Chapter Thirty-Four: Gaffil Jir
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Krista's neck pricked irritably, but she shouldered on. Her arms ached, sweat dripped in her eyes, and more than one (relatively minor) wound was bleeding. The worrying tingle could just as easily be her imagination as the Force. Since the second wave of soldiers, Krista had sternly mastered her concentration. Miko was a big boy who had a lightsaber, and he could certainly keep himself alive for a few minutes. And Krista didn't have a cut-through-anything lightsaber, or duelling training—she was Intel, for stars' sake.
Miko could yell if he needed help. Krista needed to focus—
"Krista!" Dejah's voice cut through her concentration.
The blonde ducked her opponent's vicious knife arc. She had managed to take out the thinner man, but that left the comparable giant. As quickly as she could, Krista tried for her own knife jab, but at a place significantly more sensitive than the soldier's target had been. He dodged—barely. Instead, her knife sank into his thigh muscles.
"I'm kinda busy, Dejah," Krista shouted. When her name was shouted once more, she sighed. A series of punches, finished off with a well-placed kick, finally made the giant groan in a manner similar to a dying animal. "Gimme a sec!"
Apparently, she didn't have a "sec," because Dejah's voice became a touch more frantic. "I'll be right there!" she promised someone.
The hairs on Krista's neck fairly crawled when she stopped ignoring them. MikoMikowhereisMiko? She faltered a second—forced herself not to turn and look—you can't do anything if you're dead.
Krista's attack turned vicious. She slipped past Giant's swinging arm, then slid close enough to smash her elbow into his throat twice. Before he could react even to that, her knee shot into his thigh wound. He fell to his knees in pain. Krista couldn't blame him; it was a natural reaction. But it was rather stupid—he was the perfect height for her to get her hands around his beefy neck. Twist, and snap, and the fight was finished with perhaps some of the dirtiest tactics Krista had ever used.
She didn't think about the giant, though—Miko, she thought frantically. Where had she last seen him?
It took a second. But Kyp had yelled something earlier—for Miko to take out the archers. Eventually, Krista remembered and set off in the right direction. "Miko!" she yelled. "I'm coming!"
The archers had set themselves up to the west, behind the cover of trees and one of the terrains' rolling hills. She didn't have time to fight her way through the mass of fighting. Instead, Krista cut a path through them, pausing only long enough to knick an enemy here and there as distraction.
When she finally arrived, however, she stumbled to a stop. She had been expecting to dodge arrows and shoot her technologically advanced equivalent. Instead, Krista found Miko duelling with two men. Miko's lightsaber had been replaced with a sword. And he was losing.
This was actually worse than the broken nail.
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Miko had taken care of the easy part while he had the element of surprise. Five archers down before a man knocked Miko's lightsaber out of his hand. But before he could summon it back, the same man had thrown it into the nearby oasis. As a general rule, lightsabers…did not like water.
One of the men Miko killed had a sword, which Miko now used. He could adjust to the extra weight—mostly. He had even taken down two of the four remaining men. It still created a handicap in a fight where every flaw was held against him.
Then it got ugly. Because those last two men were the difficult ones. The lighter-haired one had to be almost Miko's equal with a sword. The other one, though, the dark-haired man—Miko knew a master duellist when he saw one. And this one could beat Miko down even without his extra goon. It was only a matter of time.
Miko had been duelling for years, and most of that had been learned at war. He had fought more beings than he could remember, and most of those fights had involved at least one death.
This fight, he finally admitted, would probably be his last. With a curious calm, he could see it. Finally a split second too slow in a slightly too-complex series of moves, and then—the Force. And hopefully peace.
Peace. Put that way, death sounded like it should be desirable. A Jedi was supposed to accept it as a transition, as the Force. But he still had so much he wanted to live through.
And—Krista.
Miko faltered, and very nearly lost his head for it. He tightened his grip at the last second, pushed back and then kicked out at the other man before he could come at Miko with the dagger.
