by George Mann
Zeldin screamed, panicked and afraid, trying desperately to withdraw, to pull her consciousness back into her own body on Dathomir. But the bonds had been severed, and there was to be no escape. Terrified, Zeldin raged, but Caldoth’s grip on her was absolute, and no longer could she assert any influence over his thoughts or his physical form. She was trapped in a prison of her own devising, and there was no hope that she would ever be free again. All she could do was scream.
From that day forth, Zeldin was forced to exist in the permanent prison of the Sith Lord’s mind, cut off from her sisters and the outside world. Zeldin’s sisters did not come to her aid, so terrified were they of Darth Caldoth’s dreadful power. Her body was committed to a pod and hung on the very same structure from which Caldoth had first stolen the mummified remains of Zeldin’s sister. She was never heard from again—except by Darth Caldoth, who from time to time was given to listen to her screams and smile.
LONG AGO, WHEN THE galaxy was young and the stars burned bright and new, there lived a Sith Lord by the name of Darth Noctyss.
Celebrated and abhorred in equal measure—for even as a young woman her power set her apart from others—Darth Noctyss had long carved a path of red destruction through the Inner Rim. Worlds fell to her sickle-bladed lightsaber, and the ruins of the civilization of Ivis stand as testament to her hatred.
Noctyss’s capacity for channeling the dark side of the Force seemed almost limitless, and all who stood in her way soon wilted . . . if they remained in possession of their heads. It was said that, in those early days, Darth Noctyss might have conquered the entire galaxy, forging a brutal realm of the Sith that would have dominated for eons—if only she had had a mind to do it.
Yet, although Noctyss knew the temptations of power all too well—like any who give themselves to the dark side, she was not immune to its call—she desired one thing above all others: the perpetuation of her own life.
What use, she claimed, was a kingdom if one day she would no longer remain to shape it? What use all that power if it might not stave off the inevitable, encroaching degradations of age? Empires could wait—for when she achieved her true purpose, immortality, then would she have all the time she wished to conquer and reforge the galaxy in her image.
Thus, Noctyss passed her days in pursuit of her singular goal, obsessively seeking out the relics of ages gone by, the fragmentary records of ancient races that once knew the secrets of the Force but were now lost to the turning of the spheres and the long seasons of the universe. She refused to take on an apprentice, preferring to study in solitude, absorbing all that she could of the long-forgotten rituals that might lead her closer to her chosen goal.
Years passed in this way, until Noctyss herself had reached the autumn of her life, having used what dark arts she had uncovered to extend her physical form beyond its natural span. She knew, however, that she was close to the answers she had sought for so long—for her research on the desert planet Jaguada had shown her the way to a place named Exegol, a distant world steeped in the rich history of the Sith and imbued with their diabolical, mystical power.
So it was that Noctyss set out, alone, for Exegol. There, she knew, she would complete her work and uncover the final pieces of the ritual that would see her live forever.
Exegol is a blighted place, its atmosphere charged with fierce electrical storms, its surface ravaged by the excavations carried out there by the Sith. Deep inside the heart of the planet, however, Noctyss found evidence of a crumbling citadel filled with towering statuary and long deserted—or so she thought.
For months Noctyss explored these ruins, the only signs of life the rat-grubs that scrabbled amongst the cracks and crevices, and the faint whispering that filled her head whenever she attempted to sleep—the gnawing of a thousand other minds, chattering at the edges of her consciousness. There on Exegol, the veil between life and death was thin, and Noctyss knew that she drew closer to success with every passing day and every cavern she explored.
Sure enough, during one such expedition amongst the flooded halls of the lower chambers, Noctyss found what she had been searching for—although at the time she did not know it.
It began with a splash of movement in the gloaming—the sound of a foot stirring the puddles of floodwater that had settled between the broken flagstones. Noctyss, who had failed to sense the thing’s presence, spun, igniting the blade of her lightsaber and baring her teeth, ready to join in battle with the newcomer.
Yet the wretched thing exposed by the crimson light of her blade presented no threat, for it was a broken, stooped creature—the remnants of what had perhaps once been a man but was now little more than a feral beast. Its spine was twisted at an unusual angle, causing it to hunch forward so that its left shoulder dipped almost to its knees. Its flesh was pallid and translucent, shriveled and wrinkled so that its immense age was evident, but unreadable. Its stringy hair fell in strands down the side of its face, limp and thick with grime. It wore only rags that might once have been fashioned as clothes. It staggered toward her, clawed fingers outstretched, and Noctyss raised her lightsaber, ready to strike the thing down, to put it out of its misery. Something stilled her hand, however—some deep sense that the creature might yet have a bearing on her quest—and as it whimpered inanely, shambling along the passageway in the gloom, she lowered her blade and beckoned it forward. It stopped before her, regarding her with rheumy eyes, and mumbled a word that, to Noctyss’s ears, sounded something akin to mistress.
At this, a sly smile spread across Noctyss’s face, for she saw immediately that the pitiable creature might be put to use as a servant or slave—to aid her in her quest.
