"And… slip," Dak muttered, twitching his fingers slightly. The hidden kyrac'epar balancing on the tree branch fifteen meters away squealed, as its feet were nudged slightly. The scream continued during the ensuing four meter fall, before it was silenced by the splash of water… and the thrashing of unseen teeth and blood beneath the surface.
Dak smirked, amused. Juhani was not. Her species took pleasure in the kill, not killing in general. Dak just liked killing now. Surrounded by so many with a love of death and battle… it was hard to remain centered here. Not as difficult as Korriban, which had been a constant, open assault upon her control… more like Kashyyyk's Shadowlands, with its subtle, sly advance, infiltrating her psyche… probing her defenses…
"There's another knot forming up ahead, in the curve of the channel," Dak reported to the helmsman. The mando nodded. They would have to slow to take the blind turn. The creature Dak had killed was most likely a look-out for the main ambush… and either way, the waiting enemies had likely been alerted.
((()))
Canderous snagged a pastry, from a passing child pressed into cooking detail, it was filled with some kind of hot fish/fruit filler. Whatever it was, it tasted… interesting… but the mandalorian was more focused on the map, with the red and blue beads scattered across its surface. So far, his forces had been able to hold the line… although he did not have his men actually deployed in a line. This island had some topographical features along its shores that prevented passage, even by the kyrac'epar. The north was almost impregnable, due to the natural cliff-break, which was roughly twenty-five meters in height, with sheer sides that possessed little in the way of handholds, and those that did exist were covered in very slippery lichen. A handful could hold it, picking off the slowly climbing aliens, even with only melee weapons. The current was also very strong there, part of what had carved out the cliff in the first place. The rest of the island sloped down from the height of the north shore… but the hilly east and west shores were difficult to traverse due to the presence of a particularly dangerous species of thorny hedge ("plunder" from the Ithorians), which exuded a rather potent analgesic from the spines. Unfortunately, it was a useful analgesic once diluted. Heavily.
Raw, it caused respiratory depression and paralysis within three minutes after one scratch (although it affected Nikto less severely… more than five scratches would still be a problem… and rodians were unaffected, beyond a painful rash). The hedge grew moderately quickly… but there were some areas along the east and west shores where the cuttings simply wouldn't take… and without an Ithorian to study the issue, no one on Cusy'bac had been able to figure out why. The handful of open spaces had defensive positions garrisoned, and were shaped into chokepoints.
The greatest vulnerability though, was the flat south shore, where the plant simply refused to grow, period. It was there that Canderous had concentrated most of his forces… and there where most of the kyrac'epar chose to attack.
That being said, the channel was also widest along the south shore… so the enemy had more predator-infested water to cross there. The forest had also been cleared for fifty meters, creating a nice, open killing field, without cover.
And Dorv'ika had left some interesting presents for the shore defenders to play with. There was a string of muted rumbles in the distance, and Ordo smiled. Grenades.
The great equalizer.
((()))
Revan opened his eyes, and stirred… his body stiff. His mind… less so. But he was not alone. Kyle remained with him, although the man's thoughts were fainter… and yet stronger at once. Bastila was still asleep, exhausted from her efforts last night… and still damp from the spray of the ocean storm. Or rather, her hair was, since the bodysuit was technically waterproof. Her hair was also a frightful, tangled mess.
Can't have that now, Kyle whispered, amused.
"You are mad," someone said quietly.
"You are not the first to accuse me of such," Revan agreed, carefully running his fingers through Bastila's hair, gently combing out the snarls.
"But you do not act as such. Why?" Lar'issa demanded.
"Because we have two minds… at the moment," Revan grunted.
"Humans do not have that. Not healthy ones. They are not like the Thakwaash… and even those giants posses only a single personality at a time. They do not have two minds at once," the nautolan snarled.
"There are thakwaash on this planet?" Revan asked, thinking of the three meter tall equine aliens… they were excellent warriors, albeit unpredictable.
"There were. Three lived with us on Saaki. They died, fighting the mandalorians," the woman hissed.
Projectile weapons would have limited effect on them… they probably killed a fair number of mando'ade as they died, Kyle mused.
Gammoreans would be harder to handle than Thakwaash though, Revan argued, due to their berserker mindset, thick bones (especially the skull), and dense musculature.
But Gammoreans are slow. Thaakwash… those bastards are fast, like insane lightning when it suits them, Kyle snorted, showing Revan a few relevant memories from the mandalorian wars. Which were quite sobering. Wookiees were famous for ripping arms from humanoids. The Thakwaash made that look like a parlor trick… and the Thakwaash were herbivores.
"One mind has convinced the other mind to change a thought. That is dangerous," Lar'issa said, unnerved. She had mostly grown up among humans…
"Ah… but we are not the only one like us, are we?" the mad human smirked.
"I have met… another similar to you… but he has only one mind. It simply flickers like a flame in the wind…" Lar'issa snapped.
"A zeltron, by any chance?" the man with two minds asked, smiling.
"What is a zeltron?" Lar'issa asked.