Krista, blue eyes, blond hair—the real kind, with gold and red and pale highlights, not at all manufactured, for all she pretended. Bright smile, but eyes with depth and mischief. Krista, who he thought might actually—finally—see him as more than just a friend. Krista, who kept up a wall between others and herself for this very reason. What would his death do to her?
As if summoned by his thoughts, a flash of blond hair caught his eye as it came over the hill.
No.
"Krista, get out of here," he called as he dug to find his reserve energy. Krista would have some blasters, a dagger or two, maybe some other close combat weapons. But no sword—not that she was trained to use one properly, anyway. And if he died while she was nearby, Krista would be next.
"Just pass one off to me," she insisted, hovering at the edge of the fight. At least she realized that both of them would die if she simply cut in.
Dark Hair smirked, and brought his foot down into Miko's knee. Miko just managed to take it, but ended up falling back anyway. He twisted to avoid Light Hair's sword, then scissor-kicked Dark Hair's sword hand. The man cursed, and drew a dagger even as he regained his grip. But Miko was back on his feet by then.
"Get Kyp," he told Krista, not even daring to look at her. He couldn't be distracted for this fight, when he had already been on his back once. He had been lucky, nothing more.
He could feel Krista hesitate, then say, "Just back up, or stay still for a second, and I can—"
"Krista!" Frustration roughened his tone.
"Leave it to me," he heard another woman murmur. Dejah? He tuned out the rest of the conversation.
He continued to fight, completely focused, couldn't even check if Krista had left. Then suddenly he was only fighting Dark Hair. Dejah had cut into the fight with surprising sensitivity to the situation, and pulled the second man away from Miko. His lone opponent immediately stepped up the speed of his already lightning-quick strikes.
Still, Miko told himself, it was one less opponent. Now if Krista would just listen—
But he couldn't think about Krista anymore—and not anything else, for that matter. Submerging his entire self in the Force, Miko fought for his life.
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Teigra had once remarked that duelling was rather like dancing. Dejah supposed she could buy that, though she found the footwork of a fight far easier to remember. She had the fighter's instinct, after all. It was all a matter of finding the rhythm.
The man she fought was her equal, and perhaps just slightly better. It was a little easier once she had forced him away from Miko—less conscious strategy, and more flexibility. At the first opportunity, she checked to see where Krista had gone. Dejah only just caught sight of blond hair as it disappeared over the hill.
Good girl, Dejah thought, when she realized that she hadn't needed to elaborate on the plan. Krista must have run for the Kavishka; Dejah could hardly see her leaving Miko otherwise. Now if the strange girl would just realize that she would have to stay there and help Gantik and Braun. Dejah didn't mind leaving the main fight for this one—it was Gaffil Jir, after all—but the sooner this battle ended, the better.
She hoped Miko could hold off Gaffil for a little while longer. Dejah knew she wouldn't last more than a few minutes, especially if she had to fight her current opponent as well. She was better trained, and more experienced, than most MR fighters, but there was only so many minor strikes that could be carried out against Pucijir's Order. Most of the women more experienced than her were also dead.
To be honest, part of her had expected to find a MR operative—Isra, perhaps—as a source of aid in this conflict. For good or ill, Geneva wasn't known for under-exploiting an opportunity. This lack was uncharacteristic of the MR leader.
It wasn't important, though, Dejah reminded herself with a shake of her head. Not even if some stupid, fresh operative was merely playing her own selfish game. Gaffil had to die, and Dejah hoped—prayed, though Mujir probably wasn't there—that today was his day.
Dejah had to prepare herself, though, protect herself from the inevitable disappointment. If Gaffil survived this, after all, then Kyp Durron was no promised hero.
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Kyp was ready when Krista came sprinting over the hill. The Force hummed as an undercurrent, but it was the Sildar that burned in his blood. The part of him that had almost nothing to do with Kyp Durron, and everything with the Kavishka, had taken over.
wherewherewherethere
He signalled to Gantik and Braun to finish off the remaining soldiers. "Where are they?" he demanded as soon as Krista was close.
