Topic: Battlemaster: A tale of the Silent Council

NB: This is a fan fiction I originally posted on the official TOR forums. You can find that post here. I will try to update the story here at least two or three times a week but if you are hungry to find out more I recommend following the link above. For more information regarding the background of the Silent Council check out our website, or our series of Sith Archives.


Six thousand years before the battle of Yavin the galaxy was a very different place. Filled with the naive confidence of their growing influence, the Republic sits as a beacon in the darkness for the races of the universe to flock to. But in the black reaches beyond the Republic’s touch a new beacon is beginning to burn. The Sith Empire, forged from the blood and animosity of centuries of bloodshed is preparing to rear its head and unleash the most devastating assault the galaxy has ever known: The Great Hyperspace War draws ever nearer.

Yet this is not a tale of good versus evil or the glory of war. This tale takes place in the shadows within shadows, in the realm of conspiracy, secrecy and betrayal.

This is the tale of the Silent Council.


BATTLEMASTER
By Lightbleeder/DarthHastur


ONE
1441 BTC
5094 BBY

‘You’ve been very lively for a dead man,’ said the shadowed figure standing in the doorway of the shuttle-bay.

‘This displeases you?’ asked the baritone voice of Darth Hastur as he busied himself in the bowels of his short range fighter-transport The Reticent End. Hastur was a monster of a man, a descendant of the red-skinned inhabitants of the planet Korriban he was what the galaxy would come to know as a pureblood Sith. Eons before the Sith people had fallen to a band of Jedi exiles, but rather than accepting their fate they began to worship their new masters and were rewarded with power and position. Now centuries later the Sith Empire was ruled by them once more, poised and ready to utilise the dark knowledge their former masters had shared with them.

‘Only a little,’ smiled the figure.

The figure in question was Darth Panopticus, a twi’lek Sith Lord of some renown. A talented orator and a gifted seer, Panopticus was many things to many people, but to Darth Hastur he was perhaps the most unlikely of all; a brother. Though different blood flowed through their veins and thousands of light years divided their homeworlds, Hastur had seen in the twi’lek a familiar spirit from the moment they had met. Both of them had overcome great hardships and used those dark days of youth to empower themselves, and so it was in these shared tragedies and triumphs that Hastur found the source of his friendship.

‘You fear that I waste this opportunity,’ said Hastur though he did not turn to face his friend, instead tinkering with a myriad of cases haphazardly laid out in front of him in a parody of order. He opened one up, the sharp click of a dozen locks echoing throughout the shuttle-bay. With a delicate movement that seemed out of place with his monstrous hands he scooped an object from inside the case and held it up to the light. ‘I have been busy,’ he continued, ‘but I have also been careful. You don’t need to worry about me.’

‘I don’t,’ said Panopticus coming to a halt beside him, ‘If I was able to find out what you were up to then others surely will. I am sure there are many that will not take kindly to the knowledge that you are in fact still alive.’

‘Let the head-in-a-jar have his paranoid fantasies,’ scoffed Hastur but his companion did not share in his good humour.

‘Lord Simus is still an influential member of the Council,’ said Panopticus, ‘his fantasies have audiences.’

At that the red-skinned giant turned away from the object in his hand and smirked at Panopticus as the image of the ancient Sith Lord, kept alive as little more than a head in a tank that doubled as a life support system, surrounded by nubile slave girls entered his mind. The idiocy of such an immature thought forced him to explode with raucous laughter. The laughter was infectious and even the meticulously controlled Panopticus could do little to avoid it.

As quickly as it had come the laughter died, though the smiles of its memory remained on the faces of the two. Neither held great love for Lord Simus, or indeed any member of the Council. It was in fact their disillusionment with the practices of the Council that had lead them to this point, and would lead them yet further in the years to come.

‘You are concerned that I endanger our mission,’ said Hastur, his deep voice quickly sobered, ‘and for that reason I am sorry. I wish only for our success in the dark times that are to come, but I do not like to be kept here, it reminds me too strongly of bitter memories I had hoped to forget.’

Panopticus nodded in understanding, sitting himself down on a crudely built workbench. ‘I don’t wish to restrict your freedom, brother,’ he said, his soft tones and choice of words pleasing to Hastur’s ears, ‘but you will have to overcome your fear if you are to...’

