CHAPTER FOUR
HIS OWN MAN
Never place all your reliance in the Force. It’s always there, but that does not mean it can always be called upon. Each Je’daii is his own person with his own talents. Learn to use them. Nurture them. If the Force is the dream, you are the dreamer, and sometimes you have to wake up. Sometimes, you are all you have.
—Master Shall Mar, “A Life in Balance,” 7,523 TYA
Tre Sana had already told her more than the Je’daii Masters who had sent her on this mission. They had mentioned a loose network of rich Kalimahr apparently involved in Dal’s Stargazer sect, and Tre had backed that up with talk of tracking down a particular person to question. They had spoken of dark matter being used to attempt activation of a supposed hypergate. But they had not mentioned the Gree at all.
What was known about the Gree was so far back in history, so deep in time, that it had taken on the sheen of myth and legend. Lanoree wanted to get back to her ship’s computer to find out what she could.
But first she had to discover who, or what, was following her.
She imagined that this district of Rhol Yan must be somewhere at the lower end of the tourist experience—the streets were grubby; some vendors very probably dealt in illegal goods, services, or substances; and the clientele of the various establishments displayed little evidence of being mere visitors. A rough area, but not one in which Lanoree felt out of place. Every city on every planet had them, and she had visited many.
Sometimes, she fit right in.
Cloud Chasers drifted above, speeders buzzed along a slightly raised roadway in the center of the street, and several types of indigenous beasts of burden carried people on their backs or limbs. But Lanoree chose to walk. It meant that she had complete control of her movements, and it would be easier to keep watch. She wanted to draw her follower out, not escape from him or her.
She used the polished shine of speeders, the glass of display windows, and the reflections in the eyes of those passing by to look behind her. And when she could not see, she blinked slowly, casting her senses back to try and discover who and where her pursuer was.
It was frustrating. She felt observed, and it could no longer be the usual curiosity for a Je’daii Ranger; she had removed her Ranger star to try to blend in.
The end of the street opened up into a large market, stalls built across a wide marble-paved square and suspended on three massive treelike structures around the square’s perimeter. Small Cloud Chasers moored at some of these trees, ferrying people and freight to and from the larger vessels that buzzed and drifted above. Lanoree trotted down the curved stone steps that led to the square. Then she stopped, turned, and ran back up.
She paused on the top step and looked around. The street she had walked along was bustling. She looked at people walking toward and past her, human and otherwise. She watched many more walking away. Probing with her senses, touching the pulse of the Force, she felt for any image of herself in someone else’s regard … and found it.
Just standing there, watching, don’t forget she’s a Ranger, dangerous, mysterious—
She touched the haft of her sword and pulled it partway out of its sheath, turning, seeing a Cathar family paused twenty paces from her while the mother and father fussed over their six children. Standing just behind them, pretending to be a part of their group and yet so obviously not, was a shape that did not belong.
The man was small but stocky, wearing an expansive gray robe and a large mask. Lanoree was sure he was Noghri—reptilian, skilled fighters, prized assassins. As she laid eyes on him, he looked up and met her gaze.
She raised one hand, ready to Force-push him to the ground for the moment she’d need to reach him.
He pulled a laser blaster and fired into the family group.
Screams. Panic. People running, fleeing, falling. The Noghri fired again, shooting at random.
Lanoree drew her sword and ran at the shooter. He was already fleeing, blaster in one hand and something else in the other. She could not make out what the device was. She reached for him, shoved, but he dodged sideways, and her Force punch tripped a beast of burden, spilling its three passengers.
As she passed the Cathar family, she glanced down and saw the woman on the ground, blood pulsing from a terrible, black-tinged wound in her furry scalp. The father was trying to pull the children away while crying out in mad grief. Lanoree wanted to stay and help, but there would be others to do that.
She would best serve the dead woman by catching her killer.
