Lost Tribe of the Sith: The Collected Stories

by Miller, John Jackson

  “They only knew what they could see, on uvak-back—and in places where uvak could reach,” Hilts said, excitedly running his fingertips across the map. There were crystals denoting cities here, too—far more than on the familiar map across the room—and Tapani characters etched nearby. “This was what was behind the throne,” he said, turning to face the others. “This is what Korsin meant!”

  As the Caretaker turned back, the warriors spread across the room, using their lightsabers now for illumination rather than defense. “What’s this writing here?” Edell asked, frustrated. “There’s a lot of it in this spot.”

  “Just a moment,” Hilts said, stepping over to the section. It had been etched with a diamond stylus—an artifact he’d remembered puzzling over as curator in the Tahv palace, years earlier. “This is Korsin’s own handwriting!”

  The room fell silent as he studied. There were some new words here, which he made out to refer to the Kesh and Keshiri, terms that wouldn’t have been known in the Tapani dialect. Korsin was evidently a wordsmith, along with everything else. Haltingly, he recited, as best he could …

  “Nida, you will know this language from the studies I’ve assigned you—but you won’t know this map. No one does. It’s based on the last data recorded by the cams of Omen during our descent across the dark side of Kesh. When I discovered a cam with a working display, I hid the device, transferring over the years what it saw to the map panels here until its power finally gave out.

  “Our people and the Keshiri have thought this continent was all there was, alone in a gigantic sea. Taking control of the continent of Keshtah gave our people a purpose. But we’ve just been on Keshtah Minor. This map displays another land mass with us in the southern hemisphere—Keshtah Major—far beyond the range of any uvak to fly! And with far more people!

  “And yes, there are people. There must be. The crystals represent lights—lights!—seen on the dark side of the planet. There are cities there, another whole civilization. Keshiri, likely, but perhaps more advanced—and possibly not in fear of the Skyborn. They could add to our power—or could be our enemies.

  “For years, I’ve secretly annotated the map based on what I could make out before the images died. It’s truly another world. I’ve done all I can now, and my trusted Keshiri are sealing the map panels in advance of our move to Tahv.

  “But you—or your descendants—may one day need a cause that will unite our people. The knowledge I leave here is true power. Envy has driven the Sith to great accomplishments. Now there is again something to covet—something that may be within reach of the properly led …”

  The room remained silent after he stopped reading. Hilts looked at the words again—and the great new map, surrounding the text—and exhaled. Awkwardly, he felt a bulge in his vest pocket and produced the glass tube. “Umm—I have a letter from his mother, too.”

  Standing peaceably alongside Iliana before the new maps, Bentado looked back at Hilts. “He’s got more of the same writing everywhere. Are there guides to this language?”

  “There were,” Hilts said, “until you people destroyed my archives.” He shuffled his feet. “I’m the only one who knows it now.” Hearing his own words, he straightened. I’m the only one who knows it now!

  “This is … unimaginable,” Iliana said. “Why didn’t Korsin tell anyone?”

  “He already had a continent to conquer,” Hilts said. “And his feud with Seelah and Jariad was too personal—they wouldn’t have been moved by this.” He looked at the gathered rivals. “But it’ll move our people now. If you need Sith to act in unison—give them an enemy.”

  Taking advantage of the peace, Hilts unrolled the missive from Takara Korsin. He read of the destiny of the Tapani humans, who had wandered into Sith territory and had been enslaved—and he read of their future, ruling someplace on their own. And then another place. And another. “If you guide our people well, they will always have a mission.”

  Edell looked dazzled. “How will we get there?” Everyone in the room knew the problem. The Keshiri weren’t a naval culture. The local woods were either too dense to float or too flimsy to bear any weight.

  “It’ll be the biggest thing our society’s ever undertaken,” Hilts said. “We’ll never be able to do it if we act like we have been. We’ll need everybody.” He nodded to the deformed Neera. “Everybody. It will require order, and discipline.” He paused. “As in the days of old.”

