Four
Maybe it was the way she moved.
Muscles flexing, arms outstretched, feet pivoting as she turned to fire one shot, now two, now ten… Every maneuver was a result of muscle-memory due to what he assumed was hours upon hours of physical conditioning. A part of Torian had questioned her choice in lighter armor—he had always believed true Mando'ade conditioned themselves to manage the heavier stuff—but with the way the Champion worked, the choice seemed suitable. There were vulnerable points all over—under the arms, across the lower stomach, at the elbows and knees, at the ankles—but with the way the woman moved, Torian found that the fact was not really a disadvantage. If someone wanted to hit one of those spots, they would have to catch her first.
Maybe it was the way her eyes shone every time an enemy fell beneath a flurry of blaster fire.
At first, Torian had thought he was just seeing things; it wasn't unnatural for a hunter to take pleasure in the kill, but the look in her eyes every time a rakghoul fell, gurgling, to the ground—chest littered with smoking holes—seemed almost…playful. He could watch her kill for the rest of his life and never grow tired of the spectacle. She dropped another of the beasts and Torian watched as the sparkling light in her eyes leaked down to her lips, curling the tips up in a look that was so feral, so perfect, so…beautiful.
"Kid! You gonna stand there and stare, or d'ya think you might wave that big stick of yours around a bit?"
Torian looked over to where the Devaronian—crouched down behind a fallen pillar so he could pick his shots with care—was glaring at him. Behind the reprimand, however, there was a sense of humor. This "Gault" might seem like a troublesome idiot, but Torian had a stirring suspicion there was much more guile behind those smirking eyes than a cursory glance could give credit.
Phelara whooped, drawing Torian's attention back to the battle at hand. The woman pistol-whipped a rakghoul that had managed to get close then shot two quick blasts into its skull as it staggered back, effectively ending the threat. Her eyes passed over him briefly and Torian felt his heartbeat stagger at the primal energy that passed between them in that moment.
Maybe it was everything about her that drove him to distraction.
An imposing rakghoul rose behind her then, rancid saliva dripping from its razor-sharp fangs. Phelara was still looking towards him—looking as if she wanted to say something, completely unaware of the danger. Torian heard someone shout—was it him?—and she halted, turning around—
—Too slow.
One of the beast's clawed hands swept down and caught the woman on the side, easily tossing her aside. It was a short trip: the closest wall of the small compound they were in was barely five feet away and Phelara hit the metal barrier with a sickening thud. It was like some kind of eerie déjà vu—looking back to her fight against the Sith spawn—only this time Torian was truly there with her and his feelings had changed. He watched as Phelara struggled to regain her feet, glaring up defiantly at the rakghoul bearing down on her.
With a roar, Torian charged into the fray. His deep battle cry drew the beast's attention, but there was little it could do against the steel-edged staff that came swinging in at its head. Torian's weapon connected with a satisfying crunch and the rakghoul reeled back with a shriek of pain. The muffled report of Gault's rifle followed quickly after, taking advantage of the creature's position.
Torian was in hot pursuit, ready to deal the death blow. Phelara had managed to rise to her feet, though it was obvious that standing took quite a bit of effort. Her right arm hung limply at her side, leaving the woman with only her offhand weapon with which to aim and pop off a few shots at the beast that had managed to take her by surprise.
Within moments, the battle was done. The scorched and crushed bodies of rakghouls littered the ground, filling the cramped tunnels of the little compound with their suffocating stench. Torian turned back to where Phelara leaned heavily against the wall she had struck, breathing haggard. Gault was already up and at her side, sifting through his pack for medical supplies.
"You see, this is why I can't take you anywhere nice," the Devaronian was grumbling as he injected her wounded arm with what Torian assumed was a medical agent.
"You consider this nice?" she retorted, nose wrinkling in disgust.
"What? Get someone to clean up the rakghoul bile and string up a few fluorescent lights and I could turn this place into a cantina worthy of a Hutt."
Phelara snorted as she tested her right arm. Her armor had kept the limb from becoming completely crushed, but it was obviously still stiff. Torian watched each injection Gault put into the woman's body, wondering if the reason why the Devaronian carried so many with him was because this was a frequent occurrence. Hunters got hurt: that was a fact. But somehow, Torian found that he didn't like the idea of this hunter being hurt.
"Hey," she said, drawing Torian's attention to her face, "you ok?"
The question took him off-guard; the woman currently being pumped full of stims was asking if he was all right? Where was the logic in that?
"Not the one who likes meeting walls," he remarked, expertly masking the concern in his tone.
Phelara's eyes flickered at his use of a plural and Torian cursed inwardly. But instead of pointing out the slip, she said, "True enough. You just looked a little shell-shocked."
Torian bristled. "Not afraid of battle."
"Didn't say you were." Her voice was serious, but her eyes were still laughing. Before the young man could say anything more, Phelara turned her attention back to Gault who was finishing up his ministrations. "Can we get moving now?"
"Oh, sure. No need to thank me or anything."