The Noghri had flowed down the steps and was sprinting toward one of the mooring stations. When they saw him coming, most people moved away, his violent intent obvious. But when two militia crouched before him and aimed long, spearlike weapons at him, he shot them both. The movement was almost too quick to be seen, and as they fell back dead the killer was already entering the shadow of the mooring tree.
He was well trained. It would take someone who knew what he was doing to bring down those two guards without pause.
She was gaining on him as he entered one of several doorways into the Cloud Chaser mooring structure. He was still doing something with the object in his other hand, and she paused and reached for him, concentrating, willing the Force his way, her clawed hand closing slowly as she struggled to grasp him. But there were too many other people around, and the panic was too great.
More laser blasts erupted from the interior lobby of the mooring platform, and more screams.
Lanoree used the Force to increase her speed, willing her muscles to stretch and contract faster, pumping her arms, pushing blood through her veins. There were a hundred travelers and merchants in the lobby, and two people were on the ground with blood spattered around them, others rushing to help. But she saw the Noghri immediately.
He was plugging the device into a comm column. He glanced back over his shoulder but did not raise his blaster.
More concerned with sending whatever he has to send, she thought. And as she ran at him she reached for the comm column, probing, frowning in concentration. She had to stop him sending, and if—
She heard the dry cough of a blaster and raised her sword, and it was only that instinctive reaction that saved her. The shot struck the sword and she stumbled backward, then fell, her weapon clanging against the marble floor. She still grasped its haft—she would never let it go—and she could feel the heat dispersing from the exquisite blade.
Lanoree shoved, and forty paces away the Noghri was lifted from his feet and smashed back against a wall. The blaster dropped from his hand and skittered away across the floor.
The crowd of people had scattered and hidden as well as they could, leaving only the two shot people behind. Lanoree sensed that they were both dead.
Anger throbbed through her but she reined it in. It would feed her action, but it could also cloud her senses. Using the Force while harboring rage could upset the balance within her, and that would lead to mistakes.
She jumped to her feet, and she was the only person standing.
“Stay down!” she shouted. She held out her hand and Force-pressed her observer to the ground. Heard him gasping for air. Pressed a little harder.
Walking forward, sword held protectively before her, Lanoree glanced at the comm column and the device he had attached there.
A flurry of movement and she knew what was coming, lifting the sword to deflect the blast a blink before it came. Another followed. She shifted to the left and raised her blade to the right. The shot was swallowed by the hot metal.
He’d been carrying a second, concealed blaster.
Lanoree grunted in frustration, then reached out and lifted the Noghri above the ground, grasping him there, tight, tighter.
“Drop it,” she said. Though quiet, her voice carried all across the open lobby.
He dropped the weapon. She raised him even higher … then let go.
The sound of breaking bone as he struck the ground was followed by the collective gasps of those watching.
Lanoree ran to him. He was writhing, his gray-skinned leg twisted, protruding bone visible beneath his loose robe. Keeping an eye on his big, clawed hands and feet, and conscious of the Noghri’s reputation as fighters and killers, she kept her sword drawn in case he had other concealed weapons. And as she knelt by his side, she reached for his mask.
“Hold him!” someone called. Militia. Lanoree cursed inwardly, knowing that this would now get complicated. She wanted to get him somewhere quiet to interrogate him, and handing him over to Kalimahr militia would gain her nothing. She sighed and looked up at the two uniformed women running her way, wondering if she could persuade them otherwise.
“He shot them and just—”
“She chased him in here, and she threw him, she must be Je’daii and—”
“Dead, my brother’s dead, and leaking his brains all across—”
There was a flood of voices as terrified people started speaking around the edges of the concourse. And in that cacophony, one shout from a child that saved Lanoree’s life.
“Look out!”
As she looked back down at the injured Noghri, she saw the shell of his mask peel back and a wisp of smoke from within. Voice activated! she had time to think, and then she put every shred of strength and every measure of power she had in the Force into shielding herself from what came next.
She barely heard the explosion.
