Since Jaina Solo Fel was named the Sword of the Jedi in the midst of the war with the Yuuzhan Vong in the twenty-eighth year following the Battle of Yavin, the title has been bestowed on a Knight in each generation following Solo, the words, "…a burning brand to your enemies, a brilliant fire to your friends" the Sword's code.
Sadly, the long-standing tradition of naming a Sword in each generation came to a close when the last Sword was killed in the literal opening salvos of the Sith-Imperial War in 127ABY. The conflict postponed the naming of a new Sword as the Jedi were too heavily involved with the war.
It became obsolete when the Dark Lord of the Sith Darth Krayt ordered the mass-slaughtering of the Jedi Temple on Ossus in 130ABY (One Hundred-Thirty Years after the Battle of Yavin.)
This story takes place many years prior to that, during the period of time in which the last Sword was first named.
The Sword of the Jedi typically lives a very solitary life due to the very nature of the title that he or she or it is given.
In my tenure as Sword of the Jedi Order, I have done many things that have caused me to avoid meeting my eye in the mirror.
This is not regret.
I cannot regret the things I have done. Regretting means I wish to take it back. If I took it back, people would be dead.
That sunny day on Ossus is still as clear a memory as the sky was that morning. I remember the Grand Master coming to me. This was maybe, oh, the day before I was to be Knighted in the grand ceremony I and the other apprentices had been talking about for the past six months.
A Sword is only named at his or her Knighting. I suppose that is so we can get used to the lifestyle right away instead of that of a normal Jedi Knight.
Grand Master Skywalker, son of the great Ben Skywalker, had a strangely mixed look of happy sorrow on his face. This look is still clear to me this day because I noticed his smile and then the drop on his eyebrows and the hurt in his eyes.
He knew what the Sword's lifestyle was like.
It's called tradition, but it's a lot more than that. It's a job. A responsibility. A burning brand to your enemies, a brilliant fire to your friends. The Sword's code, spoken by Master Skywalker decades ago.
He told me the news that day and asked me to keep it to myself until the actual naming at the ceremony. I was thrilled! I, Drayton Asterly, would be the next Sword of the Jedi. The honor was enough for me to throw my arms around the surprised Grand Master and thank him over and over.
I was named the next day, in front of my beaming parents and shock-shelled friends, a man of barely nineteen years old. Life hasn't been the same since in the four years since.
There have been two Swords before me, not including the first, Jaina Solo Fel.
In the eyes of the apprentices, they are gods. In the eyes of the Knights, they are objects of envy and jealousy. In the eyes of the Masters, they are a source of relief.
Because a Sword of the Jedi can do things normal Jedi are morally bound not to do. This may give off the wrong impression, that we're assassins of some sort. That's only a sub-category in the job description.
Swords are to follow the Force, let it lead us wherever it may take us.
In doing so, I have stopped wars, assassinations, bar brawls, kidnappings—anything, you name it. Once I even helped an elderly Calamari across a street in the underbelly of Coruscant.
It's taxing work.
Especially since I have to do it alone. Swords don't get apprentices.
All that being said, I have never been engaged in a full-scale war. Nor, as it happens, a full-scale, fleet-to-fleet battle. Like the one I am in now.
Sure, there have been occasional fighter skirmishes over the years, and sure, the occasional evading of a Star Destroyer or two when my Force-followings have taken me that deep into the Fel Empire, but never anything on this scale.
Never anything so bloody. So needless.
The Galactic Alliance is at war with the Mandalorian Consortium.
A hundred years ago, this would have been unthinkable. A hundred years ago, the Mando were just mercenaries, a people left broken by the Yuuzhan Vong and shunned by the galaxy.
There were in no position of power.
Then, last year, the new Lord Mandalore, the king Mando, basically, issued a single-sentenced HoloNet briefing that he would be bombarding the peaceful world of Verpine, a long-standing member of the GA and New Republic before it and a significant contributor to the GA's technological advances throughout the decades.
We were given an hour's notice.
You never see Verpine in tapcafes anymore. Maybe one or two on an Alliance warship, where their mechanical skills are most utilized, but not really anywhere else.
That's when the First Fleet was sent to Mandalore to get some answers and engage the enemy.
They found an armada waiting for them when they dropped out of lightspeed. It takes fourteen seconds for shields on capital ships to charge fully. They lost nearly a quarter of the fleet in the fourteen seconds, before they could even deploy fighters.
The Battle of Mandalore was the first significant battle in what is being called the New Mandalorian Wars—and we lost it. No one knows where they got their fleet—but there have been whispers that some unknown hand has played a played a part in it. Even quieter whispers have uttered the dreaded "S" word.
The world I'm over now is a major shipyard world, Fondor, and it's a high prize no matter what side you're on. It has been under Alliance governing since it was formed, and has been a major player in every war since the Yuuzhan Vong attacked the galaxy.
I decide Mando ships are altogether ugly things to look at.
