figure-eight pattern meant to disembowel his unsuspecting foe even as she answered his question.
The Iktotchi wasn't fooled. Instead of replying to his query, she took a quick step back and to the side, nimbly avoiding his attack.
'Too slow,' she admonished.
The two adversaries turned to face each other again, and Set paused to consider the situation. He had Andeddu's Holocron; all he needed now was a ship and he was home free. But standing between him and escape was an unknown, though obviously skilled, opponent. She didn't appear to be armed, but she could easily have blades, blasters, or any number of other weapons hidden in the folds of her cloak. He decided it might be a good idea to try to talk his way out of the situation.
'My name is Medd Tandar,' he lied, trying to project an air of noble self-importance into his voice. 'I'm here on behalf of the Council of First Knowledge. Step aside in the name of the Jedi Order.'
'You're no Jedi,' she replied.
'Not anymore,' Set confessed. 'But I used to be.'
He sliced the air half a dozen times with his lightsaber. He spun around, the humming blade dancing and twirling, before ending the demonstration with a back flip.
The Iktotchi was obviously unimpressed by his display of martial prowess, and Set realized he wasn't going to intimidate her into backing down.
'The Jedi teach you any useful tricks?'
'A few,' Set replied, thrusting out with the Force.
A wave of raw energy rippled out toward his enemy, but Set knew instantly something was very wrong. Instead of the exhilarating rush of power he normally felt, there was a cramping ache in the pit of his stomach that caused him to double over.
The concussive wave that should have sent the Iktotchi flying twenty meters was reduced to nothing more than a hard shove. It hit her full in the chest, but she simply absorbed the impact by falling into a backward roll that ended with her still on her feet.
A pair of short vibroblades appeared in her hands while Set staggered backward, clutching at his stomach and trying not to throw up.
With horror, he realized she was disrupting his ability to draw on the Force. He'd seen this talent mentioned in a number of ancient texts, but he'd never encountered it himself:and he didn't know how to counter it. His only option was to try to fight through.
Gritting his teeth, he stood up straight. Feeding on the pain and his mounting anger, he tried once more to summon up the power of the dark side. He felt a small surge in response to his efforts, but it was a thin trickle rather than the flood he had been hoping for. Still, it was better than nothing.
The Iktotchi lunged in with her twin blades, and Set staggered awkwardly out of the way, barely avoiding her attack. She moved faster than any opponent he had ever faced. Or maybe her ability to interfere with the Force was just making him slower than he'd ever been. In either case, the outcome was the same:and it wasn't good for Set.
He ducked his head and darted under the nose of the black-and-red shuttle to the far side, knowing his best chance of survival would be to keep ten tons of metal between the two of them.
He couldn't see her anymore, but by concentrating he was just barely able to sense her position. The effort made his head spin; it was like trying to see with mud in his eyes.
She was stalking him slowly, cautiously creeping around the tail end of the ship. And in that moment Set realized his opponent had no formal training in the ways of the Force. She was operating on instinct. She had never been taught the most basic skills-like how to sense the location of opponents even when they were out of sight.
Set turned and made a dash for one of the other vessels, reaching his new hiding place just before she emerged from behind the black shuttle's thrusters. Crouching down to peer beneath the belly of the ship he was using for cover, he could see her turning her head from side to side, trying to figure out where he had gone.
'I love a good chase,' she called out, her lips curling into a feral smile. 'That's why they call me the Huntress.'
This isn't going to end well.
Bane could still feel the lingering effects of the drugs in his system. He'd done what he could to burn them away with the fire of the dark side, but the Sith were not as adept as the Jedi at cleansing their systems of impurities. The last dregs of the chemicals would simply have to break down naturally over time.
Until then he would be at less than full strength. A fraction slower in thoughts and actions, less adept at wielding the power of the Force. And he was still without his lightsaber.
Despite all this, he was confident victory was only minutes away. The alarms were still ringing throughout the dungeon, but he knew there would be no guards rushing in to answer their call. The few mercenaries who had survived his attack were in full retreat, leaving Caleb's daughter defenseless.
Sometimes vengeance needed to be cold and calculating. There were times when it was better to be careful, patient. But sometimes retribution could not be deferred. Sometimes action needed to be fueled by anger and hate; it needed to burn with the heat of animal emotion.
Peace is a lie; there is only passion. Through passion I gain strength. Through strength I gain power.
He could sense he was closing in on Serra's location. His stride quickened as he marched purposefully down the empty corridors toward his revenge.
Through power I gain victory. Through victory my chains are broken.
He had been careless, weak. He had allowed himself to be captured. He had let himself become a victim. For that he had suffered. But now he was strong again. Now it was someone else's turn to suffer.
'Des!' a voice from behind him shouted out over the alarms.
The mention of the name he had left behind twenty years ago caused the Sith Lord to stop dead in his tracks. He turned slowly, and found himself face-to-face with the dark-skinned woman who had aided his escape.
She was breathing hard, as if she had been running. Her pants were torn over the left knee; the edges of the rip were bloody. Her face was a mixture of conflicting emotions: fear, desperation, and hope.
'Do you remember me, Des? It's Lucia.'
For a second Bane simply stared in confusion at the woman standing before him. Then he began to think back to his youth. To a time when he was not Darth Bane, Lord of the Sith, but rather Des, a simple miner from Apatros.
The memories were buried deep, but they were still there. The weekly beatings from Hurst, his father. Long, grueling shifts digging cortosis from the rock while choking on clouds of dust stirred up by his hydraulic jack. His escape from the misery of Apatros, and his assignment to the Gloom Walkers.
It was like trying to recall a dream upon waking. These were scenes from someone else's life; they didn't feel real to him. But as he cast his mind back, other memories began to surface: long nights sitting watch on Trandosha, forced marches through the forests of Kashyyyk.
Stirring up the ghosts of the past brought back the face of Ulabore, the cruel and incompetent commanding officer who had inadvertently turned Des over to the Sith and set him on the path of his true destiny. But there were other faces, too-the men and women of his unit, his brothers-and sisters-in-arms. He remembered the blue eyes and cocksure grin of Adanar, his best friend. And he remembered a wide-eyed junior trooper, a young sniper named Lucia.
Bane had intelligence and foresight. He had the wisdom and vision to redefine the Sith Order so that it could begin its long, slow ascent to galactic domination. He had schemed and planned for nearly every conceivable situation he might one day find himself in. Yet he had never prepared himself for this.
He knew many of the former soldiers who served in Kaan's armies had become mercenaries and bodyguards, but he had never considered the possibility of ever running into someone who had known him before his transformation through the dark side. After joining the Sith, he hadn't allowed himself to wonder or care about what had happened to the people from his past. He had needed to learn to survive alone, to rely on nobody but himself. Attachment to family and friends was a weakness, a chain to bind and drag you down.