"Red skin… ability to feel the emotions of others… and share some of their emotions back…" Revan explained.
"Share back?" Lar'issa echoed.
"Nautolans aren't telepaths. Your ability to sense the emotional and mental states of others is a physical trait, from your sensory tendrils. You "hear" the words, but do not feel them. They are remote, separate, abstract concepts… simply data to analyze, chemical markers. A zeltron though… a zeltron feels the emotions of those around them. They generally cannot separate it from themselves… but those that can tend to be rather psychotic and sociopathic," Revan revealed.
Lar'issa frowned. She did not understand. For some reason, Revan felt it important that the woman understand.
"Do you wish me to show you?" the man with two minds asked softly.
"Why do you care?" Lar'issa asked, unnerved. The man shrugged, his minds mostly aligned in purpose, "We're mad, remember?"
She did not quite grasp the entirety of the mad mandalorian's words… but she could feel the edges of the thing… the thing about Vex. A man whose emotions resonated with her own. But the curiosity was strong. Slightly stronger than the suspicion.
It had always been such, for her.
"How?" the woman finally asked.
The mad human smiled, and reached out, touching his fingers to her brow.
And the world exploded.
Or her mind expanded.
Physical hunger, fear, hope, concern of another, grief for lost friends, physical pain from injuries, lethargy from sleep… and dozens more assaulted her, worming through her, sending her psyche bucking and diving wildly, like a piece of wood in the surf… and the small thing called Lar'issa, the small piece of self within the churning sea realized that these waters were those of her crew… and her crew alone. The magic woman and the tamed killer were not among the waters.
Then the hand pulled her to the surface, and she opened her eyes again, stunned.
"That was a taste of Vex's world," the mad human whispered, "That is what he lives with. He is not a mere flame in the wind… he is a reed. He bends, but he does not break, and is not extinguished, by the emotions of others."
Lar'issa shuddered, staring in horror at the human. To live with such a condition… in such a raging world.
((()))
Galen studied the scattered body parts at his feet, almost appearing to have been butchered by a… well, a butcher. Such clean, perfect edges…
Galen felt annoyance from the sword. Ah.
This was not a time for distraction. Reluctantly, the archeologist turned away from the patina of gore, and pondered the beach before him. Galen didn't notice the large animal tracks leading from the ship into the forest. He was an archeologist, not a tracker… and he was distracted by all the carnage that scattered and covered the tracks.
There had been a hundred enemies swarming here, from the deep-hulled, high beam vessel beached nearby…
Ninety-one, the sword corrected.
Well… to be completely accurate, there were still a hundred or so—
(Ninety-one)— enemies on the beach… they were simply more spread out then they had been… and sociable with each other… than they had been before dismemberment.
Galen was supposed to be scouting… but… this was more useful for his research.
The sword pointed out that there were more flickers of not-there-ness a quarter kilometer south of them. The kyrac'epar were difficult to spot singly, but when they moved in a cluster… the emptiness was easy to feel in the Force.
And Galen was gaining so much useful data for his experiments.
So much.
((()))
"Boom," the 2.5 meter tall mandalorian intoned somberly, nodding a little, as another grenade exploded.
Mission studied the Abyssin warily. She didn't have good experiences with the one-eyed giants… which could regenerate practically anything (except the head), in a matter of hours. They also tended to be quite violent… often forgetting that others couldn't heal like they could… so to them, the non-Abyssin equivalent of a rowdy shove might be tearing off a finger… or breaking a rib. Or a frelling tibia.
Thankfully, they were really rare off their homeworld.
And a wookiee tearing off their head tended to be fatal, always a good thing, in Mission's opinion.
"So… why is he the one who makes the grenades?" Mission asked suspiciously. Demolitions tended to involve dexterity and intelligence. Abyssin's had large, thick fingers, and a stereotypical lack of intelligence. When combined with explosive compounds…
"Boom," Dorv observed, as a grenade reduced a cluster of seven unarmored kyrac'epar, advancing under a wall of shields, into chunks of shrapnel studded meat.
"Dorv likes making them… and they are delicate, and temperamental to fashion. If he makes a mistake, his hands and arms grow back in a couple hours…" Veran trailed off, with a shrug.
((()))
"You may have been right," Yuthera admitted, drawing more heavily on the Force, to strengthen her flagging muscles. A whip was not an economical weapon, as far as expenditure of motion to killing ratios went… not when compared to a lightsaber. It was useful primarily for killing medium to highly skilled individuals, not hordes of ravenous enemies. Rorikan shrugged, reloading his rifle, and kept half an eye on the overhanging trees, and the other on the narrow channel. They were close now though… the distant staccatos and muted pops of explosives had become both less distant, and less muted. An occasional broken word of shouted mando'a also pierced the air from distant orders and battle cries. As ever, the kyrac'epar remained silent, except in death.
