Chapter Thirty-Three: The Sildar's Song
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Isra's letter of selfishness brought only silence. She had known it would. Gaffil was a being governed by that which best served him, and she had given him no reason to help her.
She had forgotten her place. Lost her level head in the web of Gaffil's plots. It happened to everyone, eventually. She hadn't expected to be immune. She hadn't.
Isra prepared for her fate.
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This, Gaffil mused, was the boring part of an attack. The part where all the threads had to be fisted together, where they could so easily fall apart—but still, the boring part. He had more patience than his older brother, but he disliked seeing time wasted over others' preparations and reactions.
At the moment, he and his unit were concealed by a clump of sparse trees, and behind a hill. The couple they were observing had been identified as part of the "Kavishka's" increasingly infamous group. How they had remained thus far oblivious to Gaffil's military unit was a source of disdain of Gaffil's part. They could have at least sent some suspicious looks over their shoulders. Instead, they seemed intent on their mild bickering. Marriage, Gaffil thought with a snort.
"When do you want to send them in?" asked the woman at his side.
Gaffil glanced at her. The Resistance really had gotten greedy, he thought, with Isra in his bed and his confidence. A few months ago, this one—Dara—had been transferred to his personal military unit with naught but hastily made papers, some talent with a dagger (with the MR as her only possible trainer), and a sultry gaze that crossed the border of indecency. He doubted, however, that Dara was as loyal to the MR as Isra. And even if she was faithful, she was a damned lazy spy.
"A few moments, and the archers can take these two out," he said after a moment. "Unless they start talking about something important, they're worthless to us."
Dara nodded professionally, but the look she gave him was far too bawdy, obvious. Isra clearly hadn't talked to this girl yet. Almost before he had even finished the though, however, he wondered if Isra even knew about Dara. Gaffil wouldn't put it past Isra's Resistance to undermine her for some drug-addled, vengeance-driven motive. Which didn't work for him. He had invested—even risked—too much on his spy for her to be ruined by her own organization. Perhaps he should transfer Dara. He had enough inconvenient, irritating people in his unit. General Alon could deal with this one.
It came to Gaffil, unbidden—if Rafintair somehow managed to overcome his defences… Despite himself, Isra's letter had not escaped Gaffil's thoughts. And Isra's desperation…a glimpse of herself, for once, freely given and with no hidden agenda…had barely left his mind since he received her message.
What the Larifx was he supposed to do with that, when he triumphed once more over Rafintair's plots? And if, by some obscure chance, his work was to be undone—
Gaffil scowled and shook himself out of it. Never mind the image of Isra being discovered, and dealt with by his brother's most fanatical followers. Never mind, even, her in Rafintair's bed, trapped forever in the cowering, self-loathing persona Rafintair demanded. Never mind the waste, or his knowledge that Rafintair wouldn't need to figure Isra out to destroy her.
She had known what she was signing up for. She knew what part to play. There had been no tricks or arm-twisting—for either of them—or no more than they could resist.
He would put up with Dara, or he would get sick of her blatancy—turn her in, or transfer her. He would survive whatever Rafintair now had planned. And then he would return. Make sure Isra remembered that her only value to him was calculated, and that they were both smarter than some lafit cliché.
And at that moment, as if to mock Gaffil's steadied resolve, the observed couple began running.
Gaffil switched gears automatically. So much for taking them out one by one, he thought impassively. But at least he could dispense with the preliminaries.
"Now," he snapped.
His men knew what to do. Half went racing towards their battle. Gaffil and the surprise second wave stayed hidden with the small band of archers. He'd much rather study the results of toying with this group than brutishly crush Rafintair's enemy. In the end, all paths led to his brother's demise.
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"She just acts so strangely now," Clayra insisted when they reached the pond. "Even for Sanar."
Gantik sighed. "Why is that?" asked the dutiful husband. Because he had no insight into Sanar's behaviour. Because he definitely hadn't noticed anything. He hadn't been watching—even if they both knew he had. To distract his wife's critical eye, Gantik held up the water pitcher. "Will this be enough, or should we fill up another?"