"Over the hill," she answered, pointing. "Miko's trying to hold them off, but he's los—"
Kyp Durron might have spared the visibly upset girl a reassuring word or gesture. The Kavishka only raced toward Gaffil Jir. "Stay and help down here!" he yelled over his shoulder.
He could hear them now. Miko grunting and fighting through weariness and pain. Dejah trying to keep track of her fight as well as Miko's. He could hear Death hovering over them all—just waiting.
I wouldn't want to disappoint, he thought, almost amused.
Then at last he had arrived; he (the Kavishka, the Sildar, Vengeance) knew Gaffil immediately. His blood stilled and then—
Voices, so many voices, do this / watch out for when / he's a sly one / just do what we say / just don't let him leave without Vengeance
"Gaffil Jir."
Gaffil ignored the Kavishka in favour of beating down on Miko. Krista was right about that part: Miko was definitely losing. In fact, he was two seconds away from defeat. Covered in lacerations, he wasn't going down without a fight, but most men (maybe the ones who didn't love girls with abandonment issues) would have given in already.
Gaffil's sword came up. Miko raised his own sword in a last, weak defence. Gaffil's sword dove down and—
"I'm afraid that'll have to wait."
Gaffil wasn't expecting the resounding counter-blow to his sword's descent. The Sildar's power sent the man back a stumbling step. He glanced down at Miko, as if the broken red-haired man might have somehow managed to rise up again. Having regained himself, Gaffil finally turned to his real opponent. He smirked, eyes gleaming. "The Kavishka, I presume?" He kicked the slowly rising Miko back to the ground. "I hope you're worth the trip."
The Kavishka returned his smirk, but refrained from responding with words. Instead, the Sildar whirled in his hands and Gaffil had to return fully to the duel. The swords clashed in a stalemate, neither giving an inch. Gaffil Jir was not one of his soldiers, easily pushed aside. Another blow, more successfully deflected this time and—twist and recover now—a dagger darted in too close to Kyp's shoulder for comfort. Gaffil, in his eagerness to wound his opponent early, almost missed the way the Kavishka recovered. Kyp's elbow was a breath away from Gaffil's nose when the other man backed out of reach.
They circled each other, both aware of the challenge they faced. Kyp was the first to shake off the pressure. His feral grin was soon echoed by Gaffil.
hard hard fastandhard / don't fall for his tricks
In response to the Sildar's voices, Kyp charged forward, pushing Gaffil toward and over the hill in a surge of power. Gaffil fought it at first, but fancy footwork soon had him spun around, with Kyp at the disadvantage of backing down a hill.
Gaffil kicked out. The Sildar hissed a warning—but Kyp misjudged the target, and moved to the side only to flinch when Gaffil's foot cut into his knee.
plays dirty lafit watch him
Right. Dirty. Kyp wouldn't make the same mistake twice. If Gaffil wanted to play dirty, they'd play dirty.
He had to forcibly quiet the Sildar for a moment. It was almost impossible to both access the Force, and act as a conduit for Vengeance. But there it was, Light (or something like it) against the Sildar's voices. He didn't have time to revel in it. Even as he drew Gaffil down to leveller ground, Kyp scanned his surroundings.
There. Splitting his attention was dangerous, but Kyp Durron was not known for playing it safe. He pressed his attack furiously, and was rewarded by Gaffil's slight falter. Acting quickly, Kyp summoned a fist of sand to fly up in Gaffil's face.
Gaffil stumbled just a little, then decided to use his disorientation to his benefit. Before Kyp could make contact, Gaffil dropped to the ground, and kicked Kyp's legs out from under him. They both tumbled the rest of the way down the hill. Gaffil rose first, but Kyp used his Gaffil's own move against him. Gaffil fell, and both were back on their feet at the same time. Swords crossed in a flurry of attacks and defensive measures. Kyp would give Gaffil this much—he was not predictable.
