Lineage III
Part 14: Warrior
Sifo-Dyas lunged forward, striking fast and hard, a killing blow that bisected the stifling gloom into past and present, delusion and harsh truth.
Obi Wan leapt, Force-propelled, a heartbeat and a hairsbreadth ahead of the blow, twisting Ataru-style over his opponent's – murderer's - head, landing behind him in a crouch, breath coming in rapid gasps, pulse driving his blood in a whirl. The Shadow was a traitor. Was …dark.
He rolled backward over one shoulder to avoid the next strike, and then sprang for the rafters high overhead, a burning resolution now branded into his will. Sifo-Dyas would not kill him here, not blame the crime on Xanatos and return to the Temple with solemn news of the same, bearing his dead body as evidence of DuCrion's treachery, a pathetic offering to crush Qui Gon's heart and veil over the true festering cancer in the Temple's hallowed core.
His leap was intercepted in mid-air; an invisible fist seemed to slam into his chest, sending him flailing across the empty space, back and legs hitting some unyielding surface with a shocking impact. The darkness erupted into stars and nebulae, bright splotches of color, and he was falling again, helplessly. He shoved outward, clumsy, inept, calling on the stunned and reeling Force to aid him, but still hit the floor with enough velocity to knock his breath clean away.
Winded, numb, he lay on his back and struggled vainly to clear his vision.
A blue saber howled within a meter of his body, crossing the downward sweep of the green blade. Blurry figures dueled and clashed together, the humming and spitting blades whirling in a dance of light. ObI Wan rolled onto his knees, gasped for breath, for the Force, pushing onto his feet despite the sickly rolling of the floor, the unsteady centrifugal motion of the cave-like world.
The blue 'saber left its wielder's hand, skittered across the slick factory floor; the weaponless figure went tumbling backward beneath a savage kick, sprawled in a vulnerable heap a few meters away. Sifo-Dyas advanced upon his fallen foe.
Obi Wan reached out a hand, summoned his saber. It flew to him, swift and sure, the crystal chiming clear, high, sonorous within the Force. The blade leapt back to life, an extension of his will, of his heart, blazing white-pure. Without thought, without effort, he was between the Sentinel and Xanatos, parrying the fatal strike, answering with a counterattack, blocking, striking, lunging, whirling, locked together with the furious cloaked figure, the treasonous old gundark, a crusty dragon, pustulent and reeking of malice.
Light drove against dark, principality clashing with ageless power, the two Sides churning into a confused blur; Sifo-Dyas' cloak took a slashing strike, severed into two flapping pieces, the edges red-hot and smouldering; somewhere nearby, Xanatos made a bold move, and was hurled backward again with a flick of the Shadow's wrist. Obi Wan ducked beneath a strike, pivoted, struck low, blocked high, caught the green blade on his own, yielded, let the next strike slide past his right side, cut upward, grunted as his 'saber met a hammering downward blow, and disengaged, teeth bared, blade flourished in a wide circle, a screaming line of blue fire, an ephemeral battle-pennant.
"Brat!" the furious Sentinel snarled. "You try my patience!" He raised a hand, closing the fingers tight in a fist.
The young Jedi felt his feet leave the deck, even as his throat constricted beneath a painful, invisible clamp. A thrill of panic broke his connection with the Light; the 'saber dropped from his slackening fingers. Vainly he struggled to break Sifo-Dyas' grip, hands clawing futilely at his neck, seeking an enemy without bodily form. Spots swam before his eyes.
And he was thrown, heavily, onto his back again, his resistance shattering into stunned defeat beneath the blow. The Shadow loomed over him, the hard fist still raised in merciless anger. The ragged edge of a gap in the floor issued a trickling steam of bitter vapor over its lip, promising quick destruction below. Obi Wan writhed, fingers scrabbling at the smooth surface beneath him as he was pushed, slowly, deliberately toward that fateful ledge. He could feel the acidic condensation stinging his face; the agony of the seething pit beneath was beyond imagining.
Sifo-Dyas chuckled, and then wheeled about, his deadly grip loosening. Xanatos attacked, again bearing the blue saber, his form sloppy and inexpert, blunted by lack of practice, by his prolonged captivity.