They haven't changed much of their designs from that of the wars from the ancient days of the Old Republic. Their capital ships still look like big, nasty, mechanical bugs. These bugs have bite, though. Countless turbolaser batteries chew away Admiral Stazi's flagship.
Poor Duro. Only recently promoted to Admiral, one of the youngest in the history of the Defense Force, and he would be losing his first battle.
His cruiser fought back for all it was worth, though. Mon Cal tech has followed the same bylines and principles it did a century ago: stay rugged, stay operational, and stay fighting no matter how badly it was getting pounded.
Stazi's shields had only just fallen, and the Mando ship, easily twice the size of Stazi's, was already losing it orbit above Fondor.
The GA Fourth and Sixth fleets had been sent in to deal with the Mando invasion, and so far we have done a poor job of keeping them away from the shipyards.
Luckily, I had been on Coruscant when the call came in, and I was able to ship out with the Jedi squadrons assigned to Stazi's command ship.
I am not in a fighter. I'm in a blunt ship.
These ships have been designed especially for the New Mando Wars.
Because their ships are so damned hard to get close to without getting blasted to pieces, they are difficult ships to board and take control of. So, the GA ship designers had to go a different route: just ram another ship into it.
The Rammer is the prototype. I'm on it, along with fifty Alliance Special Forces people. I sort of just invited myself along for the ride, feeling that was what the Force wanted.
Captain Dalen said he would not object to the presence of a Jedi on a suicide mission. I could only help their chances of making it to the bridge.
The ship is built to take a punch. Shaped like a cylinder and packed to the max with defensive technology, it would take a sun to destroy us. Made out of special quantum alloy, it is the first ship of its kind.
As the ship buckles beneath my feet and I'm forced to grab for a handhold, I begrudgingly think, hopefully not the last of its kind either.
The ship has no weapons. Its purpose is to jump out of lightspeed and ram into the nearest enemy capital ship, then take control of or destroy it from the inside.
We're bearing down on the Mando capital ship now, I can see as I turn away from the viewports that show Stazi's ship climbing back into space, ready to take on another ship.
I don't get long to gawk at just how big these Mando ships are before we're told to buckle in because we're about to make landfall.
I make sure my lightsaber's cool and reassuring pommel is placed securely in my hand before connecting my crash webbing.
THUD. It is only with the power of the Force that I don't lurch forward. Even with the crash webbing I would have hit the nearest bulkhead.
"Guess it worked," someone muttered. It was followed with nervous chuckles and a command from squad leaders to cut the chatter.
There was some movement about the ship as its docking arms found traction inside the ship and pulled its even deeper into the bowels of the cruiser.
Then the front door opened and I was up.
I guess we landed in a cargo hold of some sort. I don't ignite my lightsaber just yet, there is no immediate sense of danger about me. I give the whole room a once over with my physical eyes anyway and call to Captain Dalen, "All clear, sir."
The troops deploy inside the ship. The Captain begins to divvy everyone up into squads. Essentially, half the team was to take the engine room, and the other half was to go to the bridge. I would be going with the bridge group.
I offer to lead the way and no one objects. If our mission fails, the Rammer is programmed to detonate if it does not receive periodic com-bursts from various members of the strike team. Either way, this cruise will be put out of commission.
We force our way through a few closed-off sections, not encountering any Mandos yet. Probably still regrouping.
It's not long, though. Mandalorians are quick on their feet. They wouldn't be galaxy-known as supercommandos if they weren't.
The first visor-helmeted bucket heads showed up in a corridor on the thirteenth deck.
My lightsaber shot into existence from its hilt and batted away blaster bolts, bright blue against angry red. Many of the bolts I send back at them bounce off their armor. Then they rush me, because the easiest way to deal with a Jedi is in close combat. I swing my lightsaber out to meet them and the blade bounces off their forearm plates. One even kriffin' grabs my blade with his specially gloved hands. Mandos, though, no matter how much lightsaber-resistant tech and armor they have on them, are not immune to the Force.
I send a wave of concussive force out from my person and the two of them slam into the corridor walls, their bucket heads clanking against the plasteel.
We fight our way up through the next thirteen decks, losing about a dozen men in the process. Special Forces, while trained in nearly every known martial art, are still no match for a Mando supercommando.
Of which, we all discover to our dismay, there are plenty of on this ship, which leads me to believe that we've infiltrated one of the flagships.
Someone must've told them there was a Jedi coming.
Two decks before the bridge, two Mandos step out of a turbolift brandishing a bright, scarlet lightsaber in each hand.
I stop dead in my tracks, my Force-sense immediately stretching out.
No. There is no malevolent energies about these commandos. They are no more Force-sensitive than a rock.
Mandalorians are supposed to be superior tactical geniuses in most situations. And, as I tell the SF team to stay behind me and to let me handle this, I have to admit that this is a pretty dumb move on their part.
Because it makes absolutely no sense to me to send soldiers at me with the one weapon that I have been sparring and training with since birth.