The suspicious eye turned to what he held. "One more," she said slowly. "Just in case.
"And it is true," she said, catching up with her main complaint. "Did you know the Kavishka is in love with her? But apparently she doesn't want him—probably because she has him." Clayra was in love with one of Sanar's rejects. She had a low opinion of her sister's love life. "In fact, it's like she's even mad at him for liking her. As if she didn't fall all over the Kavishka when he was just a story character."
"Sanar isn't very forgiving," Gantik pointed out.
That got him a glare. Clayra imagined what Sanar might not have forgiven Gantik for, and she doubted it was serious. Or, she considered, it must have been something stupid—like some remark he made, or like his marriage to Clayra, but with Gantik still pining for Sanar. "It's not like he meant to kill Father, I'm sure," she said. "Didn't he kill, like, a whole bunch of enemies, too?"
"Sanar was very close to your father, though." Once, when Gantik was still the closest thing Sanar had to a friend, he had seen her on the anniversary of her father's death. The image had knotted in his throat for days afterwards. "It's different for her, because she has that memory." He would have said more, but his gaze skittered to the side in distraction. Had he seen something move, out of the corner of his eye? And what?
"But he's the Kavishka," Clayra continued, oblivious. "Shouldn't we be doing…pretty much anything that makes him happy? Or something? And I'm sure Sanar is the last person who would want things to go—"
Gantik cut her off with a quick squeeze to her arm. "Clayra, we need to get out of here," he told her in a low voice.
She frowned. "What? Why?"
"Hush," he hissed. Her voice seemed too loud from his suddenly wary point of view. "There's someone here." He raised an eyebrow, and tilted his head to their left, just beyond the river.
Clayra twirled around, let wisps of her blond hair fly around her. "Who? Braun? He's so creepy sometimes, never talking—"
The need to get out of there, Gantik finally decided, outweighed their need to escape without the Someone realizing they were alerted to the danger. Grabbing Clayra by the hand, he pulled her just off the angle of the camp. "I'm thinking more along the lines of bad guys, Clayra," he snapped. "Come on." As he had known it would, this exclamation immediately drew out one man, then another—and they were definitely wearing uniforms. Unfriendly ones. Gantik knew the exact moment Clayra recognized them, because she squeaked, and all the colour drained from her face.
Gantik had planned to run off to the side of the camp. Close enough to warn the others, but not enough to lead the strangers—not Holy Brothers, but just as bad—back to the camp. Clayra, unfortunately, did not pick up on this. Instead, she loosed her hand from his, and sprinted towards the camp. To his horror, he realized she was shouting first for Kyp to get the Sildar out, and then for Sanar to help her.
Just in case, the former executioner's son thought grimly, Gaffil's men hadn't realized that they had found the Kavishka and his band.
Sanar wasn't hysterical like this, he lamented. True, she turned around and started whaling on everyone at the least provocation, but at least a man could try to stop her. There was no stopping Clayra's panic.
There was nothing for it. Sanar would fulfill all of her painful-sounding promises if he let Clayra out of his sight now.
Adjusting his course appropriately, Gantik followed his wife. At least she was screaming loudly enough to give warning. The Kavishka might even have time to grab the Sildar.
Gaffil's men didn't waste any of their mobile arsenal on poor shots, but the Whilems' luck was running out as the soldiers gained on them. Gantik pushed for another burst of speed, and began to catch up with Clayra. She had panic on her side, but it made her sloppy.
Fifty more metres to the camp, and Gantik had caught up with Clayra.
Thirty-five, and the first arrow whistled past Gantik's ear.
Twenty, and the Kavishka had the Sildar clenched before him. "Clayra, Gantik, to your left," he ordered.
Thirteen. They had run left—to Sanar, it turned out, who was looking even more terrifying than usual as she wielded a violet energy blade. A lightsaber, he thought it might have been. "Who?" she demanded.
