Lee followed close behind Werd as the Taung strode toward the bars of their prison. Vhetin was still holding Mandalore at bay outside, though it was obvious that both combatants were beginning to tire.
"So what's your plan?" Lee said. Several other captives were milling about nearby, listening intently. "I hope you're not planning to try and break out of here by yourself."
Werd's expression didn't change. "I am not the only Taung with a desire for peace. When told that I am allied with you, others will surely follow my command. If we can defeat my father, the rest of the clan may follow his lead and surrender. In the confusion, your friends may escape."
"So we're staging both a rescue and a power coup?"
"It would appear so."
Werd strode up to the bars and stretched his arms through, as if he were casually leaning against the barrier to watch the fight outside.
"Your friend carries himself with true poise," he noted, nodding to Vhetin. "If he is lucky, my father may grant him a quick death."
Lee scowled. "Let's try and stop things before they reach that point, yeah? Do you have a plan to break out of here or not?"
Werd let out a rumbling sigh. "When imprisoned, I believed my drive for peace foiled. But if there are those among my people who still favor wisdom over violence…"
He trailed off into silence, watching the duel in the rain outside with an expressionless gaze on his craggy, gaunt face. After a few moments, however, he made a quick series of hand gestures.
At the signal, a few Taung split off from the rest of the group and indiscreetly made their way toward the barrier. Lee had to squint to see them in the darkness, but it was unmistakable. Thankfully, it looked like the majority of their fellows were too focused on the clash of lightsabers to pay them any mind.
Lee glanced between the two guards outside the bars, standing a few feet away. Any escape attempt would fail as long as these warriors, bristling with weapons both salvaged and stolen, were dutifully watching their prisoners. Lee was lucky he'd managed to free Werd without repercussions; the guards had simply laughed and muttered something between themselves about camaraderie among cowards. One had spit on Werd and continued his patrol without another word.
He was about to voice such concerns to his long-haired friend when Werd suddenly let out a sharp whistle. The guards turned to him, ready for trouble. Doing so, they missed the dark figures that dropped from the trees above them and advanced with weapons at the ready.
The newcomers moved with deadly precision. As soon as they were close enough, they wrapped their wiry arms around the guards and sank sharp, bone-hilted daggers into their chests. Dark blood splattered the ground and the guards dropped without a sound. They were quickly dragged into the safety of jungle foliage, out of sight.
More figures stepped into the light. They were more Taung, obviously not allied with their more bloodthirsty companions. Lee could see three lanky males and a female, all wearing angular, T-visored helmets. The others re-emerged from the foliage, bolstering their group to a total of six.
One of the Taung put a hand against his chest in salute. When he spoke, his Mando'a was rough and grating, but still comprehensible.
"Werd'cetara. We feared you had been slain."
"My friends." Werd returned the salute. "I assure you, I am still very much alive. Are things prepared?"
"All is ready," the Taung woman said. "The others are still uncertain of this course of action, but their loyalty is unwavering. They would follow you into the jaws of hell itself."
"You planned this?" Lee said incredulously.
Werd glanced at him. "My father's disapproval of my views is common knowledge. My outburst during the ambush merely gave him the excuse he needed to lock me away. But I will not so easily submit to imprisonment for speaking words of wisdom."
"So… what does that mean?"
"Mandalore's devotion to the ideals of a bygone age will ultimately lead to the downfall of our people. The clan will understand that, given time and a strong new ruler to guide them."
"Right. And I'm guessing that ruler is you?" Lee wasn't sure how helping the man-eating warlord's son to seize power would solve any problems. What if Werd was only using him for personal gain? What if he took power from his father and hauled the rest of the Rangers out to the sacrificial pedestal anyway?
But Werd nodded. "I will guide my clan to peace whether they want it or not. Once my father has been removed from power, I will give you and your fellows free passage from this land. You have my word."
Lee turned to the other imprisoned Rangers. "What about you guys? Does this sound like a plan?"
One of the prisoners, a grizzled, grey-haired veteran, rubbed at his sore and bruised wrist and muttered, "I'd rather die fighting for my freedom than locked up in here. I'm in."
"Me too."
"And me."
Lee looked back to Werd and nodded. "You officially have a rebellion."
Werd nodded back, then turned to the rough wooden bars and grasped them tightly. "Then let us begin."
Lee grabbed the bars as well. The other Rangers slowly approached, flanking the two and likewise grabbing hold of the bars. The Taung outside spread out, keeping watch while the prisoners began to pull with all their considerable might against the barrier that penned them in.