For a moment, as she saw the Wookiee’s face and felt its strong, furry hands hauling her to her feet, she thought she was back on Ska Gora with her fingers hovering over laser cannon triggers. Then she remembered what had happened and smelled acrid smoke on the air.
“I’m fine,” she said. Dizziness swept over her and she composed herself, breathing deeply. The female Wookiee grumbled a question, and Lanoree nodded. “Really. Fine.”
The few people around her—the Wookiee; several humans; a tall, eyeless Miraluka with slatted mask—observed in stunned silence. When Lanoree looked beyond them, she understood their amazement at her survival.
The Noghri had packed quite a blast. There was nothing left of him, and the site of the explosion was the center of a wide swath of blackened and broken marble. Detritus littered the lobby. He had killed himself without a second thought, and it was incredible that no one else had been caught by the blast.
I was there, Lanoree thought, looking at the small, cracked crater in the marble floor. She had been blasted across the lobby, protected and shielded by the Force that she was so rich in, and for a few moments she tingled with something approaching ecstasy. She took a deep breath and felt a rush of well-being. Perhaps it was relief. Or maybe she was simply realizing that it was good to be alive.
“You!” a voice called. “Je’daii!” It was one of the militia who’d been approaching when the Noghri had killed himself. The other was bloodied and being helped to her feet. As the woman drew closer, Lanoree glanced quickly around at the comm columns. One side of it had taken some of the blast, but it remained standing, though bent and twisted. She could see the comm point in which the Noghri had plugged his device.
She ran.
“Stop!” the militia woman called again, angry. Lanoree would have to be careful. The woman was shaken, and in the confusion she might decide to take a shot.
Lanoree raised one hand, smiled, then slowed to a walk. “Just here,” she said, pointing. “Just going here.”
“Stop or I’ll—”
“You’ll wait for me,” Lanoree said, pushing softly.
“I’ll—I’ll wait for you,” the woman said, frowning even as she stopped running. She looked around as if confused, and then Lanoree reached the comm column.
She examined the device briefly, then plucked it from the socket. It was a small black box with several connectors and a screen on one side. A camera, among other things. Lanoree tapped the screen and scrolled down the list of stored images.
They were all of her.
“When a Ranger comes, death always follows,” the man said.
“I thought the saying was ‘danger always follows’?”
“Whatever.”
They had taken her to the nearest militia post, and Lanoree had gone without argument. Her assignment had already become more complex than she had hoped, and making herself a fugitive would mean answers would be even more difficult to come by. People were dead. She owed it to the Kalimahr authorities to answer their questions.
Besides, she would be meeting Tre again at dusk. She had time to kill.
The captain was Lorus, a tall member of the proud Sith species, powerfully built and obviously used to being a leader and having his orders obeyed, and demands met, without question. He seemed unperturbed at holding a Je’daii in his restraining cell. He must have known that she could likely escape at any moment, but that would cause a diplomatic incident. So for now there was a gentle balance between them, an act from which both sides might benefit. The fact that they both knew this made things easier. At any other time it might have been amusing.
“Something funny, Je’daii?”
“No, not really. And I’ve told you my name.”
“I prefer to call you Je’daii.”
“Very well, Lorus.”
“You should address me as Captain Lorus.”
“I should?”
The captain sighed and leaned against a wall. The two human militia who had brought her in stood in the corners of the room at either side of the door. They both looked afraid, and stared at her in open wonder. Probably the first time they had seen a Je’daii in action.
The room was a little larger than the main control room on her Peacemaker, with one door, several chairs around the edges, and the single containment cell at its center. The cell was too small to lie down in, and consisted of an archaic heat field instead of bars. Lanoree could feel a touch of heat where she stood—the generator was old and leaking—and knew that she’d be singed to a crisp if she moved too close to the shimmering walls. She also knew that she could knock out the generator with a single thought, and with a little more effort she could shield herself and walk straight through the heat field.
But she had no wish to fight Captain Lorus and his constables.
“Five dead,” Lorus said.