Ten. "Gaffil," Gantik half-gasped. He hoped the warning made her wary. Gaffil's men wouldn't underestimate her, wouldn't assume. She had to be careful, even if it was uncharacteristic of her.
Four metres. He watched as Sanar's face transformed, as she tightened her grip on the lightsaber, and strode forward. Something far worse than the Niftyax roared to life in her eyes. "Gaffil," she hissed.
She passed him, and for a moment Gantik remembered her as she had been, once—responding to one of Horaire's attacks. She had been a fury, a tempest, a second away from being unleashed on the surrounding lesser mortals. Gantik had retreated before he could see what he was seeing now.
But this time, she seemed to have a peculiar trigger:
"Devnos."
Kyp beat her to the fight, but Sanar leapt into the fray soon after him. Then there were more soldiers, and then Braun, Dejarik, Miko, and Krista.
And then the blood began to flow.
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Sanar stopped thinking clearly as soon as Gantik said "Gaffil's men." If there was even a chance that Gaffil Jir was with his men, she wanted his blood to spill at her feet. Needed it, even. It thrummed and hissed through her veins, far more calculative than she had been about Horaire's murder.
She could halt her thoughts, but not her memories.
("There was nothing you could have done. Believe me: nothing. Gaffil—" "Gaffil? What does that warftha have to do with this?""The snake and his brother were the ones who did this.")
Years lost because of Gaffil. Years she could have kept her brother.
She remembered Devnos' death, come too soon for justice or forgiveness. A thousand times he had turned her away, until she knew better than to call on her brother for his mercy or aid.
The stories. The times he stood up for her when they were kids. And the day he came back, changed forever by Gaffil's chip.
Sanar's ability with a lightsaber was generally dubious. She had a little training, and could access some of Jaina's skill through their bond. But she was a survivor first, fighter second. The dark-haired woman was best with lashing out, injuring someone long enough to make her point or her escape. She had tasted only one man's blood—her worst enemy's—and it had ripped through even her hatred. Sanar was very good at hating, but still very new to seeing the life drain from a familiar being's eyes, right before her.
But she also preferred to act first, angst later. And Sanar was really, really ready to put off thinking until after she had committed her second murder.
At least, she noted, Kyp's lightsaber didn't really let anyone properly challenge her to a duel. She would probably lose her head in all of three seconds if anyone pulled out another lightsaber near her. Fortunately, she had grabbed Kyp's 'saber as soon as she understood Clayra's screaming. Two of Gaffil's men—neither stupid nor poorly trained—had rushed her straightaway. A trained swordswoman probably could have killed them both immediately. Sanar had awkwardly half-sliced open one man's shoulder, but had succeeded in taking off the left forearm of the other.
It wasn't a horrible start, considering. And she didn't really care if Gaffil took a while—as long as he came. Her target was Gaffil's painful death, after all. She could practice on his goons, first.
Sometimes, Gaffil came on his own missions, fought alongside his men. Sanar needed that to happen today.
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Krista was pretty sure she had broken a nail. Of course, on the grand, saving-the-galaxy-one-evil-dictator-at-a-time scale—not a biggie. But still, she was pretty sure she had forgotten her nail clippers. And unlike some missions, she had a reason to want to look pretty.
—To set an example for her future wannabes, of course. Of course. Nothing to do with one Miko Reglia. Even with the way he had wormed into her heart.
Just as she was convincing herself—again—that she and Miko were just friends with…almost non-existent benefits, the guy in front of Krista took a swipe at her with his sword. Her head-in-clouds approach to fighting meant she didn't have the warning to avoid it completely. Instead of cleaving her in two, some quick work on her part had the blade glancing off her left arm. Blood wept from the wound, and the skin stung fiercely. Krista's mind came firmly back to reality.
"Ow," she snapped at her attacker. "That hurt!" In retaliation, she swung out with her dagger. The soldier blocked that, but he missed how she drew her blaster.
