Dynasty of Evil (4 page)

Too close
, he thought to himself.
You’re slow, hesitant. Trust in the Force
.

The power of the Force enveloped him, but something about it still felt wrong. Its strength flickered and ebbed, like a static-filled transmission. Something—or someone—was disrupting his ability to focus. A dark veil had fallen across his consciousness, interfering with his ability to draw upon the Force. For a Jedi there was nothing more terrifying, but Medd had no intention of retreating.

“Leave the miners alone,” he called out, his voice betraying none of the uncertainty he felt. “Show yourself and face me!”

From the far corner of the room a young Iktotchi woman stepped forth, holding a blaster pistol in each hand. She was clad in a simple black cloak, but she had thrown her hood back to reveal the downward-curving horns that protruded from the sides of her head and tapered to a sharp point just above her shoulders. Her reddish skin was accentuated by black tattoos on her chin—four sharp, thin lines extending like fangs from her lower lip.

“The miners are dead,” she told him. There was something cruel in her voice, as if she was taunting him with the knowledge.

Gingerly using the Force to extend his awareness, Medd realized it was true. As if peering through an obscuring haze, he could just manage to see the bodies of the miners strewn about the chamber, each branded by a lethal shot to the head or chest. In the few seconds it had taken him to collect himself, she had slain them all.

“You’re an assassin,” he surmised. “Sent by the royal family to kill the rebel leaders.”

She tilted her head in acknowledgment, and opened
her mouth as if she was about to speak. Then, without warning, she fired another round of blaster bolts at him.

The ruse nearly worked. With the Force flowing through him he should have sensed her deception long before she acted, but whatever power was obscuring his ability to touch the light side had left him vulnerable.

Instead of trying to deflect the bolts a second time, Medd threw himself to the side, landing hard on the ground.

You’re as clumsy as a youngling
, he chided himself as he scrambled back to his feet.

Unwilling to expose himself to another barrage, he thrust out his free hand, palm facing out. Using the Force, he yanked the weapons from his enemy’s grasp. The effort sent a searing bolt of pain through the entire length of his head, causing him to wince and take a half step back. But the blasters sailed through the air and landed harmlessly on the ground beside him.

To his surprise, the assassin seemed unconcerned. Could she sense his fear and uncertainty? The Iktotchi were known to have limited precognitive abilities; it was said they could use the Force to see glimpses of the future. Some even claimed they were telepathic. Was it possible she was somehow using her abilities to disrupt his connection to the Force?

“If you surrender, I will promise you a fair trial,” Medd told her, trying to project an image of absolute confidence and self-assurance.

She smiled at him, revealing sharp, pointed teeth. “There will be no trial.”

The Iktotchi threw herself into a back handspring, her robe fluttering as she flipped out of view behind the cover of a thick stone outcropping. At the same instant, one of the blasters at Medd’s feet beeped sharply.

The Jedi had thought he had disarmed his foe, but instead he had fallen into her well-laid trap. He had just
enough time to register that the power cell had been set to overload before it detonated. With his last thought he tried to call upon the Force to shield him from the blast, but he was unable to pierce the debilitating fog that clouded his mind. He felt nothing but fear, anger, and hatred.

As the explosion ended his life, Medd finally understood the true horror of the dark side.

2

T
he nightmare was familiar, yet still terrifying.

She is eight years old again, a young girl huddled in the corner of the small hut she shares with her father. Outside, beyond the tattered curtain that serves as their door, her father sits by the fire, calmly stirring a boiling pot
.

He’s ordered her to stay inside, hidden from view, until the visitor leaves. She can see him through tiny holes worn in the curtain, looming over their camp. He’s big. Taller and thicker than her father. His head is shaved; his clothes and armor are black. She knows he’s one of the Sith. She can see that he’s dying
.

That’s why he’s here. Caleb is a great healer. Her father could save this man … but he doesn’t want to
.

The man doesn’t speak. He can’t. Poison has swollen his tongue. But what he needs is clear
.

“I know what you are,” her father tells the man. “I will not help you.”

The big man’s hand drops to the hilt of his lightsaber and he takes a half step forward
.

“I am not afraid to die,” Caleb tells him. “You may torture me if you want.”

Without warning, her father plunges his own hand into the boiling pot over the fire. Expressionless, he lets the flesh blister and cook before withdrawing it
.

“Pain means nothing to me.”

She can see the Sith is confused. He is a brute, a man who uses violence and intimidation to get what he wants. These things won’t work on her father
.

The big man’s head turns slowly toward her. Terrified, she can feel her heart pounding. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying not to breathe
.

Her eyes snap open as she is swept off her feet by a terrible, unseen power. It lifts her into the air and carries her outside. Upside down, she is suspended by an invisible hand above the boiling cooking pot. Helpless, trembling, she can feel wisps of hot steam rising up to crawl across her cheeks
.

“Daddy,” she whimpers. “Help me.”

The expression in Caleb’s eyes is one she has never seen in her father before—fear
.

“All right,” he mutters, defeated. “You win. You will have your cure.”

Serra woke with a start, wiping away the tears running down her cheeks. Even now, twenty years later, the dream still filled her with terror. But her tears weren’t those of fear.

The first rays of the morning sun were streaming through the palace window. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, Serra kicked aside the shimmersilk sheets and got up.

The memory of the confrontation always filled her with shame and humiliation. Her father had been a strong man—a man of indomitable will and courage. It was she who was weak. If not for her, he could have defied the dark man who had come to them.

If she had been stronger, he wouldn’t have had to send her away.

“The dark man will return one day,” her father had warned her on her sixteenth birthday. “He must not find you. You must go. Leave this place. Change your name. Change your identity. Never think of me again.”