The constant battle had taken its toll. Five warriors had been dragged from the ship, to fall with their opponents into the swirling waters. Only one of them, Jori, had managed to grab a rope thrown to him by his bitter rival, Davan, escaping both drowning, and the sharp teeth of the predators. The deck was littered with the dead and dying. Most of them wore the leather armor/straps of kyrac'epar… but glints of metal glittered among the dead, the armor of Rorikan's brothers. All armor had gaps, places of less protection, that allowed a warrior to move. Helmet slits, joins at the neck, the backs of knees, crooks of elbows… points of articulation could be protected with clever folding pieces of metal and durable cloth, but such was heavy, and many on his crew were skirmishers, eschewing the heavier armor configurations of vanguards. This meant they had more points of vulnerability… but could harass and pursue the enemy across rough terrain without exhaustion, or fight across pitching decks, and climb rigging… even swim, for a few seconds.
That mattered little here, where the enemy came to them…
The dar'jettai were also beginning to tire. Their magic was not infinite. It had limits of endurance… but instead of physical stamina, it was endurance of will, as far as the mandalorian had been able to discern.
Which is why the strange, confusing woman with the whip was still stalking across the deck of his ship like death given form.
And all mandalorians know that death cannot be beaten… only fought… with tooth and claw, blood and courage, until nothing remains. It was the way of things.
A peal of honest laughter pierced the air, and Rorikan glanced back at the ship behind them, looking for his son, but could not spot him among the chaotic combatants.
Only Vex…
Rorikan shook his head, and returned his attention to where it belonged, just as the next wave boiled out of branches overhead.
((()))
"The storm has abated somewhat," Bastila pointed out.
Revan turned to gaze at the chamber, letting his awareness spread across all that drew breath within. Thirty-seven. Two dozen of those minds held thoughts of hunger, blood, and clouds.
We do not need to dominate them all… only the strongest. The leaders. The rest will follow, Kyle whispered.
True… and Shushar was the most dominant of those within… as well as the largest…
The Force was also pulling at them. They were needed elsewhere, soon, to act as a fulcrum of future events… to bring about the future Revan desired. Fate and Destiny was a lie… there was only Choice.
Ten minutes later, the sky around the Wailing Mountain was filled with dragons, led by Shushar. Thirteen of those dragons carried a single rider, the will of those creatures subsumed by Revan/Kyle, or Bastila, to prevent them from eating their passenger… and the remaining eleven dragons followed the strong but kept a safe distance, for they were weaker.
As was the natural order of things.
Time is short, Bastila said, from her dragon, which had stripes of iridescent green on the undersides of its wings.
Time is always short, Revan smirked. Because in war, everything was luck, and timing.
As well as blood, and courage, Kyle whispered.
True… among other things.
((()))
"What do you mean, I don't get any more ammo?" Mission demanded. Veran pointed to the central tower, with the kid banging on the hanging sheet of metal in weird patterns.
"New orders," he shrugged.
"What orders?" Mission asked, hugging the rifle almost protectively to her chest. She hated the thing, but there was a grudging amount of fondness for it too.
"Designated marksmen to station, all others in skirmishing role," Veran translated.
"What does that mean?" Mission asked.
"It means we've depleted seventy percent of our ammunition stores. Those best able to use the remaining ammunition will do so, and provide close fire support for the melee fighters," Veran grunted, setting his rifle in a rack, and reaching for a sheathed sword, belting the thing around his waist.
"Uh… swords? Why not like, spears?" Mission asked nervously. She wanted some distance.
"The kyrac'epar have magic that only works through touch. They can deflect a spear too easily. A sword is harder to influence," the boy said, as he climbed down from the tower, and grabbed a circular wooden shield hanging from a peg at the base of the tower.
Zaalbar chuffed to himself quietly, as he ignored the swords, and instead took the thick metal bar the swords belts had hung from, dumping the weapons to one side. His hands were too big for the hilts anyway. But a two meter long metal pole, roughly four centimeters in diameter? That would serve.
"I've got your back, Big Z," Mission volunteered brightly. She still had her blade. She'd let Big Z handle the heavy lifting. Leave the strategizing to her. Besides, two point five meters of muscular wall was nothing to scoff at.
((()))
I may have spoken too soon, Bastila told Revan wryly, glancing behind them. Another wall of storms was approaching.
No… you were right. That isn't a natural storm… Revan said grimly.
The Kyrac'epar? Bastila asked.
No. It's not controlled… but it is fueled by the force. Besides, from what I've seen the Kyrac'epar are all stunted force users. Terrifying in their numbers, not their ability, Revan replied thoughtfully.
Are you certain? As a whole there is no cohesion to the power… but it almost feels like… Bastila trailed off, switching from words to images, unable to quickly convey through words her meaning. She sent an image of a shadowy man running through a field, with a piece of bloody meat held overhead… pursued by hundreds of indistinct predatory shapes with lots of teeth… straight towards a massed group of armored enemies.
Revan considered the idea for a moment, sparing some more concentration from the beasts to study the approaching force storm.
She was right. Lost among the maelstrom, was a single vivid note… a note the storm followed… a note focused upon him. Not Bastila, the dragons, or the survivors.
Just him.
It was a note sung from afar, through some kind of medium to channel and focus the will of the singer… no… not singer. Singers.