Bang, and he was down. She didn't like using her blaster in close contact fights—far too easy for things to go very wrong—but one of her few outfits now had a rip, and a future blood stain. It was worth the risk.
With her free moment, the blond woman ignored her wound—she was pretty sure it was shallow—in favour of her surroundings. Kyp and Sanar were in the thickest part of the fight, of course. Braun, too, had his hands full. Krista noted with some relief, however, that he did not seem to be gripped by his more suicidal tendencies. Dejah and Gantik were involved with their own battles, but sharing four soldiers between the two of them. Clayra, of course, was all but hiding. Krista had long ago come to the conclusion that one of the Klis sisters had been adopted.
Miko, at least, was on equal footing—he had already killed two incautious soldiers, and was battling with three more, who now knew their swords were useless against a lightsaber. What they expected to do against it now, however, was unclear. Maybe—
A shade later than the Force, she heard Dejah's warning. "Krista, behind you—"
Instinct overrode Krista's curiosity. In a movement quick enough to make to make a stranger's head spin, the blonde dropped to the ground and rolled away from a sword's fatal arc. The air whistled past her, and she almost expected her hair to be caught on the blade. Instead, it fell around her face, mercifully free. Her attacker grunted at his miss. She rolled away from the soldier, and came up in a defensible crouch a metre away from where she had started.
There were two of them, this time. The first man, already within striking range, was wiry and pale. His buddy, approaching fast, was a giant in comparison. Tall and bulky, his dark colouring was similarly opposite to the first man. She wondered if they fought well enough together to be that scary kind of complementing team.
They did.
Krista's connection to the Force was everything weak—unfocused, untrained, awkward and inconsistent. It was her own fault. She had never had the patience or motivation to pursue her training after her short and uninspired stint at the Academy. Which was really too bad, because Krista thought it would have come in handy for this fight.
Well, when there was nothing else to do… Krista didn't plan on dying with a broken nail.
With a last glance at Miko—still fine, still alive, deal with everything else later—Krista threw herself back into the fight.
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The group was holding up better than he had expected—Gaffil would give them that much. He was particularly intrigued by the glowing weapons that one man and one woman used. When they died, he would have to recover both of the blades—one for study, and one for his own use. Possibly with his brother as a test subject.
"How much longer?" Dara asked. She hadn't moved from his side the entire mission. What did she think he was going to do—fall in lust with her if he stared at her overdone face long enough? Perhaps even fall in drunk love with her, and fill her in on his vast supply of secrets? If this kept up, he didn't doubt that Rafintair would "accidentally" find out about Dara's allegiance before she was a week returned to Quatroc.
"Start the archers' free fire on my mark," he answered after a moment. "The second wave is almost ready."
Dara nodded professionally, but topped it off with her usual look.
That just settled it. Oh, see if you last two days back in Quatroc, he thought disdainfully. Deciding to ignore her until opportunity presented itself, he fixed his eyes once more on the battle. As he watched, one of the men—the one with the strangely-coloured hair, red was it?—finally slew two of his shadows with a well-planned trap and two efficient swipes of his energy-sword. First the one, then the second of Gaffil's men fell in pieces. Horrid people, of course, with vices aplenty, but good fighters. Down for the count.
Gaffil thought he wouldn't mind seeing Rafintair suffer the same fate. Perhaps he would start with his brother's knees. But there wasn't a lot of blood in the red man's corner of the battle—and if that made the weapon any less painful, then Gaffil had no use for such a sword. Rafintair was going to feel everything as he died. Every mistake, every time he ruined one of Gaffil's plans.
Time to get this over with, then, he reminded himself. Take out the "Kavishka," then return to do some real work on his half-brother. Now, he signed to Dara, and the archers raised their bows. Countdown, and—
One of the Kavishka's group cried out in pain as an arrow found a target. The girl had even been trying to hide. And this band was supposed to be Rafintair's dilemma?
Easy, Gaffil thought.
Another signal, another volley of arrows. This time, the group was aware of the archers' presence, and there were no cries. One of the women even used a soldier as a shield. How cute.
