they argued over which objects were worthy of plunder. Six of the looters were gathered in the small clearing at the center of the camp, dividing up the spoils. The other two were on point: sentries stationed near the outskirts of the tents to watch for signs of trouble. Their posts were mere formality, however. The sentries should have been stationed on opposite sides of the camp to guard against assault from either direction. Instead the two men were standing less than twenty meters apart, more interested in having someone to pass the time with than in securing the perimeter.
Bane surveyed the scene with contempt as he bore down on them, the Force allowing him to take in every detail in one quick glance. The men on point were oblivious to his approach, their attention drawn by the angry shouts of disagreement coming from the other six bickering over their ill-gotten gains.
Altering his course slightly so his arrival would be hidden by a large supply tent until the last possible instant, Bane gave a final burst of acceleration and descended upon the camp in a storm of ruin. He drew and ignited his lightsaber in one smooth motion. The keening hum of the crimson blade preceded him, betraying his position a few precious seconds before his arrival. The advance warning gave just enough time for the nearest sentry to draw his blaster, but not nearly enough time to save him from the coming slaughter.
Bane materialized from behind the supply tent and fell on his first victim like a dark wind, slicing him diagonally from shoulder to hip. The man wore battle armor made up of composite plates stitched together on an interwoven padded underlay to allow for flexibility. The vest covering his chest was capable of absorbing several high-powered blaster shots from inside thirty meters, but Bane's blade sliced through the protective layers and carved a fatal five-centimeter gash through the flesh and bone beneath.
As the first victim toppled over, Bane leapt high in the air toward his next foe, instantly closing the ten meters between them and simultaneously evading the hastily fired shot from the second sentry's blaster pistol. As he came down virtually on top of his enemy, he delivered an overhead, two-handed descending chop- a classic move from Djem So, the fifth and most powerfully aggressive form of lightsaber combat. The heavy strike perfectly bisected the unfortunate man's helmet and drove deep into the skull beneath.
The gruesome ends of the first two mercenaries gave the others time to recognize what was happening. They drew their weapons and fired a full volley of blaster bolts at Bane as he turned to face them from across the camp. Smoothly transitioning from the attacking style of Form V to the more defensive style of Form III, Bane deflected the incoming bolts with two-handed parries of his lightsaber, flicking them aside with almost casual disdain.
Twirling his weapon in his right hand, Bane paused to relish the hopelessness and terror emanating from the half a dozen surviving mercenaries as they recognized the inevitable fact of their own deaths. Clustered together in the clearing between the tents, they did the only thing that gave any of them a chance of survival-they broke and ran.
They scattered in all directions: one of the women ran off to the left, two men ran off to the right; the other three turned and fled in a direct line away from the deadly interloper. Still twirling his light-saber, Bane thrust his empty hand out before him, palm extended as he unleashed the Force in a wave of concussive power at the woman fleeing to his left. The wave cut a swath of devastation through the camp. Tents were uprooted from the ground, their material torn and shredded. Wooden supply crates exploded into kindling› the shattered contents spraying out in a shower of splintered shrapnel.
The Force wave slammed into the woman's back, pulverizing her spine and snapping her neck as it drove her facedown into the dirt and pinned her against the ground. Her corpse twitched once, then went forever still.
Clenching the fingers of his left hand tight against his open palm, Bane wheeled toward the two men on his right and thrust his fist up into the air. A dozen forks of blue lightning arced out from above his head to envelop the screaming soldiers, cooking them alive. Shriek-ing in agony, they danced and twitched like marionettes on electric strings for several seconds before their smoking husks collapsed on the ground.
In the few seconds it had taken to dispatch the others, the surviving three mercenaries had reached the far side of the Sith camp. A few meters beyond the edge of the tents a line of trees marked the start of the thick Ruusan forests. The concealing branches taunted them with offers of safety, giving even greater haste to their terror-filled flight. Bane watched them retreat with idle disinterest, savoring their fear.