That was impossible, of course. Caleb had been her entire world. Everything she knew about the healing arts—and about disease, illness, and poisons—she had learned at his knee.

Crossing the room to her wardrobe, she began to sift through her vast collection of clothes, trying to decide what to wear. Her entire childhood had been spent wearing simple, functional clothing; discarding it only when it became too threadbare and worn to be mended. Now she could go an entire month without wearing the same outfit twice.

She didn’t dream about the dark man every night. For a while, in the first year of her marriage, she had hardly dreamed about him at all. Over the past few months, however, the dream had come more frequently … and with it, the ever-growing desire to learn the fate of her father.

Caleb had sent her away out of love. Serra understood that. She knew her father had only wanted what was best for her; that was why she had honored his request and never gone back to see him. But she missed him. She missed the feeling of his strong, callused hands ruffling her hair. She missed the sound of his quiet but firm voice reciting the lessons of his trade; the sweet scent of healing herbs that had always wafted up from his shirt when he hugged her.

Most of all she missed the sense of safety and security she felt whenever he was around. Now more than ever, she needed to hear him tell her everything was going to be okay. But that could never be. Instead she had to cling to the memory of the last words he ever spoke to her.

“It is a terrible thing, when a father cannot be there for his child. For this, I am sorry. But there is no other way. Please know that I will always love you, and whatever happens you will always be my daughter.”

I am Caleb’s daughter
, she thought to herself, still idly
flipping through the hangers of her wardrobe.
I am strong, just like my father
.

She finally selected a pair of dark pants and a blue top, emblazoned with the insignia of the Doan royal family … a gift from her husband. She missed him, too, though it was different than it was with her father. Caleb had sent her away, but Gerran had been taken from her by the rebels.

As she dressed, Serra tried not to think of her crown prince. The pain was too sharp, his assassination too recent. The miners responsible for the attack were still out there … but not for much longer, she hoped.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her train of thought.

“Come in,” she called out, knowing only one person could be at the door of her private chambers this early in the morning.

Her personal bodyguard, Lucia, entered the room. At first glance the soldier was unremarkable: a fit, dark-skinned woman in her early forties with short, curly black hair. But beneath the fabric of her Royal Guard uniform it was possible to catch glimpses of hard, well-defined muscles, and there was an intensity in her eyes that warned she was not someone to be taken lightly.

Serra knew that Lucia had fought during the New Sith Wars twenty years ago. A sniper in the famed Gloom Walkers unit, she had actually served on the side of the Brotherhood of Darkness, the army that fought against the Republic. But as Caleb had explained to his daughter on many occasions, the soldiers who served in the conflict were far different from their Sith Masters.

The Sith and Jedi were fighting an eternal war over philosophical ideals, a war her father had wanted no part of. For the average soldiers who made up the bulk of the armies, however, the war was about something else. Those who rallied to the Sith cause—men and
women like Lucia—did so out of the belief that the Republic had turned its back on them. Disenfranchised by the Galactic Senate, they had fought a war to free themselves from what they saw as the tyrannical rule of the Republic.

They were ordinary people who became victims of forces beyond their control; expendable pawns to be slaughtered in battles waged by those who believed themselves to be great and powerful.

“How did you sleep?” Lucia asked, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her to ensure their privacy.

“Not well,” Serra admitted.

There was no point in lying to the woman who had been her near-constant companion for the past seven years. Lucia would see right through it.

“The nightmares again?”

The princess nodded, but didn’t say any more. She had never revealed the content of her nightmares—or her true identity—to Lucia, and the older woman respected her enough not to ask about it. They both had dark times in their past that they preferred not to talk about; it was one of the things that had drawn them together.

“The king wishes to speak with you,” Lucia informed her.

For the king to send for her so early, it had to be important news.

“What does he want?”

“I think it has something to do with the terrorists who killed your husband,” her bodyguard replied, picking up a delicate black veil from its stand in the corner of the room.

Serra’s heart jumped, and her fingers fumbled over the last button on her top. Then she regained control of her emotions, and stood perfectly still as the older woman
placed the veil atop her head. According to Doan custom, Serra was required to wear the mourning shroud for a full year following her husband’s death … or until her beloved was avenged.

Lucia moved with practiced precision, quickly tying up Serra’s long black hair and pinning it in place under the veil. The soldier was only average height—slightly shorter than her mistress—so Serra bent slightly to accommodate her.

“You’re a princess,” Lucia chided her. “Stand up straight.”

Serra couldn’t help but smile. Over the past seven years, Lucia had become like the mother she’d never had—assuming her mother had served as a sniper with the fabled Gloom Walkers during the Sith Wars.

Lucia finished adjusting the veil and stepped back to give her charge one final inspection.

“Stunning, as always,” she pronounced.

Escorted by her bodyguard, Serra made her way through the palace to the throne room, where the king was waiting for them.

As they marched down the castle halls, Lucia fell into her customary position, one step behind and to the left of the princess. Because most people were right-handed, being on Serra’s left side gave her the best chance to interpose her own body between a blade or blaster fired by a would-be assassin approaching from head-on. Not that there was much chance of anyone attempting anything here in the walls of the Royal Manse, but Lucia was always ready and willing to give her life for the sake of her charge.

With the collapse of the Brotherhood of Darkness two decades ago, Lucia—like many of her comrades who had served in the Sith armies—had become a prisoner of war. For six months she had been incarcerated on a
work planet, welding and repairing ships until the Senate granted a universal pardon to all those who had served in the rank and file of the Brotherhood’s armies.

Over the next thirteen years Lucia had worked as a hired bodyguard, a freelance mercenary, and finally a bounty hunter. That was how she had first met Serra … and how she had earned the long, angry scar that ran from her navel all the way up to her rib cage.