Chapter Nineteen: The Descent into Hell
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"Sanar—"
The woman's eyes widened, and she let a curse escape her lips. "Hey," she said loudly. "We're almost at the base, aren't we? Inside the town? I'll just—go ahead now—"
"Sanar." Durron sounded frustrated.
Sanar didn't really care. She'd been putting him off for weeks. Judging by his tone, he didn't plan to accept her brush-off this time. With that thought in mind, she kicked her paxi into a swifter pace. The animal grunted with displeasure, but complied.
"Oh, come on, Sanar—wait up. I just want to ask you something—"
Someone laughed at her predicament, and Sanar made a note to have a talk with them. It wasn't funny. She'd somehow kriffing forgiven the guy, and now he wouldn't leave her alone.
Ignoring him and racing ahead, she came to an abrupt stop several minutes later. The landscape briefly became greener, indicating a water source. A village would be built within the foliage, behind the hills, ahead of them.
Durron almost ran into her. "Thanks so much for stopping," he spoke sarcastically.
"Shut up," she hissed.
He wasn't looking ahead.
In a daze, she smacked him on the shoulder before pointing. "Smoke," she told him.
/Smoke rose from the remains. Thick. Poisonous./
The Na'Lein woman went onward more cautiously now. Kyp appeared to catch onto her mood, because his tongue was silenced.
They crossed the terrain as quickly as possible, speed sacrificed only to stealth. If Sanar was right, they couldn't afford to lose the element of surprise.
/Executions were public, bloody—even crazed. One of the Holy Brothers had gone insane, and the others often let him loose on the crowd, or at least on the victims. He thrived on the terror, but especially on its fulfillment./
Everyone had heard the stories. Rafintair demanded loyalty—no, fanatical love and fealty—from those he ruled. Villages and cities alike were ravaged if even the slightest suspicion existed. Rumours of Resistance cells left towns decimated.
Towns like the one from which smoke now rose.
/There was no escape./
There were never any survivors.
/None./
Ever.
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The stories had not done the horror justice.
They never did.
Dozens of Holy Brothers and their soldiers swarmed through the village. And behind them, blood flowed.
Women were dragged away to be tortured and then killed. The lucky ones fell to an indiscriminate blade.
Fires burned, scorching and greedy, in homes. Screams clawed the air.
Children ran, but did not escape.
(There is no escape. None. Ever.)
Some men and women fought. They…
(Don't think about it.)
It was Hell, and at a level that Sanar knew. All too well.
Horaire had liked to bring her along when he blessed the sight of the purges (massacre) afterwards. Sometimes he knighted the cruellest of the murderers with his ceremonial dagger—and blood, of course, on the man's shoulders.
(It was the same blade she used to kill him.)
Sanar and Kyp had arrived at the end of the slaughter, when the last fighters were dying. Few, save the Holy Brothers and the soldiers, moved. Only the inferno grew in strength. Pucijir's work in yet another town—approved by the demon (god?) Himself.
Sanar startled out of her memories when the man beside her cursed. "We have to get back to the others," Kyp hissed urgently. "If they see us—"
One person, barely twenty metres from Sanar, suddenly picked herself up from the ground. She couldn't have been more than fifteen years, but in her hand she clutched a dagger.
Was she in the Resistance? Connected to it? Or was she on her own, but fighting anyway?
Sanar didn't know.
Kyp's grip was tight on her shoulder as he tried to pull her away. "Sanar, there's too many of them. We have to get back to the others." His voice was tense enough to snap. She knew leaving went against everything he believed in, and everything he stood for.
Sanar couldn't drag her eyes away from the girl.
That the fighter looked like Sanar did not register in her brain. All she saw was brown hair, uncovered by the proper veil. All she saw was fighter's instinct. The inability to give up on the lost—but right—cause. A hero.
All Sanar saw was…
"Jaina."
The girl attacked a soldier, and slit his throat before he knew what was happening. She knew how to fight.
Sanar knew she should be fighting alongside the other.
With her sister—
"Sanar!" Kyp's voice became rougher, more desperate.
In a lightning movement, Sanar grabbed Kyp's lightsaber from where it hung at his belt. At the same time, her mind took in everything she hadn't noticed before, and prepared to fight it.
Mostly, she prepared to fight the Holy Brother who was even now disarming (Jaina) the girl.
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Kyp hadn't survived his life's hardships because he was pretty. He had been dodging blows, and fighting against too many odds, since long before Han Solo found him in the Kessel mines.
But Sanar still gained three feet of ground before he realized what she meant to do.
Instantly, the whispers that lingered in the back of his mind grew in volume—
Jarran. You will need her. The entire planet—the entire galaxy—could be against you, but if you have Sanar's aid, you cannot lose.