Confident of their overconfidence, Gaffil nodded at Dara. Immediately she raced to notify the second group of soldiers, situated on the opposite side of the clearing.
Time to get this battle going.
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The Sildar sang as the blood flowed. Kyp was getting used to it, but could never help his shuddering response to the bloodthirsty chorus. Even now, mid-battle, it reminded him at least a little of Exar Kun. Perhaps that was the point.
But that song changed when Kyp had been expecting the battle to soon end. The chorus rose in anticipation, a pretty piece set to his quickening heartbeat. The arrows sent the melody ricocheting higher; the second volley—higher still.
looklooklookthere
There. Kyp saw them, now, and turned back only to finish off the man he had been duelling. "They're attacking from the back," he yelled over the battle's din. Just in case, he emphasized the warning with the Force. Thankfully, the group seemed to catch the warning and prepare for a renewed assault.
Instinctively, Kyp flicked his eyes toward Sanar. He had consciously stayed near the brunette during her crash course in using a lightsaber on a group. She looked fierce enough to rip through any opponent, and would no doubt turn on him if he offered her a weapon with which she was more familiar. He kept an eye on her anyway.
She swung wide at the soldier she fought. The man ducked the violet blade. Even as Kyp moved forward, he knew—the soldier would knock away the lightsaber, and come up with a dagger for Sanar's heart.
"Sanar, fall back," Kyp snapped. Without waiting for her compliance (or argument), he pushed himself between her and the soldier. A quick exchange of blows sufficiently defeated the other man, and on the appropriate weapon, even. The Sildar seemed rather pleased with itself.
He ignored it. "You alright?" he asked Sanar.
"I could have handled it," she told him. Her tone was surprisingly mild. For Sanar, anyway. She wasn't yelling.
"Well," he shrugged. "You know the Sildar. Has to hog the final kill on everything."
Something dark flickered across Sanar's face. "As long as it shares when it matters."
He nodded toward the increased mêlée to their east. They should rejoin the fight immediately, while they had some element of surprise. "Like when?" he queried.
Sanar started to jog ahead, but glanced back quickly to reply. "If he shows up, I'll let you know."
Before he could question her further, Sanar jerked forward. She had only just missed an arrow intended for her neck. She mouthed a curse, then jerked again. This time, however, neither of them could completely stop the arrow from doing damage.
Sanar's jaw clenched, stubbornly imprisoning a silent cry of pain, as she stumbled and dropped the lightsaber. Kyp's heart tripped right along with her. It was only when she straightened out again, the arrow caught in her left shoulder—not fatal, thank the Force—that he recovered himself.
Summoning his lightsaber to his hand, Kyp deactivated it and clipped it to his belt. Finding his once-apprentice's red hair the chaos, he shouted, "Miko, the archers!" Returning his attention to Sanar, he caught her before the pain took her under again. "We've got to get you out of here," he said, already searching for a decent hiding spot.
She had to presence of mind to pull out of his arms. "Like hell," she retorted. She grimaced—and without further warning snatched at the arrow. It was almost out before she swooned at the pain.
"Yeah, or you could do something stupid like that," he muttered irritably.
One of the soldiers caught sight of them, and thought to take advantage of the situation. Momentarily distracted—and in no mood to be so—Kyp let Sanar slide to the ground. He reactivated his lightsaber and used both it and the Sildar on the man incautious enough to attack [i]now[/i] of all times. Although not dead, the man soon fell to the ground incapacitated. The Sildar's poison would take care of the rest.
When he could refocus on what was important, Sanar was once again trying to pull at the arrow. "By the Force," Kyp grumbled. Grabbing her questing hand, he gave her a stern look. Judging by her dazed, disgruntled expression, the glare had little-to-no effect on its recipient. He was out of practice. Or Sanar was just ridiculously stubborn, and had problems with rational authority. Either one. He attempted to reason with her anyway. "Hold off on this kind of stupid until you're around a blood bank."