“Six, sir,” one of the militia women said. Lorus stiffened but did not turn around, and the woman became suddenly nervous. “Er … including the bomber.”
“I don’t care about the bomber,” Lorus said. “There are five people dead who I care about, including two of my militia.”
“Sir,” the woman said, quieter.
“I didn’t kill any of them,” Lanoree said.
“They’re dead because the bomber was following you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m here on Je’daii Council orders,” Lanoree said.
“Why?”
“I can’t reveal the purpose of my assignment.”
“Why?” Lorus smiled.
Lanoree did not respond. She looked down at her feet and probed softly, so gently that she hoped he would not feel. What she discovered did not surprise her. He enjoyed the power his position gave him. He was something of a bully toward his staff. And though he had been in the presence of Je’daii before, he had no love for them.
“I’ve done nothing to make you hate me,” Lanoree said.
Lorus’s face fell.
“I know your mind. And there’s more I can do.”
“Not if I press the purge button on your cell and fry you to a crisp.”
Lanoree said nothing. Silence was more effective. It projected confidence.
Lorus snorted. “Je’daii. Rangers! I knew a Ranger once, several years ago. Vulk. Did you know him?”
“No,” Lanoree said. But she remembered the name and the sadness of people she loved. “My parents knew him.”
“Arrogant. Superior. He moved me out of the way once. I was a constable then, still in training, and he’d arrived close to here with two younger Je’daii. Those you call Journeyers. Too young and unable to control the powers you give them. Troublesome. There was a dispute at the time, two of the richer Kalimahr families bickering over mining rights for some distant asteroid or other. Vulk said he’d come to settle the dispute before it came to blows. Never did know why the Je’daii were involved, don’t care. But when I confronted him in the street—told him I had questions and that he and his young troublemakers would have to follow me—he told me there wasn’t time. Said he had a meeting to attend and a gift to make, otherwise blood would be spilled. And then he lifted his hand and … moved me aside. Picked me up, almost throttled me with that damned Force you people mess with. Dropped me out of his path. Walked on, without giving me another glance.”
Lanoree smiled. She could not help it, even knowing it would only enrage this proud, simple man more. But she had heard her parents talking of Vulk, and this sounded exactly like the man he had been. He had never permitted anything to obstruct what he thought was right.
It was a lesson her parents had taught her well.
“You’d laugh at me, Je’daii?” Lorus said.
“Only at Vulk’s memory.”
“You did know him, then?”
“No. Like I said, my parents did. And it was more than several years ago. Vulk died eight years ago in a Cloud Chaser crash a thousand kilometers from here. But I guess you’re so parochial you won’t have heard about that. He’d already killed fourteen Xang terrorists by then, and he was mortally wounded. He steered his ship away from populated areas, saving hundreds, maybe thousands. He crashed into the sea.” Lanoree said no more. But she watched Lorus’s expression change, subtly but definitely, and she was glad. It seemed the man had some measure of honor after all.
“So tell me about the dead Noghri,” Lanoree said.
Lorus grunted.
“I’ll not move you out of the way.” She smiled, pleased to see a twitch of response on Lorus’s lips. He stared at her for a moment, then nodded at one of the militia. The woman pressed switches on a control panel on the wall. The heat field imprisoning Lanoree shimmered and then faded, whispering away to nothing. Lorus sat and gestured at a seat opposite him.
“He’s known,” Lorus said. “There wasn’t much left of him.” Grinning, he pointed back over his shoulder at the female militia. “Ducianne found one of his toe claws snagged in her uniform. We identified him from security footage taken from the docking tree. What we don’t know is why a preacher would become a killer.”
“A preacher?” Lanoree asked. “He was Noghri, wasn’t he? Preaching isn’t something they’re known for.”
“A cult,” Lorus said. “There are many across Kalimahr, too many to keep track of. Unlike your Tython, we’re inclusive here. We welcome any species, creed, or breed.”
“As do we. But Tython is a challenging place for a non-Je’daii.”