"Ironbark is sturdy," Werd grunted, his muscles straining at the exertion, "but brittle. Apply enough pressure in enough places…"
Lee said nothing, his face screwing up as he pulled. His muscles screamed at the effort, but he forced himself to pull with all his might. This was his only chance for escape. Vhetin was depending on them, as were the Rangers. He didn't have the luxury of giving up and dying now.
"Pull!" he grunted, listening to the groans and panting of tired warriors all around him. "Pull like you were dragging a Strill from your cot back at base!"
He was about to start thinking the wood was going to hold, until he heard a series of quiet cracks under his fingers. He redoubled his efforts, digging his heels into the mud at his feet and pulling back as hard as he could against the bars. The solid wood began to bend and buckle.
"Enough." Werd held out a hand and motioned for them to step back. The Rangers stepped away, watching as the lanky Taung flexed his muscles. He took a few steps back, then charged forward and threw his shoulder into the center of the bars. They bent outward with a crack of splintering wood.
Werd tossed his head with a snarl and repeated the motion. He slammed his shoulder into the bars with all his might and Lee saw the bars buckle under the attack. They wouldn't take much more abuse.
"Foolish of them," Werd growled, drawing back one more time, "to keep me locked in a cage built for men."
He stepped forward and struck with a powerful kick. The ironbark bars splintered outward, shattering from the sudden attack. Werd continued his assault, throwing his shoulder forward and ripping free from the bars. The barrier exploded out in a rough, Taung-shaped hole, leaving plenty of room for Lee and his fellows to escape.
Werd instantly made for the cover of the foliage. The other Kar'ta Epar'e followed in his footsteps, keeping watch for any overly attentive Taung nearby. The shattered bars of the prison were far from inconspicuous; it wouldn't be long before their escape was noticed.
Werd turned to his compatriots and made several swift hand gestures. The Taung wordlessly split up, disappearing into the undergrowth. Once they had passed, Werd turned back to Lee. "Are you prepared?"
He handed Lee a bundle of weapons; taken from the dead guards, no doubt. Lee grabbed a beskar shortsword and passed the bundle to the nearest Ranger, motioning for them to divide the spoils among themselves.
"Prepared to do what, exactly?"
Werd hefted a heavy spear. "Kill my father."
The rain was coming down harder than ever as Vhetin circled his opponent, blade leveled along one arm so the weapon was angled at Mandalore's chest. The battle-scarred Taung shook his head and roared, flexing his grip around the stolen lightsaber pike in his hands.
He knew he couldn't keep this fight up forever; exhaustion or the other Taung baying for his blood would eventually drag him down. But he had no other plan; his font of bad ideas had ended with punching the guard and staging a surprise attack. Barring a miracle, he was stuck dueling the clanmaster of these mysterious jungle Taung until one of them fell. As time passed, Vhetin was more and more convinced he would not be the victor.
Mandalore must have been thinking along similar lines. He narrowed his golden eyes and snarled, "You have nowhere to go, metal man. This attack is foolhardy, but pointless. Even should you strike me down, my followers will not allow you to walk away free."
"I don't intend to," Vhetin replied. "You've spilled the blood of my brothers and sisters. I owe them your blood."
"Then come and claim it!"
Vhetin threw himself forward, slamming his saber forward before pivoting on one foot and striking with a spinning slash to the midsection. Mandalore parried the blow and shoved him away. Vhetin didn't back down, spinning the opposite way and stabbing at his opponent. Mandalore hopped back before lashing out with a backhand punch that sent Vhetin staggering.
Vhetin turned the blow into a somersault that brought him away from the inevitable counterattack from Mandalore. Sure enough, the Taung's blade stabbed into the ground, burning away the dirt and vegetation in the space where Vhetin had stood only a moment before.
Mandalore ripped the blade free and advanced, using his superior height and strength to keep his opponent off-balance. Vhetin turned and slammed Mandalore's weapon away, the lightsaber blades clashing with a synthetic hiss and a shower of sparks.
Their blades whirled with lightning speed, crashing and spinning in a dizzying halo of light and sound. Vhetin's helmet visor automatically tinted to protect his vision, while Mandalore simply narrowed his eyes and pressed forward relentlessly.
"Pathetic!" Mandalore roared. He smashed Vhetin's saber away, then kicked him hard in the chest. Vhetin was knocked clean off his feet, sprawling into the dirt. He groaned, but quickly rose to his feet again and activated his lightsaber once more.