The twi’lek did not get a chance to finish his sentence. Hastur rose to full height, his terrifying muscular bulk almost filling the small space. A lesser man would have fled, more than likely screaming for help or begging for mercy, but Panopticus did neither, nor did he flinch, instead looking at the juggernaut, for no truer word described Darth Hastur’s form, with cold dispassionate eyes.

‘I fear nothing,’ growled Hastur, ‘Do not sit and call me brother only to insult my honour. I am Sith as you are too. Fear is a weakness for which I have no patience. Do not dare to use your honeyed words on me, Panopticus!’

Though the standoff lasted only a minute, that minute seemed to stretch into hours as the two formidable beings searched each other’s faces for a reason, any reason at all, to break their bonds of friendship and ruin all that they had worked so hard to build. Then came the shame, the unutterable self-loathing at what he had even dared to consider doing. Hastur sighed deeply and sat back down amongst his boxes.

‘It is not in the nature of the Sith to apologise,’ said Panopticus warmly, ‘But for my part I spoke without consideration and I should not have done so. Of course forcing you to stay here causes you discomfort, I understand that and should have realised sooner. If you would like I can arrange something to make it easier for you.’

‘No,’ said Hastur solemnly, ‘No the fault is not solely with you. We are Sith, but we are more than Sith also. For the sake of doing what must be done I will endure this.’

Panopticus looked at his companion with a hint of admiration. The giant was the most brutal warrior he had ever encountered, and yet it was not his physical prowess that was his greatest strength but the force of his will. If pointed in the right direction Hastur had the potential to bring worlds to their knees, but if he could learn to harness his willpower the limits to what he could accomplish were too few to contemplate naming.

‘So,’ said Hastur a measure of his good humour returning, ‘I gather you came here for more than just to tell me off.’

The twi’lek nodded, and pulled a flashing datapad from beneath his cloaks. The glowing display light of the device filled the ship with a ghostly blue light as Panopticus held it out. Hastur took the datapad diligently and squinted at the tiny words. His expression changed from one of interest to one of surprise and at times one of deep amusement as he scrolled through the information that had been set before him.

‘You’ve been busy,’ he said with a note of approval, ‘If we can convince even half of these people to join our cause...’

‘One third,’ said Panopticus with a smile that seemed very out of place on his normally controlled features. ‘With just one third of the people on that list by our side we will be unstoppable.’

Hastur let the object in his hand tumble back into its case and quickly clicked the locks back in place. He turned back to his companion and stood before him offering the datapad back with one hand, while his other traced its way across his chin. Panopticus rose from his uncomfortable seat with a bit less obvious reluctance than he had hoped to portray, but in either case his audience was too deep in contemplation to notice.

‘This is really happening isn’t it?’ said Hastur, his thoughtful look replaced with one of hungry anticipation.

Darth Panopticus simply nodded, replacing the datapad within his cloak and gracefully descending from The Reticent End’s embarkation plank. Hastur paused for a moment as though allowing the gravity of the situation to sink in before following, his giant strides easily catching up with his companion’s gait.

‘There is one final thing,’ said Panopticus as they paused to let the automated doors open before them. ‘I have established myself as the voice of our organisation, but your role needs establishing also. I know we have spoken about this before but it needs to be made official. Have you come to a decision yet?’

Hastur smiled and nodded. ‘As a matter of fact I have.’


(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Re: Battlemaster: A tale of the Silent Council

TWO
1483 BTC
5136 BBY

The sky of Mnar was always red, stuck in a perpetual haze of blood; no more fitting a setting existed for an outer colony of the Sith Empire. Though it is generally believed the ancient Sith thrived upon barren worlds like this, taking the cruelty of the landscape and its merciless weather cycles as merely a challenge, the colony of Mnar had made little progress since its founding nearly two decades previous. There was only one major city, unimaginatively titled Red Rock City, after the derogative name the slaves had given it, by the man with the misfortune to carry the role of Imperial Governor. Likely he had believed his tenure would be short and that his considerable skills would be recognised as being more productive on a world that held more merit in the eyes of the Empire. Such was the vanity, or perhaps desperation of those who discovered their lot on Mnar.

