by Paul S. Kemp
Sails and Sorcery
Horrors Beyond II
Worlds of Their Own
Eldritch Horrors: Dark Tales
The Tales of Egil and Nix
The Hammer and the Blade
A Discourse in Steel
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PAUL S. KEMP is the author of the New York Times bestselling novels Star Wars: Crosscurrent, Star Wars: The Old Republic: Deceived, and Star Wars: Riptide, as well as nine Forgotten Realms fantasy novels and many short stories. Paul S. Kemp lives and works in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, with his wife, children, and a couple of cats.
www.paulskemp.com
Facebook.com/paulskemp
@Paulskemp
Read on for an excerpt from
DARK DISCIPLE
by Christie Golden
Published by Del Rey Books
CHAPTER ONE
Ashu-Nyamal, Firstborn of Ashu, child of the planet Mahranee, huddled with her family in the hold of a Republic frigate. Nya and the other refugees of Mahranee braced themselves against the repercussions of the battle raging outside. Sharp, tufted Mahran ears caught the sounds of orders, uttered and answered by clones, the same voice issuing from different throats; keen noses scented faint whiffs of fear from the speakers.
The frigate rocked from yet another blast. Some of the pups whimpered, but the adults projected calm. Rakshu cradled Nya’s two younger siblings. Their little ears were flat against their skulls, and they shivered in terror against their mother’s warm, lithe body, but their blue muzzles were tightly closed. No whimpers for them; a proud line, was Ashu. It had given the Mahran many fine warriors and wise statesmen. Nya’s sister Teegu, Secondborn of Ashu, had a gift for soothing any squabble, and Kamu, the youngest, was on his way to becoming a great artist.
Or had been, until the Separatists had blasted Mahranee’s capital city to rubble.
The Jedi had come, in answer to the distress call, as the Mahran knew they would. But they had come too late. Angry at the Mahranee government’s refusal to cooperate, the Separatists had decided that genocide, or as close a facsimile as possible, would solve the problem of obtaining a world so rich in resources.
Nya clenched her fists. If only she had a blaster! She was an excellent shot. If any of the enemy attempted to board the ship, she could be of use to the brave clones now risking their lives to protect the refugees. Better yet, Nya wished she could stab one of the Separatist scum with her stinger, even though it would—
Another blast, this one worse. The lights flickered off, replaced almost instantly by the bloodred hue of the backup lighting. The dark gray metal that comprised the freighter’s bulkheads seemed to close in ominously. Something snapped inside Nya. Before she really knew what she was doing, she had leapt to her feet and bounded across the hold to the rectangular door.
“Nya!” Rakshu’s voice was strained. “We were told to stay here!”
Nya whirled, her eyes flashing. “I am walking the warrior path, Mother! I can’t just sit here doing nothing. I have to try to help!”
“You will only be in the…” Rakshu’s voice tailed off as Nya held her gaze. Tears slipped silently down Rakshu’s muzzle, glittering in the crimson light. The Mahran were no telepaths, but even so, Nya knew her mother could read her thoughts.
I can do no harm. We are lost already.
Rakshu knew it, too. She nodded, then said, her voice swelling with pride in her eldest, “Stab well.”
Nya swallowed hard at the blunt blessing. The stinger was the birthright of the Mahran—and, if used, their death warrant. The venom that would drop a foe in his tracks would also travel to his slayer’s heart. The two enemies always died together. The words were said to one who was not expected to return alive.
“Good-bye, Mama,” Nya whispered, too softly for her mother to hear. She slammed a palm against the button and the door opened. Without pausing, she raced down the corridor, her path outlined by a strip of emergency lighting; she skidded to a halt when the hallway branched into two separate directions, picked one, and ran headlong into one of the clones.
“Whoa, there!” he said, not unkindly. “You’re not supposed to be here, little one.”
“I will not die huddled in fear!” Nya snapped.
“You’re not going to,” the clone said, attempting to be reassuring. “We’ve outrun puddle-jumpers like these before. Just get back to the holding area and stay out of our way. We’ve got this in hand.”
Nya smelled the change in his sweat. He was lying. For a moment, she spared compassion for him. What had his life been like when he was a youngling? There had been no one to give him hugs or tell stories, no loving parental hands to soothe childhood’s nightmares. Only brothers, identical in every way, who had been raised as clinically as he.
Brothers, and duty, and death.
Feeling strangely older than the clone, and grateful for her own unique life that was about to end, Nya smiled, shook her head, and darted past him.
He did not give chase.
The corridor ended in a door. Nya punched the button. The door slid open onto the cockpit. And she gasped.
She had never been in space before, so she was unprepared for the sight the five-section viewport presented. Bright flashes and streaks of laser fire dueled against an incongruously peaceful-looking blue sky. Nya wasn’t sufficiently knowledgeable to be able to distinguish one ship from another—except for her own planet’s vessels, looking old and small and desperate as they tried to flee with their precious cargo of families just like her own.