Obi Wan gasped for breath, scrambled away from the horrific acid pool, looked for a projectile, anything at all, a broken piece of scaffolding, abandoned equipment, loose plating. The saber blades spat and growled, the green driving the blue inexorably backward.
He found it: a piece of wall insulation, rusted and hanging loose. The Force surged through him; he tore it loose and threw it headlong across the cavernous warehouse, at the maddened Sentinel's head.
Sifo-Dyas spun, carved the projectile in two with his saber, and blocked Xanatos' blow behind his back, flawless, indefatigable, impossibly skilled.
"You are outmatched," he sneered, turning on Xanatos in a fury, driving him to one knee and disarming him in one fluid motion. "You have not touched the Force in a long time, my young friend… and it shows." A snap of Sifo-Dyas' wrist sent his opponent smashing flat onto his back, weaponless, a searing line carved through cloth and flesh, belly to sternum. The green blade rose again –
-and Obi Wan's leap carried him headlong against the Shadow, his hands vying for the saber hilt even as the two of them slammed into the floor, grappling in a desperate, writhing tangle of limbs and cloak, the plasma blade searing hot gouges into the plasteel as they wrestled for dominance, their backs rolling over the burning slashes carved in the floor, their faces peppered with sparks and stinging fire.
Sifo Dyas ended on top, a knee in his smaller foe's back, free hand wrapped tight in the Padawan's nerf-tail, twisting his head sharply to one side, his right hand straining against the younger Jedi's grip, the green blade reducing the floor to a molten puddle, a hand's width from Obi Wan's face.
Eyes streaming, fear and fearlessness coursing equally in his veins, Obi Wan reached down, the fingers of his other hand straining, calling for the knife hidden in his left boot. It slipped out of its sheath, into his grasp. Sifo Dyas hissed something in his ear, leaning close, his hot breath a twisted valediction.
Obi Wan plunged the knife back-handed into the Sentinel's leg.
It did little damage, but in the moment of surprise and pain, he threw his enemy off and twisted away, rolling back to his feet. Another hole stretched wide behind him, inviting a drop into hellish liquid, corrosive oblivion. The stench was choking. Yellow clouds hung languid in the murky air.
The Shadow advanced, saber growling palpable threat, an implacable light in his slanted eyes. He prowled about his prey, savoring the moment of triumph.
Obi Wan panted, took a step backward, keeping distance, wary, expecting nothing, expecting anything, the Thesspari knife still clutched in his sweat slicked hand, a pathetic defense against Sifo-Dyas' weapon and mastery.
The Shadow bore down, face cast in lurid highlights by the ghastly acid bath beyond.
"Traitor!" he shouted at the advancing face of death. "You've dishonored the Order!"
Sifo Dyas's lip curled. His dark eyes flashed. "From my point of view, the Jedi Order is weak and corrupt, unworthy of service or continued existence."
"Then you are Lost!" the Padawan hollered, feeling the sticky caress of acid vapor against his neck, the wafting of toxic gas at his back, an updraft of colder air behind him as his heels came to the edge of the gaping pit in the floor.
"No," the Shadow smiled wanly. "You are lost."
Another 'saber burned in the gloom; a line of green fire dropping like a thranctill from the girders above. Sifo-Dyas narrowly avoided the pouncing attack, flowing away from the hunter's plunging descent at the last moment, his blade barely deflecting a powerful severing blow, a strike delivered with enough power to cleave him head to groin.
"Master!"
Qui Gon spared him a fleeting glance, and closed with the Sentinel, his long hair flying behind him, his cloak flowing with his movement, the Force stirred into a hurricane of protective wrath. The two Jedi masters clashed like raging gundarks; their sabers threw up cascades of sparks and filled the empty cavern with a shrill chorus, a thunderous cacophony.
"Obi Wan!" Qui Gon thrust one hand in his direction, commanding. "Get out of here!"
The battle surged, shifted direction unpredictably. The two green blades screamed as they locked together, dissonant wails echoing off distant walls. Strengths and skills collided in a slippery stalemate, a violent opposition of wills.