Mandalore leveled his saber at Vhetin's chest. "Your determination is commendable, but misplaced. Your heart will be consumed like all the rest."
Vhetin said nothing and simply threw himself into battle once more. He was falling into the motions, the old muscle memory of attack and defend, parry and riposte. Saber fights were like an exceedingly lethal dance, and it was one that he knew well. His strikes grew stronger and more confident, his footwork faster and more elegant. He felt all the old familiarity of combat come flooding back into his limbs, until his motions were almost second-nature. He blocked and stabbed, then pivoted and slashed, his aching limbs quieting to a dull background concern. All that mattered now was the placement of his feet and his weapon. His entire essence was focused on the battle at hand until his saber felt almost like an extension of his own body. Mandalore suddenly found himself pressed back, retreating under a blindingly fast and relentless hail of attacks.
He was out of practice, it was true. There had been a time when he had been more familiar with combat than with peaceful living. That was a long time ago now, but he felt a shadow of his former strength pouring through him. His mind raced with the familiarity of his motions, and renewed strength poured through his body.
I can do this, he found himself thinking. I know I can do this.
Mandalore was a skilled swordsman, but living in the deadly depths of the jungle could only teach a warrior so much. Vhetin had devoted his entire life to combat, and a great deal of that time was spent specializing in saber fighting. He was no Jedi, but he was still damn good. Mandalore, by comparison, was little more than an overpowered thug wielding a weapon he did not understand.
He's no Gotab Skirata, Vhetin thought, narrowing his eyes. Time to show him what he and his Tuang have missed over the past two thousand years.
He advanced, steadily driving Mandalore back against the bloodstained pedestal in the center of the clearing. Mandalore threw himself to one side just in time; Vhetin's blade slashed past him and carved the stone platform in half. He wrenched the blade free and landed a powerful spinning kick that connected with the side of Mandalore's angular face. The Taung staggered away, blood dripping from his downturned lips.
Vhetin didn't give him time to catch his breath, slashing at his legs. The humming blue blade of his lightsaber carved the Taung's cape in half. The red fabric fluttered away in the strong wind that buffeted them. Lighting cracked overhead as Vhetin pressed his advantage. He struck forward with a leaping kick that landed in the small of Mandalore's back. The Taung crashed to the ground, turning his momentum into a skillful somersault that brought him back to his feet.
Yet when he regained his balance, Vhetin was ready for him; his blade slashed forward and only a split-second parry from Mandalore halted the blow. Vhetin braced his feet and shoved against the saber lock, driving the two blue blades toward Mandalore's throat.
"You see us as nothing more than animals," Vhetin snarled, shoving with all his might against his weapon. The hilt shook violently in his hand, the glowing energy blades sparking and hissing as they slid against each other. "But we have bigger teeth than you realize."
Mandalore shoved back against the lock with his own considerable strength. The two grappled in the center of the clearing, driven to an impasse. "You are not without skill, it is true. But that will only make your defeat all the more satisfying. You are a fool if you think you are the most skillful opponent I have faced in my long years. Battle is my life, youngblood, and I have seen more of it than you ever will."
Suddenly, of all the people to think of in the heat of battle, Vhetin found the Handmaiden at the forefront of his mind.
"Battle is a dance of discovery," she had said during one particularly ruthless training session. "In combat, all extraneous distractions are stripped away, leaving the combatants with nothing more than the most basic expressions of existence. The mind focuses only on what can contribute to victory and survival. It is a very different way of seeing the world."
And at that moment, Vhetin was indeed seeing the world very differently. Adrenaline had long since overtaken him, and the world seemed to move in slow motion. He could pick out every detail of the battle unfolding in front of him: the way Mandalore's dreadlocks waved through the air as he shoved against the lock, the way sweat beaded his rough-skinned forehead. He could see the firelight from the torches flickering on the ranks of Taung surrounding them, and could now see that not all the jungle-dwelling aliens were howling for blood. He could see the trees waving in the wind of the storm, and he could see the dark, human-sized figures prowling through the outskirts of the village, illuminated by a bright flash of lightning.
He frowned, his attention shifting from the battle for the briefest of moments. Who were these newcomers? Had Lee decided to escape after all? Had the Rangers found them?
Unfortunately, Mandalore was no stranger to combat either. In the split-second Vhetin was distracted, the red-caped Taung charged forward and threw his shoulder into Vhetin's chest. The blow sent him crashing onto his back, sprawling painfully into the dirt. He tried to scramble back to his feet, but Mandalore's heavy foot landed on his chest, pinning him to the ground. A second later, his lightsaber was wrenched from his grip.
