Star Wars: Path of Destruction: A Novel of the Old Republic (24 page)

With the surge and swell of each exchange Bane gently prodded with the Force, testing and searching for a weakness he could exploit. It took only a few minutes until he recognized it. Despite his training, the Zabrak had no real experience in long, drawn-out battles-none of his opponents had ever lasted long enough to truly push him. Imperceptibly, the strikes of his foe became less crisp, the counters less precise, and the transitions less elegant as Sirak gradually wore down. The fog of exhaustion was slowly clouding his mind, and Bane knew it was only a matter of time until he made a crucial-and fatal-miscalculation.

Yet even though he was battling the Zabrak, Bane’s real struggle was with himself. Time and again he had to pull back to keep from lunging through an opening presented by his enemy’s increasingly desperate assault. He understood that the crushing victory he sought would only come through patience-a virtue not normally encouraged in followers of the dark side.

In the end his patience was rewarded. Sirak became more and more frustrated as he continually tried and failed to bring his bumbling, stumbling opponent down. As the prolonged physical exertion began to take its toll, his swings became wild and reckless, until he abandoned all pretense of defense in an effort to end the duel he sensed was slipping away from him.

When the Zabrak’s desperation turned to hopelessness, every impulse in Bane screamed with the desire to take the initiative and end the fight. Instead he let the tantalizing closeness of Sirak’s defeat feed his appetite for vengeance. The hunger grew with each passing second until it became a physical pain tearing away at his insides: the dark side filled him and he felt it on the verge of ripping him apart, splitting his skin and gushing out like a fountain of black blood.

He waited until the last possible second before unleashing the energy bottled up inside him in a tremendous rush of power. He channeled it through his muscles and limbs, moving so fast it seemed as if time had stopped for the rest of the world. In the blink of an eye he knocked the saber from Sirak’s hand, sliced down to shatter his forearm, then spun through and brought his saber crashing into his opponent’s lower leg. It splintered under the impact and Sirak screamed as a shard of gleaming white bone sliced through muscle, sinew, and finally skin.

For an instant none of the spectators was even aware of what had happened; it took their minds a moment to catch up and register the blur of action that had occurred so much quicker than their eyes could see.

Sirak lay crumpled on the ground, writhing in agony and clutching with his one good hand at the chunk of bone protruding from his shin. Bane hesitated a split second before moving in to finish him off, savoring the moment … and giving Kas’im the opportunity to intervene.

“Enough!” the Blademaster shouted, and the apprentice obeyed, freezing his saber even in the act of chopping it down on his helpless foe. “It’s over, Bane.”

Slowly, Bane lowered his saber and stepped away. The fury and focus that had turned him into a conduit of the dark side’s unstoppable power was gone, replaced by a hyperconscious awareness of his physical surroundings. He was standing atop the temple roof in the middle of a raging storm, drenched in cold rain, his body half frozen.

He began to shiver as he cast about the ground for his discarded cloak. He picked it up but, finding it soaked completely through, didn’t bother to put it on.

Kas’im stepped from the crowd, smoothly placing himself between Bane and the helpless Zabrak.

“You have witnessed an amazing victory today,” he told the assembled throng, shouting to be heard above the pounding rain. “Bane’s triumph was as much a result of his brilliant strategy as his superior skill.”

Bane was barely listening to the words. He merely stood in the center of the ring, silent save for the chattering of his teeth.

“He was patient and careful. He didn’t just want to defeat his opponent … he wanted to destroy him! He achieved dun moth-not because he was better than Sirak, but because he was smarter.”

The Blademaster reached out a hand and placed it on Bane’s bare shoulder.

“Let this be a lesson to you all,” he concluded. “Secrecy can be your greatest weapon. Keep your true strength hidden until you are ready to unleash the killing blow.”

He let go of Bane’s shoulder and whispered, “You should go inside before you catch a chill.” Then he turned to address the stunned Zabrak siblings standing at the edge of the circled students. “Take Sirak down to the medcenter.”

As they moved forward to carry their moaning and barely conscious champion away, Bane turned toward the stairs. Kas’im was right: he had to get out of the rain.