Intriguing.
I cannot comprehend the structure, or the means by which this was done, Revan admitted to Bastila, at least, not while dividing my attention…
Bastila swallowed, afraid. Twelve minds, at once… without aid.
How long do you need? Bastila asked tentatively.
We're not sure… the man said softly.
But the storm will overcome us in minutes. We must act, Kyle hissed.
Bastila caught just the briefest glimmer of intent before—
"No!" Bastila screamed, as Revan let go of all but one mind. Bastila fumbled for the trailing minds, snatching up the slack… as her love's beast tucked one wing, letting the slipstream break its flight, slewing it about in an impossibly tight turn, only possible due to possessing two sets of wings… and charged hard for the teeth of the storm behind them.
Distance cannot weaken the bond. Our power is yours, just as it is mine. We must do this. The touch of Revan's thoughts were hard, cold against Bastila's mind… but beneath was a faint though familiar caress… Kyle.
Damn him… damn them both, Bastila scowled angrily. She hated being tricked.
Even for her own good.
Actually, especially then.
((()))
"Big Z!" Mission complained. Zaalbar roared, oblivious to her discomfort. Ripping off a leg tended to be messy… and Mission blindly tried to get the alien blood out of her eyes. Her mouth had been open and everything… yuck.
"Here," someone shouted over the din, pressing cloth into Mission's fingers. It smelled weird, but it was mostly dry, and she blearily scrubbed at her eyes.
"Thanks," Mission grumbled, sort of able to see again, and let go of Veran's gray half-cape… which had an ink-blot stain pattern of alien blood on it now.
Naturally, Mission thought, irritated. Everything was damned multi-functional with freaking mandalorians.
Veran was one of the shorter fighters in the wall, but the beauty of a shield wall was overlapping shields. Every fighter in the wall borrowed and shared a little of their strength against their neighbor's shield.
Zaalbar stomped down hard on the ribcage of the kyrac'epar that had tried to jump over the wall, to attack the mandalorians' rear. He'd snagged it out of the air by one trailing ankle… the rest was pretty self explanatory. And messy. Which got more stinky crap on her boots. Not as stinky as all the shit drying in Zaalbar's fur though. He was going to need a serious dunking when this was over… in like, acid.
Through it all, there was a constant staccato of projectile rifle shots… but the marksmen weren't shooting at anything close to the wall… they were aiming a little farther out, causing disruptions, confusion, and pile-ups… so although numerous, the enemy wasn't hitting as a concerted front, instead they were hitting the mandalorian shield wall as splintered elements and small bands… more easily dealt with… if no less dangerous.
"Oh shit!" Mission squeaked, as a lucky (and very large) enemy landed a perfect blow with a heavy looking club. The long bones in the unfortunate mando's shield arm broke… something Mission heard vividly even through the din.
It was the mando directly on Veran's left.
Breach.
The follow up swing caught Veran as he lunged in front of the collapsing mando, trying to seal the breach, impacting on the wooden shield, shattering it, even as it threw the little bastard in a low arc back across the sand.
Zaalbar flowed into the gap, one clawed foot lashing out contemptuously, pulverizing the enemy "giant" and using its carcass as a projectile against the oncoming horde.
Big Z had this. Mission sheathed her knife, and ran for the limp body in the sand.
It took a moment to work the strap, to pull the helmet off… and Mission learned some things about "Veran."
First, Veran wasn't human. He was a weequay.
Second he was a girl.
((()))
Canderous studied the battle below from atop the signal tower.
The battle wasn't going poorly… by prowess alone, victory belonged to him.
But this was not a battle of prowess. It was a battle of numbers.
The enemy crawled over a carpet of their fallen dead to reach his brothers.
But crawl they did… and more crawled after.
One of his brothers was hit by a spiked whip, and yanked into the enemy horde. A few moments later, the warrior was lost to sight… but Canderous could see an arm… a leg… a head… none of them connected.
"We in trouble yet?" someone asked.
Canderous glanced at Jolee. He hadn't heard the jettai climb the ladder… but that wasn't surprising.
"Got any tricks for me, old man?" Canderous grunted.
"Tell me, with your slightly younger eyes, what do you see at the tree line?" Jolee asked, squinting.
Canderous cheated. He had a telescope. What he saw pulled a long, vehement curse out of him.
"Look a bit like rancors… but they're not… the head to arm ratio's not quite right… not to mention they're too small," Jolee observed.
War beasts of some kind. Each was three meters tall, and probably weighed the same as fifteen to twenty armored mandalorians. Each had a rider. A rider with pure black skin. Most of the swarming kyrac'epar ranged in coloration from beige to mottled gray. And those riders had armor.
Metal armor, black as their skin.
"Looks like they're running out of rabble… the warriors are here," Canderous grunted.
"The riders have a pretty tight bond with their beasts… I don't think I can turn the beasts on their masters…" Jolee said, studying the distant, but rapidly approaching threat.
"What about on the rabble? They're probably rival clans…" Ordo suggested.
