Chapter Four

When Theyn opened his eyes, darkness had fallen and the shadowhawks were out, swooping and pirouetting in the air as they hunted small prey. For a moment he could not remember where he was – had they not been back at the base camp?

Then memory returned to his sleep-fogged mind, and he felt an aching despair in the pit of his chest.

Harith Veron, his master, his mentor, was dead. Killed at the hands of soldiers who had turned on them with neither provocation nor warning. Soldiers who just hours earlier had fought alongside them as brothers in arms. As he let the tears flow from his eyes freely, giving in completely to his overwhelming emotions, Theyn thought it over and over but could make no sense of it. The clones had been perfect soldiers since the first day of the war on Geonosis. Many of them had given their lives in defence of Jedi commanders whom they had come to consider friends. He did not know for certain whether this ambush had been replicated across the Galaxy, but the sheer strength of the disturbance he had felt in the Force in the moments before the clones had opened fire surely meant that something momentous had occurred. And, Jedi that he still was, Theyn did not believe in coincidence. The two were undoubtedly connected.

Reaching out with the Force, Theyn tried to discern the shift that had taken place. His training still incomplete, however, he could make out no more than vague impressions in the Force, silhouettes and outlines of the events that had taken place. The darkness was oppressive as he strained further and further into the depths of the great field of cosmic energy that bound the Galaxy together. Whatever had happened it was clear that the Dark Side of the Force was now in the ascendant, and the Light had been diminished to little more than a candle burning in an enormous cave, at risk of being snuffed out at any second.

The mystery of precisely what had happened could wait, however. Theyn first had to come up with a means of getting off Jaradin and to find fellow Jedi. Surely he could not be the only survivor in the Galaxy.

Could he?

The thought paralysed him with fear and indecision for a moment. The idea that the greatest of the Order's masters – Yoda, Mace Windu, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Ki-Adi Mundi, the rest of the Council – could all be dead was as incomprehensible to him as had been the idea the day before that Count Dooku might be dead.

But then neither had he ever imagined that it would be possible that the clone troopers would turn on the Jedi with such unrelenting ferocity.

Theyn remembered the way that the commando had hissed "Traitor" at him, a moment before he had snapped the trooper's neck. He shuddered at the memory; he knew that in his anger and shock and despair, he had tapped into the Dark Side to kill the soldier. True, it had been a life or death situation, kill or be killed, with less than a moment in which to consider his actions. But still, he felt deeply distressed by what he had done. Not because he had killed the commando, and the other three members of Ordo Squad. They had been intent on killing him, and Theyn had acted only in accordance with that the Force had told him to – defend himself. No, what disturbed Theyn, what sent chills across his body and caused him to tremble from head to foot like a leaf in high wind was the truth that he could not deny, in his innermost being, that he had relished the power. He had felt more powerful in that moment than he had at any point in his life. And he hated that truth.

Harith had always warned him, as every Jedi Master had surely warned their students for thousands of years, that the Dark Side was seductive. That it would present itself as a tool of survival in the gravest of danger, or of help when one needed it most.

"The Dark Side does not dress in Sith robes and announce itself as a malevolent force," the Miraluka had said more than once. "It presents itself with an open palm of friendship, and says 'I am here to help you'. Sooner or later every Jedi is tested by the lure of the Dark Side. One cannot be a true Jedi without having overcome that trial."

Theyn had never had the courage to ask Master Veron what his own experience of the Dark Side had been. And now, he thought sadly, he never would. He sought the Force bond that had always tethered him to his master even across lightyears. But he felt nothing. He truly was dead, then.

The tears overwhelmed Theyn once again, and he sank to his knees on the ground amid destroyed droids and slain clone troopers. He laid his head upon the hard ground, and tucked his legs under his chest in a foetal position.