  Abruptly Edell snapped off his lightsaber. “We will craft the society again as in the old ways.” He stepped toward Hilts and knelt. “You are the Caretaker. You alone know the old tongue—and you know the old ways better than anyone. You will guide our people well.”

  Hilts looked in astonishment at the young man kneeling before him. Edell’s fellow Golden Destiny members bowed, as well. To the side, Korsin Bentado paused—and finally nodded, dipping his bald head as he fell to his knees. “You have redeemed our faith in Korsin.”

  Even Neera knelt. “Where no path existed, you found one wide enough for all. Alone, you have my trust.”

  Soon only Iliana remained standing, gawking in shock at the sight of her collected assailants, all genuflecting before the dumbfounded museum curator.

  “All hail Varner Hilts—the new Grand Lord!”

  5

  Hilts had given the previous age its name. Now, with the Time of the Rot ending, he had also named the era to come.

  The Hilts Restoration. He liked the sound of it.

  The largest surviving faction after the two-week chaos had been the Golden Destiny, and it turned out to be fortuitous. Like their rivals, they wanted to seize power on Kesh, but they’d always had their eyes set in the right direction: outward. Hilts couldn’t offer them the return to the stars they wanted, but he’d found a new world for them to conquer. Accompanied by Bentado, Neera, and the others, they’d fanned out quickly onto the mainland, announcing the great tidings. The Tribe’s governing system would be restored and set toward a goal.

  Hilts didn’t worry about how they’d reach the new continent. As his chief engineer, Edell promised to attack the problem with vigor, studying ways to span distances greater than any uvak or watercraft ever had. It might take years, decades, or even centuries—but the Tribe would succeed.

  The new Grand Lord did wonder about what they’d find. Had Korsin told Adari Vaal about the new continent? Whether he had or not, if she had somehow reached there with her flight of stolen uvak, the residents would know the Sith existed. Korsin’s note was likely correct. The conquest of the new continent wouldn’t be as easy as the takeover of the old one.

  The prospect of the challenge made him feel young again.

  There was one last thing. It had come to Hilts almost as an afterthought. As soon as Edell and the others had announced his elevation, Hilts had seen the fire flash in Iliana’s eyes. She’d been the one vying for power, after all, not the Caretaker. He wasn’t supposed to be the one lifted on high. But after the initial shock—and realizing that Bentado and his companions still felt vengeful toward Iliana for her past actions—he’d thought of the absolute right thing to say to her, before all of them.

  “If I am to be Grand Lord, I will need a wife.”

  The surprise hadn’t been all hers, at first; Hilts could hardly believe he’d said it. He never knew exactly what she’d thought of it, either—until now, here on the sundappled colonnade outside the mountaintop Temple. Tall and regal, Iliana stood across from him, shimmering in a golden gown, product of the labors of the finest Keshiri artisans. Nuptial rituals were always just one more excuse for a celebration, as far as Tribe members were concerned; fidelity meant little to a Sith believer. But property meant a whole lot, and Iliana had just attained quite a bit. Several of her former Sisters of Seelah were here in their own regalia, he saw; evidently, this turn of events had patched up every rift on the continent.

  Twirling Seelah’s ancient commitment band on her finger, Iliana smiled weakly for the others—and then glared privat
ely at Hilts. “We both know this is ridiculous,” she whispered. “If you think I’m going to be all thankful to you for saving me—”

  “I would never think that,” Hilts said.

  That seemed to satisfy the woman for a moment. But as Tribe members passed them on the receiving line, Iliana had a sudden thought.

  “Wait,” she said, under her breath. “If you’re restoring the old ways—isn’t the consort of the Grand Lord put to death on his passing?” Her eyebrows flared. “That’s right. It’s in Korsin’s Testament!”

  “Oh, is that in there?” Hilts looked up at her, mildly. “I’d forgotten.”

  Iliana smoldered. Hilts looked at his young bride and grinned. There would be wise leadership so long as he lived—and he could live another forty years, because there would be someone to make sure he did. Powerful, youthful, and devious, fighting all his battles. Surely some had assented to his elevation because he was an easy target—but she wasn’t. And the only way to protect her own life was to protect his.