Lightning carved a path across the clouds high above. Mandalore threw his head back as the ensuing clap of thunder and roared; a primal scream of triumph that was mirrored by his followers who looked on with rapt attention. The Taung clanmaster thrust his hand into the air and shouted, "Kote darasuum par Mand'alor!"
The other Taung echoed the victory cry back to him, shouting, "Glory eternal to Mandalore!"
Then Mandalore reached down and wrapped a long-fingered hand around Vhetin's throat, hauling him up with one arm. Vhetin tried to struggle, but found himself overpowered by Mandalore's superior strength. The bloodied Taung pivoted and dragged him toward the damaged sacrificial pedestal in the center of the village. With a grunt, he hoisted his prey onto its surface, slamming him down hard against the rough-hewn stone. Moments later, two loyal warriors approached and held Vhetin fast against the stone surface.
With a triumphant sneer, Mandalore reached down and dug his talons into Vhetin's flak vest, tearing the armored suit away until his bare chest was exposed to the cold night air. Another brilliant fork of lightning lit up the sky as Mandalore reached to his belt and drew the bloodied sacrificial knife, holding it high so his fellow Taung could see.
"Let his blood spill the ground!" Mandalore called. "And let his vanquished spirit awaken the Holy Serpents from slumber!"
He was about to plunge the dagger down into Vhetin's chest when a loud whistling sound cut over the driving rain. A dull thunk followed, and Mandalore staggered back. Vhetin craned his neck to follow him.
The Taung leader had a four-foot spear jutting from his chest.
The guards holding him down roared and drew their weapons, their prisoner forgotten momentarily. Vhetin quickly scrambled off the blood-soaked pedestal, scooping up his lightsaber pike as it fell from Mandalore's slackening fingers.
Another Taung was striding forward into the flickering firelight, ignoring the screeches and screams of the other Taung crowded around. The jungle-dwelling aliens crowded closer, penning forming a tight circle around the center of the village. The scrape of weapons being drawn from their sheaths drowned out all sound for a few moments, and Vhetin was sure he'd never seen so many bared blades in his life. Every Taung present had drawn a weapon, furious at this newcomer.
But, amazingly, Mandalore raised a fist and motioned for his clanmates to stand down. The Taung glanced between each other and Mandalore consecutively, wonder in their eyes. As Vhetin watched, the Kar'ta Epar clanmaster reached up and dragged the spear from his chest. The sharpened beskar point had penetrated his rough-hewn armor, but not enough to kill him.
Mandalore grasped the spear tightly and leveled the sharpened head, still dripping with his own blood, at the newcomer.
"I have overlooked your treachery for far too long, Werd'cetara."
The newcomer spread his tattooed arms wide. He had a beskad clutched in one hand. "All my life, I have sought only the safety and preservation of our people. But now our ways condemn us, father. You must see this!"
"Our ways preserve us! How long have we survived in the forests by following these traditions?"
Werd shook his head, dreadlocks flying in the muggy jungle wind. Rain pattered against the faceplate of his mask. "They have only trapped us in a place we were never meant to rule."
He turned in a full circle, addressing the crowd of Taung surrounding them. "Hear me, my clan! The metal men are not our enemies! They are Mandalorian, just as surely as we are!"
Mandalore snarled, lips curling back from sharpened teeth. "Heresy!"
Werd leveled the sword at his father. "Do not attempt to deny the truth, father. Do we not have legends of their kind? Powerful Mandalorians who traveled the stars, wielding weapons of light and fire to conquer all before them?"
He shook his head. "Your devotion to our ancient traditions has blinded you. The metal men are us. And we can coexist if we merely accept this truth!"
Werd stepped toward his father. Mandalore did not back away or lower his weapon. "Your ideals protected us in times of war. Your steadfast mind and courageous heart guided us to great victories within the shelter of these trees. But the time for blind obedience and ancient tradition has passed."
He spread his arms again. "I would lead the forest clans to greatness once more! I would see our people restored to their rightful place among the stars! It is a future that is within our grasp, if you would only have the prudence to see the wisdom of peace!"
Vhetin backed away, clutching his pike close to his chest. The Taung surrounding the sacrificial altar were growing more and more agitated. They tossed their heads or made cutting motions across their throats, weapons drawn and more than ready to be used.
It wouldn't take much for this to degrade into an all-out war. He had managed to hold off Mandalore with minimal injuries, but he couldn't hope to take on this entire clan with only his pike and his wits to help him.