“Yeah. Well. The Noghri was a Stargazer.”
“What do you know about them?” Lanoree sat down, at ease, comfortable. She was loading her questions with the subtlest of Force pushes, barely a suggestion. And perhaps now she was getting somewhere.
“Not much,” Lorus said, shrugging. His red Sith skin looked strange in the artificial light, the color deeper, bloodier. “They’re one of the lesser sects, hardly any members, no real influence. One of many who seek to look beyond the Tythan system, way back into history. I’ve had no dealings with them before. They’ve never caused trouble.” He frowned. “Until now.”
“They want to go home,” Lanoree said, remembering Dal once saying, One day I’ll find my way home.
“There are many who maintain an interest in where our ancestors came from. Who resent that we were ever brought to Tython at all.”
“Are you one of them?”
“Not at all,” Lorus said. “I’ve got it good here.”
Lanoree asked more questions about the Stargazers, information held on them, and any prominent members. She barely touched Lorus’s mind, and he seemed not to notice. Without hesitation he consulted an old computer in the wall and gave her a name and address.
“Ah, yes. Kara. She’s not openly affiliated with the Stargazers. But she’s incredibly rich—made her fortune in swing dust mining—and it’s whispered that she funds them, lets them stay in properties she owns around Rhol Yan and beyond. But these are just whispers. I’ve found no proof.”
“Really?” Lanoree raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve had no need to look. The Stargazers haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Five counts of murder?”
“And that’s for me to investigate. Please, Je’daii, don’t explode this one. She’s one of Rhol Yan’s elite, and it would leave much more of a mess.”
“I’ll do my best,” Lanoree said. “I’m grateful for your time.” And with a nod to the two militia she exited the holding room. She glanced back once to see Lorus staring into the inactive cell, frowning, and probably already wondering who had interrogated whom.
Leaving the militia post, Lanoree quickly lost herself in the bustle of late afternoon.
“Someone tried to kill me,” Tre said.
“Seems quite common around here.”
“You, too?”
Lanoree shrugged. “Who was it?”
“I didn’t see. A shot, then they were gone.”
“You don’t seem overly troubled.”
“It’s not the first time it’s happened.” Tre Sana tried to exude calm, but there were signs of his being flustered—his clothing a little awry, eyes flickering left and right, lekku unsettled.
They had met outside Susco’s Tavern and then walked through the streets. It was evening now, and everywhere was a different kind of busy. Earlier, the walkways had been thronged with residents and visitors all going somewhere, a purpose in their strides. Now the ebb and flow was less urgent, destinations less certain. They drank and ate, and music emanated from many establishments, vying for the greatest volume and subtlest lure. It was a more relaxed scene than earlier but more chaotic.
Dirigibles floated above the city, the larger intercontinental ships higher up illuminated with extravagant displays that danced and pulsed light across the sky. Smaller craft drifted down and rose again, ferrying people from docking trees up to the larger vessels. Several were moving away to the east, and Lanoree wondered what lay in that direction.
She had already contacted her Peacemaker to ensure that everything there was as it should be. Ironholgs had spat and buzzed as if annoyed at being disturbed, but all was well. She yearned to be back in the ship, alone.
“Easy for someone to follow us out here,” Tre said.
“I’ll know,” she replied. And perhaps she would. She was much more alert now, and she kept her mind open to threatening thoughts, sudden movements, being the focus of attention. The Noghri had been more than willing to kill innocent bystanders to get away from her—until he’d made his broadcast, at least—and she could not let crowds be protection. But she could not know everything. And there were people like Tre who had been altered specifically so that they could not be read.
Master Dam-Powl, you should have told me more, Lanoree thought.
“My brother knows I’m coming,” Lanoree said.
“And he’s trying to kill you?”
