sense the Councilor’s enormous power. Darth Xedrix was still a member of the Dark Council, and underestimating him would be a fatal mistake.

  The moment the tall human passed Scourge’s hiding place, Scourge leapt, igniting his lightsaber as he flew through the air. For a moment he thought his first strike would find its mark, and he was almost disappointed at the thought of ending Xedrix’s life so easily. But at the last instant the human’s own blade materialized seemingly out of nowhere to intercept the blow.

  They exchanged a quick flurry of thrusts and parries. Scourge tried and failed to draw on his foe’s fear and anger—Xedrix was too controlled, and it felt more like fighting a droid. Scourge forcibly thrust his own fears away and reached deep inside himself to find the fury he needed.

  He had maneuvered himself so that he was behind Xedrix, blocking the passage that was the only route into and out of the cave. The two acolytes had already spun around and rushed in to join the fray, and he prepared himself to deal with them, too.

  But suddenly he had only those two to deal with as Xedrix backed away. He seemed to be more obsessed with preserving his own life than killing his enemy—a weakness that left him content to let his two underlings face this unknown foe while he stayed at a safe distance.

  The two apprentices launched themselves at Scourge, unleashing their rage as they drew on the power of the dark side, unaware that their anger was feeding their opponent, as well.