Not to Kyp, at least. But the Sildar—representing millions of victims of Pucijir's Order—offered information from battles they had fought with Gaffil Jir.
don't look for a weak side doesn't have one / he'll see that move you're telegraphing that move / watch see he'll—this is how he killed us / don't follow it tricktricktrick / sand now now now
Kyp thought it was possible that Gaffil was the better fighter. Possible. With swords and only moderate Force access. But Prophecy was not meant to end a few days' travel from Quatroc, to be killed at the hands of Rafintair's ambitious and passed over brother. The Kavishka would find victory even if Kyp Durron could not.
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Larifx. Larifx, larifx, larifx-and-lafit-all-to-the-depths-of-hell. Geneva hadn't said anything about an attack on Gaffil—and she would have definitely lectured Dara about when to do this and that and how she'd better not to lafit it up or there'd be hell to pay. But if it wasn't Geneva, then who—? Dara brushed the thought aside with a petulant scowl. It didn't matter who. If Gaffil got killed, Rafintair would have the Holy Brothers on her before she could figure out who could protect her. And she didn't feel like just indiscriminately lafiting fat old men who had power—not just because some nobodies managed to kill the emperor's brother. She had some standards.
She couldn't kill them—too many of 'em, and Geneva'd kill her for protecting Gaffil and taking out "allies." Larifx. This was all too much trouble, considering how she'd only signed up for the more comfortable lifestyle. Maybe it would be more worth it once she was under Gaffil's skin. Once she rooted Isra out properly, and had Gaffil in her bed. Of course, to gain the prince's jewels and undoubtedly satin sheets, she couldn't just let him die here. Isra would steal everything before Dara even got back to Quatroc.
And it was important for his information, too, of course. That would be the only part she told Geneva. But how to get from point A to point alive-jewels-and-satin-sheets?
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Gaffil liked competent opponents. He hadn't had many of them, and he had run out of those years ago. Isra wasn't really an opponent; and Rafintair could not be defeated in just one fight.
This man, though—Gaffil grinned at the Kavishka as he feinted to the left, then the right, then kicked out for a just barely unsuccessful trip. The Resistance had chosen their makeshift mythic hero well. It was a pity, really. Gaffil had let some of Rafintair's enemies go—once he had a handle on them, they could be very useful—but this one had to die. Rafintair had paid too much attention to the myth to miss the man.
If Gaffil hadn't already claimed his brother's blood, he would have laid money on the Kavishka's triumph over Rafintair. It wouldn't have been a sure thing, of course, but wouldn't that have been a fight to see.
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The battle now seemed superfluous, and Gantik wasn't sure if he fought because it was necessary, or because it gave him something to do. Clayra would survive her arrow wound, and she had found a more successful hiding place since the sniper's shot went through her hand.
Braun and Krista's fights were also calming down. Krista had found her second wind to finish off her last two opponents. Gantik guessed, however, that her mind was more on Miko's fight than her own. She was too careful to maintain her concentration. Even as he glanced over at her, the blond girl cut down a well-beaten soldier with painstaking care. As her reward, she stole a glance at the hill. Braun, close enough to catch sight of this, spun around and threw some kind of dart at her final foe's throat.
Krista looked up, startled by the gurgling sound. Her daggers slashed across the man's neck; he fell without so much as a whimper. She stepped toward Braun. "Do you need—"
"Go check on Miko," Braun interrupted her. "Gantik and I can handle the rest."
She didn't need to be told twice. Krista raced off with more energy than Gantik had felt since the first five minutes of the fight. She didn't even glance at Kyp and Gaffil's rather epic-looking battle, several metres away. Gantik very consciously did not make any crude remarks—out loud or otherwise—about where Krista's head really was.
Braun's enemy fell—not yet dead, but as good as—and then he and Gantik finished off the last one. Just in time, too, Gantik thought. Exhausted, he fell to the ground not long after the soldier. "This was definitely Clayra's idea," he muttered tiredly. His wife rarely ever put her foot down, but she could make life hellish when she wanted to. She had gotten that much—though perhaps nothing else—from her sister. And of course she had wanted to come on this suicide mission. Gantik's life would have been too easy, otherwise.