She did not answer. The Noghri’s camera had been plugged into the comm column to send the images of her, and it seemed likely that they were sent to Dal. From what the Je’daii Masters had told her, he appeared to be the head of the Stargazers, or this faction at least. But why would the Noghri be so willing to kill himself rather than be captured? Lorus had called them a cult, but they worshipped nothing. They craved a single purpose, but that made them more like a criminal gang than a group of twisted fundamentalists. They were an enigma she had to solve.
“So when are we seeing Kara?” she asked.
Tre’s surprise was obvious. His extra lekku twitched in annoyance because she’d found out something he’d believed was a secret. Perhaps concealing something from a Je’daii had given him a sense of power. Either way, his brief display of petulance did nothing to endear him to Lanoree.
“Don’t worry—I didn’t pluck her name from your mind.”
“I know,” Tre said, trying to smile again. “So where did you hear about her?”
“I have my sources.” It would do no harm to let Tre think he was not her only contact on Kalimahr.
“I spoke to her people earlier, as I said I would,” Tre said. “Before the bastard took a shot at me. She’ll see us at midnight.”
“Where?”
“You don’t know everything about her, then,” Tre said, confidence restored a little.
“Only her name and where she lives.”
“And never leaves. Rumor has it she hasn’t left her apartments in thirteen years.”
“Why?”
“She can’t. Come on. Time to introduce you to some Kalimahr culture. It’s close to where she lives—we can kill a couple of hours.”
Lanoree didn’t like his turn of phrase, but she followed as he led the way, always on guard, keeping her mind open, listening and sniffing for trouble. She sensed plenty. But for now, none of it was for them.
The Pits was aptly named. A subterranean tavern deep beneath one of Rhol Yan’s more salubrious quarters, it displayed more than anything Lanoree had yet seen of the mix of cultures, people, and philosophies that existed on Kalimahr. She had heard of gladiatorial combat on Nox; and once on one of Mawr’s moons, visiting the Je’daii recluse Ni’lander, she had witnessed the results of a contact knife fight. Ni’lander had told her that the fights were often arranged for money or standing, and that the losers did not always survive. On such an outpost as Mawr and its moons this had not surprised her. On Nox, such brutality was commonplace. But she’d believed Kalimahr was better than that. More settled. More civilized.
On the surface only, it seemed.
Even as they descended the freestanding spiraling staircase that led down through a large, poorly lit cavern, the scent of violence, excitement, and desperation reached her. Human sweat, Krevaaki must, the sweetness of a Sith’s blood—the smells filled the cavern, rising on wafts of noxious heat from the tumult below.
The tavern was built across the cavern floor thirty meters beneath the streets. Its focal point was a deep trough in the floor, a natural pit in which two combatants fought. One was a big human with an extra set of arms grafted on his hips. The other was a Wookiee, pelt patchy, hide lacerated; and around his neck was a heavy control collar, lights flickering as electrical pulses urged him into greater fury. His screams were as much of pain as anger. He carried a metal-studded club, and it was already glistening with scraps of the human’s flesh.
“This is culture?” Lanoree asked as they descended the last curve of staircase.
“The ass end of it,” Tre said. “You grow used to it. They use mostly criminals and murderers. That’s what they say, anyway. I try not to question it.” He glanced back at her, and his three lekku touched and turned, telling her, A good place to remain anonymous.
And much as she hated to admit it, that was probably more true than even Tre knew. Because not only was the Pits filled with all manner and race of people, it was also somewhere that leveled everyone. Every patron was here for the drink and the fight. A person not riled up, drunk, and filled with bloodlust would stand out.
It would be easy for Lanoree to see anyone following them.
They reached the floor and Tre shouldered his way to the nearest bar. There were several placed around the pit, and most were doing brisk business. Lanoree followed, senses alert, hand on her hip close to her sword.
A thud, a gargled scream, and a shout. Hands waved, and the crowd roared. Betting chips were illuminated; and across the other side of the pit, several gambling pods were rushed as people went to claim their winnings.