—and then became a scream—
YOU MUST NOT LOSE HER, OR YOU WILL FAIL!
—that almost sent him to his knees.
Despite Jaina's teasing, Kyp had not been "sitting around on his butt" since he came back to life. Knowing that he had to—somehow—almost single-handedly save a planet had given him the incentive to train fiercely.
In a movement almost as fast as Sanar's, Kyp tackled her to the ground. Even before they landed, he had knocked his lightsaber free of her hand. With the Force, he deactivated the blade before it did something unfortunate.
Sanar struggled to push him off of her, but he didn't allow it. If she wanted to get herself killed, she'd have to do it on her own time, and hope he wasn't anywhere nearby. His own feelings aside, he'd made a promise to Jaina to keep her sister safe.
Jaina.
The girl Sanar had been rushing to help did look a little like her—but more in fighter's spirit than in physical appearance. Kyp still flinched when the Holy Brother knocked the woman (child) to the ground before killing her. Sanar made a sound—part whimper, part vengeance cry. Gently, Kyp clasped his hand over her mouth before it could grow and be heard over the chaos.
Sanar resisted everything, and leaving was no exception. Regardless, Kyp half-dragged (by her own insistence), half-carried her back to the others. Almost as soon as they were out of sight and behind the hills, she went limp. Convinced she wouldn't run back, he gently lay her down on the sand until the others came. When she started crying, he couldn't quite help himself.
All too aware that she might finally kill him for it, he picked her up and held her close. She didn't have enough fight in her to push away, and only wetted his shirt with her tears.
Kyp's jaw tightened, even as the whispers (the Sildar) became increasingly troubled.
Someone—a lot of someones—would pay.
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Kyp and the others had backtracked several kilometres before setting up camp. In the worst-case scenario, the soldiers would be continuing on in their direction. Their only option then would be to fight ("and die," Veras had pessimistically pointed out) or run. Across the desert. They all held to the hope that Rafintair's men would be returning to Quatroc and their emperor. If so, they could follow behind at a safe distance.
The Kavishka wasn't prepared to leave it that way.
Sanar had fallen asleep in his arms hours before. Tear tracks had dried on her face, but a Jedi sleep suggestion would keep away all but the most persistent nightmares.
Veras and Miko kept shooting him looks. The former seemed paranoid, waiting for Kyp to vilify himself. Kyp's apprentice, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to knock some sense into the Kavishka.
Well, Miko knew better than to challenge Kyp when he was being stubborn—and Kyp could be grossly stubborn about his right to love Sanar. Even Jaina couldn't knock some sense into him.
When Kyp left Sanar in the tent she shared with Krista, he came out to see Gantik scowling. A menacing look quickly solved that problem.
Kyp stayed behind with Sanar, watching to make sure she didn't nightmare.
The Kavishka went forward for justice.
Nay, for Vengeance.
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The Sildar thirsted for blood—for pain.
For Vengeance. Always.
They had waited 776 years, and true revenge had to wait a little longer, for the Day of Reckoning. But tonight…tonight they would receive a precious taste of what they demanded.
The Kavishka hunted tonight, haunted by the memory of his love's tears.
(As it should be.)
For her, he went into the night. Into the camp, where the men waited.
Murderers. Rapists. Defilers. Thieves.
Traitors.
They who had turned on Mujir, and on their wives and daughters and sisters.
Out of insatiable thirst, the Sildar drank deeply of the Kavishka's gifts. Darklight, hatelove, villainhero, deathlife, wrongright. And love—desperate, passionate, (not) hopeless love. The wine of the goddess. Even Jarran, for all his goodness, had not tasted quite like this.
The Kavishka's soul surrendered so prettily. Prophecy had chosen this one well.
The first kill surprised the Sildar. It was a vicious, needed, glorious kill. They had forgotten the feel…
For Pucijir's men, there was agony. A small death of Pucijir. For the Sildar, victory. One small measure of payment—one of many.
The Kavishka roared through the camp. A massacre for a massacre…
He played tricks with the soldiers' minds, and killed the Holy Brothers when they were yelling for order.
The Holy Brothers had only slivers of a soul each. The Sildar killed them slowly before damning them to the lowest level of Hell.
(They deserved worse. Far worse.)
When none still stood within the camp, the Kavishka was still sharing his love's distress. Still seeing her tear-etched face. Still loving her, yearning for her.
The Sildar drank some more of that.
Delicious.
Now give us more…
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It was a long night.
Kyp's arms and soul burned from the Sildar.
From dealing death.
