Dead space, pockmarked with thousands of burning points. Distant stars, orbited by hundreds of thousands of resource-rich planets. And a population so unwise that they require proper authority. Commercial authority.
For everything in this life is a market.
Relationships between sentient beings are a market, with its own supply and demand. No one ever does anything for free. Every service one sentient being provides to another carries certain obligations. Provided, of course, you did not demand credits for your help.
You can always turn to your debtor and demand reciprocal assistance. And no one will ever refuse you.
"Captain," Wat Tambor addressed the sentient commanding the CIS forces in orbit of Ryloth in a booming voice. "Are you ready?"
Mar Tuuk, leaning back in the chair of his Lucrehulk-class flagship, allowed himself a smile. The head of the Techno Union had pulled him away from the reflections in which he had been immersed while awaiting the start of the Republican invasion.
"Our blockade is impenetrable," the captain said with pride. "When the Republic's troops attack, they will be surprised. And defeated."
"I am counting on you, Captain!" Wat Tambor said with a note of caution in his voice. "The Republicans must not be allowed to retake the planet!"
The head of the Techno Union, having terminated the holocommunication session, did not see the second smile on Mar Tuuk's face. Nor did he know the details of Tuuk's plan.
Tambor, in principle, was little interested in details. Successes were what mattered to him. And how they were achieved was information that could be neglected. Therefore, the trust in the captain, who had already repeatedly engaged Republican ships and emerged victorious, was great.
CIS intelligence informed its command in extreme detail about every upcoming counter-offensive on Ryloth. And, invariably, this data was accurate. This allowed for achieving maximum results with minimum damage.
Mar Tuuk was born on the planet Neimoidia. Like all the inhabitants of his world, he had been involved in working for the Trade Federation since early youth. An extraordinary mind and the ability to achieve results allowed him to quickly stand out among competitors. And now, while his rivals toiled over financial reports, he commanded fleets. And brought death to the Republican scum.
The enemy's plan was known to him in its entirety.
The clones' vigilance had been lulled by the seeming insignificance of the blockade fleet. And therefore, they had divided their forces into two detachments.
The first included three Venator-class ships. Under the command of Admiral Yularen and General Skywalker, they were to punch a hole in the blockade, thereby facilitating the landing of the ground assault force that, with a five-hour delay, was rushing to its death following its predecessors.
Well, to sober the Jedi's self-conceit, Mar had come up with something new and elegant.
He never disdained using others' developments — if they were useful in his work, then why not borrow them?
The destruction of General Grievous's armada had been a demonstrative action for the Separatists. And while others lamented, counting losses, he watched the recording of that battle. Again and again. Until the maneuvers used by the Jedi at that time were mastered by him. And the tactic of using reinforcements suddenly emerging from hyperspace had justified itself perfectly — two destroyed Jedi groupings in orbit of Ryloth out of two.
And now, the third was next.
Mar devoted much time to studying his opponents. And Skywalker and Yularen were no exceptions. The aggressiveness of the former's tactics and the caution of the latter were contradictions that were fatal when too small a force was under the command of two such commanders. Three destroyers, even if they were Venators, against his fleet… They didn't have a single chance.
Of course, one should not exclude the fact that Skywalker, the apprentice of Kenobi, who was known for his cunning and tricks, would come up with another stratagem. But the Neimoidian did not doubt that he would be able to see through it.
And as soon as Skywalker and Yularen were defeated, he, Mar Tuuk, would stand in the same rank as the illustrious generals and admirals of the CIS. Which, in turn, after the successful conclusion of the war, would open his way into the highest circles of power in the Trade Federation.
"Commander," a B1 droid appeared in his field of vision. "The Republican fleet has emerged from hyperspace."
"Excellent, Commander," a predatory smile spread across the Neimoidian's face. "Release the starfighters."
***
Admiral Trench could not help but smile when the tactical droid informed him of the Republican ships emerging from hyperspace.
"Simply wonderful," the Harch clicked. Glancing at the records on the datapad, he flashed his artificial eye — one of many. "And exactly as the spies reported."
Five Republican Venator-class Star Destroyers were reconfiguring into battle formation at a respectful distance from Geonosis's orbit. Outside the effective range of the Separatist fleet's shipboard guns. Furthermore, the distance separating the opposing ships was supposed to secure the Jedi fleet from a lightning-fast attack by CIS starfighters.
At least, that was what the Republic warriors themselves thought. However, in the few minutes since appearing in the system, they should have already realized that Trench was reliably aware of their invasion.
"Order the Vultures and Hyenas to begin the attack," examining the holographic terminal on which the positions of the ships in the system were displayed, the Admiral remained satisfied.
