Rule of Two by Drew Karpyshyn
Johun tried to gather the Force to hurl his opponent off the platform’s edge. But gathering the Force required concentration, and for a fraction of an instant it drew his focus away from the battle. His enemy sensed his momentary lapse and sprang forward, the sickles carving deadly semicircular arcs through the air.
Johun threw himself backward at the last instant, the power he’d accumulated disappearing harmlessly as he fell into a full retreat to avoid the lethal assault. Dropping low to the ground, he tried to swipe the feet out from under the Twi’lek. His opponent anticipated the move and leapt nimbly over his outstretched foot, bringing his knee up to strike Johun square in the jaw.
Seeing stars, Johun rolled clear, narrowly avoiding decapitation, as the crescent blades swooped in again. He regained his feet and took a wild swipe at his opponent. Dodging the blow, the Twi’lek swooped in close, and Johun was forced to give ground yet again to survive another series of lightning-fast blows.
The Twi’lek pressed the attack, staying close enough to Johun that the Jedi’s only options were blocks and parries. Darting from side to side he cut off Johan’s paths of retreat, slowly backing him up until he was balanced on the platform’s edge.
Johun knew he couldn’t beat the Twi’lek. His opponent was faster, his skills honed by years of intense training. He could continue to fight, but the outcome was inevitable—he was going to die on this platform. He could not escape his fate—yet he could still sacrifice himself to save the Chancellor.
There is no death; there is only the Force.
The Twi’lek had braced himself in preparation for a desperate counterattack, expecting Johun to try to fight his way clear of the platform’s ledge. Instead the Jedi dropped his weapon and both hands shot forward to clutch tightly onto the front of his opponent’s shirt. The handle of Johun’s lightsaber clattered on the platform’s durasteel surface, the blade extinguished the moment it fell from his hand.
The unexpected move caught the Twi’lek completely off guard, and he hesitated for a split second before his eyes went wide with fear and dawning comprehension. He slashed frantically at Johun’s wrists and forearms, carving deep gashes into the flesh. But the Jedi’s grip never faltered.
With his heels already dangling over the precipice, Johun simply had to let himself fall backward, dragging his enemy with him. The Twi’lek screamed as they plunged toward the deadly rocks jutting up from the waves fifty meters below; Johun felt nothing but a serene inner peace.
They seemed to fall forever, the world moving in slow motion as Johun surrendered himself fully to the power of the Force. It flowed through him, stronger than he had ever felt it before. The instant before they hit the water he looked into the terrified eyes of his foe and smiled. He had never felt more at peace than he did in that moment.
Dropping from fifty meters into the ocean was nothing like diving into a pool; the surface tension of the water struck them with the impact of a sledgehammer. During the fall they had turned slightly, so the impact took Johun on the right side. He felt his ribs crack, and then a cold shock as the freezing waters enveloped them.
It took Johun several seconds to realize he wasn’t dead. Even missing the rocks, a fall from that height should have been lethal. Yet somehow he had survived, though he was now sinking quickly into the ocean’s angry depths. The Force, he thought in amazement. He had given himself over to its power during the fall; in return it had spared his life.
He realized he was still clutching tightly to the front of the Twi’lek’s shirt. Through the murky waters he could see his opponent’s head lolling to the side at an unnatural angle, his neck broken when they had slammed into the unyielding ocean surface.
Releasing his grip he swam toward the surface, pulling with powerful strokes. Just as his lungs threatened to give out, he breached, gasping and swallowing huge gulps of air. The girders supporting the platform rose up out of the water before him, only a few meters away. He kicked his legs and reached out to grab the slick, wet durasteel with hands already going numb in the chill waters, then began the long slow climb back to the top.
Blood poured freely from the cuts to his forearms. But though the wounds were deep, they hadn’t struck any critical nerves or tendons, and he was able to use his hands to help him along as he clambered up the girders.
He had reached the halfway point when he paused to rest, shivering in the wind. A voice called his name; looking up, he saw the face of Chancellor Valorum staring down at him. Knowing he needed to save his breath for the rest of the climb, Johun’s only response was a weak wave of acknowledgment.
Half a meter from the top Valorum’s arm reached down over the edge to clasp his own. The exhausted Jedi was grateful for the aid as the Chancellor helped him clamber up and back onto the safety of the platform. Johun tried to stand, but his limbs betrayed him. All he could manage was to roll onto his back and stare up at the sky, panting and wheezing as he tried to catch his breath.
“You saved my life,” the Chancellor said, sitting down beside him to wait for the Jedi to recover from his ordeal. “I can never repay you for what you have done, but if there is ever anything you want of me you need only ask.”
“There is one thing.” Johun gasped from his back, still too tired to even try to sit up. “Hire yourself a kriffing security team.”
13
Zannah made her way slowly through Carannia’s market square, purchasing supplies to replace those Bane had inadvertently destroyed. Only a week had passed since she’d last been here, but in that short time a great many things had changed.
Kel was dead, for one. The HoloNet was buzzing with the news of the failed attempt to kidnap Chancellor Valorum, and all the accounts made specific mention of the red-skinned Twi’lek and his end at the hands of a Jedi Knight named Johun Othone.