"For what? Isn't this part of your job?"
"No, my job was to provide you with business investment opportunities."
"Is that so?"
"That is so. I became your personal nurse back when you were getting your skull cracked open by Killiks on Alderaan."
"Hey, I never asked you to do anything of the sort, so you can't blame this one on me."
Gault sighed as he returned the last of his stims to his pack. "You're right, of course. It was that little witch back on the ship. After I brought you back the first time, I thought for sure she was going to cut my head off. After that lecture, I decided it was in my best interest to always be prepared."
"So…then this is your job?"
"Ye—wait…damn it! Oh, we are so renegotiating my terms when we get back to the ship…"
Torian watched the exchange, smiling when Phelara began to laugh. She had a beautiful laugh…part feminine charm and part danger. For the first time in his life, Torian wished that he was the kind of person who could make her laugh like that.
Pushing off from the wall, Phelara started down the hallway. Gault followed obediently, his mouth still moving though Torian had stopped really listening. His eyes watched the way her body moved as he fell in behind the pair, hoping that he would be able to commit every detail—from the slight swing of her hips to the slender slope of her shoulders—to memory. If he died with that image in his mind, Torian would be a happy man.
/
Torian held back as Phelara approached the holoterminal in the center of the small room they had found in the complex. Somehow he had known that the place would be a dead end. Jicoln was a bastard, but he was a sly bastard. If he had been stupid, Mandalore would have had his head by now.
A small light on the holoterminal was blinking: a call was waiting. Phelara approached the machine and fired it up, crossing her arms over her chest as the holographic image of their target flickered into sight. The image was that of a man in his late forties or early fifties with a bald pate, thick beard, and hastily-penned tattoos running across each of his eyes and down his face. Those eyes regarded the woman standing before the machine with smug indifference.
Torian felt every muscle in his body tense. He had never actually seen his father before—except in a few faded photographs that he had been given as a boy. But those photographs had been of a much younger man, haughty and in the prime of his life. A proud warrior. The image hovering over the holoterminal still held some of the same steel, but if one looked close enough, it was possible to see a slight hunch to the shoulders, dark circles beneath those eyes. He was still a warrior in some sense of the word, but it was akin to a punch in the gut realizing just how washed-up the man was.
Not that Torian would show him mercy. Old man or not, the bastard would die with a knife in his traitor's heart. Torian remained out of sight—not that Jicoln was likely to recognize him—and let Phelara do the talking. This was her hunt, after all, mandated by Mandalore himself. Torian would allow her the lead, but when the time came it would be his hands that ended the traitor's life. His hands painted in the man's blood. Phelara might not forgive him for it—might even kill him for it—but a life without honor was no life at all. Jicoln's blood would wash his slate clean.
"Cin vhetin," he murmured, hands balled into tight fists at his sides.
"What was that?"
Torian cut his gaze to the side to where Gault leaned against a wall just a couple of feet away. The Devaronian's sharp eyes regarded him coolly, so far removed from his usual lackadaisical demeanor. Torian silently reprimanded himself for underestimating the alien yet again; Gault might play the fool, but there was something beneath the calm exterior that put the shadows in the room to shame.
"Nothing," Torian said. "Just old words."
Gault cocked an eyebrow, unconvinced, but did not press the issue. Phelara trusted the kid, but that didn't mean he couldn't keep both eyes open.
The holoterminal flickered off and Phelara cursed, drawing the pair's attention. When she turned to stalk past them, there was a fire burning in her eyes. Torian wondered how those flames didn't scorch the path she walked upon.
"Trouble?" Gault asked as he fell into step beside her.
"What? You weren't listening?"
"Not really." When she leveled that hot gaze upon him, the Devaronian only smiled. "Hear one crazy idiot's monologue and you've heard them all."
"When I find that bastard," Phelara muttered beneath her breath, "I'm going to beat that smug look off of his face…" She stopped then and turned back to Torian. "He said something about a…geh-roya beh-ha-run? Know anything?"
"Geh'roya beharan. It's aMando'ade death game. Four parts to the game: ali'jate, personal honors; yeme sum, the homeworld; the stere'bise defends a legacy; and the nost who destroys it. He will place honors around the battlefield, you will try to take them. If you get all of them, then you must take his home."
"Of course that's what it is. It couldn't possibly be as simple as an old-fashioned beat-down." Phelara sighed. "So how the hell am I supposed to find these 'honors?' Just wander around the swamp and hope I get lucky?"
"I will find them, point you in the right direction. And while you play the game, I will find his home. When you are ready to challenge, call me."
Torian moved to walk past her into the humid air of the swamps. Each step he took felt like another step closer to the end.
Soon, dar'manda. Soon you will know me as death.
Author's Note: The last bit of dialogue I ripped from the game (thanks to a helpful YouTube video). No idea if I spelled the Mando words right, but there it is.
TRANSLATIONS:
Dar'manda – "one who is 'not Mandalorian.' Not an outsider, but one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity and soul."