Jolee stiffened.
"Oh… oh you arrogant bastards…" Jolee cackled.
"What?" Ordo demanded.
"See that big one, there?" Jolee used telekinesis to aim the telescope Ordo held to his eye.
"Yes," Ordo said curtly, disliking the sensation.
"That one's female," Jolee was almost vibrating with malicious glee.
"So the other, smaller ones are male?" Ordo mused… guessing the direction this conversation was about to take.
"There's only one directive stronger than food to the primitive mind…" Jolee chuckled, waggling his bushy eyebrows suggestively.
Mating season.
Two of the lead males suddenly halted in their loping charge, wheeling on each other. Chest pounding and ground punching commenced, with roaring, and some stereotypical dominance displays. One rider was smart. He leapt off. The other tried to bring his mount under control. He didn't succeed. The beasts weren't trying to kill the rider… but when several tons of animal is knocked onto its back, with an additional several tons of clawing muscle on top… and a few kilos of meat that thought it was in control finds itself between those two groups, and the ground…
No armor is that good.
"Get a marksman, kill the second rider," Jolee said tensely.
"Ram'ser, ke'sush!" Ordo bellowed. Three of the sharp shooters on the tower heard him, glancing over at Ordo for orders.
"Kyr'amur mayen kyrac'epar ti ne'tra beskar'gam!" Ordo snapped, pointing at the fleeing rider.
The two men (and one woman) nodded, and returned to shooting. As sharpshooters, none wore helmets (they were using those as impromptu stools), and they had leather pads forming a stable stock rest against their shoulders.
"What did you tell them?" Jolee asked, curious.
"It's taken care of," Ordo shrugged, "But, why was the rider important?"
"They control these animals by touch. I can't break that or influence much control over the beast itself… but if they aren't touching, or are dead… then… the beast is mine," Jolee growled, closing his hands into twin fists, then punching them forward.
The two rolling, snarling males suddenly stopped tearing each other apart, and turned to gaze upon the approaching, and wary war beasts behind them.
Two against nineteen. A black armored rider in the approaching group suddenly went boneless in that distinctly fatal style.
One of the men hissed in surprise, and the woman laughed, "Jate nynir!"
Ordo squinted. At six hundred meters, with such crude scopes, and rough rifling… it wasn't a good hit… it was an improbable hit. Ordo glanced at Jolee. The old man had a distinctly innocent look on his face.
"What?" Jolee asked guilelessly. His wrist flicked out as he spoke though…
Three against eighteen.
"Can you do it again?" Ordo asked.
"Maybe. I didn't have to correct the trajectory much… only a couple centimeters… but the more I influence the trajectory, the less inertia the projectile has on impact," Jolee warned.
((()))
Yuthera ducked under her enemy, stumbling a little on the treacherous deck, but still snaked her enemy's ankles together with her whip, and ran the mandalorian sword through the falling alien's throat. The prior owner of the sword was in several pieces on the deck.
"Excessive," Rorikan noted, his own blade grazing the side of his amphibious target's neck, severing an artery. It stumbled back, clutching desperately at the rhythmically gushing slit… before tripping, and falling over the rail, into the churning water below. The predators would finish the kill for him.
Another enemy landed on the deck, and Yuthera tiredly spun, snarling.
"Salutations," Galen smiled brightly, sketching an archaic bow and salute, dripping in alien blood... sword in hand… which was almost as bloody as the archeologist that held it.
"Good. You may deal with the enemies for now," Yuthera panted.
"Oh, we've almost had our fill… but I would suggest you pick up the pace. The main battle does not go well for our… allies," Galen said diplomatically, bisecting a charging alien casually, as he glanced at Rorikan.
"Majycir iviin!" the captain shouted to the handful of crew not occupied with killing. More sails unfurled. Speed increased.
In a narrow channel.
Filled with flashing fins and sharp teeth.
Yuthera gritted her teeth, as the occasional root or rock scraped the hull. She had never been comfortable near large bodies of water.
((()))
This was it. Canderous took the dead man's shield, and drew his inert vibro-sword, thrusting himself into the sudden gap. The entirety of his people now survived within the feasting hall. Many lay in the sands outside the thick stone/metal building... now the enemy pounded at the walls, like the ocean, seeking a way into their ship…
Five of the enemy war-beasts still lived, including the large female. They had broken the main doors, but could not squeeze through the opening… but the enemy could… and Ordo could not form a tight shield wall in the opening, due to the long arms of the war beasts… so his exhausted men formed a wide U shaped shield wall, beyond the reach of the war beasts…
The children had worked together to lift and stack the heavy wooden trestles and tables, creating tiered towers behind the shield wall… towers to fire their rifles into the horde from. No adult carried a rifle now… that was left to the children, as the greater strength of the adults could be better served here… in the wall. The ammunition was almost expended anyway… the children would be joining their parents shortly in the wall.
Even Zaalbar's movements had slowed, the great stamina and endurance of his people reaching its limits. Dorv'ika was missing the armor on his left arm, due to having lost his left arm to the war beasts… and the regenerated arm was still spindly and weak, restricting the giant to his remaining right arm.
