Chapter Thirteen: Desperate Moves
At the far reaches of the galaxy, among the burned out stars and dying systems, a dark figured leaned over a glowing holotank, brooding on defeat. His body was covered in black armor, his face hidden behind a black mask. His powerful frame betrayed a sense of defeat, and resignation. His people had failed their mission, he knew; they had proved unworthy. But the Mandalorians were not mere servants, content to follow orders whether they were successfully carried out or not. Warriors were measured by skill, courage, honor, and victory. If those were lost, what was left? Only a glorious ending would suffice.
Mandalore the Ultimate reached for the controls of the holotank, manipulating the image to show two parts of the galaxy. On one side, the tumultuous system of Malachor was displayed, the vast Rebulic fleet in orbit of the fifth planet; on the other, the latest intelligence information showing him his enemy.
He knew him well now, after three years of battle. Though they had not met face to face or crossed blades, he respected the Jedi Commander of the Republic forces. Only a true warrior, with skill, honor, and courage could have snatched victory from his brethren's hands. But, now, his chance was here. Revan was alone. He pressed a signal on his board.
A red-armored Mandalorian stepped to the center of the war room. "Yes, Mandalore?"
"Our enemy has revealed himself, and has presented us with a singular opportunity. Revan's flagship is here, at Dravor Minor, unescorted. The planet is uninhabited, and barren. It is remote. He summons me to battle, and I will go. You will lead the rest of our fleet to Malachor V and engage the Republic forces. The end has come. We have failed, and all that remains is to make a glorious end." He turned to his lieutenant and saluted.
The battlewagons left the dying planet behind, to make an end or to be ended. Warriors could do nothing else.