And he lay there for who knew how long. It might have been a heartbeat or an eternity. All that Theyn knew was that he was so deep in the Force that he was almost lost when he was violently brought out of his reverie – whether dream or meditation he could not tell – by the sound of an approaching LAAT gunship. He ran for cover, diving inside the frame of a shattered doorway just as the ship flew overhead. Like a bird of prey circling a field looking for a rodent. Only here, Theyn was the rodent.

The gunship made several more passes that day as it circled, searching for him. It made several the day after that as well, and the day after that. It was a standard week before a day passed without the LAAT appearing in the sky, its shadow darkening the fortress where by now Theyn had made his hideout. He survived on the ration packs that had been carried by clone troopers who had fallen in the battle, and by gathering drinking water from a nearby stream in a helmet he had taken from the head of one of the dead soldiers. Occasionally a patrol of clone troopers would pass through the fortress, and although he was always tempted to leap upon them and exact revenge for their betrayal and Master Veron's death, Theyn knew that if they went missing then other patrols would be sent to look for him. And so, he let the clones live. And eventually, they must have concluded that he was not hiding in the fortress, because the gunships ceased to fly overhead, and the troopers ceased to pass through on sweeps.

By the time a standard month had gone by, Theyn had fallen into a new routine. He had managed to sleep, if fitfully, most nights of his new exile, and he spent his hours trying to think of a way to leave the planet. He had no ship on the planet to get back to; they had arrived by troop transport, descending from a Venator-class Star Destroyer in orbit named the Tarsus Valorum. The main settlements on the planet, those large enough to host a space port, would certainly be swarming with clone troopers or else Separatist battle droids, and although Theyn had been trained in both stealth and combat, both required use of the Force and, when necessary, his lightsaber. He would be identified immediately.

His thoughts were interrupted by a new sound, a high-pitched keening that got louder and louder with every passing moment. A starship engine, he judged, but not the LAAT. Not any Republic fighter craft that he knew of. Peering through a crack in the permacrete wall of the bunker he was at that moment sitting inside, Theyn saw a sleek, arrow-shaped ship coming in to land in the courtyard of the fortress. The alloy of its body was a dark grey that nonetheless gleamed in the light of Jaradin's full moon. Rounded wings at the aft of the ship resembled the fletchings of a throwing dart, and when the boarding ramp lowered it did so without the hydraulic exhausts of other shuttles that Theyn was familiar with. A brief glimpse of the ship's interior showed that it was bathed in a blood red light.

And then a silhouette emerged at the top of the boarding ramp. Tall, straight-backed, imposing. It made its way with deliberate steps down the ramp, and then stopped as it reached the soil of Jaradin itself.

"I know you are here, Jedi."

The voice was cold, crisp, with the refined, clipped accent of the Galactic Core. Theyn thought it most likely belonged to a male, though without knowing the speaker's species it was hard to tell. The voice rang across the empty courtyard, and something about the speaker made the hairs on Theyn's neck stand on end. Without making any conscious decision to do so, he rested his palm on the lightsaber that he still wore at his hip.

"Come now, Jedi," the unknown speaker said again. "This will go so much easier for you if you simply surrender."

An activation click, a hiss, and the fire-red blade of a lightsaber appeared in the speaker's right hand, illuminating the dark courtyard, and something of the figure wielding it. Theyn saw a tall, lithe figure, dressed in grey and black armour. The height and profile of the silhouette suggested that it might be a Muun or Pau'an. But in the dark it was impossible to tell for certain.

Theyn drew in his breath. He had heard stories of Dooku's Dark Acolytes – Asajj Ventress, Savage Oppress, Sev'rance Tann and others – who had been trained in the ways of the Force by the Sith Lord and sent out to kill Jedi. Was this figure now such an Acolyte? Dooku might be dead, but perhaps this figure before him was continuing the Count's legacy. Perhaps – and this thought chilled Theyn to his being – this was even the other Sith Lord. The Council had long known, according to Master Veron, that the Sith followed a so-called Rule of Two. Veron had also told Theyn that the Council did not know the identity of the second Sith Lord, but that they believed him to be Dooku's master, rather than the other way around.