Bone, wood, and stone raked like a chaotic (and sharp) hail storm against Canderous's shield. His sword was too long for this kind of work, hemmed in by the shields of his brothers, but he was strong, even if he lacked the power of his youth… he still had plenty to spare, spilling the reckless enemy's entrails, to tangle around his ankles.
In thirty minutes, this fight would be over. There weren't any real reserves, to trade out with… no one to take the place of exhausted men and women…
Once the wall collapsed… the end would come within seconds.
Until then though… Canderous shouldered his shield hard, catching the charging kyrac'epar by surprise, which rebounded off the implacable surface… and then screamed as Ordo's blade snaked through the gap in the shields, and opened a smile across its belly.
Evisceration was a bitch.
((()))
"We'll never make it to the doors… not with those things in the way," Thalia gulped, staring at the angry looking creatures in the distance.
"I can draw them off," Galen offered.
Yuthera glanced at Rorikan.
"Most of our ammunition is gone. The men have two or three magazines left, apiece," the zabrak shrugged.
"We've no ordinance either. Bombs would have been helpful," Davan pointed out, breathing heavily, and leaning on his grounded sword's pommel. It was bad form, it dulled the blade's point… speaking to the exhaustion of the warrior.
Rorikan frowned, "If we had bombs to use… would your warriors be able to launch them?"
Yuthera hesitated. As a group, perhaps, but not with the same rate as before, during the raid on the enemy dock.
"Perhaps…" she conceded.
"Then use those," Rorikan said, pointing his sword.
Yuthera followed the tip of his sword, to where he was pointing.
Water, fins, and teeth.
Yuthera slowly smiled.
((()))
Galen sprinted across the sands, the Sword snaking out almost of its own accord as he ran, harvesting life with the smallest of cuts, as he ran for his goal…
Screams of terror suddenly filled the air, different from the death screams… and many turned to face the source. Another thrashing shape landed among the tightly packed horde, a shape of tentacles, serrated teeth, and sharp fins. Another landed ten meters to the left… followed by a fourth.
And the kyrac'epar rabblebroke, fleeing farther north, away from the southern shore.
Except for the mounted warriors. They turned, to face Galen, now exposed, without dying creatures to block him from their gaze. He lazily spun the Sword, waiting, as the horde trickled around the main hall, reforming around its north face…
Then he ran, to the west, harrying the retreating rabble, cutting them down, left and right (literally). The mounted warriors roared, and charged.
Galen felt amusement from the Sword: Here was a worthy meat, come, and chase.
Galen felt his teeth bare in a death's head grin…
((()))
Yuthera was watching the exchange carefully, and mandalorians waited next to the rails, boarding planks in hand, ready.
The largest of the beasts remained behind, as the others chased Galen into the trees…
"Go," she said.
"Oya!" Rorikan roared, and twelve planks rattled over the rails, thumping into the sand of the shore, six per ship… and armored men and women sprinted down them, with black-clad shapes among them.
The reinforcements congealed into a long, stretched teardrop shape, as those in the front did not run full out, to allow those still pouring down the ramps to catch up, and tighten the formation.
"Let's do three more. One on either side of the building, then one right at the ugly bastard," Thalia snarled, hands linked with the Twins, one on either side. The three sith smiled, and went about the task, waiting their turn on the ramp.
They weren't weak… just tired… besides, this was fun.
Look at them run…
Most of the predators they'd grabbed had been based loosely on a firaxa shark, with additional serrated tentacles around the head… but for the last projectile, Thalia found something… different… lurking in the water.
As it flew through the air towards the war-beast, Thalia thought it looked like some sort of serrated tentacle.
She was a little disappointed.
((()))
"Aim for the eyes! We just need to get past it!" Vex shouted, to be heard over the pounding of boots in sand, and the clatter of armored shoulders jostling at more than a jog, but less than a sprint.
Then something flew overhead, dripping water… to smack directly into the startled warbeast's face.
Vex felt the sudden lance of terror that flashed through his brothers.
A splitling.
"Osi'kyr!" Amavi squeaked. Vex wouldn't have heard the duros warrior if her head hadn't collided with his in surprise.
Silently, Vex agreed. There'd been suspicions of a splitling among the channels… but no proof.
The proof was currently thrashing and clawing at the enemy warbeast… which panicked, slapping and tugging at the tentacle, trying to pull it off its face. The barbed, serrated subtentacles had latched onto the thick flesh… but it was clearly cutting into that natural armor… even if it couldn't cut as deep as it normally could… death by a thousand shallow cuts was not exactly pleasant.
"Shaadlar gar shebs!" Rorikan bellowed, getting the startled formation moving again, skirting the battle. One unlucky man was crushed when the war-beast lost its balance, and thrust out a hand to catch itself… but most made it past the primal duel, and poured into the feast hall.