  Hilts looked up to the statue, looming over them both. There he was: Yaru Korsin, wise beyond all—even in matters of marriage. Behind the statue stood row after row of cleanly dressed Tribe members, at attention and waiting their turn to meet the new leader and his bride. Every surviving Sith on Keshtah Minor must be here today, Hilts thought. Some were worse for wear for the past month’s riots, but they were here, celebrating both his marriage and the last day of the Festival of Nida’s Rise. This would be one fête month no one would ever forget!

  Along the sides of the colonnade stood hundreds of Keshiri, cheering and applauding. Waving to them, Hilts received a collective squeal of approval in response. The Keshiri couldn’t yet become part of the Tribe themselves, but Hilts would change that. Many of them had useful talents, and the Tribe might well need the help of all in the challenge ahead.

  For a moment, he imagined what poor little Jaye would have looked like in the uniform of a Tyro or Saber. Hilts smiled at the thought. It would take a while, but he would do it.

  Reading history had been his life. Now he would write his own.

  The Tribe would go on.

  PANDEMONIUM

  1

  2,975 years BBY

  “Ready! Aim! Fire!”

  A dozen wooden launchers sounded in unison, the mighty click-crack echoing throughout the fortress. After a second for the ballisteers to reload, a similar sound followed. And then another. The noise marked the quarter hour here in the little village, the same way it did in the larger cities of the continent. It could well have been the national anthem, some had said—but Alanciar already had patriotic songs in plenty.

  The gunners were good here, Quarra thought, observing the practice range as she guided her muntok into the compound. The arrival of the lumbering six-legged reptile and its Keshiri rider did nothing to distract the cadets from their shooting. The second between shots of their high-tension hand-ballistae was a quicker rate than most gunners of the metropolitan uplands could manage. Was it the weapons or the warriors? Probably both, she mused. Her own district of Uhrar was farther back in the continent’s interior. The Keshiri here at the fort at Garrow’s Neck, sitting athwart one of the long spurs into the western sea, would have to be better: this was where the threat was.

  Quarra had every right to be here, but she still felt out of place. Tan-and-gray waistcoat, silver hair balled tightly into a bun—that was fine military style where she was from, but this was a working camp. She’d known hard work, but lately it had been of a different—

  “Halt, there!” A burgundy-faced captain near the range blew a whistle and ran toward her.

  Quarra yanked the reins and called out. The massive muntok skidded violently to a stop, spraying purple grit into the face of the approaching officer. He swore as he tried to clean his one good eye.

  “Sorry,” Quarra said, slapping the jowls of the growling beast. “Muntoks are all legs and a cloud of sand.”

  The captain didn’t laugh. “Documents!”

  “I was already cleared at the east gate. How do you think I got—”

  “Documents!” He lifted his sidearm. It was, she assumed, loaded with fragmenting sliver-bolts, not the cheap glass rods fired by the trainees.

  “Right.” They’re all business out west, Quarra thought, reaching into her pouch. She passed a leather folder to the captain. “Letters of transit and my commission.”

  The trainees had stopped shooting now, their young eyes on her. Male and female Keshiri ranging in age from twelve to fifteen, all on their first draft detail. Quarra looked from face to fresh face. Her oldest daughter would be training just like them in another year.

  She watched the captain as he flipped through her papers. Maybe he’d lost the eye to a recruit. Or maybe not: he was old for this duty—which meant he was good at it. No sensible official would transfer a talented ballisteer from Garrow’s Neck. This was where the action was.

  Or, rather, would be.

  “Wardmaster Quarra Thayn,” he groaned, the sight of the raised insignia evidently ruining his appetite for the next month. “I’ve stopped a wardmaster. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  Tempted to lord over the officer, Quarra remembered why she was there. “It’s no problem, Captain …”

  “Ruehn. Training division of the 108th, Southwestern Directorate.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Ruehn. You’re out at the knife’s point. Or close enough.”