His hands smarted—again from the Sildar. But this…for something else. Indefinable. Strange. He didn't know quite what to make of it, and he had even less idea as to what it meant. As long as it disappeared eventually, though, he wouldn't start to worry about it yet.
Instead, he regarded the sight before him in some mix of shock and horror.
No lone person should be able to set such a scene. Yet still he could hear the insatiable voices of the Sildar—Death, yes, give us more, more.
Those he had killed had not deserved their lives. Their hearts had been black as void, and their sights fixed on evil things. Just hours earlier, they had slaughtered over a hundred civilians for their emperor.
Kyp's massacre (slaughter) had been exact, equal recompensation for what the soldiers and Holy Brothers had done.
But had it been noble?
Had it been right?
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Pucijir's soldiers were taught early on in their careers to fight to the death. As both heresy and punishable by death, running was not an option.
(It was the only option.)
Mathus had not thought of that when his comrades were felled by a screaming blade. He had not seen much of anything since he stumbled upon Brother Vashkav's corpse.
On the first day of their journey, the Holy brother had reassured Mathus that this was where Mathus belonged—working Emperor Jir's will.
(Pucijir made the Emperor his physical representation. All who follow the god must obey the Emperor.)
Now Vashkav was in two pieces, and Mathus was spread out in the desert, completely spent. Somewhere nearby there should be a watchman's post, but Mathus had no strength to continue searching for it. The deserts of his childhood would be kinder to him than the ghouls that had attacked his camp.
Just as the world darkened and Pucijir came for him, Mathus felt rough hands haul him up. Far away, a voice called for another, and Mathus was dragged across the sands and into unconsciousness.
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Within two days, the watchman—named Qas—had brought Mathus back to full health. That was not the problem.
Mathus' story of an attacking army required an immediate report to the Emperor. The Resistance had never been so bold, nor caused so much damage, before this.
The soldiers' deaths, of course, were not nearly so disturbing as the slaughter of the seven Holy Brothers. Every Brother was trained from a young age in battle and strategy. Further, each had some training as a priest. Pucijir acknowledged and watched them as his most loyal servants. Those who attacked the Holy Brothers, attacked Pucijir Himself.
Despite the Resistance Army's obvious presence, Mathus had only really seen one man. But that lone man had savagely cut down any and all Brothers who fought him.
With the sword that laughed as it drew blood.
Laughed in a way that would have been distinctly feminine—except that no woman sounded so powerful, nor ever so delighted.
(None he had seen recently.)
When Mathus had first told Qas of the things he had seen, the man had been disbelieving. After a night of prayers and sacrifices, however, Qas had been quick to call on Pucijir for communication with Prince General Gaffil Jir himself.
Magic raced down Mathus' spine as his emperor's brother appeared amidst the fire-window before him. Gaffil was dark of skin and hair. His plain, black clothing could have been worn by a merchant, but on Gaffil it still screamed of his power. Emperor Rafintair radiated the strength of Pucijir; his brother had a power all his own.
In a low, smooth voice, Gaffil spoke. "I have been told of the trouble you witnessed, litani Mathus."
The soldier bowed deeply before replying. "Your Highness. I am the only one left alive of my regiment."
"You were sent to punish the Resistance-sympathetic town of Gaza." The prince's voice was as sharp as a Holy Brother's blade. "What happened out of the ordinary? Did the town resist?"
"We dealt with Gaza easily enough, your highness. Some villagers fought, but only a few of our soldiers were wounded. The problem was—it was after." Mathus swallowed. "During the late hours of the night.
"At first, we didn't know what was happening—soldiers were dying, but we couldn't see anything. Then—" Mathus gulped in memory, "a man appeared. He—"
"A man?" Gaffil snapped.
"Dark features, and a presence. He was very tall. But—but his sword—"
"What about it?" The demand, terse and sharp, came through the general's teeth.
"It screamed warcries at us, and it laughed every time it drew blood."
Gaffil's expression remained blank, hiding his thoughts. "And the Resistance army? What is their number?"
"I could not see. I—I only saw the slaughter, and—and I knew I had to…to warn you."
"Do not lie to me." Something in Gaffil's voice greatly reminded Mathus of a serpent. Coiling, tensing, hissing, attacking. Yet his voice remained low and unaffected, his earlier temper gone from sight. "You ran as soon as the battle went ill," the prince continued. "Not to tell someone, but because you are a coward."
Mathus fell to his knees, head bowed, at the truth. "Your Highness, I—"
But Gaffil wasn't listening to him anymore. The general's next words were directed to Qas. "I will send a regiment of Holy Brothers to your location. When they arrive, follow their orders, and be prepared for battle. The Resistance will pay for its lucky fight."
Gaffil's image flickered before he added, "And kill the puzilts. Cowardice is unacceptable."