When first the Red Rock had been discovered it had attracted much attention from those would-be pioneers who saw this as an opportunity to make their mark in the Empire. Initial reports had been positive, though the difficult terrain had been evident even then. Still, there was much interest in the challenge of being the first to tame the barren world. Such achievements carried with them a great deal of prestige and the possibility of being noticed. It came as little surprise then that the rights to the world were gifted to two individuals that were held in high regard for their enterprising nature: Bezhaad Sarnath and his wife Adastri. Both had reputations for efficiency and had even garnered favour with the venerable Marka Ragnos after a particularly successful banquet in his honour. Not to mention the fact that the Sarnath line had been known to produce powerful wielders of the force, a trait that Lord Ragnos had taken a particular interest in.

Sadly as was so often the case within the Empire the Sarnaths were met by jealousy from their peers, all of whom envied the prestigious position they had been given, and thus it was that forces sought to undermine their position right from the beginning. Wherever the Sarnaths trod turned to ash, every mine was empty, every farm grew desolate, the schemes of those they had trusted proving effective at crushing the reputation they had spent so long procuring. And thus it was, on the barren streets of their own colony world the Sarnaths died as beggars, leaving the world of Mnar to pass ownership to another, unwilling to take up the challenge of tapping the resources the world had to offer the colony became as static as the barren world around it.

But the line of Sarnath did not stop with Bezhaad and Adastri. For there had been a son, Azred, whose fate had been concealed from all who would see the line destroyed forever. Growing as an orphan on the streets of Red Rock, Azred had learnt how to survive by stealing what he needed to survive and defending himself from those as desperate as himself. At five he killed a boy, choking him to death with his bare hands. By ten he was feared by other scavengers, a terrifying beast that preyed on the greedy merchants and beat all who challenged him. He learnt the importance of comradeship, teaming up with other scavengers to attack shops and steal their goods, even taking money and weapons and plotting the next strike as soon as the first was in motion. Still, Azred found he preferred a solitary life, finding many of the scavengers to be untrustworthy and having to dodge the half-hearted attempts of the city guards to bring him to justice. A number of his followers had realised that if they gave information to the guards they could get coin and bread to eat, not much but enough to last them for an extra day or two.

It had amused Azred for a time to see the sloppy attempts of the guards to make use of that information, but the constant betrayals had left him bitter and paranoid. It came as little comfort to know that not long after leaving the guard offices the traitors would be pounced upon by other scavengers. They were all of them desperate, all of them starving, and all of them damned to live their lives with one eye over their shoulder and the other on the ones they dared to trust. It was not a life that Azred enjoyed, but it was all he believed he would ever know.

Now fourteen years old he stood a young man, tall for his age and powerfully built from the energetic life he had been forced to live. He was more akin to a giant than a man, though his plain ragged clothes left him inconspicuous amongst the growing crowds. Silver jewellery adorned his face, gripping tightly around his cheek tendrils. Jewellery was one of the small pleasures he found particularly endearing. They marked him as a man to be feared for he had killed many people to earn them and would kill many more to prove he deserved to wear them. They were a marker of his status and he wore them with great pride. Still, in this crowd of people his status counted for little. Hundreds of people, workers, Massassi and slaves from a dozen races jostled together in a disorganised throng.

‘Massassi,’ said Azred pulling the arm of one of the powerfully built warriors, ‘What’s happening?’

The Massassi turned to him, surprised at first at the size of the boy that had so rudely interrupted his concentration, although his face turned to one of shame when he noted Azred’s pureblood status. The Sith caste system was a confusing thing, with different subspecies existing solely to perform certain tasks. The Massassi were the warrior caste, and in spite of the fact that this Massassi had more standing in society than the scavenging street rat that stood before him he had been bred to obey his genetic betters, and that was a calling he could scarcely deny.

‘It is an uprising, little one,’ said the Massassi in the dialect of the warrior caste. ‘The workers are angry at the Governor.’

‘Why?’ asked Azred, ‘Why are they angry?’

‘I am unsure,’ grimaced the Massassi and Azred noted the sad look of incomprehension on the warrior’s face. Massassi were not bred to think but to act. The Governor of Mnar, one Phindrip Kratch was not of Sith blood himself but a mere human, and not even a practitioner of the dark side. This corruption of order had lead many Massassi to take their own lives out of confusion as to whom it was they were to follow and what it was they were to do. Azred pitied them, for they were little more than beasts.