Predictably enough, she resisted when he tried to pull her to the safer woods. "Lemme go, Kyp, I'm fine, I just want to fight—"
"Not with that shoulder," he reminded her grimly.
"I wanna fight," she repeated, grousing. "Gaffil might be here—"
The Sildar, which had been so quiet, let a giddy shriek ring through his mind. It wasn't entirely reassuring. Trying to ignore it, he tugged Sanar behind a row of bushes. Even as she struggled, he sat her down against a nearby tree. "If you want to fight at all on the rest of this trip, you're staying out of this one," he ordered. She opened her mouth to argue, and he cut her off. "Don't make me knock you out."
"You wouldn't," she said scornfully. Her words were stumbling towards a slur.
"Don't bet on it," he snapped.
"Patronizing kryntath," she sneered, but stopped fighting him.
He glanced over his shoulder at the fight. The Sildar—subdued, save for its lone shriek, while he had ensured Sanar's safety—restarted its demands for a fight. "Stay here," he told Sanar. "And leave that arrow alone, or you'll make it worse." He began to rise, then crouched back down beside her. "Here," he said, placing his lightsaber back in her right hand. "If someone comes back here—only if they find you—then use it to defend yourself. Call for me if you have any trouble, and be nice to your shoulder. You got me?"
She gave him a narrow-eyed glare. "Yes, Durron." Abruptly, she giggled. "Kyp. Durron. Kyp."
Kyp rolled his eyes. "I'll be back as soon as I can." She snorted. "Try to stay half-sane until then?"
He didn't think she'd remember it, so he took a chance. Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead gently. Stay safe.
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"Sanar? Beloved?"
Her head lolled to the side to look at him. "Kyp." She frowned. "You went that way." She tried to point, but it was her left arm and didn't that hurt like a son-of-a-sith.
"I'm the Kavishka," he corrected her with a frown.
"Ky—Durron," she insisted. Then she started to remember why she wasn't happy with her dream lover. He was lucky she hurt too much to yell at him. "But I saw you. You're fighting Gaffil's men." And when she looked to the side, she could see Kyp's shadow sparring with two soldiers. "How are you…here?"
He smiled at her in his usual way. She thought, strangely, that his smile did not much remind her of Kyp Durron. No wonder she hadn't recognized him. She thought that if she identified an in-love Durron any one way, it should have been by his grin. It wasn't the first time she had been confronted by her wrong assumptions.
"I don't really want to deal with you right now," she told him after a pause. "And if you keep splitting your consciousness during a fight, I'll have to smack you."
"He saved your life just now."
"What?" Then, realizing he spoke in the third person, Sanar glowered. "Fine, yes, you did. Thanks-ever-so. I'll send you a fruit basket if you get yourself killed because you were fighting, and talking to me at the same time."
He didn't really seem to be paying attention to her. "I had very little to do with it, really," he admitted carelessly. "I didn't notice in time. Kyp did. We're both very lucky that he can do two things at once."
"Huh?" Clearly, she had lost a lot of blood. Clearly, she was hallucinating a Prophecy and Vengeance Approved hallucination. And doing a bad job of it, too, if she couldn't follow her own mind's creation.
"I'm afraid once the Sildar and I get distracted…" He smiled grimly.
This smile wasn't Kyp's cynical a-sarcastic-remark-is-on-the-tip-of-my-tongue smirk, either. And she knew that, so why wasn't hallucinated Kyp reverting to his proper characterization? And why did it even matter, anyway?
"It's not for lack of loving you, dearest," he continued. While she stared at him, confused, he brushed her cheek with his knuckles. "You are second only—and barely—to Vengeance. But she demands my allegiance. You must understand."
She really didn't. "Of course."
He kissed her sweetly. It was as perfect—as lovely and gentle, as undemanding and unthreatening—as ever before.
Perfect. Like the Kavishka. Not like Kyp Durron.
"Dearest," he whispered. "Stay safe, for my sake. You know, now, why we need you."
And then he was gone again.
The Sildar continued its song.