Feeling strangely surreal, he walked stiffly toward the stairs that led into the warmth and shelter of the rooms below. The crowd parted quickly to let him through. Most of the other apprentices were staring at him with expressions of fear and open wonder, yet he barely noticed. He descended the steps to the temple’s main floor, walking in a stupor that was broken only when he heard Githany call his name.

“Bane!” she shouted, and he turned to see her hurrying down the stairs after him. Her drenched hair was plastered haphazardly to her face and forehead. Her soaked clothes clung tightly to her body, accentuating every curve of her shapely form. She was breathing hard, though whether from excitement or the exertion of catching up to him he couldn’t say.

He waited at the base of the stairs as she approached. She ran down the steps toward him, and for a moment he thought she would continue on into his arms. At the last second she stopped, however, and stood mere centimeters from him.

Githany took a second to catch her breath before she spoke. When she did, her words were harsh, though her voice was low. “What happened up there? Why didn’t you kill him?”

Part of him had been expecting this reaction, though another part of him was hoping she had come to congratulate him on his victory. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

“He sent me to the bacta tank in our first duel. Now I’ve done the same to him,” he replied. “That’s vengeance.”

“That’s foolish!” she shot back. “You think Sirak’s going to just forget about this? He’ll come after you again, Bane. Just like you came after him. That’s the way this works. You missed your chance to put a permanent end to this feud, and I want to know why.”

“My blade was raised for the killing blow,” Bane reminded her. “Lord Kas’im stepped in before I could finish Sirak off. The Masters don’t want one of their top students to end up dead.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Your blade was raised, but Kas’im didn’t stop you. You hesitated. Something held you back.”

Bane knew she was right. He had hesitated. He just wasn’t sure why. He tried to explain it … to Githany and himself. “I’ve already killed one foe in the ring. Qordis chastised me for Fohargh’s death. He warned me not to let it happen again. I guess … I guess I was worried about what the Masters would do to me if I killed another apprentice.”

Githany’s eyes narrowed in anger. “I thought we’d finally stopped lying to each other, Bane.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it wasn’t entirely accurate, either. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling guilty beneath her furious glare.

“You couldn’t do it,” she said, reaching out and jabbing him hard in the chest with her finger. “You felt the dark side swallowing you up, and you pulled back.”

Now it was Bane’s turn to get angry. “You’re wrong,” he snapped, swiping her accusing hand away. “I retreated from the dark side after I killed Fohargh. I know how that felt. This is different.”

His words carried the righteous weight of truth. Last time he’d felt hollow inside, as if something had been taken from him. This time he could still feel the Force flowing through him in all its savage glory, filling him with its heat and power. This time the dark side remained his to command.

Githany wasn’t convinced. “You still aren’t willing to give yourself fully to the dark side,” she said. “Sirak showed weakness, and you showed him mercy. That’s not the way of the Sith.”

“What do you know of the ways of the Sith?” he shouted. “I’m the one who’s read the ancient texts, not you! You’re stuck learning from Masters who’ve forgotten their past.”

“Where in the ancient texts does it say to show compassion to a fallen enemy?” she asked, her voice dripping with scorn.

Stung by the words, Bane shoved her sharply backward and turned away. She took a quick step to balance herself, but kept her distance.

“You’re just angry because your plan fell apart,” he muttered, suddenly unwilling to face her. He wanted to say more, but he knew the rest of the students would be down soon. He didn’t want anyone to see them talking together, so he simply walked away and left her standing there alone.

Githany followed him with cold, calculating eyes. She’d been impressed watching him toy with Sirak in the ring; he’d seemed invincible. But when he’d failed to kill the helpless Zabrak, she was quick to recognize and identify what had happened. It was a flaw in Bane’s character, a weakness he refused to recognize. Yet it was there nonetheless.

Once the passion of the moment had faded-once he was no longer driven by the dark side-his seething bloodlust had cooled. He hadn’t even been able to kill his most hated enemy without provocation. Which meant he probably wouldn’t be able to kill Githany if it ever came down to it.

