Inheritance
44.
The long-house is burning like a beacon fire, its flimsy walls of packed earth crumbling beneath the falling roof, the woven fibers ablaze with terrible rage. The building must have been doused in oil, for this is no ordinary conflagration – and was it not raining just a moment ago?
Master Windu wastes no time; the Force swells about him, a bright corona leaping higher than the visible flames. He holds out his hands, and smothers the consuming tongues of flame, tamping down their wrath with the power of the Force. Sparks swirl into the dark skies; pillars of choking smoke twist and billow from the dying embers.
I leap into the blackened mess of the building, heedless of the risk, for there are Feorians trapped inside. Cries of terror and agony erupt from the sagging, smoldering ruins. I hold my breath, keep my eyes tightly closed. Smoke and cascading ash fill my nostrils though I do not draw breath. A hand clutches at my sleeve. I seize it and push the elder toward the exit. And another. A third lies prostrate. I heave his limp form over my shoulders and push on. Two others stumble into me and are pushed after the others. And then the roof collapses full above me.
The Force holds it at bay, redirecting its fall. The ember-riddled beams slam down to either side, missing their target. Smoke rises in a hellish cloud and I leap, clinging to my lifeless burden, clear of the smoldering ruins.
I miss my landing, drop the poor Feorian, slice my knee on some jutting shard of rock. Mace Windu's hand grips my shoulder. Without it, I might keel over.
Feorians wail and flee, their fear whipping the smoke and darkness into agonized forms, coiling wraiths. Something terrible draws near, a thing crimson and black, heralded by the wicked sigils twisting in the smoke. I choke on the hot effluvia of the fire until I've retched up a sticky mess, and climb to my feet, still holding onto Master Windu for support.
And the jabuur-weki looms full above us.
It is smoke and fire, and it is a thing clothed in these veils and illusions.
It is vast wings, reaching claws and razored beak, a belly distended by gluttony and starvation, the endless feast of the Dark. It swells within the blossoming smoke, blotting out the stars, incorporeal and limitless, wailing soundless fury. Thunder rolls in its wake, and fleet lightning crowns it.
Its eyes burn with sickly yellow light; its body is nothing but a crawling mass of carnivorous beetles; its voice is a scouring sandstorm.
And the ruinous longhouse is the fallen ramparts of a mighty temple, darkened and burning in some distant night. The screams of the Feorians are the death pangs of innocent children, the shadow's spreading wings the embrace of some nameless tyranny.
My cry of denial bleeds into the monster's own harsh keening. I hear Mace Windu call out beside me, a guttural oath of defiance, of raw loathing. We face fear itself. Fear incarnate.
Our sabers leap pure and sonorous from their hilts, but the monster looms closer yet, stifling as the ash-laden air, the ground-shaking thunder. And blue lighting explodes, blinding, from the jabuur-weki's gaping maw.
We are the eye of the storm, the center of a blazing citadel, the last island of light in the sea of black terror. Our sabers move together, as one, a unity of purpose, of honor, of dedication. Wicked tongues of fire spatter on the blades, rebound and shiver into the night. The monster howls its displeasure, wings wrapping about us, wrath gathering to a crushing singularity, its voice so piercing that it draws our own cries of pain up into itself, a chorus of destruction.
And then it hesitates; withdrawing… furling inward … it retreats, its war-cry sounding over the frozen plain, echoing like a ghastly dirge across the emptiness.
I am somehow on my knees again, my vision wheeling with the giddy stars, stunned disbelief drumming in my veins. It has gone… gone…
"Easy, son."
This is Mace Windu, whose dark face is slicked with a cold sweat, whose features are lined with a strain I have never seen. I shake my head at him, for I don't need assistance, I merely –
Anakin.
Where is Anakin?
Blast this coughing fit, where is Anakin, for stars' sake?
I reach for him, within the Force, and he is not here. He is not near, not in the village, not –
"No, no, no!" Blast it, Anakin! "Master –"
"What's wrong? What is it?"
Damn it to the nine hells, I'm going to kill that boy. There isn't time for this, and the jabuur-weki is on the loose, and it's headed….
By the Force! I thrust an arm out over the plains, in the direction the monster has fled. "Anakin. He's gone to the caves."
"Fierfek."
And now we are sprinting, side by side, covering the slick and treacherous ground between the village enclosure and the ominous mass of the glacial boulder, its dark silhouette marking the place like some gaudy mausoleum. Ice grits beneath our flying boots, and wind rises to buffet us, pushing against us in mute protest. My teeth chatter, and the frigid air burns in my scarred lungs, but-
He is not there. He has gone within. The jabuur-weki no longer fills the sky, no longer rivals the cold void of night. But the Force is violently disturbed, clotted and stained by the presence of something, of a primordial nightmare. I halt beneath the overhang of the mighty rock, Mace Windu just behind me.
Within, it is Dark.
And the Dark whispers my name, enticing, promising everlasting oblivion in its fathomless depths.
"No," I gasp. My voice is weak, bereft of sound.
"May the Force be with us," Master Windu breathes. "The monster has found a new anchor – another vergence. It's down in that cave now."
With Anakin. Alone. My heart hammers against my ribs, protesting both the idea of entering the black fissure, and the idea of leaving the boy alone and undefended. No, no, no, no, no, my pulse drums in frantic rhythm, a battle frenzy of revulsion.
But there is no question in my mind. I plunge head-first into the gloom, to save my rash and foolish Padawan from a destruction far worse than mere death.
