Part Seven: Warriors

'The challenge has been issued!' declared The Proclaimer as he stood before the assembled members of the clan. 'The fight to discover who truly is the rightful Mandalore is about to commence!'

The crowd roared, baying for blood and not caring whose was shed. He stood in the centre of them, soaking up the sounds, the smells, the sight. As was traditional in situations such as this, he and his challenger were encircled within a ring of fire, the clan watching from beyond the dancing flames. The fire was there for numerous reasons. The flames in many ways represented the Mandalorian people themselves – it was powerful and persistent, always growing, consuming, taking with the force of its own might. It also served to put the warrior under pressure. Knowing that only a few steps away the fire awaited them greedily, inhaling the dizzying fumes, feeling the cloying weight of its warmth even inside the already stifling full body armour. Performing in situations like this was what made one worthy of carrying the title of Mandalore.

His opponent faced him, entirely still. They were clad in ebony black armour that was clearly well crafted – it was thick and protective yet formed closely to their shape, slick as a second skin. Their features were concealed behind a helmet, polished to such a degree that he could see his own silver suit in it.

The Proclaimer barked a command in Mandalorian and the two adversaries met each other in the centre of the ring of fire, crossing their blades in a mark of mutual respect. Another command. Both warriors tensed, ready for the battle to begin. Then – the order was given.

He blocked the kick, only to find it had been a feigned attack and just narrowly avoided the vibroblade that came slicing through the air. He delivered a swift, sharp elbow into his opponent's face but they remained unfazed, meeting him with an uppercut at close range with their free hand. Letting out a snarl of rage, he raised his blade, ready to plunge it in deep but the attacker was fast. Their blades clashed, sparks flying. For a moment there they stood, locked in position. He was so close to his adversary's vibroblade that he could make out the two milky white stones sent into its hilt. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the stillness ended and his opponent jabbed forward. He parried but was driven backwards by the blow, towards the inviting flames and screams of his clan.

A series of blows, parries, hits and misses followed in a flurry of motion. The two warriors moved almost as one, silent but for their own breathing and the singing of their blades as they moved through the air. To an untrained eye, they seemed evenly matched but to the watching crowd of experts in the field of combat it was gradually becoming clearer that it was the challenger who had the upper hand. Already, their leader's movements were slower, more sluggish and his blows lacked the same force behind them. On more than one occasion he had come close to being pushed into the fiery embrace of the circle but each time had managed to fight his way back to the centre with a true warrior's spirit.

An opening – there! He took it, driving his blade upwards with enough force to send his opponent's helmet spinning across the muddy ground of the fighting ring. His laugh of triumph was cut short, as he recognised the face of the challenger.

Short blonde hair framed a heart shaped face that, despite its façade of lightness and breezy contentment, had a hard edge to it. Her eyes were keen, burning with that spark that he had seen dance in them before, when they had fought side by side. After discovering who she truly was, he'd often wondered if that same fire had been glittering in her gaze when she had watched Malachor burn and known that her orders had decimated the Mandalorian forces, maybe for ever. It was a face he had not expected to see again for a very long time.

'Revan?' he asked, barely daring to believe it possible.

'Well now, my boy,' croaked a voice reproachfully and he snuck a glance down to see an oversized gizka sat on Revan's helmet. 'Surely you saw this coming?'

Revan threw back her head and laughed. 'Of course he didn't. A blunt instrument will never appreciate the complexity of more subtle tools of destruction.'

Taking advantage of his surprise, Revan attacked with a new vigour, landing a spinning kick to his middle. He stumbled back slightly but the shock of the blow served to bring him back into the fight. He tried a left hook but she ducked out of the way. Her responding uppercut was devastating and delivered with enough force to send his own helmet flying off.

'But that – that's impossible!' he growled, knowing for a fact that his helmet was designed to never be that easy to remove in the heat of battle.

Revan laughed again. 'You honestly think that you're good enough to wear that suit of armour? To call yourself the one true Mandalore, ruler of the clans and scourge of the galaxy?'

Roaring with rage, he raised his blade high. 'I deserve it more than you do! I'll be damned before I let some little Jedi take over the clans, even if she did used to be some big-shot Dark Lord.'

With that, he flew at her once more but something had changed. The air seemed to have become thicker and his movements slowed by it almost to a crawl. In contrast, Revan was zipping around him at near impossible speed with no sign of difficulty upon her lovely features. If anything, she seemed almost bored as their blades met once again.

'Is that so?' she said mockingly, as he fought to free himself from the stalemate. 'It was I who was responsible for the death of the last Mandalore. Surely that makes me his rightful successor, not some two-bit, washed-up mercenary for hire with delusions of saving his pathetic species from their inevitable annihilation.'

A last, cruel smile and then he was on the ground, her blade at his throat. The roar of noise from the clan that he considered his yet that he no longer had any claim to was deafening.

'Finish it then. Kill me.'

In one swift motion, Revan sheathed her sword. The fire melted away and she was surrounded by those who had watched the battle, all of whom seemed to be staring at her with a reverence that he had never commanded. 'No, I won't,' she purred, crouching down beside him and whispering in his ear, 'Only a true warrior deserves to die at my hand.'

With that, she was gone and where she went the clan gladly followed. He was left to lie shamed in the mud, cries of 'All hail the mighty Mandalore!' still ringing in his ears...

In his bunk, Canderous Ordo, Mandalore, growled and thrashed in his sleep.