Dynasty of Evil

  Lightsaber in hand, Bane charged toward her. The tendrils flew to intercept him, but Bane ducked, jumped, and dodged, weaving his way under, over, and around them as he bore down on Zannah.

  She brought her lightsaber up to defend against his attack, but without the full power of the Force behind them her movements were awkward and clumsy. She parried the blow, but didn’t react fast enough as Bane dropped down and took her feet out from under her with a sweep of his leg. As she fell he twisted the handle of his lightsaber so that his blade caught one of hers, wrenching the hilt from her grasp and sending her weapon flying across the camp.

  With his foe unarmed and helpless at his feet Bane brought his arm down for the coup de grâce, only to have it intercepted midswing by one of the dark side tendrils. It wrapped itself around the elbow. Skin, muscle, sinew, and bone dissolved instantaneously, severing the limb.

  His disembodied forearm and fist tumbled harmlessly to the ground, his lightsaber flicking off as the hilt slid from his suddenly nerveless fingers. The Dark Lord didn’t scream this time; the pain was so intense it left him mute as he collapsed to the ground.

  Everything went black. Blind and alone, he felt the void closing in. In desperation he reached out with his left hand, clutching Zannah’s wrist as she lay on the ground beside him. With his last act, he summoned all his remaining power and invoked the ritual of essence transfer.

  Working at the speed of thought, his mind tapped into the currents of the Force, seizing on the power of the dark side, spinning, shaping, and twisting it into the intricate patterns he had ripped from Andeddu’s Holocron.

  The cold darkness swallowing him up vanished, replaced by a searing burst of crimson light as the power of the ritual was unleashed. Bane was aware of his flesh being utterly consumed by the unimaginable heat, reduced to ashes in a thousandth of a second. But he was no longer a part of his own body. His spirit had discarded it like an old shell in favor of a new one.

  Bane was suddenly fully aware of his physical surroundings. He could see with Zannah’s eyes, he could hear with her ears. He could feel the intense heat of the ritual’s crimson glow through her skin. But Zannah was still there, too. She sensed his assault; he could feel her terror and confusion as if they were his own. And when she screamed in horror he screamed with her.

  The black tendrils vanished as her concentration was shattered, disappearing like smoke on the wind. Instinctively, she fought to repel the invader. Bane could feel her pushing him away, rejecting him, trying to drive him out even as he relentlessly tried to force his way in and snuff out her existence.

  It became a battle of wills, their two identities locked together inside Zannah’s mind, grappling for possession of her body. They teetered on the precipice of the void, Bane seeking to obliterate all trace of her identity while she sought to cast him down into the blackness.

  For a moment they seemed to be evenly matched, neither gaining nor giving ground. And then suddenly it was over.

  27

  From a safe distance, the Iktotchi had watched the two figures from her dreams wage battle. She was an impartial observer, having no preference as to which one would emerge victorious. She only wanted to serve whoever proved the stronger.

  The conflict had been brief but intense: she had marveled at the speed of their blades, their movements so fast she could barely follow the action. She had felt the awesome power of the Force unleashed through bursts of lightning and the sinister tendrils that crawled up from the ground. She shivered in anticipation with the knowledge that she, too, could one day learn to wield such power.

  She had seen Bane knock the woman to the ground and slap her weapon away, only to have his arm hewn off by the touch of one of the black tentacles. And then there had been a flash so bright she had been forced to close her eyes and look away.

  When she looked back Bane was gone, his body reduced to a pile of ash. The blond woman still lay on the ground, dazed but alive. The deadly tendrils were nowhere to be seen.

  Cautiously she approached the scene. Bane’s severed arm lay on the ground, but the rest of his body had been consumed by the crimson flare. In the instant before she had looked away, however, she had felt something.

  Even from a distance, she had sensed an incredible burst of power—the same power she had sensed in Bane himself. She didn’t know how it was possible, but it almost seemed as if the Dark Lord’s life energy had burst free of his physical form in one glorious instant, releasing itself upon the material world. Then, as suddenly as she had sensed the presence, it was gone, vanishing like an animal gone to ground.