"Now!" the tall master thundered, the Force itself taut with his authority.
Obi Wan ran, stooping to retrieve his own weapon, abandoned amid the shadows, and then skidded to a halt by Xanatos' inert form. He knelt, hands balling in the man's stained tunics. "Xanatos! Xanatos!"
Bloodshot eyes flickered open. A trickle of crimson ran from one corner of Du Crion's mouth. "Kill me," he muttered.
Behind them, the battle raged, back and forth across the dark polished floor. Ghostly light flickered in the shadows, mingling with the sickly glow of the acid baths.
"No, get up. You… you said you would show me the truth, show me something. What is it?"
Xanatos stumbled upright, and fell, two hands clutching at his wounded torso. "Truth," he laughed bitterly, choking up more blood. "You've seen it. The Order is doomed… betrayal…"
Obi Wan scowled. Somewhere behind them, the two sabers again smashed together, a screeching bedlam of noise and spitting fire. "No. There's more. Why do they want Offworld. Xanatos, tell me. Please. I helped you escape. Keep your word."
"Kill me, please," Xanatos moaned, one hand now clutching at Obi Wan's tunic, dragging him down, in the parody of a fraternal embrace. "Don't let them take me back… can't. Won't. Do it now."
"I won't kill you! Tell me what you know."
Xanatos seized his arm, eyes rolling back in pain. "Please," he begged. "Let it die with me. Don't let them.."
There was a terrific creaking groan overhead; a girder began to slip from its place. Obi Wan twisted his face upward, striving to free himself from Du Crion's grasping hands. The battle had traveled to the roof beams; someone had severed a support structurein hope of felling his opponent; the entire warehouse shivered with palsy.
Obi Wan was shivering too. He tried to heave Xanaots to his feet, but his strength was flagging, his illness asserting its sovereignty.
Another pair of footfalls rushed across the floor. Voices shouted; the Force rose in a deafening tide, a tidal wave of power. More sabers sang in the smothering darkness; electric fear and rage lanced through the plenum, choking, overwhelming. Obi Wan gasped, dizzy with the sudden influx, dizzy with fever.
Xanatos lunged for his 'saber, but he pulled free. "No!"
"Kill me, damn you!" Xanatos begged. "Coward! Do it!"
He gazed stricken upon the gaunt face of Qui Gon's first Padawan, the madness in Xanatos' shadowed eyes, the desperation etched into the ruins of his face. They panted, each on hands and knees, facing one another.
Voices called their names, blended into the infernal din, into the roar of blood in his ears.
Xanatos! Obi Wan! Padawan!
The dark haired youth stumbled upright, teeth bared, swaying where he stood, blood dripping from nose and mouth, black against the deathly pallor of his skin. "Kill me," he whispered.
Obi Wan shook his head, his hand trembling, his own legs trembling beneath him.
Xanatos' face twisted in despair, and he made a sudden dive, a lunge for the edge of the acid pit. Obi Wan leapt forward, to intercept him. They hit the decks, rolled over once, twice, writhing and kicking, would-be suicide and would-be savior, and teetered on the brink, the burble of bitter liquid whispering below them, the pounding of footsteps and voices filling the empty cave, shaking the Force into wild confusion.
Xanatos struck out savagely, loosing himself, and tumbled over the edge first. Obi Wan slid inexorably after, his feet losing purchase even as he twisted, hands grasping at the smooth floor, at nothing, at the Force itself... at the pair of large, tendon knotted hands that clamped fiercely about his wrists, wrenching his shoulder sockets painfully as his full weight hung over the edge, dangling above the acid pit below.
A terrible scream; the Force blazed with agony; darkness exploded behind his eyes. Screaming aloud himself, he barely felt Qui Gon haul him roughly over the edge again, drag him backward from certain destruction, embrace him with an almost unbearable intensity. Xanatos' death echoed for a full minute in the Force, wringing helpless shouts of pain from both of them, flooding them both with a dark tide in which memory and name were burned away, dissolved into the Force, leaving naught but skeletal grief and horror behind.