He turned to look for someone else to ask, and then stopped as the Massassi touched his arm gently.

‘There is more,’ he said eagerly, ‘There is a diplomat, a Sith I believe. He meets the Governor and then the Governor says things and then the people are angry.’

‘A diplomat?’ asked Azred with interest. It had been quite a while since the Sith Empire deemed to recognise the existence of the colony let alone send a diplomat. This was big news indeed.

‘Yes,’ the Massassi replied, ‘He is the Governor’s Master I believe.’

A weight seemed to form in the pit of Azred’s stomach as the realisation of the identity of the man that was even now in talks with the Imperial Governor of Mnar.

‘Uoza Pahar,’ said Azred under his breath with barely contained venom.

The Massassi nodded in agreement. ‘That is the name I have heard many times today. Is it important?’

‘Very,’ said the young Sith, his yellow eyes blazing with a cocktail of emotions.

‘Why?’ asked the Massassi, curiosity overcoming his fear of reprisal for his insolence.

‘Uoza Pahar stole Mnar from its rightful owners,’ spat Azred with utmost loathing, ‘and then condemned them to a slow and painful death on the streets of their own world. Uoza Pahar killed my parents.’


(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Re: Battlemaster: A tale of the Silent Council

THREE

There is one thing to understand about the Sith, one important fact that every man and woman that faces one should know. Passion is the source from which the Sith draw power. From the stronger emotions; hate, rage, fear, sadness, even love can be turned to a Sith’s advantage, and so it was this strange cocktail of powerful emotions that burst within Azred’s body with the force of an orbital strike, awakening in him such power that he did not know he could achieve. His body shook, his skin tightened, and he felt as though he would rip himself to shreds as he stood away from the crowd, leaning against a building and waiting for the barrage of emotion to pass; but it didn’t.

Uoza Pahar, little more than a lickspittle, weak in every way except for one, had determined how to hit his parents where they had no defence. For that was Uoza Pahar’s only strength, where prowess both martial and spiritual had failed him Pahar had relied on scheming and treachery. By sabotaging the Sarnaths’ attempts to turn Mnar into a fully operational colony Pahar had betrayed the Empire. There was merit in replacing an opponent or rival and so long as you defeated them through ability or strength of will you had earned the honour to take from them what you wished. A man forwent his position when another man could take it from him. That was the way of the Sith, and it was just. But to betray the very tenets that held the Empire together in order to satisfy your greed? There was no honour in that.

Now he was here on Mnar once more. The slippery worm that had for so long eluded his grasp was finally within reach. Azred knew he had to do something, he knew that if he did not take this opportunity he would never be given another. By the end of the day, and by his hands alone, Uoza Pahar had to die. Only once the last breath of life left the traitor’s lips would Azred be free. This was the final objective, and if he died in the attempt so be it. He would have won vengeance for his family, and that would be enough.

As the pain subsided he noticed that the sun was high in the sky. It had been early morning when he had heard of Pahar’s arrival but now it was turning late. How long had he been standing there? He turned his attention to his hands, rested as they were upon the hard concrete of the building. Then he noticed something strange. Moving back from the wall he could see indents where his hands had rested as though the searing flame of his hatred had reached out from his body and melted the wall around him. Beneath his toes the normally pearlescent sand had blacked as though also touch by some terrible heat.

Azred held his hands in front of his face in shock and excitement. He clenched his fists tightly and felt the power surging through his muscular body. So it was true, he did have power. What he had heard about the Sarnath line and their connection to powerful Sith magicians had to be true. His parents had been strong in the force, but it had done them no good, stranded as they were on Mnar’s surface. Likely this was the reason Uoza Pahar had stayed away so long, the coward daring not to risk confronting the wrath of a true Sith Lord. Well, thought Azred, he shall face one soon enough.

The heat of emotion was replaced by a cool excitement. Azred had been waiting too long to let emotions ruin his chance at revenge. With the calmness that he had so often drawn upon to plot his many raids on the merchants he began to collect the information. Like an Imperial Inquisitor from a holovid he had once stolen he began to put together the clues. Governor Kratch was a much despised man, but never had the denizens of Red Rock City risen in such numbers against him. What could have caused it?