  Crazy as it might seem, there was only one place she could imagine it could have gone.

  The woman on the ground shifted, her eyes fluttering open as she rose slowly to her feet. She moved awkwardly and couldn’t seem to stand up straight, as if she was unfamiliar with how her own limbs and muscles worked … though this could simply have been the result of exhaustion from the battle.

  She shook her blond head from side to side, and the motion seemed to restore some sense of her equilibrium. Standing straight and tall, she turned and fixed the Iktotchi with a cold stare.

  Knowing how insane her words would sound, Cognus hesitated before asking, “Lord Bane?”

  “Bane is gone,” the woman replied, her voice confident and strong. “I am Darth Zannah, Dark Lord of the Sith and your new Master.”

  The Iktotchi dropped to one knee, folding her hands in supplication and bowing her head.

  “Forgive me, Master.”

  “What is your name?” Zannah demanded.

  “I am … Darth Cognus.” She had almost answered the Huntress, but she managed to catch her mistake just in time. “Bane had me take the name to symbolize my new life as a Sith apprentice.”

  “Then your training has already begun,” Zannah replied. “Did he explain the Rule of Two that guides our Order?”

  “He started to. But there was no time for any real lessons before you arrived,” she admitted.

  “I will teach you the Rule of Two and the ways of the Sith,” Zannah promised. “In time, I will teach you everything.

  “Rise, Cognus,” she added, and the Iktotchi did as she was instructed.

  Zannah turned away from her and walked over to pick up her lightsaber from where it had fallen to the ground.

  “Eventually you will construct your own lightsaber,” Zannah said, speaking but not turning to look back at her. “For now, take Darth Bane’s.”

  Cognus scooped the curved hilt of Bane’s lightsaber up from the ground, unfazed by the gruesome severed limb resting only a few centimeters away.

  “Bane reinvented the Sith,” Zannah explained, standing with her back to her new apprentice as she stared out across the vast, empty expanse of the Ambrian desert. “We are his legacy, and though he is gone his legacy will endure.

  “Now I am the Master, and you are my chosen successor. One day you will face me just as I faced Bane, and only one of us will survive.

  “This is the way of our Order. An individual may die, but the Sith are eternal.”

  “Yes, Master,” Cognus answered.

  She couldn’t help but notice that, as she was speaking, Zannah was continually clenching and unclenching the fingers of her left hand.

  EPILOGUE

  Set Harth was too smart to go back to his estate on Nal Hutta. If Zannah had survived the destruction of the Stone Prison it was only a matter of time until she went there to look for him, and he had no desire to ever run into her again.

  Luckily, Set had built his life on the underlying principle that he might have to go on the run at any time. He had other mansions on other worlds, from Nar Shaddaa all the way to Coruscant itself, and at least a dozen false identities he could assume if he didn’t want to be found. He wasn’t worried about Zannah, not when he had something far more interesting right in front of him.

  He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shuttle he had stolen from the Stone Prison, Andeddu?
??s Holocron resting on a small table a few meters away. All his attention was focused on the small holographic figure being projected from the black pyramid’s top.

  “It will take years for you to learn the lessons I must teach you,” the gatekeeper warned him, its skeletal features serious and grim. “You must prove yourself worthy before I reveal the ritual of essence transfer to you.”

  “Of course, Master,” he said, nodding eagerly. “I understand.”

  He had chafed under the tutelage of Master Obba and the Jedi. He had felt serious reservations about serving as an apprentice under Zannah. But Set was more than willing to do whatever the gatekeeper required of him.

  For one thing, he knew he only had to answer to the gatekeeper when the Holocron was active. Unlike a living Master, Set was the one who would decide where and when he would begin each lesson.

  More important, however, the Holocron was offering him something he actually wanted. Zannah had tried to tempt him with promises of power and the chance to destroy the Jedi and rule the galaxy. But Set already had more than enough power to get what he needed from life.