The thought of facing a Dark Acolyte was cause for fear enough. The thought of facing the Dark Lord of the Sith … Theyn knew that he was not equal to that task. He would die in such a contest.

Unless …

The Dark Side had ensured his survival once. Perhaps it would do so again.

Theyn allowed himself to feel the emotions he had spent days suppressing. Again allowed himself to feel the fear that was never far beneath the surface now. The anger at their betrayal by the clones, and at the death of his master. The hate he felt for a Galaxy which, so it seemed to him, had turned its back on the Jedi who had given so much, had sacrificed so much, to defend it across three years of horrific war.

Stepping out into the darkness, Theyn steadied his breathing as he allowed the raw power that the Dark Side granted to flow through him. The sheer strength of it still frightened him, and he was determined that he would keep it under control. He could control his emotions. He was a Jedi. The Dark Side would answer to him, not the other way around.

The dark figure watched him as he emerged.

"Ah, a shame," it said. "I had hoped, when I was told that a Jedi had survived on Jaradin, that it might be Master Veron. Now I learn that it was merely his Padawan that survived. But, no matter. I will simply kill you and return to my master with yet another Jedi lightsaber for the furnaces."

Theyn faced the dark figure, and without speaking activated his lightsaber. Blue light erupted in front of him, but he kept his eyes on the red blade that shone just metres away.

"You have fighting spirit, at least," the silhouette said. "Come then, Jedi, meet your end."

The red blade swept forward before he had finished speaking, and Theyn only just reacted in time. The blades crashed together, and Theyn could see snarling out of the darkness the face of a male Pau'an, with red tattoos beneath his yellow, glowing eyes, and on his tall, white forehead that was in such stark contrast to the dark of his garb. Then the Pau'an withdrew a step or two, and the face vanished into the darkness.

"I sense the Dark Side in you, Jedi," the Pau'an said, his voice a taunting jeer. "But it is feeble. Allow me to demonstrate to you what true mastery of the Dark Side looks like."

Theyn sensed the shift within his opponent at the same moment as the lightsaber was once again brought toward him in a flurry of movement. The Pau'an was fast, and it was all Theyn could do to keep up with the strikes and thrusts of the red lightsaber. He was fighting defensively, being driven back.

"Your Soresu is passable," the Pau'an said after Theyn managed to successfully parry a hail of blows that had rained down on him from multiple angles in quick succession. "To be expected from the Padawan of Master Veron, I suppose. Of all the Order, perhaps only Master Kenobi exceeded Harith Veron's talent for defensive combat. But you are not your master, Theyn Daras. Soon you will tire. You will make a mistake. And then, I will kill you."

Theyn was breathing hard even as the Pau'an said the words, and had to admit to himself that his opponent was right. It was clear that this Pau'an, whether Sith or Dark Acolyte or something else, was a better swordsman then he was. In a contest of the lightsaber alone, Theyn would lose.

Calling on the Force and the strength of his emotions, Theyn reached out to hurl the Pau'an back. Caught off-guard, the tall figure was thrown back several metres, landing in a sprawl on the ground beside his starship. Theyn advanced on him, but the Pau'an was already back on his feet.

"Better, Padawan," he said, in some cruel mockery of a training session. "But not sufficient."

The Pau'an pinched his thumb and forefinger together, and Theyn felt his airway tighten. All other thought fled from him as the flow of air into his lungs was suddenly cut off. An unseen hand clamped down on his windpipe and squeezed, tighter and tighter. His vision began to turn black as he fell to his knees, choking and gasping in vain for air. The Pau'an deactivated his lightsaber, and advanced on the spot where Theyn knelt, still keeping the invisible pressure of the Force on his neck.

The Pau'an said something, but to Theyn it was muffled and unintelligible. He had one final glimpse of the Pau'an's face, an expression of utter cruelty in every inch of it, before he lost consciousness completely and knew no more.