Then it came to him; the Trade Houses. Uoza Pahar had neglected his duties as Overlord for years and that had lead to a great deal of infighting between the Trade Houses who continually fought with one another for the planetary trade rights. It was pathetic really; the rights were all but worthless but stuck as they all were on the barren world there was nothing to do but wrestle for what little there was to control. So that explained the crowd at least, likely they were all sick of the bickering of the Trade Houses, hoping that the arrival of their long-absent Overlord would finally set things in motion.

The pureblood smiled to himself as a plan formed in his head. With determined steps he advanced on the crowd, pushing slaves and Massassi aside as he headed for its centre. The disruption in their silent ranks caused much confusion in the crowd and many of them turned to look at the street urchin that was so rudely pressing through the gathering.

‘Watch it, beggar,’ spat one human worker. Azred ignored him, though normally he would not have stood for such an insult he knew that this was only feeding into his plan. He was getting himself noticed.

By the time Azred reached the centre all eyes were on him. Two men in golden-patterned robes stood at the front of the crowd, surrounded by armoured Massassi warriors and mercenary guards. The men bore the symbols of the Trade Houses, one wore a golden moon brooch that showed him to be a representative of House Caprit, while the other wore the tuk’ata claw brooch of House Morgoul. They were both of them taking turns to speak to the crowd and in-between exchanging angry looks at each other.

‘This is the last time I will tell you,’ said the representative from House Caprit, ‘Standing around here will not speed up the Overlord’s conference with Governor Kratch. You should return to your homes and await your orders.’

The representative from House Morgoul bit his lip, holding back what he truly thought of House Caprit for the sake of keeping the peace. Azred could tell by their anxious expressions that neither of them really knew what was going on and that they were both terrified that the Overlord may have come to replace their Houses. Azred grinned; this was going to be easy.

‘So is it true then about House Caprit?’ yelled Azred.

The representative of House Caprit looked upon Azred with distaste then turned his attention away but his rival stared at the insolent speaker with growing interest.

‘It’s true that House Caprit has made a deal with the Overlord?’ yelled Azred, careful not to grin as he heard the voices in the crowd murmur in dissent.

‘We have made no such deal,’ said the representative from House Caprit, waving his hands to calm down the crowd. ‘Though it would not surprise me that the Overlord favours our House, we have not heard anything...’

‘Favours House Caprit?’ spat House Morgoul’s representative. ‘The Overlord would sooner favour a Hutt!’

‘A Hutt?’ the word came from somewhere in depths of the crowd. The representatives turned in the direction the voice had come from to see a Massassi warrior standing apart from the rest, a look of outrage on his face. ‘You dare bring a worm to command us?’

‘That’s not what I said,’ spoke the representative hurriedly, ‘what I was saying was...’

It was too late. The crowd was no longer listening, instead whispering amongst themselves rumours that grew quite elaborate by the time they met Azred’s ears. Apparently House Morgoul was bringing in a Hutt in order to defend against the Overlord’s decision to give the trade rights to House Caprit. Workers from the various Houses were now arguing with each other, insulting their opposing House whilst defending their own. It amused Azred how quickly the organised mass had devolved into squabbling amongst itself. There was only one thing left to do.

‘For House Morgoul!’ yelled Azred as he landed a blow directly into the chest of a nearby worker.

All at once the insults and name-calling devolved into an all out brawl, setting everyone against their neighbour regardless of race or status or even House. Chaos filled the streets as the representatives tried to make a break for it, leaving their guards to fend for themselves. Azred fought like a demon unleashed, clubbing anyone that came near with his powerful fists, letting his anger guide him as he worked his way through the melee in the direction of the Governor’s Palace. The crowd seemed to follow him as he did so, gaining in strength as more disgruntled workers joined the throng, and opportunistic scavengers began to attack those that were knocked down or stunned by the sudden outbreak of violence. Azred looked over his shoulder at the Massassi that had spoken out earlier; it was the same Massassi that had told him about the Overlord’s arrival, the same Massassi he had given explicit instructions to. He grinned and the proud warrior bowed its head, happy to have served.