Lanoree had no desire to see, but still she stood on tiptoes to look down into the pit. The Wookiee was leaning against one wall with blood caking his ragged beard. For a moment she thought he was the loser, but then a mechanical arm swung down and speared the human’s corpse, hauling it out, swinging it over the heads of the crowd, and flinging it into shadows at the cavern’s extremes.
She heard a splash, and then a frenzy of movement as unseen creatures made short work of the vanquished.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Every decent shred of her Je’daii self wanted to close this place down. And her very basic human side wanted only to leave. But this was an easy place to cast her senses around, and every mind she touched was transparent to her. Base emotions flooded the Pits. Unpleasant emotions, true, such as she had learned to control many years ago during her Je’daii training. But simple to read for any threat or sense of being observed.
Tre nudged her arm and handed her a drink. “Not the best wine on Kalimahr.”
“You surprise me.” She took the glass and looked around. “You come here often?”
“No,” Tre said. Perhaps that was disgust in his voice.
“These places are allowed?”
“Tolerated. They channel aggression, and the Council of Rhol Yan welcomes that. So they turn a blind eye.”
“How civilized,” Lanoree said. “You really are an inclusive society.”
“It’s not my society. I just come here from time to time.” He took a sip. “Anyway, don’t judge Kalimahr from this, Je’daii.”
“Difficult not to.” She initiated comm to the Peacemaker, asked if there were any communications from Tython or elsewhere. There were none.
“Next bout’s beginning,” Tre said, and this time his distaste was obvious. Perhaps he downed his rough wine to dull his senses. He was becoming more of an enigma than ever.
In the pit, a wretched-looking Cathar, naked but for the spiked manacles around his wrists, stood shivering. And as three barred gates were opened and human-sized, gray-skinned creatures slithered shrieking through curtains of fire, Lanoree was reminded of the second time she had saved her brother’s life.
Heading south across the Strafe Plains toward Stav Kesh, Lanoree hopes that she and Dal will find common ground. Away from Thyr and the Silent Desert even she breathes a sigh of relief, though in their time at Qigong Kesh she made great advances in her understanding of Force Skills. She tingles with the Force. Her mind is awash with it. Yet she has to remember her promise to her parents.
This journey is as much for Dal as for her.
“Getting colder,” she says.
“Good. I like the cold.” Dal is quiet, but when they do talk, she senses no animosity from him. Perhaps he is just thinking things through. Trying to settle himself, find balance. I wish Mother and Father were here, Lanoree thinks, because they might be able to make sense of their son.
Since leaving Qigong Kesh he has seemed much more at peace, and she hopes this is a good sign. Their journey to the southern coast of Thyr was an interesting one, meeting people on the way, sharing stories with Journeyers undertaking their Great Journey in the opposite direction, and having the opportunity to see some of Tython’s great sights. And once at the coast, the great Cloud Chaser airport was a wonder to behold. High on the cliffs above the roaring ocean, they sat together to watch several big airships launch, drifting down and out across the ocean in silent majesty.
Their turn had come, and the flight south to the tumultuous continent of Kato Zakar had been their last chance to rest.
Kato Zakar was often referred to as the Firelands because of its extremes of volcanic activity. But much of this volcanism was located in the continent’s heartlands almost thirty-two hundred kilometers south of the coast where they landed. Their destination was much closer. In the high mountains almost five hundred kilometers inland lay Stav Kesh, the Temple of Martial Arts.
The Strafe Plains are a tough, cold environment—windswept scrubland prone to frequent localized Force Storms and scattered with leaning columns of ice-sharp silica and dangerous magma-filled swallow holes that can appear without warning. Molded largely by the elemental Force itself, the Strafe Plains are a manifestation of what draws every living thing together. The Force as a tactile thing. Powerful. Sharp.
As the landscape rises steadily into the high mountains, Lanoree remains alert, watching the wildlife of the Strafe Plains. It’s said that the common spinner birds can sense a swallow hole’s imminent emergence, and that they will fly spirals around any area about to erupt.
But it is not a hole that almost kills them both.