Unfortunately, the current realities of hyperspace jumps did not allow for predicting with precision at which exact point in the system the invasion ships would appear. However, knowing the date and time of the start of the Republic's attack, the suspected area could be saturated in advance with elements so dangerous for large ships.
On the one hand, his tactic was more than a gamble — to direct the majority of his starfighters to the zone of the Republican ships' suspected appearance. To cover the squadron remaining under his command, only six Munificent frigates remained, plus the flagship battleship, the Invincible.
A significant portion of the CIS fleet concentrated in the supersector was currently elsewhere. The combined armada — more than fifty ships of all modifications — would shortly strike at the remnants of Moff Ravik's fleet. As soon as this operation was completed, the entire territory of the Republic's 14th Sectoral Army would remain open for occupation.
Now, Trench faced a simple task — to eliminate the threat to the Confederacy's droid production unfolding on the planet beneath him. The brutal defeat at the very beginning of the war had practically removed the Geonosians from the ranks of the Separatist movement. But thanks to the efforts of the Harch himself, the planet was again in the hands of its rightful owners.
And the longer it remained so, the stronger the defeats suffered by the enemy would be.
The horde of vulture droids, having received targeting data, was closing in on the Republic ships at unimaginable speeds. Five Star Destroyers had, of course, already enveloped themselves in deflector fields. Но это их не спасет.
At a time when numerous nimble starfighters are circling your ship, no competent officer will risk raising the armor of their hangars to release starfighters. This opened many vulnerabilities — compared to the strength of the ships' outer hulls, the interiors have much less protection. The Trade Federation's experience from ten years ago demonstrated this in full. One accidental hit with a kinetic weapon would be enough to put a combat starship out of action until the end of the battle — at best. At worst, a chain of internal explosions would tear the carrier into hundreds of fragments. Thousands of casualties. A disaster for some, and success for him.
"The Republicans are launching their starfighters," the droid's report sounded.
"Marvelous," the Harch clicked in anticipation.
This meant the enemy commander was even stupider than he had thought.
To act in accordance with staff instructions in conditions where the enemy knows them thoroughly is pure suicide.
Republican naval circulars required carrier-commanding officers to immediately launch starfighters to counter the enemy's light forces. A truly sentient being would likely have come up with something appropriate for the situation.
But what can one expect from the meat droids the Republic uses everywhere? No matter how they are praised for initiative on the battlefield, compared to the brains of naturally born beings, they clearly didn't even measure up to an average commander.
This was what Trench's calculation was based on.
His tactics in the upcoming battle had several scenarios which, despite differences in particulars, had a single finale — the complete destruction of the Republican invasion force.
Had the position of the pre-launched CIS starfighters coincided with the Republicans' exit point from hyperspace, the battle would have ended almost before it began. Hundreds of bombers were instructed to immediately attack the enemy. Taking advantage of the fact that after materializing, starships are for a short period of time blinded and deprived of protection — neither scanners, nor deflectors, nor turbolaser weaponry worked in hyperspace. And for some time after exiting it. And if so, any even slightly concentrated fire on the target led to the inevitable destruction of the ship being fired upon. At best — to heavy damage. Although, after an attack by proton torpedoes, few large ships could continue their mission.
The second version of the attack was currently being put into effect. A multitude of starfighters and strike craft were now neutralizing the Republicans' artillery batteries, while bombers searched for and attacked the Venators' weak points. And the outstretched depths of the hangars were the best target. Not the most accessible, thanks to anti-aircraft artillery, but sufficiently vulnerable during a massive raid.
The Republic had done him a great favor by acting according to written rules. Soon, he would put a full stop to this foolish raid.
"One enemy ship destroyed," and again, the report that was music to his ears.
But everything was visible even without words.
Like a miniature prominence, the Separatist Admiral's first victim flared with a blinding flame, silently evaporating tons of armor and clone meat in the cold of the vacuum.
Everything went as well as possible. The Venator closest to the attacking starfighters received several proton torpedoes to its hull, which led to the destruction of vital systems. Excellent. For besides a valuable combat unit, the Republic had lost dozens of starfighters and thousands of specialists so valuable to them. A significant blow to the enemy's economy.
Following the first, the CIS's punishing sword would overtake the second.
As if in confirmation of his thoughts, the next ship in line met the fate of its predecessor. Half an hour after the first.
This was too easy. To be honest, Trench had expected that after the first failure, the Republic ships would begin to retreat, fighting off the encroaching starfighters with all available means. But it seemed the clones did not understand what tactical mastery meant.