"Gantik?" Speak of the—wife. "Are you alright?"
Do not snap at her, Gantik reminded himself. Do not make a sarcastic, border-line cruel comment. This is the Klis girl who loves you. And Sanar will murder you if you treat Clayra the way you would her sister. "Get out the bandages, Clayra," he said out loud. "For your hand." He glanced at the man nearby. "How are you, Braun?"
Braun gave Gantik a cold look. "Concern yourself with your wife's wounds." He paused, then grudgingly added, "And your own. Your stomach is bleeding particularly badly.
Gantik nodded uneasily. Braun disturbed him at times. A more insightful—or at least more sympathetic—man might have made the connection between this fight and the last, in which Braun's wife had died. Gantik was neither of these things.
"Clayra?" he called. She turned back quickly, almost obediently. He was very grateful that Sanar wasn't nearby to see it. "Bring out all the medical supplies."
She must have acquiesced—she always did—but Gantik had already turned away from her to observe the continuing fight. "I didn't expect them to be so well matched," he told Braun.
The other man's grim stare did not move from the fight. None of them could even think of joining in; any attempt would probably get all three participants killed. "It would be more reassuring if Kyp had instantly killed Gaffil."
"No," Gantik said, shaking his head. "I didn't expect him to last this long, actually. I haven't seen Gaffil beaten in a fight since he was a boy—and even then he would usually cook up some kind of prank or trick as a last 'word.' He never fought Rafintair that I knew of. It wouldn't have served either of their motives."
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Kyp had become lost somewhere in the Sildar's song, in Vengeance's dance. Every blow—to his opponent or to himself—was only a blur now, and it would have been so even if they came, went, clashed, shattered at a mortal speed. This, he had thought earlier in the fight—this was why so many believed the Jirs were unbeatable, protected by a warrior god. If this was Gaffil Jir, Kyp could only imagine his fight with Rafintair. The Kavishka's every strike was blocked, dodged, turned against him, and blocked again.
Gaffil's blows did not make the Kavishka's strength crumble—he was no match in power—but for intelligence, for sheer demonic cunning in the face of a fight—
The result of a fight between power and cunning was always interesting. Kyp alone might have lost this battle, might have been defeated at last on a strange planet on a mission that smacked of suicide.
Kyp Durron had been lost to the Sildar's song, to Vengeance's dance, to the Kavishka.
All the Kavishka needed was an opportunity.
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Dara was running out of time. As unbelievable as it was, Gaffil might actually lose this fight. But even if (when, Dara planned to live) he beat his current opponent, he would have to fight the rest of them. And with no one else alive to help him, Gaffil would definitely know that Dara hadn't fought—which would mean no jewellery and no satin sheets.
She was seriously considering just throwing one of the grenades and hoping for the best (they were still very new, and very unstable), when movement caught her eye. Dara moved further into the bushes to get a better look.
It was a woman—she looked vaguely familiar, and Dara assumed that she was a part of the so-called Kavishka's group. She was injured, though—a rather painful-looking arrow wound in her shoulder. And while she wasn't unconscious, she didn't look particularly coherent.
It occurred to Dara that the woman looked rather like satin sheets.
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The Sildar roared. At last, at last—
It was only a small opening, but the product of an exhausting round of careful strategy and heavy blows. This was the start—he could almost taste Gaffil's defeat.
His eyes glued to the target, Kyp swung the Sildar. The blow glanced across Gaffil's side. Just as quickly, Gaffil spun away and out of reach. He had flinched at the initial burn, but stifled any further response in favour of a snarl—of anger, not true pain.
give it time kryntath
Kyp's lips stretched into sometime like a smile. Finally, finally.
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This was officially too easy. Gantik had seen Gaffil fight before, and he knew how easily his half-cousin managed to win. Gaffil was, and always had been, protected by something—perhaps a lesser known trickster god. If Kyp Durron had managed to hold out this long, it would soon change for the disastrous.