  Plus, you’re charming, smart, and handsome. What more could anyone ask for?

  The last thing he wanted was to rule the galaxy. Let the Jedi and Sith wage their endless war. The outcome made no difference to him. He was a survivor; all he wanted was to live a long and prosperous life. And if he learned the secrets of essence transfer, his life would be very long indeed.

  He would have to be careful, of course. Never draw too much attention to himself. Try not to cross paths with the Jedi or powerful people like Zannah.

  No problem. Basically, just do what you’re already doing.

  That, and guard the Holocron as if his life—his long, long life—depended on it.

  “Are you ready to begin your first lesson?” the gatekeeper asked.

  “You have no idea, Master,” Set replied with a wry grin. “You have absolutely no idea.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DREW KARPYSHYN is the New York Times bestselling author of Star Wars: Darth Bane: Path of Destruction and its sequel, Star Wars: Darth Bane: Rule of Two. He also wrote the acclaimed Mass Effect series of novels, and is an award-winning writer/designer of video games for BioWare. After spending most of his life in Canada he finally grew tired of the long, cold winters and headed south in search of a climate more conducive to year-round golf. He now lives in Texas with his wife, Jennifer, and their cat.

  BOOKS BY DREW KARPYSHYN

  Baldur’s Gate II: Throne of Bhaal

  Temple Hill

  Mass Effect: Revelation

  Mass Effect: Ascension

  Star Wars: Darth Bane: Path of Destruction

  Star Wars: Darth Bane: Rule of Two

  Star Wars: Darth Bane: Dynasty of Evil

  STAR WARS—The Expanded Universe

  You saw the movies. You watched the cartoon series, or maybe played some of the video games. But did you know …

  In The Empire Strikes Back, Princess Leia Organa said to Han Solo, “I love you.” Han said, “I know.” But did you know that they actually got married? And had three Jedi children: the twins, Jacen and Jaina, and a younger son, Anakin?

  Luke Skywalker was trained as a Jedi by Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda. But did you know that, years later, he went on to revive the Jedi Order and its commitment to defending the galaxy from evil and injustice?

  Obi-Wan said to Luke, “For over a thousand generations, the Jedi Knights were the guardians of peace and justice in the Old Republic. Before the dark times. Before the Empire.” Did you know that over those millennia, legendary Jedi and infamous Sith Lords were adding their names to the annals of Republic history?

  Yoda explained that the dreaded Sith tend to come in twos: “Always two, there are. No more, no less. A Master, and an apprentice.” But did you know that the Sith didn’t always exist in pairs? That at one time in the ancient Republic there were as many Sith as Jedi, until a Sith Lord named Darth Bane was the lone survivor of a great Sith war and created the “Rule of Two”?

  All this and much, much more is brought to life in the many novels and comics of the Star Wars expanded universe. You’ve seen the movies and watched the cartoon. Now venture out into the wider worlds of Star Wars!

  Turn the page or jump to the timeline of Star Wars novels to learn more.

  FATMAN SHIVERED, her metal groaning, as Zeerid pushed her through Ord Mantell’s atmosphere. Friction turned the air to fire, and Zeerid watched the orange glow of the flames through the transparisteel of the freighter’s cockpit.

  He was gripping the stick too tightly, he realized, and relaxed.

  He hated atmosphere entries, always had, the long forty-count when heat, speed, and ionized particles caused a temporary sensor blackout. He never knew what kind of sky he’d encounter when he came out of the dark. Back when he’d carted Havoc Squadron commandos in a Republic gully jumper, he and his fellow pilots had likened the blackout to diving blind off a seaside cliff.

  You always hope to hit deep water, they’d say. But sooner or later the tide goes out and you go hard into rock.

  Or hard into a blistering crossfire. Didn’t matter, really. The effect would be the same.

  “Coming out of the dark,” he said as the flame diminished and the sky opened below.