In the silence afterward, their mutual shock swirled and ebbed dully across their Force bond, a susurration of disbelief washing at the shores of their understanding. Obi Wan became aware that he was sniveling against Qui Gon's chest, like a star-forsaken youngling, and wrenched backward, mortified. The Jedi Masters grip stopped him at arm's length however, holding him fast by either elbow.
"Master, I , I –"
Qui Gon's face had been blanched to pale ivory by Xanatos' death. There was a sickly sheen of moisture on his forehead and cheeks, trails of grief carving through grime and sticky perspiration. Their breaths still came in labored unison, the Force yoking them together, a luminous umbilicum.
"Sifo-Dyas," Obi Wan rasped out.
"Master Windu and Master Dooku went after him," the tall man sighed, closing his eyes in the wake of another harsh realization.
"I tried to stop Xanatos," ObI Wan said, letting his chin fall onto his chest. Qui Gon's sorrow was a crushing burden, a condemnation of his failure more severe than even DuCrion's last agony had been.
The master's grip hardened, painfully. He gave the Padawans' arms a not-quite-gentle jerk, a terse hint of the emotion roiling beneath his tenuous control. "Obi Wan! What possessed you to go speak to him again? You defied my order. You were nearly killed."
Shaking, he made himself meet Qui Gon's eyes. "I – the Force guided me, master. I had to do it. He…he was going to show me something, something the Shadows were doing. They wanted Offworld for some dark purpose, He said the Order is corrupt, and doomed, and there is no hope for the future, that that – I – ow!"
Qui Gon abruptly loosened his hold. "I'm sorry. " They stared at each other, and more grief swelled in the Force, a rising torrent of regret, of horrible truths, of leering gargoyles emerging stealthily from the dankest corners of intuition. "Did you help him escape? You feigned a kidnapping?"
Obi Wan's heart sank. Stated thus, so starkly, so simply, his malfeasance took on a new and perverse aspect. He exhaled with some difficulty. "Yes, master."
Qui Gon closed his eyes, briefly, before the barely contained explosion Then, "By my oath, Padawan, you have much to learn - and I shall personally see that you learn every last damned lesson of it by heart!"
That promise rendered Obi Wan Kenobi speechless. He knelt, still imprisoned in Qui Gon's grip, shaking with fever and a sludge of conflicting, turgid emotion, determined not to shame himself further with a display of melting, bottomless sorrow. They said nothing for a long minute, until the Force flared bright with the sudden return of Mace Windu.
The Korun Jedi crouched beside Qui Gon, laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Du Crion?" he inquired, his dark eyes liquid with unspoken sympathy.
Qui Gon bowed his head.
"I'm sorry," Mace murmured. His gaze shifted to Obi Wan. "Padawan. Are you all right?"
He nodded, not daring to speak.
"Dooku has gone after Master Dyas," the Councilor stated, heavily. "If the latter escapes, we can at least be assured he will not dare return to the Temple. We were all deceived."
"He killed Bruck Chun," Obi Wan managed to grate out. "It was him, not Xanatos."
Mace nodded gravely. "And he stole the holocron as well. He has broken his oath and fallen to madness or the Dark. I pray that it's the former. Had you not fought against him, he might have succeeded in masking his treachery by killing you and blaming this entire debacle on Du Crion."
"We should leave this place." Qui Gon stood, at last relinquishing his hold on Obi Wan's arms. "Padawan."
But he was too far gone to stand up. Mace Windu's concerned face swam before his eyes. A calloused hand was pressed against his cheek.
"Qui, is he injured? Something's not right . Come here, young one. Easy."
"Padawan. Can you hear me?"
"He's seriously ill, Qui Gon. Let's go."
Two pair of strong arms lifted him, and carried him away, into a blanketing oblivion in which acidic vapor clouds and the dizzily shafting Light met and parted, and coiled together into meaningless visions, delirious nightmares wrought of shadow and elusive luminance, as shifting as the illusions that dwelt in Ilum's ice caves.
The last thing he heard was Qui Gon's voice faintly calling his name.