Just as he formed the thought, a strange woman dragged Sanar out of the woods. This, unfortunately, was all too Gaffil—his style, his luck (of all the possible captives—a wounded Sanar? the woman Kavishka loved?), his backdoor.
It was never easy.
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Kyp only needed a few more minutes to perfect his plan. He was almost certain he had Gaffil. As soon as he—
And then he did, Gaffil heralded his own downfall with a move too complex for his own good. It brought him too close, and before Gaffil could blink he was sprawled—finally, sprawled, he wouldn't recover quickly enough—and the Sildar raised for the final blow and—
"If you want her to live, you'll let him go."
The meaning's chill, more than the words, stayed his blow. The Kavishka recoiled, and the Sildar's voices were silenced in terror. Kyp, himself, very nearly staggered. As he pushed forward, however, he realized what the Kavishka had not noticed in time.
Sanar. Kyp didn't have to look away from Gaffil to grasp the situation. One of Gaffil's people had Sanar—who felt worse than he had left her—and no one was close enough to fix that. Several metres away, he could sense Gantik and Braun's fear. They knew how bad this could get.
They couldn't let Gaffil go. He needed to pay for his crimes. Further, his death would be a serious to blow to Rafintair's power, who apparently depended far more on Gaffil than the emperor would admit.
But Kyp could not let Sanar die. Never mind Prophecy, or how many times and ways Jaina would kill him if anything happened to her sister, or even the group's symbolic number. Kyp Durron could not let anything happen to Sanar Klis.
He wondered if she would ever understand that.
Kyp looked at Gaffil. The other man's expression was a mix between amused and disgusted. But Kyp was satisfied with the blood that slowly seeped from Gaffil's side. "What do you want, then?" he asked the stranger holding Sanar.
"Step away from Gaffil, and we go," the woman ordered. Her Basic was relatively solid, but still imperfect. "I let her go at top of hill. You not follow."
Kyp laughed humourlessly. "I'm supposed to trust you on that?"
She paused, as if taking the time to mentally translate his words.
Gaffil spoke. "I can leave and return with a dozen more soldiers, but the nearest outpost is several hours' travel. You'll know before then if the girl has been killed."
Kyp pinned Gaffil with a glare. "And what's to stop me from killing you, then?"
Gaffil smirked, and looked pointedly at Sanar. Kyp followed his gaze. "She needs medical attention—Dara isn't known for her subtlety."
"It only takes one to care for her."
"And who will that be?" Gaffil's smirk grew. "Your crew must be exhausted, and some wounded. And do you really expect me to believe that you will leave her to such a group?"
Sanar looked only barely conscious, and very woozy. He thought he could see blood (he told himself that it could be his imagination). Besides that, however, Dara stayed too far away. Kyp couldn't judge what kind of wounds Sanar's condition implied—for all he knew, Dara had merely knocked her over the head. But Gaffil was right; Kyp wouldn't take that chance.
Certainly, not when he knew the fate that awaited Gaffil.
"I'll know if you hurt her," Kyp told Gaffil. "We both know you almost lost this round."
"You either die or you don't, Kavishka," Gaffil replied glibly as he stood. "But I am not my brother," he added dismissively. "I would rather survive you than protect my pride."
Braun wasn't happy. "Kyp, you can't—"
"You of all people should know why I will," Kyp replied sharply without looking at him.
Gaffil snorted, and touched his side with a rueful look. "You won't manage this twice. I know you now."
Kyp believed him. It just didn't matter anymore. But he only said, "We'll see, won't we?"
The other man smirked. "We will." He signalled for Dara to follow him up the hill. She sneered at Kyp and tightened her grip on Sanar, who might have moaned softly (or maybe Kyp's protective side was making him paranoid), but she obeyed. She waited until the last moment to push Sanar down the hill.
Kyp caught Sanar before she hit the bottom of the end of the slope, and he immediately set to work on healing her. Vengeance did not demand he follow the Sildar's enemy.
Gaffil was already a dead man. He just didn't know it yet.