  No one acknowledged the words. He flew Fatman alone, worked alone. The only things he carted anymore were weapons for The Exchange. He had his reasons, but he tried hard not to think too hard about what he was doing.

  He leveled the ship off, straightened, and ran a quick sweep of the surrounding sky. The sensors picked up nothing.

  “Deep water and it feels fine,” he said, smiling.

  On most planets, the moment he cleared the atmosphere he’d have been busy dodging interdiction by the planetary government. But not on Ord Mantell. The planet was a hive of crime syndicates, mercenaries, bounty hunters, smugglers, weapons dealers, and spicerunners.

  And those were just the people who ran the place.

  Factional wars and assassinations occupied their attention, not governance, and certainly not law enforcement. The upper and lower latitudes of the planet in particular were sparsely settled and almost never patrolled, a literal no-being’s-land. Zeerid would have been surprised if the government had survsats running orbits over the area.

  And all that suited him fine.

  Fatman broke through a thick pink blanket of clouds, and the brown, blue, and white of Ord Mantell’s northern hemisphere filled out Zeerid’s field of vision. Snow and ice peppered the canopy, frozen shrapnel, beating a steady rhythm on Fatman’s hull. The setting sun suffused a large swath of the world with orange and red. The northern sea roiled below him, choppy and dark, the irregular white circles of breaking surf denoting the thousands of uncharted islands that poked through the water’s surface. To the west, far in the distance, he could make out the hazy edge of a continent and the thin spine of snowcapped, cloud-topped mountains that ran along its north–south axis.

  Motion drew his eye. A flock of leatherwings, too small to cause a sensor blip, flew two hundred meters to starboard and well below him, the tents of their huge, membranous wings flapping slowly in the freezing wind, the arc of the flock like a parenthesis. They were heading south for warmer air and paid him no heed as he flew over and past them, their dull, black eyes blinking against the snow and ice.

  He pulled back on the ion engines and slowed still further. A yawn forced itself past his teeth. He sat up straight and tried to blink away the fatigue, but it was as stubborn as an angry bantha. He’d given the ship to the autopilot and dozed during the hyperspace run from Vulta, but that was all the rack he’d had in the last two standard days. It was catching up to him.

  He scratched at the stubble of his beard, rubbed the back of his neck, and plugged the drop coordinates into the navicomp. The comp linked with one of Ord Mantell’s unsecured geosyncsats and fed back the location and course to Fatman. Zeerid’s HUD di
splayed it on the cockpit canopy. He eyed the location and put his finger on the destination.

  “Some island no one has ever heard of, up here where no one ever goes. Sounds about right.”

  Zeerid turned the ship over to the autopilot, and it banked him toward the island.

  His mind wandered as Fatman cut through the sky. The steady patter of ice and snow on the canopy sang him a lullaby. His thoughts drifted back through the clouds to the past, to the days before the accident, before he’d left the marines. Back then, he’d worn the uniform proudly and had still been able to look himself in the mirror—

  He caught himself, caught the burgeoning self-pity, and stopped the thoughts cold. He knew where it would lead.

  “Stow that, soldier,” he said to himself.

  He was what he was, and things were what they were.

  “Focus on the work, Z-man.”

  He checked his location against the coordinates in the navicomp. Almost there.

  “Gear up and get frosty,” he said, echoing the words he used to say to his commandos. “Ninety seconds to the LZ.”

  He continued his ritual, checking the charge on his blasters, tightening the straps on his composite armor vest, getting his mind right.

  Ahead, he saw the island where he would make the drop: ten square klicks of volcanic rock fringed with a bad haircut of waist-high scrub whipping in the wind. The place would probably be underwater and gone next year.

  He angled lower, flew a wide circle, unable to see much detail due to the snow. He ran a scanner sweep, as always, and the chirp of his instrumentation surprised him. A ship was already on the island. He checked his wrist chrono and saw that he was a full twenty standard minutes early. He’d made this run three times and Arigo—he was sure the man’s real name was not Arigo—had never before arrived early.