Three of the others from the small group were dead as well, though reports indicated that two of the terrorists had fled the scene. From the descriptions given it was obvious to Zannah that Paak and Cyndra were the two surviving fugitives.
The attack had prompted immediate condemnation from the Senate and the rest of the Republic. More important, the Counts of Serenno had promised swift and decisive action to stamp out the separatist organizations that plagued their fair world. Based on the enormous rewards being offered for information leading to the capture of those involved in the attack, it seemed the nobles intended to keep their promise.
Even had Kel and his friends succeeded, Zannah now realized, the reaction of the Counts would have been the same. In the aftermath of the violence, the bodies of several members of Count Nalju’s household staff were discovered near the landing site. They had been sent to greet Chancellor Valorum on his arrival, only to be murdered by the radicals who had set the ambush.
The deaths of several long-serving followers was a great tragedy for House Nalju, but it paled in comparison with the horror elicited by the attack itself. The Count had personally sponsored the Chancellor’s visit; an assault upon his esteemed guest was an insult to family honor, and a crime tantamount to attacking the Count himself. Always willing to protect their own, the other Great Houses had rallied to the Nalju cry, vowing to hunt down and exterminate those responsible for this atrocity.
No doubt Darth Bane had foreseen this outcome. For the next several years the eyes of the Republic would be focused intently on Serenno and its campaign to snuff out the separatist elements that had infiltrated its culture.
“Don’t move,” a familiar female voice hissed in her ear, and Zannah felt the muzzle of a blaster press itself hard into the flesh of her lower back.
“I’m surprised you’d dare to show your face in public,” Zannah whispered without turning around to face the Chiss standing close behind her. “There’s a lot of credits being offered for your head.”
“Thanks to you,” Cyndra snapped back, jabbing her painfully with the weapon. “Now start walking. Slowly.”
There were a dozen ways Zannah could turn the tables on Cyndra
“Where are you taking me?” Zannah asked her.
“We’re going to see Hetton,” Cyndra snarled. “He’s got some questions for you.”
How convenient, Zannah thought. I’ve got some questions for him, too.
Cyndra took her down a narrow alley leading away from the market square to a deserted side street.
“Stand still or I shoot,” she warned Zannah, then pulled a comlink from her belt. “I’ve got her,” she said. “Come pick us up.”
In less than a minute an airspeeder swooped down to land on the far side of the street. Zannah wasn’t surprised to see Paak sitting in the pilot’s seat. He jumped out as the Chiss marched her prisoner over to the vehicle.
“Told you she’d come back,” he said to his companion.
“Just search her for weapons,” she answered.
Paak leered at Zannah as he roughly patted her down. “What have we here?” he exclaimed, discovering her only weapon and holding it up for inspection.
The handle of Zannah’s lightsaber was slightly longer than normal to accommodate the twin crystals required to power the blades that extended from either end. However, while most traditional double-bladed weapons had blades each measuring a meter and a half or more, those of Zannah’s lightsaber were slightly under a meter in length. This small but significant difference was critical to the way in which she used her weapon …
“The smaller blades give you greater speed and maneuverability,” her Master explained as the fourteen-year-old Zannah twirled her newly constructed lightsaber in her left hand, focusing on mastering the feel of its unique balance and weight.
“Grip the handle lightly in your fingers. Control the weapon with your wrist and hand rather than the muscles of your arm. You will sacrifice reach and leverage, but you will be able to create a shield of impenetrable defense.”
“Defense will not slay my enemy,” Zannah remarked, smoothly transferring the spinning crimson blades from her left hand to her right and back again.
“You lack the physical strength required for the powerful attacking strikes of Djem So or the other aggressive forms,” her Master explained. “You must rely on quickness, cunning and, most of all, patience to best your enemies.”
He ignited his own lightsaber and took a long, looping swing in her direction. Zannah intercepted the blow with her own weapon, easily deflecting it to the side.
“Form three allows you to parry incoming attacks with minimal effort,” he told her. “Your opponent must expend precious energy with each blow, slowly tiring while you remain fresh and strong.”
Bane seized the hook-handled grip of his own lightsaber with both hands and raised it high over his head, then brought it straight down in a fierce chop. Using the techniques he had made her practice for two hours each day over the past year, Zannah met her Master’s blade with one of her own. Had she tried to meet it head-on, the strength of his attack would have driven her own weapon back into her, or knocked the lightsaber from her hand. Instead she clipped his blade with a glancing contact, rerouting it so that it continued its downward arc at an angle, passing harmlessly a few centimeters from her shoulder.
“Good,” Bane said approvingly, winding up for another heavy-handed swipe. “Do not block. Redirect. Wait for opponents to become weary or frustrated. Let them make a mistake, then seize the opening and make them pay.”
To illustrate his point Bane took a wild swipe that she easily picked off. The momentum of his swing caused him to lean too far forward, exposing his shoulder and back to her counterattack. With a flick of her wrist Zannah directed her own weapon toward the opening. She scored a direct hit, one of her twin blades tracing a ten-centimeter-long slash across his shoulder that would have severed the arm of any other opponent.