Azred turned his attention back to the fight and narrowly missed a punch to the face. He growled in anger and scored a number of hits against his attackers chin, causing him to tumble to the ground where he was trampled by the hundreds of workers who were now making their way towards the gates of the palace. The young pureblood smiled with satisfaction as his makeshift army smashed its way through the loosely guarded gates and opened the way to the building beyond. Guards were rushing down from the building’s entrance to combat the mob but none of them seemed interested in the solitary urchin that slipped through their ranks and into the arched doorway behind them.

For a brief moment Azred smiled at the success of his plan, revelling in the powerful emotions he had unleashed upon the hapless city. He watched as workers pulled down guards and ripped them apart, smashing statues and ornaments and in some places even setting fire to nearby buildings. The fighting was not contained to the Governor’s Palace alone. From his vantage point he could see crowds congregating at other major buildings, advancing on the headquarters of the Trade Houses with menacing speed. There were screams and shouts and the sounds of looting from every direction.

Azred was so caught up in his accomplishment that for the briefest of moments he managed to forget just what it was he had been trying to do. Then he felt a sharp jab in his back and a jolt of pain raced through his body. He tumbled forward, hit his head on the floor, and sank into blackness.


(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Re: Battlemaster: A tale of the Silent Council

Welcome Lightbleeder, I am a Mod on here and I have joined the Silent Council so you can post anything you want here because it is good for everyone on here to learn about the timeline.

http://imageshack.us/a/img26/9664/newjestersigfinal.jpg

Re: Battlemaster: A tale of the Silent Council

FOUR
1439 BTC
5092 BBY

Darth Hastur winced in pain as he stroked the bump that was growing on his forehead. He grumbled to himself about the inefficiency of human structural architecture as he loped partially hunchbacked down the low ceilinged corridor. He realised with some surprise that he missed the temples of Ziost and the monstrous training halls of Korriban’s Sith Academy. They had both been built with pride and a desire to showcase the might of the Sith, and make those that were not of their kind feel small. The corridors of the human-built space station felt cramped and uncomfortable by comparison, making Hastur feel uneasy every time he felt a pipe or loose ceiling panel brush against him.

The Spike had actually never been intended for life in space, having been built as a prototype to attract buyers and then being converted for use when it became clear that there was precious little demand for a space station that catered exclusively to humans and those fortunate enough to be as short as them. In spite of this The Spike had become an important hub for traders within Sith space and something of a favoured haunt for the few human members of the Sith Academy.

Personally Hastur found the need for division unsettling. After all, they were all of them Sith, what did it matter if their skin colours were different or their body shapes did not perfectly align? In the dark side, in the one thing that truly mattered to all of them, they were the same. To deny that surely meant to deny all that could be gained from mutual co-operation. But denying oneself seemed to be a feature of the humans that lived within the Sith Empire, having refused the brides that Korriban and Ziost had so willingly offered them instead choosing to breed amongst themselves for all the good it did them.

The ground beneath Hastur’s feet shuddered violently. It had done this several times since they had arrived and had scored many bruises upon his form. He was thankful that his obsidian robes hid them from view for the embarrassment of their numerousness would have made holding back his frustration all the more difficult.

‘This place feels like it could break apart at any moment,’ grumbled Hastur sourly. ‘How can humans live like this? How is this thing not a cloud of space dust?’

‘Human ingenuity,’ said Darth Panopticus without turning, ‘It may not be much to look at but we do not seek the beautiful, we seek the sturdy and the dependable. This floating pile of junk may not seem either of those things but it has existed in space for longer than either of us has been alive.’

‘Still, could they not have built it a little bigger?’ said Hastur, ‘Or at least covered up some of the access panels to make it look like they’d finished the damned thing before shoving it into orbit.’

A wry smile appeared on Panopticus face, though it quickly disappeared as they neared a wide archway. It had been two years since they had made the pact that would change their lives and, with any luck the face of the galaxy, forever. That day they had declared their roles and though Panopticus’ had been initially surprised by Hastur’s choice, he had soon deemed it fitting. Now however they sought out those that would join them on their journey into legend. Only the best of the best would do, those that could be trusted, those that would learn to understand the merit of their actions. It was a dangerous quest, fraught with the perils that came with the treacherous path they walked, for if their plans were to be revealed they would each of them be seen as traitors.