A clone and the Jedi general, the squat, reptilian Aleena who had led the mission to rescue Nya’s people, occupied the cockpit’s two chairs. With no warning, another blast rocked the ship. Nya went sprawling into the back of the clone’s chair, causing him to lurch forward. He turned to her, his eyes dark with anger, and snapped, “Get off this—”
“General Chubor,” came a smooth voice.
Nya’s fur lifted. She whirled, snarling silently. Oh, she knew that voice. The Mahran had heard it uttering all sorts of pretty lies and promises that were never intended to be kept. She wondered if there was anyone left in the galaxy who didn’t recognize the silky tones of Count Dooku.
He appeared on a small screen near the top of the main viewing window. A satisfied, cruel smirk twisted Dooku’s patrician features.
“I’m surprised you contacted me,” his image continued. “As I recall, Jedi prefer to be regarded as the strong, silent type.”
The clone lifted a finger to his lips, but the warning was unnecessary. Nya’s sharp teeth were clenched, her fur bristled, and her entire being was focused on the count’s loathsome face, but she knew better than to speak.
General Chubor, sitting beside the clone in the pilot’s chair, so short that his feet did not reach the floor, likewise was not baited. “You’ve got your victory, Dooku.” His slightly nasal, high-pitched voice was heavy with sorrow. “The planet is yours…let us have the people. We have entire families aboard, many of whom are injured. They’re innocents!”
Dooku chuckled, as if Chubor had said something dreadfully amusing over a nice hot cup of tea. “My dear General Chubor. You should know by now that in a war, there is no such thing as an innocent.”
“Count, I repeat, our passengers are civilian families,” General Chubor continued with a calmness at which Nya could only marvel. “Half of the refugees are younglings. Permit them, at least, to—”
“Younglings whose parents, unwisely, chose to ally with the Republic.” Gone was Dooku’s civilized purr. His gaze settled on Nya. She didn’t flinch from his scrutiny, but she couldn’t stifle a soft growl. He looked her up and down, then dismissed her as of no further interest. “I’ve been monitoring your transmissions, General, and I know that this little chat is being sent to the Jedi Council. So let me make one thing perfectly clear.”
Dooku’s voice was now hard and flat, as cold and pitiless as the ice of Mahranee’s polar caps.
“As
long as the Republic resists me, ‘innocents’ will continue to die. Every death in this war lies firmly at the feet of the Jedi. And now…it is time for you and your passengers to join the ranks of the fallen.”
One of the largest Mahranee ships bloomed silently into a flower of yellow and red that disintegrated into pieces of rubble.
Nya didn’t know she had screamed until she realized her throat was raw. Chubor whirled in his chair.
His large-eyed gaze locked with hers.
The last thing Ashu-Nyamal, Firstborn of Ashu, would ever see was the shattered expression of despair in the Jedi’s eyes.
—
The bleakest part about being a Jedi, thought Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, is when we fail.
He had borne witness to scenes like the one unfolding before the Jedi Council far too many times to count, and yet the pain didn’t lessen. He hoped it never would.
The terrified final moments of thousands of lives played out before them, then the grim holographic recording flickered and vanished. For a moment, there was a heavy silence.
The Jedi cultivated a practice of nonattachment, which had always served them well. Few understood, though, that while specific, individual bonds such as romantic love or family were forbidden, the Jedi were not ashamed of compassion. All lives were precious, and when so many were lost in such a way, the Jedi felt the pain of it in the Force as well as in their own hearts.
At last, Master Yoda, the diminutive but extraordinarily powerful head of the Jedi Council, sighed deeply. “Grieved are we all, to see so many suffer,” he said. “Courage, the youngling had, at the end. Forgotten, she and her people will not be.”
“I hope her bravery brought her comfort,” Kenobi said. “The Mahran prize it. She and the others are one with the Force now. But I have no more earnest wish than that this tragedy be the last the war demands.”
“As do all of us, Master Kenobi,” said Master Mace Windu. “But I don’t think that wish is coming true anytime soon.”
“Did any ships make it out with their passengers?” Anakin Skywalker asked. Kenobi had asked the younger Jedi, still only a Knight, to accompany him to this gathering, and Anakin stood behind Kenobi’s chair.
“Reported in, no one has,” Yoda said quietly. “But hope, always, there is.”
“With respect, Master Yoda,” Anakin said, “the Mahran needed more than our hope. They needed our help, and what we were able to give them wasn’t enough.”
“And unfortunately, they are not the only ones we’ve been forced to give short shrift,” Windu said.
“For almost three years, this war has raged,” said Plo Koon, the Kel Dor member of the Council. His voice was muffled due to the mask he wore over his mouth and nose; a requirement for his species in this atmosphere. “We can barely even count the numbers of the fallen. But this—” He shook his head.
“All directly because of one man’s ambition and evil,” said Windu.
“It’s true that Dooku is the leader of the Separatists,” Kenobi said. “And no one will argue that he isn’t both ambitious and evil. But he hasn’t done it alone. I agree that Dooku may be responsible for every death in this war, but he didn’t actively commit each one.”