And yet, the enemy was able to take advantage of the situation. By the time the Vultures reached their third victim, a swarm of escort fighters was already circling the Republic ships. A fierce battle erupted.
Because of the distance of several hundred million kilometers separating them, Trench could not observe what was happening on the spot with his own eyes. But at the same time, his flagship's tactical equipment displayed the icons of friendly and enemy ships circling in a deadly dance.
It must be admitted, the battle was now taking on a protracted and therefore unfavorable character. For all their flaws, the clone pilots, though outnumbered by the droids, acted extremely effectively.
Less than an hour had passed since the start of the engagement with the remaining ships, and a third of the launched air wing had already ceased to exist. Another third had exhausted its fuel and was about to return for rotation — as prescribed by the intelligence algorithm managing the Separatist ships. But if this were done, the clones would tear the remaining ones to pieces. And to finish off the survivors, it would be necessary to engage in a line battle, where the advantage in starfighters would most likely be on the enemy's side. Unless, of course, Trench sent the remaining starfighters providing cover for the Admiral's own ships.
"Let the droids remain on position," the Harch made his decision. "The task does not change."
"This will lead to high losses among the aviation," the tactician countered.
"But it will help us win," clicked the only living being in the cockpit.
The droids prudently remained silent.
Unlike General Grievous, the Harch did not like working with a living crew — many resources were required for their maintenance, and the former traders and entrepreneurs from the organizations making up the CIS themselves possessed neither discipline nor ultimate compliance. And although the droids annoyed the Admiral — especially after the operation he had undergone — he put up with the necessary evil.
After another two hours, a turning point finally arrived in the battle. The Republican pilots correctly assessed the threat originating from the bombers, so they paid special attention to their elimination. This was no quick task, but acting with a pedantry that any droid would envy, the clones did their duty. The number of proton torpedo carriers was dwindling before their eyes. And with them, the hopes of winning the battle with little blood.
"A third Republic ship is out of action," unlike the previous ones, this one, having taken many hits, remained intact. With one wing of the bridge in numerous punctures from which streams of atmosphere and tongues of flame escaped, it was slowly turning on its remaining engines, clearly intending to retreat. The two other ships, which had a more presentable appearance, were changing disposition, trying to position themselves on the sides of their stricken comrade and retreat in an organized fashion. Not today.
"The Invincible and frigates 45, 46, 47, 48 — pursuit," the Separatist commanded curtly. The remaining forces were sufficient to hold the position in orbit. And the Admiral himself must finish with the survivors. The more he killed and destroyed, the sooner Count Dooku's loyalty to the disgraced officer would return. One must not miss opportunities to inflict the greatest damage — after all, the situation on any front of the Republic was catastrophic. Consequently, the fewer combat-capable ships the Republic had, the weaker its defense would be in the near future. And that meant the CIS would have the opportunity to strike an even more painful blow.
The gleaming CIS ships rushed after the enemy, who had already noticed the change in disposition and was trying to accelerate.
One didn't need to be an advanced droid to understand that the Harch's ships would manage to overtake the destroyers before they could transition to lightspeed. And the long-range turbolasers of the Munificents would be able to hamstrung the remaining ships to deprive them of the possibility of flight. And as soon as the invasion vanguard was finished, Trench would deal with the expeditionary forces following in the second wave.
"Another enemy ship has emerged from hyperspace," the mechanical crew member's vocoder was starting to get annoying. Devoid of emotion, artificial, it quickly ate into the brain, making it tiresome every time it was heard.
"This is unusual," Trench frowned in puzzlement. "What class?"
"An Acclamator-class assault ship, Admiral," the tactical droid reminded. "Used by the Republic for delivering ground contingents."
"But the ships with the assault force were expected in several hours," the Admiral recalled. "Could they have decided to all perish together?"
Meanwhile, the ship that had arrived at the battle site almost immediately began maneuvering. This drew attention — evidently, there was a truly thinking officer on the bridge of this cruiser.
The Acclamator, taking advantage of the fact that the enemy starfighters were occupied with a more "tasty" target, was moving away from the boiling battle at maximum acceleration. Notably, it was in no hurry to launch starfighters, which in the current situation was the height of folly.
The Republic's first line ships did not possess suitable defensive weaponry but had a fair number of starfighters. And in conditions where enemy starfighters, continuing to carry out the order to eliminate the most dangerous destroyers, were not circling it, the Republican captain had time to launch his own small ships — and if not to help his comrades, then at least to secure himself.
"The enemy is acting irrationally," the tactician noted.