In places, piles of detritus thrown up from the holes form homes to creatures drawn by the ease of tunneling through loose material. It is from one of these large, uneven mounds that the attack comes.
Lanoree has never seen a flame tygah, but she’s heard of them. When she was a child she believed them a myth made up by her parents to scare her. As she grew older, she heard stories and saw those few rare holos made of the elusive creatures. And days before their journey began, their parents warned them both.
It bursts from a hidden hollow in the top of the mound, broken trees and shattered stone erupting as it lopes down the slope toward them.
“Dal!” Lanoree shouts, but he is already stepping forward to meet the beast. “No, Dal, I can—”
“Shut up!” he shouts. He has drawn the old blaster from his belt.
The flame tygah is a big one, its length easily twice Lanoree’s height, its head as high as her shoulder, each of its six heavy paws the size of her head. Fire drips from the tips of its claws and shimmers in the prints it leaves behind. Its scaled, oily hide flexes and reflects the sun in multicolored swaths; its tail swishes white fire through the air; its eyes blaze; and its tooth-filled mouth glimmers with heat haze. It is as beautiful as it is deadly.
Dal fires when the beast is thirty paces away. It does not even pause. He crouches and shoots again, and Lanoree can see the recoil of the old weapon. The tygah grumbles, a splash of blood scorches the air above its shoulder, and it speeds up its attack.
Lanoree could stop it, she is certain. She has a Force punch ready to stun it, and once immobile she can move forward and cramp the muscles in its legs, breathe the Force, and drive so much pain into the creature that it will turn tail and flee.
If needs must, she can kill it.
But she hesitates. Back in Qigong Kesh she shamed Dal, placing that image of home in his mind when he had not even invited her in. He needs to recover from that. If she defeats the flame tygah for him, it will be just another display of how inadequate he is and how strong she is becoming.
So she pauses but stands ready.
Dal dodges sideways, and fires almost point-blank into the creature’s flank. It roars and shakes itself, and he leaps over its back, shooting once more even before he lands. It is athleticism and strength that drives him, not power of the Force, but the effect is still the same. The creature is confused and pained. As it swings around to lash out with one huge paw, Dal is already crouched and ready to deliver the final shot into its eye.
It rears up, fire shimmering from its claws in searing whips.
Dal smiles. Pulls the trigger.
Nothing happens.
As Lanoree sees the surprise on Dal’s face, the tygah lurches forward and slashes at him with one big paw.
Dal is driven sideways, scraping and bumping across the rough ground. Snakes of fire curl around his arms and shoulders.
Lanoree drives a heavy Force punch at the tygah and knocks it onto its side. One eye on Dal—he is writhing on the ground now, rolling to extinguish the flames—she drives another punch into the beast’s chest, pushing hard, feeling the Force power through her and into the enraged animal.
It screams in pain, a surprisingly human sound. Fire erupts from its mouth and hazes the air. Ash falls.
One chance, Lanoree thinks, and she pauses and pulls back. She keeps her hands raised, readying to throw a heavier, harder shove than she ever has before. For a moment she meets the creature’s gaze, and it understands the pain she can deliver.
“Go,” Lanoree says, pushing against the thing’s mind even as she speaks.
The flame tygah glances once at Dal and then leaps away, bounding around the mound it emerged from and then disappearing into the distance.
Lanoree lets out a relieved breath and then goes to Dal.
“I could have killed it,” he says.
“Your blaster misfired. It was almost on you.” Lanoree is surprised at the anger in his voice, hurt.
“I was fighting it, not you.”
“I saved you, Dal,” she says.
“No.” He stands unsteadily, clothing still smoking where he has beaten out the flames. He looks furious and sad at the same time. “No, the Force saved me.” He’s shivering now from the burns he has suffered.
I can heal those, Lanoree thinks. “You might have died.” She’s crying silent tears.
But Dal only looks bitter. “At least I’d have died free. My own man.” He turns his back on her, and his coolness does more than make her sad.
For the first time, her brother scares her.