“Of course not,” Plo Koon said, “but it’s interesting that you use nearly the same words as Dooku. He placed the blame for the casualties squarely upon us.”
“A lie, that is,” Yoda said. He waved a small hand dismissively. “Foolish it would be, for us to give it a moment’s credence.”
“Would it be, truly, Master Yoda?” Windu asked with a hard look on his face. As a senior member of the Council, he was one of the few who dared question Master Yoda. Kenobi raised an eyebrow.
“What mean you, Master Windu?” asked Yoda.
“Have the Jedi really explored every option? Could we have ended this war sooner? Could we, in fact, end it right now?”
Something prickled at the back of Kenobi’s neck. “Speak plainly,” he said.
Windu glanced at his fellows. He seemed to be weighing his words. Finally, he spoke.
“Master Kenobi’s right—Dooku couldn’t have done this completely alone. Billions follow him. But I also stand by my observation—that this war is Dooku’s creation. Those who follow him, follow him. Every player is controlled by the count; every conspiracy has been traced back to him.”
Anakin’s brow furrowed. “You’re not saying anything we don’t already know, Master.”
Windu continued. “Without Dooku, the Separatist movement would collapse. There would no longer be a single, seemingly invincible figurehead to rally around. Those who were left would consume themselves in a frenzy to take his place. If every river is a branch of a single mighty one…then let us dam the flow. Cut off the head, and the body will fall.”
“But that’s what we’ve been—oh.” Anakin’s blue eyes widened with sudden comprehension.
No, Kenobi thought, surely Mace isn’t suggesting—
Yoda’s ears unfurled as he sat up straighter. “Assassination, mean you?”
“No.” Kenobi spoke before he realized he was going to, and his voice was strong and certain. “Some things simply aren’t within the realm of possibility. Not,” he added sharply, looking at Mace, “for Jedi.”
“Speaks the truth, Master Kenobi does,” Yoda said. “To the dark side, such actions lead.”
Mace held up his hands in a calming gesture. “No one here wishes to behave like a Sith Lord.”
“Few do, at first. A small step, the one that determines destiny often is.”
Windu looked from Yoda to Kenobi, then his brown-eyed gaze lingered on Kenobi. “Answer me this. How often has this Council sat, shaking our heads, saying ‘Everything leads back to Dooku’? A few dozen times? A few hundred?”
Kenobi didn’t reply. Beside him, Anakin shifted his weight. The younger Jedi didn’t look at Kenobi or Windu, and his lips were pressed together in a thin, unhappy line.
“A definitive blow must be struck,” Mace said. He rose from his chair and closed the distance between himself and Kenobi. Mace had the height advantage, but Kenobi got to his feet calmly and met Windu’s gaze.
“Dooku is going to keep doing exactly what he has been,” Windu said quietly. “He’s not going to change. And if we don’t change, either, then the war will keep raging until this tortured galaxy is nothing but space debris and dead worlds. We—the Jedi and the clones we command—are the only ones who can stop it!”
“Master Windu is right,” said Anakin. “I think it’s about time to open the floor to ideas that before we would have never considered.”
“Anakin,” Kenobi warned.
“With respect, Master Kenobi,” Anakin barreled on. “Mahranee’s fall is terrible. But it’s only the most recent crime Dooku has committed against a world and a people.”
Mace added, “The Mahran who died today already have more than enough company. Do we want to increase those numbers? One man’s life must be weighed against those of potentially millions of innocents. Isn’t protecting the innocent the very definition of what it means to be a Jedi? We are failing the Republic and its citizens. We must stop this—now.”
Kenobi turned to Yoda. The ancient Jedi Master peered at all those present, be it physically or holographically: Saesee Tiin, an Iktotchi Master; the Togruta Shaak Ti, her expression calm but sorrowful; the images of Kit Fisto, Oppo Rancisis, and Depa Billaba. Kenobi was surprised to see sorrow and resignation settle over Yoda’s wrinkled, green face. The diminutive Jedi closed his huge eyes for a moment, then opened them.
“Greatly heavy, my heart is, that come to this, matters have,” he said. Beside the Council leader was a small table, upon which burned a single, white taper. Yoda gazed at the soft, steady glow.
“Each life, a flame in the Force is. Beautiful. Unique. Glowing and precious it stands, to bravely cast its own small light against the darkness that would consume it. But grows, this darkness does, with each minute that Dooku continues his attacks.” Yo
da extended a three-fingered hand, holding it over the candle so that it cast a shadow. As he moved his shadow-hand, the light flickered, almost frantically, then winked out. Kenobi felt his heart lurch within his chest.
“Stop him, we must,” Yoda said solemnly. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. The moment hung heavy, and it seemed everyone was loath to break it.
Finally Mace spoke. “The question before us now is—who will strike the killing blow?”
Kenobi sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I, ah…may have a suggestion…”