  Her pass indicated she was headed for Point Defiance. One of Alanciar’s westernmost spurs, the cone of granite punctuated the far end of the isthmus past the fortress. The continent, many said, resembled a muntok’s leg. The bulk of population and industry lived in the higher elevations of the enormous hip to the east. The canal-crossed region known as the Shank stabbed west, terminating in the Six Claws, nearly parallel mountain peninsulas reaching into the western sea. Each Claw had a signal station at the far end: preparations for when the dreaded day came at last.

  The captain cleared his throat as he folded up the parchment. “Surprised you’re not back with the rest of the mucky-mucks with Observance Day coming up,” he said.

  “It seemed like a good time to visit the front.”

  The sentry’s good eye gave a wink. “Battlefront, my purple behind! My day’s spent keeping my draftees inside the walls. The Shore Guard swipes anyone that’s out and about for itself. Thirty years, and that’s the only battle I’ve fought.”

  Quarra replaced the documents in her binder. She pointed to the tall gates up ahead. “Is that the way?”

  “Unless you want to swim.” The flying riding beasts called uvak were the exclusive province of the Shore Guard in these areas, and waterborne travel in the east-west fjords formed by the Six Claws was highly restricted. There was no access to Point Defiance but through the military camp at Garrow’s Neck. “Enjoy your visit. And stay ready.”

  “Stay ready,” she said, taking up the reins.

  Prodding her muntok back into a trot, Quarra made for the western barricades, the product of hundreds of years of construction and renovation. But what caught her eye was the signal tower, standing tall between rings of the fortress. Brilliant-colored lights in the belfry flashed on and off, easily visible in the late afternoon. She studied it as she passed—and remembered again why she was here.

  It had all begun with messages sent three years earlier through that exact relay station. And now, up ahead, she saw the source of those missives for the first time. As the mighty gate opened to permit her exit, she looked out upon the rocky trail. Half surrounded by a cloud of sea-mist, Point Defiance jutted from an angry ocean. A lonely silo perched atop the promontory, blinking tiny lights in response to the faraway fortress above her.

  She thought for a moment about turning back, about retracing the long journey that had brought her here. If she reached an uvak livery before night fell, she could be back in the world she knew before anyone was the wiser. For Quarra Thayn—wife and mother of three, chief military
administrator of Uhrar, and a rare Keshiri wielder of the mysterious power known as the Force—was at this moment thought to be elsewhere. Officially, she was supposed to be on a working tour of the battle-armor factories on the Northern Slope of Alanciar, not heading to a secret meeting in the middle of nowhere with someone she had never met.

  Behind her, the ballisteers resumed firing, their shots in syncopation with the flashing signals far ahead. Almost hypnotized by the sight and sound, she felt her future stretching ahead of her. This was something she had to do.

  She breathed deeply and kicked the muntok into a run.

  This had better be worth it.

  The sun shone low over the western ocean, but Quarra wasn’t fooled. The darkness was out there, in that direction. The Herald had come from the west, just as the currents of air and sea did in this southerly latitude. Westward lay deceit and treachery, hatred and panic.

  But the Protectors who had created Alanciar and all of Kesh had provided well for their people. The Six Claws were like talons, rocky points on which battlements had been erected. For centuries, the fjords had been busy harbors for the Shore Guard’s patrol vessels, while its watchers on uvak sailed overhead. At times, all six peninsulas had been fortified and active.

  Quarra still saw the windswept remnants of some of those earlier installations here on Point Defiance. A cluster of ruins spread out before the signal tower, and ruined they were—clearly, the troops at Garrow’s Neck had practiced demolitions here in some earlier time. Much of the outpost had been abandoned as operations had been consolidated on the wider spurs of land farther north. While not as far west as Defiance, some of the other peninsulas rose higher, offering better coverage of the harbors—and being to the north, they were better placed to guard the mass of Alanciar. Since the new installations had gone in, aerial and seaborne patrols had been brought closer to the coastline. It would be a mistake for a people in hiding to accidentally awaken the Destructors by ranging too far out to sea.