Much to Hastur’s relief the wide doorway lead to a much larger room with a ceiling that grew in increments the further inside they got. In addition the room sloped downwards, with row upon row of seats filled with cheering and yelling humans all staring at something in the centre. It was like unto an arena, Hastur thought and in truth although it had not originally been designed as such the room had been converted into one many years before. Hastur could feel the elation and the excitement of the crowd as they watched two combatants trading sword blows on a raised platform in the centre of the room. The bloodlust was familiar to him and it filled him with a mixture of nostalgia and disgust.

Panopticus beckoned him towards an empty standing area and together they watched the fight. Both combatants were male and wielded archaic looking swords. These were no power weapons or lightsabers, just plain steel, clashing against each other with deadly force. One of the combatants, a thin wiry looking warrior was covered from head to toe in armour, while his opponent, a bulky human with an ugly scarred face wore merely a loose kilt, his exposed chest rippling with muscles that looked far from natural. As the armoured combatant dodged his opponent’s constant blows it was clear that the armour was weighing him down, at one point causing him to trip and fall clumsily aside. Hastur laughed with the crowd as the foolish looking fighter rolled out of the way just in time to miss a strike that would have sliced off his head.

‘This man is good,’ said Hastur pointing to the warrior as he riled the crowd with a savage cry. ‘I like him already.’

The wry smile returned to Panopticus’ face at this comment and he raised a finger to signal that the best was yet to come.

The shirtless warrior was now roaring angrily as his clumsy opponent fell away from his attacks. Clearly the warrior was growing tired of his adversary’s foolish nature, the veins on his body standing out as though ready to burst. He slammed his sword in every direction as though it were a club, relying solely on his brute strength. Like a rancor unleashed he charged, sword raised and ready for the death blow, a terrible primal roar echoing through the arena. And then the impossible happened.

Their swords clashed in mid air, the full strength of the warrior stopped by his armoured opponent holding his sword one-handed. The crowds stood and stared in shocked amazement and then horror as the armoured warrior allowed his sword to slide away from his attacker’s sword with all the grace of a master of arms. Suddenly the clumsiness was gone, replaced with an elegance the like of which Hastur had never seen. It was all his stunned opponent could do to watch the lightning fast movements of the armoured warrior as he flitted around the arena floor, kicked his opponent’s sword from his hand and held his own at the back of his neck.

The audience didn’t know whether to cheer or cry as the armoured warrior stood triumphant in the centre of the arena. A number of exasperated looking acolytes slammed their fists on the nearest solid objects. Clearly a lot of those that had been watching the fight had believed they were betting on a certainty.

‘Well that was a colossal waste of time,’ said Hastur, ‘We’d be better off recruiting the other guy.’

‘We are recruiting the “other guy”,’ said Panopticus with some amusement. ‘That is Darth Zues, the most renowned swordsman in the Empire.’

‘I have heard of him,’ said Hastur, ‘but that scrawny thing is not him. If he was he would show his face and revel in the glory that he has rightfully earned.’

‘Because it is not glory that Zues seeks,’ said the twi’lek, ‘It is not for his skills with a sword that I have sought him out, though those will certainly come in handy, it is for his lack of participation in politics, a fact that is as notorious as his skills with a blade. In the Empire a man like Zues is everybody’s foe because to have defeated Zues in combat would prove that you are stronger, better, and more of an asset. Men will go to great lengths to obtain victory even if that victory is not fairly bought. Darth Zues knows this, and that is why he will join us.’

This made sense to Hastur, as although treachery had its place, nefarious means could see a weaker man beat a stronger man and in so doing weaken all those around him. Darth Zues had played the weaker man and beaten his strong opponent, but he had done so with the grace and training that would have seen the man defeated from the start.

‘Do not tease me like that,’ said Hastur, realising how his preconceptions of strength had allowed him to be lead into believing the wrong man was the one they were there for. ‘I will not have you play me for a fool.’

‘I wasn’t,’ said Panopticus honestly, ‘I just wanted you to see what I saw. Now you know why Darth Zues is one of us, and why we need him.’

Hastur grunted in agreement. With grudging respect he realised he had learnt a lesson today. One he dearly wished he had learnt many years ago.


(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Re: Battlemaster: A tale of the Silent Council

Very nice and keep them coming.

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