Dynasty of Evil

  He didn’t answer right away. His breathing was ragged, his face and bare scalp covered in sweat from the pain he had just endured. A spastic tremble had seized his left hand, causing it to twitch and flex madly in its iron cuff.

  “You have no lessons to teach me,” he gasped. “I understand suffering in ways you will never comprehend.”

  “Why did you kill my father?” Serra asked, picking up another black needle and holding it up for him to see.

  “Caleb did not die by my hand.”

  She stabbed the needle into his neck, inducing another seizure. She let this one continue nearly twice as long before administering the antidote. She expected him to pass out from the pain, but somehow he managed to stay conscious.

  “Lies will be punished,” she warned him.

  “I did not kill your father,” he insisted, though his voice was so weak she could barely hear him.

  “I told you that I saw another in my visions,” the Huntress reminded her. “A young woman with blond hair. Perhaps she was the killer.”

  Serra glared at the Iktotchi before turning her attention back to the man in chains.

  “Is this true?”

  He didn’t answer, though a cunning smile played at the corner of his lips.

  “Tell me what happened to my father!” Serra shouted, slapping him across the face. Her nails raked his cheek, slicing the flesh with four long, deep furrows. Blood welled up quickly into the wounds and began to run down toward his chin.

  Bane didn’t answer, however. Jaw clenched, Serra reached down to grab another of the black needles, but Lucia seized her wrist.

  “He didn’t kill your father!” the bodyguard shouted. “Why are you still doing this?”

  Serra yanked her wrist free angrily. “He may not have done the deed, but he’s the reason my father is dead,” she insisted. She turned back to the prisoner. “Do you deny that?”

  “Caleb was weak,” the man muttered. “When he ceased to be of use, he was destroyed. This is the way of the dark side.”

  Serra picked the needle up from the table.

  “This won’t bring your father back,” Lucia pleaded.

  “I want him to see what it’s like to be helpless and afraid,” Serra hissed. “I want him to know what it’s like to be a victim. I want him to understand that what he did to my father—to me—was wrong!”

  “The weak will always be victims,” the prisoner said, his voice growing stronger. “That is the way of the universe. The strong take what they want, and the weak suffer at their hands. That is their fate; it is inevitable. Only the strong survive, because only the strong deserve to.”

  “You only believe that because you don’t know what it’s like to suffer!” the princess shot back at him.

  “I know what it means to suffer,” he replied, his words no longer thick and slurred. “I used to be a victim. But I refused to accept my lot in life. I made myself strong.”

  As he spoke, drops of blood from the gashes on his cheek fell from his chin and splashed to the floor.

  “Those who are victims have no one to blame but themselves. They do not deserve pity; they are victims because of their own failures and weaknesses.”

  “But it didn’t matter how strong you were!” Lucia said, suddenly jumping into the discussion. “Don’t you see that? You still ended up as a prisoner!”

  “Had I been stronger I would not have been captured,” he countered, a fierce light burning in his eyes. “If I am not strong enough to escape, I will continue to suffer until I die. But if I am strong enough to escape …”

  Serra slammed the black needle down and grabbed one of the green, injecting him with another dose of senflax.

  “You will never leave this dungeon alive,” she promised as her victim slipped back under the influence of the drug, his eyes glazing over as his head lolled forward again.

  Even drugged and chained, he’s still cunning enough to be dangerous.

  Caught up in arguing with him, she had almost missed the signs of the senflax wearing off. She had thought it would be hours before he needed another shot, but she had underestimated the effects of the other drugs she had been pumping into his system. She’d have to be more careful in the future.

  “Right now I am weak,” the man mumbled with his head staring down at the floor, refusing to give up. “Powerless. You inflict suffering on me because you are strong enough to do so. Your actions prove the truth of what I believe.”

  Serra shook her head angrily. “No. My father taught me to help those in need. The strong should raise the weak up, not trample them down. He believed in that, and so do I!”

  Somehow the prisoner managed to lift his head, fixing her with his bleary-eyed stare.

  “Your father’s beliefs got him killed.”

  The princess raised her hand to slap him again, then froze, struggling to control the flood of grief and rage that threatened to overwhelm her.

  “You’re not thinking straight,” Lucia said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You need to calm down.”

  Her friend was right. He was inside her head. She needed to get out of the room and regroup. The last shot she’d given him would keep him helpless for at least another hour. Time enough for her to collect her thoughts before facing him again.

  Lowering her hand, she turned her back on him without saying a word, leaving the Huntress and Lucia alone with him in the cell.

  17

  As the princess stormed out of the cell, Lucia resisted the urge to go after her. She knew Des’s words had hurt; normally she would have gone to comfort her friend. But everything had changed when she’d walked into the cell and recognized the man chained to the wall.

  The Huntress was staring at her, smiling. The Iktotchi was evil. Twisted. She had enjoyed watching Serra torture the victim; she had relished in his suffering. Lucia suspected she took pleasure in Serra’s emotional torment, as well.