In Bane’s case, however, the blade only cut through the cloth of his shirt and left a small scorch mark on the impregnable shell of the orbalisk beneath.
“You’re dead!” she exclaimed triumphantly, still twirling her blade so that it never lost momentum.
Bane nodded in approval. But it was early, and the day’s lesson had only just begun.
“Again,” he commanded in the stern taskmaster’s voice he always used during their drills and practice sessions.…
“What is this? A lightsaber?” Paak muttered, turning the handle over in his hands. “Where’d you get this? You steal it off a Jedi or something?”
Zannah didn’t bother to answer. There was nobody else in view; the three of them were alone in the deserted street. She could easily have ended their lives right there and escaped. But they had said they were taking her to Hetton, and she was most eager to meet the founder of the Anti-Republic Liberation Front.
“Hetton’s going to be very interested in this,” he remarked. “Very, very interested.”
“Come on. Let’s get moving,” Cyndra told him. “I don’t want to keep Hetton waiting. He’s mad enough at us already.”
Paak tossed the lightsaber onto the passenger seat in the front, then climbed into the pilot’s chair.
“Get in the back,” Cyndra ordered Zannah, waving the blaster’s nose threateningly.
She did as she was told, and a second later Cyndra climbed in beside her, still keeping her weapon trained on Zannah. The airspeeder lifted off the ground, whisking them through the city and out to the countryside beyond.
“How long until we get there?” Zannah asked.
“Shut your kriffing mouth,” Cyndra answered. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk when you explain to Hetton why you betrayed us.”
“Kel always was a sucker for a pretty face,” Paak said, glancing back at her over his shoulder. “Always knew it would be the death of him. If he was smart he would have just stuck with you, Cyndra.”
Cyndra’s red eyes narrowed angrily. “Shut up and drive, Paak.”
“You and Kel?” Zannah said, legitimately surprised. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Neither did Cyndra,” Paak said with a laugh. “At least not until you showed up at our meeting. She wanted to kill you right there. Lucky for you she’s a professional.”
The rest of the ride passed in silence as they made their way farther and farther from the city. Soon they passed into the country estates of the noble families, confirming Zannah’s suspicion that Hetton was a member of a powerful Serenno house. She wondered what would happen to him now that the political climate of Carannia had turned so strongly against the separatists.
The speeder continued on, passing over lavish rose gardens that stretched for acres, the irrigation provided by exquisite fountains while armies of staff clipped and pruned to keep each individual flower in a perfect, pristine state.
An enormous mansion loomed in the distance; in truth it looked more like a castle than a home. The flag flying from one of the many turrets was a bright red, emblazoned with a single eight-pointed star of gold. Zannah suspected it was derived from the five-pointed star of the Demici Great House. Apparently Hetton’s family were distant relations of the Demicis that had earned the right to create their own variation on the family crest.
When they landed they were met by six guards clad in long red robes. Each wore a full helmet that completely covered the head and face, and they all carried force pikes. The meter-and-a-half-long metal poles were equipped with stun modules at the tip, capable of discharging an electrical current to stun or incapacitate opponents … or even kill if set to a high enough power. She recognized the exotic weapon from Bane’s teachings; it had been a favorite of the Umbaran Shadow Assassins, though the members of the group had gone into hiding with the fall of Kaan’s Brotherhood.
“Get out,” Cyndra demanded, gesturing once
She did as she was told, exiting the vehicle and submitting to another search by one of the red-robed guards before passively holding her hands out before her and allowing them to slap a pair of binder cuffs on her wrists. Only then did Cyndra finally put away her blaster, stuffing it into her belt and grabbing Zannah by the arm to pull her along after Paak and the guards.
The procession made its way through a high archway and into the marble-lined hall beyond. Paintings and sculptures lined the walls; floating holographic artworks hovered near the ceiling. The display of wealth would have impressed or even intimidated most visitors, Zannah suspected. She, however, saw the collection as nothing but a waste of funds that could have been better spent elsewhere.
The mansion was enormous, and it took them five full minutes to pass from the airspeeder landing pad to the reception chamber where Hetton awaited them. Zannah knew they were near their destination when they stopped before a pair of towering doors, closed and barring their progress. Two of the guards stepped forward, one on each door, and pushed them open.
The room beyond was thirty meters long and twenty meters wide. Like the halls, the walls were lined with art, and a long red carpet led to a small staircase and a raised dais at the far end. The room was devoid of furniture except for a large chair atop the dais, though Zannah thought it could more properly be described as a throne.
Sitting there, flanked by two more of the red-robed guards, was a man who could only be Hetton himself. He was small in stature, and older than she had suspected; he looked to be in his late fifties. She had expected him to be garbed in the colors of his house, but instead he wore black pants, a black shirt, black boots, and black gloves. Crimson striping trimmed the tops of his boots and the cuffs of his gloves. A hooded cape, also black with crimson trim, was draped across his shoulders, though the hood was thrown back to reveal his face.