Mandalore grasped his spear with both hands, flexing his grip over the leather-bound shaft. "You shame me with your cowardice, my son. A Mandalorian finds strength in combat, not peace."
"Then let it be so," Werd said. He raised his arms once more, voice rising to a shout. "If my father will not see the wisdom of my words, then peace will be forged on sands stained with his blood!"
He turned and leveled his blade at Mandalore. "I call for a Battle Circle. I would face you in single combat, father. You will surrender to the wisdom of my words or I will forcefully take your place as Mandalore of our people."
A hush fell over the crowd, with Taung muttering between themselves. It was obvious that such a challenge was not to be taken lightly. Vhetin had heard of the ancient Battle Circle rite before, and had even participated in the modern version – a friendly fighting competition held annually in Keldabe. Clearly this Battle Circle was far more lethal.
Mandalore's face drew down in a furious scowl, his craggy and battle-scarred face twisting into a mask of hatred and rage. He reached up and ripped his cape free, letting it flutter away in the storm. A roar ripped itself from his throat as he tilted his head to the sky and spread his arms in challenge.
Werd also tore his mask away from his face, letting it fall to the mud at his feet. The furious expression on his angular face matched that of his father's. He grasped his blade in both hands and advanced.
Vhetin saw several Taung shove through the crowd to his right, forming a narrow corridor through the masses. Beyond the crowd, he saw the unmistakable form of human Rangers, gesturing furiously for him to follow them.
He didn't need to be asked twice. He sprinted for the edge of the battle circle and didn't look back. A few of the Taung in the gathering reached for him with outreached talons, but the ones parting the crowd shoved them back and muttered something about returning the prisoner to his enclosure, that the Battle Circle was meant for combatants only.
Vhetin sprinted through the ranks of assembled Taung, beyond relieved to be away from their glowing yellow eyes. He dashed to the treeline, where the other Rangers were waiting for him. After skidding safely into the foliage, he saw that several lanky Taung were hiding with them.
He gestured to the Kar'ta Epar'e. "What the kriff are they doing here?"
A weary-looking Lee shook his head and gestured for him to shut up. "It's a long story. They're with us."
"Are you sure?"
"They want peace as much as we do. We're trying to help Werd to seize power."
Vhetin glanced over his shoulder and listened to the telling clash of heavy metal blades crashing together. "Really? We're in the middle of enemy territory with creatures that literally want to eat us, and you're staging a coup?"
"You have another way out of here?"
Vhetin hesitated, face pulling into a scowl. "You have a point. What's the plan?"
Lee nodded, then gestured to the outskirts of the village. "There are other pens across the way, stocked with Rangers who have been trapped here for months. Supposedly there are some Kelborns trapped in there too. If we spring them, we may have enough clout to stand a chance against these Taung."
"We have siblings hidden among the ranks of the clan," one of the Kar'ta Epar'e growled in Mando'a. "They will sow confusion and chaos when called."
The alien clapped his fist into the open palm of his hand. "In the ensuing battle, you and your allies will show that Taung and metal man can fight as one. The others will be forced to join us or fall to our combined strength."
Vhetin glanced at Lee. "So your plan is to make a small army from prisoners who have been trapped in cages, beaten, and starved for the last few months? We may not be the most effective fighting force."
Lee rolled his eyes and stepped closer to the tree line. "Yeah, well it's the only weapon we've got. Let's just hope our buddy Werd doesn't get killed in the Battle Circle."
Vhetin hefted his lightsaber pike, ready to activate it at a moment's notice. "I'm following your lead."
Laamyc'lar, known as High-Song to her brethren, picked her way through the underbrush with careful precision. She had chanced moving down to the forest floor in order to more clearly spot any other metal men that may have discovered the village. Any sane Taung would stick to the canopy, but her mission was not one of violence and bloodshed.
Werd'cetara's orders in this matter were clear; she was to intercept any other metal men – hyoomans, they called themselves – and approach with offers of peace and cooperation. The metal men within the cages of the village were open to the idea, so it stood to reason that others would follow in their stead.
Werd was risking a civil war among the clans with his coup attempt. Despite her belief in his words, Laamyc had to admit that the idea turned her stomach. The Taung needed strength and unity above all else. And with the metal men encroaching deeper and deeper into the territory of her forefathers, she knew that the Kar'ta Epar'e needed to band together or perish in the attempt.
Peace with the metal men was the only lasting solution to this problem. If diplomacy could win out over death, perhaps the metal men could be convinced to respect the Taung's territorial boundaries. The smaller, armored warriors were far from difficult to kill – Laamyc had several notches on her own sword hilt from metal man kills – but their persistence and relentless pace worried her far more than their actual fighting prowess.