They must have thought it would intimidate me.
"You know," I say, gesturing with my lightsaber vaguely at their sabers, "I tend to have an extreme prejudice against beings who use a lightsaber with that specific color."
They say nothing, they only step forward.
Mando or not, supercommando or not, versed in all forms of combat or not, these are still just men.
Using a Jedi weapon.
The first one jabs at me, thinking of the lightsaber as just another sword, I can discern that much from his thoughts.
I easily parry it, sliding my blade quickly up and over his own to swiftly and cleanly decapitate him.
Jedi know: The lightsaber is an extension of yourself. It is a weapon of the Force.
Non-Force users who attempt to use one will fail. As these two Mandalorians have. The next one tries some sort of feint-attack move on me. With a slightly puzzled expression, not having time for a dance of blades, I swift through all his flashy show of swordsmanship and impale him under the lip of his helmet.
I try to ignore the sounds his dying body makes as he falls to the ground.
Our team moves forward—we're at the bridge, now.
We lay siege to it. Another half a dozen men are cut down just as the turbolift doors open. Then my blade becomes a network of spider-webbing blue crosses that cut back blaster fire before they can come even a meter close to these men.
I keep up that network as I step out of the lift and let the men flood into the bridge behind me. They are able to take up firing positions and return fire.
I remain standing where I am, deflecting every bolt that comes at me back to its user.
It's then that I notice the figure standing at the large viewports, watching the battle outside the ship.
He is large, a Chagrian. His horns arc a half a meter from the top of his head, and when he turns, his lower horns reach halfway down his belly.
He is covered in red and black tattoos.
Then he draws a red lightsaber.
And this time when I reach out with my Force-sense, I touch upon the malevolent forces and hatred that are so unique to users of the dark side.
I have dealt with dark side users before.
This being here before me could be nothing less than a Sith Lord.
He takes the steps down to the main bridge floor casually, almost lazily, slightly looking around at the battle, slightly keeping his eyes on me. I say slightly because it's hard to tell exactly where he's looking, his eyes are so black.
"The Sword," he says.
My heart catches in my throat as I realize the whispers have more than likely been true after all.
All this time, I have been half-absently deflecting blaster bolts all around me, and now I redirect them in his direction.
He nonchalantly catches a few of them on his blades and lets them charome off into the bulkheads.
Those words are the only ones he utters before he lashes out at me. He takes the few dozen steps that separate he and I in a blur, and then I give myself over to instinct and the Force.
My blade carries the duel responsibility of catching both blaster bolts and the precision force of the Sith's blade. At times, it has to do this both at once. At these times, my blade moves in a blur, having to cut so close to my skin that burns away pieces of my tunic and the fine hair underneath to first deflect a bolt and to then parry a lightsaber blow with a minor twitch of the wrist.
I cannot do anything except defend. The Sith Chagrian's attack is so ferocious, so purposeful that to put any concentration or thought into returning his blows will kill me.
Wearing him out is my only option. Or counting on one of my men to pick him off. For he too now has to deflect blaster bolts aimed at him.
We continue our dance on the bridge, I having to move back and away from him with every over-handed blow he brings down against my blade.
It is there that I see this Sith's downfall. He is arrogant, and places too much faith in his physical prowess and intimidation than the power of the Force.
I will not be able to do much with my lightsaber—that has the single-purposed task of deflecting his blows mere centimeters aside from where a vital piece of my flesh would be. I dare not take one of his blows full-on my blade because while he is arrogant, his physical strength does outclass mine and the chances are he would just drive my own blade into my face if I tried a bar-parry.
The Force is my only weapon.
As I have stated, my blade both parries Sith blows and Mando bolts. With the Force's guidance, I deflect these bolts in such a way that when they glance away from my blade and into a bulkhead, they then bounce of the durasteel and into the main viewport.
I do this a few times until there is a significant crack and a significant decrease in my reserves of strength. Drawing heavily on the Force now, I continue to deflect the Sith's blows until my back hits a wall behind me.
My knee flashes up and catches the Chagrian in the gut. As the whoof of air leaves his lungs, I take the moment's respite to roll between his legs and get a running start back to my men's line.
"Grab onto something!" I roar at them.
They do, while returning fire.
The red-and-black tattooed Sith has regained his composure, caught sight of me, and now strides openly across the bridge, his lightsaber weaving about him to catch the blaster bolts aimed at him.
It is when he is in the open like this, with nothing to grab hold off, that I send the fallen blaster rifle into the crack in the viewport.
The subsequent explosion of air being sucked out into space is deafening and I am forced to shut my lightsaber down and grab onto a console to keep from being blown out with most of the Mandos and the Sith Lord whose look of shock and disappointment will haunt me to till the day I die.
Not because this was anyway a victory for me personally, but because that look of disappointment revealed to me just how badly the Sith had wanted to kill me.
The emergency blastshield shuts around the window into the vacuum and the men and myself are left in the silence.
"Well," I mutter, "that went well."