Sure enough, the creature soon proved its worth; as if it somehow knew instinctively what Noctyss sought, it turned and led her along the darkened corridors beneath the citadel, deeper and deeper into that strange realm, through the thickening darkness and cold, past the last of the lapping floodwater, and into a small system of meticulously carved chambers.
The tunnels were labyrinthine and disorienting, and as Noctyss followed, she heard the whispering once more—only this time the voices were like a tight pressure building inside her skull, growing ever more anxious, urging her on, deeper and farther. And yet, somehow, these voices were a comfort, too—an echo of those who had trodden this pathway before her, and who, even now, were urging her on toward greatness.
At last, the shambling creature drew to a halt, swaying steadily on the spot, a wretched grin writ large on its malformed lips. Noctyss stopped, taking a moment to examine her surroundings. She had long since lost any sense of how deep below the planet’s surface they stood or, indeed, how far they had ventured from the relative simplicity of the main citadel—but there, down amongst the bowels of the planet, she found herself in a laboratory of sorts. The walls were emblazoned with the oldest of Sith runes, and the floor—covered in a thick layer of dust and detritus—had once been marked out in a symbolic set of interlocking circles. Bottles and jars filled with unidentifiable tinctures cluttered obsidian work surfaces, and crumbling tomes, bound in cracked hide of some kind and covered in a thick smear of spiderwebs, sat on a crooked wooden shelf. Something that had once been flesh and blood but had long before putrefied, sat suspended in a filthy tank of some substance unknown.
How had the creature known about this place? And who had left it in such a way?
Noctyss approached one of the surfaces, running her fingertips lightly over the fragile pages that had spilled from one of the disintegrating books. There, she immediately recognized the designs she had long before committed to memory—designs she had first seen on Malachor and that had set her on the first steps of the journey that had ended on Exegol.
Someone had been there before her, pursuing the same ends. They had led the way! This, then, was their abandoned laboratory—the place where they had finally solved the riddles of the past, where they had broken the chains that tethered them to mortal life and set themselves free. There, amongst th
at glorious mess, were the answers she had sought for so long.
The creature emitted a wet giggle, and Noctyss laughed, for what else could the thing be but the servant of the Sith who had once inhabited this place? A being dragged from the pit of filth where it had been born, brought there to serve. It was nothing but a wretch, the very dregs of life, a thing so broken that it barely clung to its existence—and now it was hers, to do with as she pleased. She would start by having it clean the laboratory while she set about examining the old texts for any clue to what the previous inhabitant had been doing.
Thus, much time passed, and as Noctyss buried herself in her research, the creature scampered around her, scrubbing floors, lugging loads, and otherwise carrying out all the miserable tasks that might keep Noctyss from her work.
She grew thin, forgoing all sustenance other than knowledge, for she knew that she was closer than she had ever been, and while the passage of time locked in that lightless chamber proved unkind—her back growing stiff, her muscles soft—she did not give it even a passing thought. She berated the creature almost daily, taking out her frustrations on the abominable thing, but so starved was it for attention that it would kneel feebly before her, head bowed, a strange, ineffable smile on its face.
This creature, this mutant, had nothing to offer the galaxy, no reason to exist beyond its servitude to her. This, she decided, was how she would rule, once the ritual was complete—she would take her place at the head of a vast realm of the Sith, and all her many subjects would be shown their place, would kneel before her in gratitude for their enlightenment. It would be an unending kingdom, for she would sit on her throne unchallenged and undying—the very heart of the galaxy over which she would rule. That was true power, the only power she had ever sought: the power over life and death itself.
And so it went on, as, slowly, Noctyss pieced together the final elements of the puzzle, understanding at long last the ritual she must complete to transcend. The work carried out by her forebear, Darth Sanguis, whose records she had found there on Exegol, had provided the final elements she required. His research had been most thorough, and she would trail the steps he had taken before her. She would follow his path toward greatness.
The incantations would take three days. After that, all she needed was a worthy tribute, a willing sacrifice to offer up their life force and complete the rite. There on Exegol such life was sparse, but fortune had granted her a final boon, and the skulking creature she had found in the tunnels would serve its mistress one last time. At the culmination of the rite, she would absorb its essence and use it to remold her very soul. This was her right, her purpose. This was everything she had given her entire life for.
So it was that the preparations began, and the creature, ignorant of its coming fate, slaved long and hard to anticipate Noctyss’s every need. As she spoke the ancient, rasping words of the incantation, she felt the voices in her head join with her, until the chant became a cacophony—a choir of voices, dragging her toward the precipice of eternal life. Indeed, the words seemed to take on a life of their own, and soon Noctyss could no longer tell if she was leading the chorus of voices or if they were leading her. Yet the ripples of energy that pulsed beneath her skin were exultant, enough to drive any and all doubt from her mind. Time lost all form. There were no minutes, hours, or days—there were simply the ritual and the words and the power.