A handful of steps from freedom, one of the men made the fatal mistake of glancing back over his shoulder to see whether their adversary was following. On a whim, Bane sent his lightsaber hurtling toward him with a casual toss. The spinning blade sliced through the air in a tight loop, crossing the expanse of the camp in a fraction of a second before swooping back to be caught in the waiting hand of its Master.
Two of the mercenaries vanished into the forest, crashing through the underbrush. The third-the one who had paused to look back- stood still as stone. A second later his head toppled forward from his shoulders to bounce and roll across the ground, severed from the cauterized stump of his neck by the crimson blade of Bane's thrown lightsaber. As if the fallen head were a signal, the rigid limbs of the decapitated corpse went suddenly limp, and it fell over sideways.
Bane extinguished his lightsaber, the blade vanishing with a sharp hiss. For a brief instant he reveled in his victory, drinking in the last lingering remnants of his victims1 emotions, drawing power from their fear and suffering. And then the moment was gone, fleeing like those who had escaped his wrath. He could have pursued them, but as much as he yearned to taste their panic, he understood the purpose of letting them live.
'You let them get away.'
He spun around in surprise to see Zannah standing just inside the perimeter of the camp. Engrossed in the slaughter, he hadn't sensed her approach. Either that, or his young apprentice had taken pains to shield her presence from him.
Don't underestimate her, Bane reminded himself. She has the power to one day surpass you.
'You let them get away' Zannah repeated. She didn't sound angry, or disappointed, or even pleased. She just seemed puzzled.
'I told you to wait for me,' Bane admonished her. 'Why did you disobey?'
She didn't answer right away, weighing her words carefully until she could find an answer that would appease her Master. '1 wanted to see the true power of the dark side,' she admitted finally. 'Can you teach me to…?' She trailed off, unable to find the words to describe what she had just witnessed. Instead she simply waved her hand, indicating the totality of the carnage he had unleashed.
'You will learn,' Bane assured her, attaching the hooked handle of his lightsaber back onto his belt.
She didn't smile, but there was an eager expression in her gaze, a hunger her Master knew well. He'd seen the same raw ambition in the eyes of Githany, his former lover and one of Kaan's doomed followers. He knew that if Zannah did not learn to temper and control her ambition, it would lead her down a path of destruction, just as it had with Githany.
'Prowess in combat is the simplest display of the dark side's power,' her Master cautioned her. 'Brutal and quick, it serves a purpose. Yet it is often less effective than subtlety and cunning. Ultimately letting those mercenaries live may prove more useful than killing them.'
'But they were weak,' his apprentice protested, throwing his own teachings back at him. 'They deserved to die!'
'Few beings in the galaxy ever get what they truly deserve,' he noted, choosing his words with care. The dark side was not easily understood; even be was still learning to work his way through its complexities and contradictions. He had to be careful not to overwhelm his young apprentice, yet it was important that she grasp the essence of what he had done here. 'Our mission is not to bring death to all those unfit to live. We answer to a greater calling. All I have done on Ruusan, and all that we will do from this day forward, must serve our true purpose: the preservation of our Order and the survival of the Sith.'
After a moment's consideration, Zannah shook her head. 'I'm sorry, Master' she admitted, 'I still don't get why you didn't just kill them.'
'As servants of the dark side we revel in the vanquishing of our enemies. We draw power from their suffering, but we must balance this against greater gains. We must recognize that killing for sadistic pleasure-killing without reason, need, or purpose-is the act of a fool.'
A frown of confusion crossed the young girl's face. 'What purpose is there in letting scum like that live?'
'The Jedi believe the Order of the Sith died here on Ruusan,' he explained patiently. 'There are followers of the dark side on many other worlds: the Marauders of Honoghr and Gamorr, the Shadow Assassins of Ryloth and Umbara. But those with the greatest power-all those individuals with the potential to become true Sith Masters-had gathered together in Kaan's Brotherhood. As one they followed him into this war, and as one they followed him into