Knowing this changed the nature of their relationship once again. Recently she’d begun to fear Bane, afraid that if he ever turned on her, she wouldn’t be strong enough to stand against him. Now she knew that this would never happen. He simply wasn’t capable of killing an ally without justification.

Fortunately, she didn’t have the same limitations.

Bane was still thinking about what Githany had said later that night as he lay in bed, unable to sleep. Why hadn’t he been able to kill Sirak? Was she right? Had he pulled back out of some misguided sense of compassion? He wanted to believe he had embraced the dark side, but if he had, he would have cut Sirak down without a second thought-no matter what the consequences.

However, it was more than this that was bothering him. He was frustrated by how he’d left things with Githany. He was undeniably drawn to her; she was hypnotic and compelling. Each time she brushed up against him he felt chills down his spine. Even when they were apart he often thought of her, memories lingering like the scent of her intoxicating perfume. At night her long black hair and dangerous eyes haunted his dreams.

And he honestly believed she felt something for him, too … though he doubted she would ever admit it. Yet as close as they’d become during their secret lessons together they’d never consummated their yearning. It just seemed wrong while Sirak was still the top apprentice at the academy. Defeating him had been the underlying goal for each of them; neither one had wanted any distractions from that goal. He was a common foe that united them to a single cause, but in many ways he had also been a wall keeping them apart.

Taking Sirak down should have leveled that wall into rubble. But Bane had seen the disappointment in Githany’s face after the battle. He’d promised to kill their enemy, and she’d believed in him. Yet in the end his actions had proved he wasn’t up to her expectations, and the wall between them had suddenly grown much, much stronger.

Someone knocked softly at the door of his chamber. It was well after curfew; none of the apprentices had any reason to be in the halls. He could think of only one person who might be wandering the halls at this hour.

Leaping from his bed he crossed the floor in one quick stride and yanked open the door. He quickly masked his disappointment at seeing Lord Kas’im standing beyond the threshold.

The Blademaster stepped through the open door without waiting for an invitation; he gave Bane a nod that told him to close it once he was inside. Bane did as he was bidden, wondering at the purpose of the unannounced late-night visit.

“I have something for you,” the Twi’lek said, brushing away the folds of his cloak and reaching for his lightsaber on his belt. No, Bane realized. Not his lightsaber. The handle of Kas’im’s weapon was noticeably longer than most, allowing it to house two crystals, one to power each blade. This hilt was smaller, and it was fashioned with a strange curve, giving it a hooked appearance.

The Blademaster ignited the lightsaber: its single blade burned a dark red. “This was the weapon of my Master,” he told Bane. “As a young child I would watch for hours as my Master performed his drills. My earliest memories are of dancing ruby lights moving through the sequences of battle.”

“You don’t remember your parents?” Bane asked, surprised.

Kas’im shook his head. “My parents were sold in the slave markets of Nal Hutta. That’s where Master Na’daz found me. He noticed my family on the auction blocks; perhaps he was drawn to them because we were Twi’leks like himself. Even though I was barely old enough to stand, Master Na’daz could sense the Force in me. He purchased me and took me back to Ryloth, to raise me as his apprentice among our own people.”

“What happened to your parents?”

“I don’t know,” Kas’im replied with an indifferent shrug. “They had no special connection to the Force, so my Master saw no reason to purchase them. They were weak, and so they were left behind.”

He spoke casually, as if the knowledge that his parents had lived and probably died as slaves in the service of the Hutts had no effect on him whatsoever. In a way his apathy was understandable. He’d never known his parents, so he had no emotional ties to them, good or bad. Bane briefly wondered how his own life might have been different if he had been raised by someone else. If Hurst had been killed in the cortosis mines when he was just an infant, would he still have ended up here at the Academy on Korriban?

“My Master was a great Sith Lord,” Kas’im continued. “He was particularly adept in the arts of lightsaber combata skill he passed on to me. He taught me how to use the double-bladed lightsaber, though as you can see he preferred a more traditional design for himself. Except for the handle, of course.”