  She returned the assassin’s gaze but refused to speak. For a moment their eyes locked, and then the Iktotchi turned away with an air of indifference, as if Lucia was beneath her notice. The bodyguard continued to stare at her back as the Huntress followed in the princess’s wake, leaving her alone with the prisoner.

  At first a part of her had actually wondered if Des deserved what was being done to him. After all, he was a Sith Lord now. She had fought on the side of the Sith during the war, but she was only a soldier. Like Lucia herself, most of her comrades-in-arms had enlisted because they saw no other way to escape the suffering and hopelessness of their lives. They had turned against the Republic out of desperation, but they were still decent men and women.

  The Sith Lords, however, were monsters. Ruthless and cruel, they cared nothing for the soldiers who followed them. Sometimes it even seemed they enjoyed the death and suffering inflicted on the enlisted personnel under their command. Their mere presence inspired terror in the ranks, and at night the troops would share stories of the horrors they inflicted on their enemies … or their allies who had failed them.

  Lucia never thought she could feel pity for a Sith Lord. But she also never imagined Des would become one of them.

  If Des really had murdered Caleb, Lucia reasoned, then he had brought this on himself. But when questioned, he insisted he wasn’t the one who had killed the healer, and Lucia was convinced he was telling the truth. Even the Iktotchi assassin had seemed to believe him. But despite all the evidence—the accounts of the Jedi, the Huntress’s mention of a mysterious blond woman at the scene, and the refusals of Des himself—Serra had not been swayed from her course. The princess had refused to listen to facts or reason. Her hatred blinded her to everything else.

  She had stormed off in anger, but Lucia knew it was only a matter of time until she returned to subject Des to another round of torture. She had seen the madness in Serra’s eyes. The princess hungered for revenge.

  Lucia recognized that look; she had seen it in the eyes of her fellow soldiers when the enforcers had dragged Des away
in cuffs. Whether he was guilty of the crime didn’t matter: Serra was going to make her prisoner suffer for the death of her father. And there was nothing anyone could say or do to make her change her mind.

  And even if he didn’t kill Caleb, he’s still a monster. He probably deserves to die.

  During the interrogation, she had listened with growing horror to the words coming from the prisoner’s mouth. It was clear Des had embraced the teachings of the dark side in ways she could never have imagined. He was not the man she remembered; the camaraderie of the Gloom Walkers meant nothing to the creature he had become.

  But it means something to me.

  Lucia still believed in the ideals of the Gloom Walkers. They looked out for one another; they counted on one another to survive. There was honor in their code of unity, symbolized in the secret greeting reserved only for other members of the unit: a closed fist rapped firmly on the breastbone, just above the heart.

  Whatever Des was now, she still owed him her life. He had saved her—the entire unit—too many times to count. Yet when the enforcers had taken him away she had been powerless to help him. Now fate was giving her another chance to repay her debt.

  A small pool of blood was forming on the floor, dripping from where Serra had sliced open his cheek.

  You’re not just doing it for Des, Lucia told herself, turning her attention to the color-coded needles resting on the cart.

  Serra’s hatred would only fester and grow. She’d become more and more twisted each time she returned to inflict pain on her helpless victim. The loss of her husband had pushed her to the edge of madness, and this would take her over the brink.

  She had watched as the princess had administered the various drugs, pumping them directly into Des’s system through the thick artery in his neck. She didn’t fully understand what the compounds were or what they did, but she had seen enough to gain some understanding of each one’s effects.

  The black needle induced the spasms Serra had used to torture her victim; the yellow caused the convulsions to end. The green seemed to force Des back into his stupor. But the red needle—the one her mistress had given him at the start of the interrogation—had seemed to wake him up. It had to be some kind of stimulant or antidote, something to offset the drugs that kept him helpless and nonresponsive.

  Glancing over her shoulder to make sure nobody in the guard room just outside was watching, she picked up one of the red hypodermics.

  There were too many mercs for her to fight her way out—trying to win Des his freedom that way would only get them both killed. But she didn’t have to break Des out to save him. He had always been capable of looking after himself, even before he gained the mystical powers of a Sith Lord. She knew he was more than capable of escaping on his own if she just gave him a little help.

  She gently pushed the tip of the needle into his thigh, hoping the drugs would enter his system more slowly and less violently than when Serra had plunged them into his neck. She knew it was possible she might accidentally overdose him, but even if Des died it was better than leaving him alive to be tortured over and over again.

  Placing the needle back on the cart, she turned and quickly left the room. She didn’t have time to wait around and watch the effects. She needed to find the princess. If the drug worked as she suspected, he’d quickly regain his faculties. And once he was able to call upon the terrible power of the dark side, no cell in the galaxy would be capable of holding him.

  She made her way back into the guard room. The mercenaries had returned to their card game, oblivious of what she had done. Serra and the Huntress were nowhere in sight.

  “Where did the princess go?” she demanded.

  There was a long silence before one of the mercenaries grudgingly looked up from the hand and answered, “She didn’t say. She just left.”

  “And you let her go off alone?” Lucia demanded angrily.

  “That Iktotchi was with her so we just …,” the man answered, his voice trailing off under her withering glare.

  She realized they were mere hired guns. They didn’t care for anything but the credits they’d been promised.