For every metal man she or her brothers killed, five seemed to take their place. Wherever they went, they brought destruction. Laamyc and her clan had seen the metal men and their own villages of hard metal and stone, hidden in the trees away from prying eyes. They infested the jungle as surely as rot-bugs infested the trees, and war would only hasten their approach.
Laamyc leaped over a fallen tree, landing amid the filth and muck of the rainy jungle floor. She gripped her spear close to her chest, golden eyes raking over the forest floor for signs of danger. Then she huffed out a low breath and continued on.
Peace was the only true solution to the problem of the metal men. She did not idolize the armored soldiers like Werd'cetara and she had no desires to harness their technology for mutual gain; the Holy Serpents were relics of a bygone age, and should remain so. Her only desire was to live out her days in glory among her siblings in the trees.
The only true way to realize that goal was to ensure the metal men left them alone. Continuing the ritualistic slaughter – no matter what Mandalore said – would only drive the metal men to greater and greater extremes. At the end of such conflict, would the forest even remain standing? Or would the metal men simply burn it all and be done with it?
She snarled low in her throat, lips curling as she prowled around a large boulder, spear at the ready.
She wanted no true with the metal men. Indeed, nothing gave her more pleasure than to see the intruders with their hearts ripped still-beating from their chests. But Werd was right; the only hope for the jungle clans was to unite in peaceful diplomacy with those who lived beyond the forest.
A flock of birds raced up into the treetops, startled by sudden movement to her left. She whipped around with spear leveled, prepared for a charging jungle beast. Instead, she saw a small squad of bipedal figures, carrying swords and spears.
They obviously saw her; they were pointing and whispering among themselves. Her golden eyes narrowed, but she forced herself to lower her spear and adopt a more welcoming posture. She raised one hand in greeting and called out in Mando'a.
"Hail, hyoomans! I bring word from your allies. Will you greet me in peace?"
More whispering. Finally, one of the figures stepped through the foliage and approached. Laamyc saw the smoldering orange flare of a smokestick before the figure stepped into the little ambient light that filtered down through the trees.
It was a tall human male, his hair grown long and wild and adorned with beads and other decorations. He was muscular and tattooed, and his pale blue eyes carried a cold air not unlike Laamyc's own gaze. Strapped across one arm was a heavy, battle-scarred shield. He carried himself like a seasoned warrior, though his haughty swagger suggested he was not afraid of her.
"Identify yourself," the man growled, responding to her in Mando'a.
She placed a hand over her chest and bowed her head. "Laamyc'lar, High-Song, of Clan Ca'burcyan. I come offering peace to you and your fellows."
The man raised a single eyebrow and puffed on his smokestick, looking back to his companions with a chuckle and a slurry of words in a language foreign to Laamyc's tongue. He eventually turned back to her and said, "Our brothers and sisters. Where are they?"
She gestured over her shoulder, back the way she had come. "Assisting my friend, Werd'cetara, to defeat his father – the Mandalore of the clan – and ensure lasting peace between my people and yours. Will you lend your blades in assistance?"
A steely look passed into the long-haired man's gaze. "Your leader… he has the gall to take the name Mandalore?"
"It is a tradition, and unimportant at this time. Will you assist?"
The man chuckled again, though there was no mirth in his eyes. "Oh we'll assist. But we won't assist you, Heart-Eater."
He raised one arm, bringing to bear one of the metal men's angular weapons. Laamyc tried to throw herself out of the way, to bring her spear up in defense. But it was too late. There was a flash of bright red light and a deafening report of sound. Then another. And another.
Laamyc crashed to the ground, feeling fire race through her chest. Her spear fell from weakening fingers, and she let out a low moan of pain.
The blue-eyed man stared at her with no sympathy in his gaze. He merely raised his weapon again and said, "When you see the Reaper, tell him you're a gift from me."
Another blast of light and sound, and Laamyc'lar, known as High-Song, knew nothing more.
Norac Benz holstered his blaster and stepped over the still-smoldering corpse of the Heart-Eater at his feet. He circled his hand in the air, signaling for his men to fall in behind him.
"Come on, boys," he called, drawing his sword into his hand. "The bastards are close. Let's give 'em a good show."
Author's Note: Apologies again for the long delay in posting. It's been a busy few weeks on my end. There should only be one more section before this story is officially wrapped up. Onward to the epic battle scene!