And then the moment was upon her. Noctyss opened her eyes, breathing steadily as she sought the creature—only to find it had anticipated even this final need. It rested before her on its knees, its crooked back drawn straight, its fingers pulling at the fabric of its rotten clothes to expose the milky-white flesh of its chest—and still that strange smile on its lips.
Noctyss gave a final sigh of satisfaction and then drew her dagger and plunged it deep into the creature’s heart.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the entire chamber seemed to erupt in sparking energy that burst forth from the creature’s chest, coursing up Noctyss’s arm, flowing over her body, seeping into her flesh. She felt invigorated, alive in a way she had never felt before, and she laughed, relishing the sensation of her burgeoning life force.
She felt her body begin to shift and change, remodeling itself as the vital energy flowed into her, rejuvenating her tired form, rendering her fresh and new again. Inside her head, the voices cried out in triumph, cheering in ecstasy at her success. Everything she had foretold would come to pass. Soon she would rise to become the master of all things.
But then the cries of joy became cries of anguish, and Noctyss screamed as she felt her body jerk and spasm. Something was wrong.
The voices were screaming, pitiful and full of remorse. Dawning horror filled Noctyss’s thoughts. Had she mispronounced a vital phrase during the preparations? Was the creature’s life force not enough?
She felt her spine shift, twisting, rotating—and she bellowed in agony. She tried to focus, tried to fight the rising tide of panic, to push away the energy coursing through her, to stop the ritual . . . but it was too late. Her flesh crawled, pulling back painfully against her bones, shriveling and wrinkling. She held her hands up before her, still swirling in the crackling energy, only to watch as they contorted, becoming spindly, talon-like things. The breath seemed to rush out of her lungs as her ribs contracted, and it felt for a moment as if the blood in her veins were boiling her alive from the inside. She screamed again, calling out for help until her throat was raw, but there was no one there to hear her.
As the energy fizzed and crackled to a stop, Noctyss felt blackness envelop her, pulling her heavily toward the ground.
Sometime later, Noctyss woke to the sound of scratching. Startled, she raised her head, wincing at the lancing pain the movement sent through her neck. The rat-grubs had gathered and were crawling on the body of the creature before her on the floor. She scrabbled up, shuffling back, her movements jarring and painful. She tried to mumble something, but her words were malformed and issued only as a slur.
Horrified, she reached for the edge of the obsidian workbench, pulling herself awkwardly to her feet. The back of her neck prickled with fear; terror gripped her heart. What had happened? What had become of her? Had the ritual worked?
She swept her arm across the surface, searching hurriedly for a looking glass. She grasped it in her spidery fingers and, fearful of what she might find, held it up in the thin light of the chamber, peering warily at her own reflection.
With a mournful wail, Noctyss cast the looking glass against the wall, watching the splinters shower to the floor. She turned to look at the body of the creature, at the wicked grin still there on its twisted face.
It had known all along. It had understood the path she walked, and it had encouraged her at each step, as a means to seek its own freedom. For now she, too, understood the truth—that this was no creature, but what was left of her predecessor, Darth Sanguis—the Sith Lord who, like Noctyss, had wanted to live forever. And follow in his footsteps she had, for now she, too, was like him—a twisted, grotesque version of her former self, cursed to eke out a painful, lonely existence in the bowels of Exegol.
Noctyss had given her entire life in pursuit of the secret of immortality, ignoring all else, sundering entire worlds in her quest to live forever. And now the voices whispered that she had earned what she had so long desired: she was as close to immortality as one could be, destined to live a life undying and yet unable to truly live.
GEORGE MANN is a Sunday Times best-selling novelist and scriptwriter, and he’s loved Star Wars for about as long as he’s been able to walk. He wishes he still had the Ewok village action figure set he adored when he was a boy.
He previously teamed up with Grant Griffin for Star Wars: Myths & Fables, and is the author of the Newbury & Hobbes Victorian mystery series, as well as four novels about a 1920s vigilante known as the Ghost. He’s also written best-selling Doctor Who novels, new adventures for Sherlock Holmes, and the supernatural mystery series Wychwood
.
His comic writing includes extensive work on Doctor Who, Dark Souls, Warhammer 40,000, and Newbury & Hobbes, as well as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Star Wars Adventures for younger readers.
He’s written audio scripts for Doctor Who, Blake’s 7, Sherlock Holmes, Warhammer 40,000, and more.
As editor, he’s assembled four anthologies of original Sherlock Holmes fiction, as well as multiple volumes of The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction and The Solaris Book of New Fantasy.
You can find him on Twitter @George_Mann.
GRANT GRIFFIN is a freelance illustrator living in Nicaragua. He has been carving out a niche in the fantasy and science fiction genre since 2013, which spans both games and publishing. Along with his first feature with Disney • Lucasfilm Press, illustrating Star Wars: Myths and Fables, his work has been featured on covers of titles published by Becker&Mayer, Black Library, Green Ronin Publishing, and Centipede Press.