  “Lock the cell door,” Lucia spat out. “If anything goes wrong, hit the alarm.” That should give me enough of a warning to get the princess out of here in time.

  Two of the soldiers reluctantly got up and moved to obey her orders as Lucia climbed the staircase to the hall above.

  She didn’t care that when Des broke free he’d slaughter the guards. These men and women weren’t her friends or colleagues. She knew they’d kill her without a second thought if the price was right. They were mercenaries; their lives meant nothing to her.

  But she still cared about Serra. Despite what she had done, she was still loyal to her mistress. She was still sworn to protect her life. When Des broke free, she knew he’d come looking for the princess. When the alarms went off warning of the prisoner’s escape, Lucia wanted to be there to help Serra get away to safety.

  And if he catches us before we get away, she silently tried to reassure herself, maybe he’ll remember me. Maybe I can convince him to let Serra live.

  First, however, she had to find her.

  18

  Doan’s scarred and ugly terrain rolled beneath them as the Victory sped low across the planet’s surface.

  In the cockpit Zannah braced herself as the sensors picked up a fierce sandstorm several hundred kilometers in the distance. Beside her Set was seated in his customary position: chair leaning back, feet up on the dash.

  Making a slight change in her approach vector brought her on a collision course with the storm. She didn’t bother to give Set any warning as the Victory was engulfed by the whirling vortex.

  The stabilizers kept the ship from suffering any real harm, but the cabin bucked violently as the vessel was buffeted by the howling winds. Set was sent tumbling from his chair, but he managed to roll with the momentum as he hit the ground and came up on his feet.

  “You did that on purpose,” he accused, using the back of his chair to steady himself in the turbulence.

  “You need to be alert and aware of your surroundings at all times,” she instructed him. “Always be on your guard.”

  “I thought the information I gave you might have earned me a break from any more lessons today,” he grumbled as he sat back into his copilot’s chair and buckled the restraints.

  “You were wrong.”

  Despite her words, Set had proved himself to be quite valuable. In addition to telling her about Darth Andeddu and his Holocron, he had actually come up with the most likely place Bane was being held.

  “They probably took your Master to the Stone Prison,” he had declared shortly after they had begun their journey.

  “The Stone Prison?”

  “A dungeon built centuries ago by the nobility on Doan to house political prisoners,” he’d explained. “I found all sorts of references to it in the historical archives.”

  “What kind of defenses do they have?” she’d asked.

  “Pretty standard. Anti-aircraft cannons. Armed guards inside. And they can set off a series of explosion to bring the whole place down as a last resort.”

  Zannah had scowled. “We’ll have to avoid detection when we go in.”

  “That might be easier than you think,” Set had answered with a smile. “The Stone Prison hasn’t been used for almost two generations.”

  It all made sense to Zannah. A small team of elite guards or mercenaries could keep a single prisoner secured in the abandoned facility without attracting unwanted attention. All the infrastructure they needed—holding cells, interrogation rooms—would still be there. If they stayed deep inside the heart of the complex, nobody would even know they were there. Secrecy, as she well understood, was often the best protection from your enemies. But when your secrets were exposed, it could leave you vulnerable.

  “They won’t be expecting anyone to assault the prison, so I doubt they’ll even activate the external defenses,??
? Set had continued, speaking aloud the very thoughts running through Zannah’s mind. “A small team couldn’t spare the bodies to operate the stations, and powering the systems up would be like sending off a flare to alert everyone they were there.”

  It was at that point that Zannah realized Set, for all his seeming overconfidence and carefree attitude, actually liked to be prepared. He wasn’t afraid to improvise and adapt, but he had the sense to know what he was heading into … at least in the short term. The trick would be teaching him to apply the same kind of diligence to long-term plans, then have the patience to bear them out.

  The Victory passed through the eye of the sandstorm and out the other side, continuing on toward the tall stone column looming far in the distance. Even though they were enjoying a smooth ride once more, Zannah was pleased to see that Set didn’t lean back and put his feet up again.

  He was learning, and he’d shown several flashes of real potential during their time together. Maybe there was hope for him yet … or maybe, Zannah had to admit, she was just so desperate to find an apprentice she was willing to overlook his flaws.

  “There. That column up ahead. That’s the one we want.”

  Dusk had fallen and Zannah could just make out the silhouette of the massive stone pillar in the distance. From here it looked like an enormous candle: tall and straight, the top aglow with hundreds of lights from the royal family’s estate that had been built on the wide, flat plateau at its apex.

  Zannah brought the shuttle in low, skimming less than twenty meters above the ground to stay below the radar of the royal estate perched nearly five kilometers above them.

  The Victory was picking up hundreds of life-forms when she scanned the column, but they were all concentrated in the buildings of the plateau. There was no evidence of life inside the pillar, but that was to be expected. The scanners wouldn’t be able to penetrate the mountain of stone.

  Reaching out with the Force, however, presented Zannah with a very different picture. She could feel something dark and powerful pulsing at the heart of the column. She recognized the presence of her Master, though from this distance it was impossible to get anything more than a vague sense that he was hidden somewhere inside.