((()))
Ordo blinked owlishly. He'd become suspicious when the sudden influx of rabble had melted away… suspicious that the enemy had found another way in, and he was about to get hit from behind… but the children he'd dispatched as runners returned, reporting that the cellar and the stairwell to the roof remained secure, the children on watch there reported sounds of attempted entrance, but so far, the metal doors were holding up quite well…
So where had the enemy gone? Before securing the roof, and joining the fray below he'd estimated the enemy at somewhere close to three thousand strong, with more still trickling in from the outer islands.
Hundreds carpeted the sands, and the children were busy slitting throats, and stacking corpses within the hall…
There were many more to kill. They would not have simply run…
Ordo glanced at the unconscious jettai, they'd dragged him under a table, and out of any immediate combat… apparently he'd exhausted his abilities dominating so many difficult creatures at once…
No help there, for guessing at the enemy's movements. Ordo felt a sliver of disgust with himself. He'd gotten soft, relying on the jettai for hints.
He didn't have long to wait. Something large began to squeal in pure animal terror outside… and a moment later, a war beast stumbled into view, clawing at some kind of tentacle creature, which was sawing at its face. The rider was still strapped to the harness… or at least, the legs and pelvis were. Everything from the waist up was missing.
"A splitling?" one of the wounded warriors asked, confused.
"What is that creature?" Ordo asked warily.
"A colony of interlocking organisms. Very hard to kill… cut it in half and it will eventually grow back into two colonies," the warrior panted, clutching his broken knee as another warrior hastily fashioned a brace from wooden dowels and cloth around it.
Even as Ordo watched, the beast managed to tear part of the creature off its face… but now there were two creatures ripping at it.
"How does one kill it?" Canderous asked.
"It's very weak out of water, and will dry out quickly," one of the children offered.
This is weak?
Canderous couldn't see the south shore, since the main doors of the feast hall faced south-east… but something had done this.
Perhaps… the Revan'naast had returned?
But the dar'jettai that entered wore black, her head and braintails covered in interlocking geometric tattoos.
Yuthera… followed by many armored, bloodied figures.
Ordo grinned savagely.
The battle would still be lost…
But it would take hours now, instead of minutes.
((()))
You pursue me. Why? Revan asked… but his question shook those that led this storm by the nose.
Their focus faltered, for a moment… and he slipped within their construct, even as Shushar fought the conflicting air currents… even with Kyle to guide him on the unseen paths.
[The Fallen!] one mind screamed in terror. Other minds echoed the thought.
Echoed exactly.
Revan smiled coldly.
An arch is only as strong as the keystone.
[Heresy!]
Revan reached through the storm, into the mind that the other minds had been bound to… and squeezed.
The mind lashed out at Revan's psyche, filling him with excruciating, mind numbing pain. A pain that could not be endured.
He'd had worse.
((()))
"So… you're a girl…" Mission observed.
"And?" Veran asked, not quite certain where the conversation was headed.
"You could have said something," Mission complained.
"Why?" Veran asked, puzzled, as she awkwardly reloaded her rifle one-handed, made clumsy by the sling her broken left arm was immobilized in… preparing for the next attack. The splitling had burrowed within the dying war beast's belly… and the mandalorians weren't sure if blood counted, as far as water went… so the splitling might still be alive. Especially since the occasional twitch might have been lingering death throes… or something less innocent.
Apparently, the kyrac'epar had the same concern… and had decided to not risk waking the possibly alive, possibly dead creature. Instead, they had redoubled their efforts to penetrate the feast hall through the roof access, or the cellars.
With the reprieve, the trestle towers had been decommissioned, and turned into barricades… which would allow the mandalorians to form a shield wall several rows deep… one that could cycle defenders… rows of swords and stakes had been attached to trestles, and hidden behind the barricades… so anything that tried to vault the barricade wouldn't survive touch-down. At least, not the first fifty or so… after that, the pile might be thick enough to allow survival. Maybe. The screams of impaled and (slowly) dying enemies might be enough deterrent though to prevent any massed suicide charge. It's one thing to charge an enemy formation. You might survive. It's another thing entirely to charge off a cliff.
"We could make for the ships…" Carth offered quietly.
"We need the armory. Without ammunition production we won't last a year," Rorikan said sharply, and Ordo agreed with the mandalorian captain's assessment.
"Besides, we don't have room for our wounded," Vex shrugged. Nearly all of the warriors in the hall were wounded to one degree or another… but most were walking wounded. More than a third were either on the verge of collapse, or already unconscious. It would take two warriors to transport a single injured one… or four children.
They simply didn't have the numbers.
"It's been… nine, ten days since Revan and Bastila left?" Carth asked.
"I think so," Ordo agreed.
"So even if they reached the mountain, hopped off, shook everybody's hand, and turned right back around… they won't be here for another four days…" Mission pointed out sourly.
"And your optimism is why we love you," Carth grumbled.
"Hey, I'm just saying…" Mission protested.
There was a sudden cacophony of squeals and alien shrieks from the main entrance. Apparently some frog-aliens had decided to chance sneaking past the warbeast corpse, to attack the main entrance. Mission stood on tiptoe, to catch a glimpse of the action.
Current evidence suggested blood was just as good as water for a splitling.
"So, whose bright idea was it to chuck that bundle of joy so frelling close to our door?" Mission demanded, looking pointedly at Thalia and the Twins. Thalia just grinned. (Which broke the scab across her face, sending a fresh trickle of blood down her nose and cheeks).
Juhani crouched among her wounded enemies… and attempted to save their lives. She was not skilled with healing… but of the force users present, none but her could do anything other than destroy. It was hard. Too many scents. Too much death. Dak stood at her shoulder, protecting her. She didn't know from what, just that he was. It was possible he didn't know either. These were not absorbed former allies, as the female Lieutenant that followed Revan so faithfully… these were men of the enemy. They murmured and cried out in the tongue she hated most, too far past consciousness to be speaking anything save their native tongue.
But she saved as many as she could anyway.
It's what a Jedi would do.
Even if it was only the semblance of form… at least she was trying to walk in the Light.
((()))
You will yield, Revan snarled, twisting his fingers deeper within the mind of his opponent.
[You are meat!] the gestalt screamed at him.
Perhaps… but not for you, Kyle sneered, slamming a metaphysical elbow somewhere tender.
A good hit, Revan applauded, gaining some additional leverage.
Make it count. I'm all tapped out for now, Kyle whispered.
[You are all meat… those that follow you—]
Revan twisted harder, strangling the thoughts of his victim… for it was a victim. Revan could feel that he was stronger.
He had the means.
And the mind broke.
Revan clawed through the explosion of memory fragments, like sharp glass and shrapnel, slicing him to ribbons, even as he searched through it, stealing what he needed.
Inside his enemy's mind, he opened his enemy's eyes, seeing the physical world around that mind. A circle of rakatan. That is what they called themselves. These had strange colorations… almost albino. Pale. Very pale.
The Elders. Revan sifted through the blades of the broken mind, plucking out the answers to his questions. There were many tribes upon this world… but none could equal The Elders. They had not forgotten the old technologies. They alone retained the power of The Ancients. The secrets of sun-fire.
Secrets that must remain secret, lest the entirety of this world destroy itself in pointless hunts. It was the reason why The Elders tolerated the Hard Meats. Without a clear enemy to test themselves against… The Rakata would have turned on each other (to the point of genocide, not just tribal skirmishes).
But now the Hard Meats had proven themselves too dangerous. If they united the Soft Meats with the Fallen Star…
Then The Starforge would unmake them all.
They must be purged. They were being purged.
All of them. Everywhere.
His people were in danger.
Revan shuddered, as fear coursed through him.
Not his fear.
Bastila's fear.
Revan was out of time.
He would lay waste to the galaxy for Bastila.
A room was nothing in comparison.
Revan rose in his fleshy sheathe, among the gibbering and convulsing rakata… still bound to the mind he had broken.
They would free themselves, in time.
They would become a threat.
And Revan possessed their secrets.
He didn't need them anymore.
"I am the Revan'naast," the meat puppet spoke, in the tongue of the Rakata. The guardians standing at the doorway of the ceremonial chamber, who had been looking on in helpless confusion turned to look at Revan, stiffening.
"You who dare to bring death and harm to what is mine…"
The puppet was failing, fading. He had to hurry, as he manipulated the latent Force of his puppet, into something useful. Something no current living Rakata had seen before.
"I am coming for you," Revan growled. And then he released the storm of Force Lightning he had been building within his puppet's chest, vaporizing The Elders still bound to the mind of his meat puppet.
He didn't kill the guards.
He needed them to spread the word.
And the word was terror.
((()))
It was too much, Bastila realized, as she struggled to keep the minds bent to her will. She had the power… but she could not divide her attention quickly enough, to batter down each snake as it reared up to threaten her control. She was losing, the snakes rearing closer and closer to her… soon, she would have to make the choice, between controlling a few dragons… or letting them all go free… which would consequently result in the messy deaths and dismemberment of their riders.
She had hidden her weakness well… the thing Malak had done to her. He had torn much of her power from her, leaving only darkness… with a small amount of light.
She was not skilled with darkness. Large, crude things, she could accomplish those easily.
But this was a ballet, a chorus, an orchestra.
And she could only sing a handful of notes with her burned voice. Powerful yes, enough to crush all who heard, to kill… but of no use in cradling an infant, or anything as delicate as this. She could not crush the minds of the dragons. If she did, they would become comatose.
A sea creature will float in such a state.
A creature of flight will fall.
Bastila had not become a monster like Malak.
These people were no obstruction. They did not threaten her love. Indeed, the opposite was true.
She could not bring herself to let them die. Not yet. They trusted her (somewhat), looked to her for life.
Just as others had looked to Revan, in the darkness of the Wars.
Who better to fight monsters… than monsters?
Dimly she could feel the battle Revan waged… but shied away from direct contact. She was afraid to distract him at a critical moment… and even the faintest echo brought searing agony to her.
But Revan was not afraid. He was cold. Determined. Focused.
The kind of focus that could drive through almost anything.
The desire to win.