"It cannot be otherwise," the Harch smirked. His ships had already passed the Republican ships' arrival point, leaving the traces of the slaughter behind the stern. Now it was only necessary to reach the last ships. Their starfighters had retreated in disorder, having suffered monstrous losses at the hands of the Vultures. Well, the starfighters had fulfilled their task — even if not as they should have. It was time to take the survivors on board and deal with those retreating. The Munificents had already aimed their main bow guns — in some ten minutes, the first volleys of red coherent light would spill onto the stern sections of the Republic ships. And he, Admiral Trench, would achieve victory. So glorious that it would surpass all his past failures.
And in the next instant, he regretted his thoughts.
The battle picture changed abruptly.
The sensor display roared, indicating the arrival of additional Republic forces.
Five marks on the monitor testified to the arrival of Hammerheads — ships that had caused him not a little trouble in the 13th Sectoral Army's area of responsibility. Outwardly hopelessly obsolete, they proved every time that they still had no place in the backyard of junk-planets where such old junk is broken up for metal.
Exactly the same number of corvettes that had literally ground up Grievous's armada were also present. They were already launching dozens of strike missiles, testing the strength of his ships' hulls. And no fewer than five squadrons of starfighters were already circling in the vacuum, aimed at the CIS starships. A perfect calculation. While Trench is busy receiving the Vultures, fresh droids cannot rise from the decks. That meant he either had to abandon those already at the limit of their resources, or continue what he started and most likely leave the hangars open to strike. His own tactic, used against the creator himself. By the one who commands these damn ancient Hammerheads.
However, right now, these very ships turned out to be in the rear of his detachment. And they were already turning their archaic bow sections toward the nozzles of his ships to begin the beating.
A furious clicking came from the Harch's mouth.
He had been played! Again!
The Republic had sacrificed its most valuable ships to lure him from the planet's orbit and destroy him like a womp rat! What treachery! And from whom? From the Republicans!?
"Admiral," the tactician addressed him monotonically. "Our forces are inferior to the enemy's. I suggest fighting through to join with the rest of the fleet's ships."
"No!" He opened a communication channel with the droid commanders of the remaining ships with fury. "Immediately, everyone, join with my flagship! Ships, suspend wing rotation — launch the remaining starfighters!"
Meanwhile, another participant joined the unfolding battle.
The Acclamator that had arrived earlier was taking a position above the other cruisers. Its hull, in the shape of an ancient arrowhead, was aimed at Trench's flagship. And the Invincible's tactical equipment wailed, notifying of missiles aimed at it.
"I recommend countermeasures," the tactician burst out with advice. But everything was clear even without him.
Trench had heard of such a thing but had not encountered it personally. Acclamators modernized to carry strike missiles. The changes were extremely questionable, considering the low combat value of such a class of ships in a line battle. And in the case of a confrontation with Trench's dreadnought — also useless.
"Raise kinetic shields!" he ordered. And a slight shimmer around the bridge showed that the equipment was engaged.
Now, despite the giant energy expenditure and decreased sub-light speed, the flagship would remain intact under the pressure of the enemy ships.
The first series of missiles dissipated as local fiery flashes on the Invincible's shields without causing him the slightest harm. But at the same time, the continuous bombardment deprived Trench of the possibility of attacking the enemy himself — for that, he would have had to deprive himself of the only possibility of salvation. He had to endure the shelling, slowly but surely turning aside, breaking out into open space.
The trio of remaining Venators, seeing that hunter and prey had swapped places, ceased their flight and began a simultaneous turn, intending to join the slaughter of the Harch's detachment staged by the second wave of Republic ships.
There was no doubt that the situation that had arisen was the result of a carefully planned action. And yet, to sacrifice almost half of one's fleet to win… How unlike the Republicans.
"Incoming transmission from the Acclamator cruiser," B1 reported.
"Show it," the Harch threw out crossly.
In the same second, holographic figures appeared before him. One — a naval man with the insignia of an admiral. The second — also an officer, a commodore. Two others — Jedi. Obi-Wan Kenobi, General Grievous's headache. His comrade in the Order, not as well-known as the illustrious Kenobi, Dougan, Windu, and Skywalker. But nonetheless — a significant figure in this part of the Outer Rim.
"Jedi," the Harch clicked. "I should have guessed that such a cunning trap could only be devised by you."
"Mmm?" A shadow of surprise appeared on Kenobi's face. Which vanished almost immediately. "It does not matter who the author of this idea is." It did not escape Trench that the Admiral shook his head disapprovingly at these words.
"You are in a hopeless position," the Mirialan Jedi chimed into the conversation. "Surrender, and you will be spared."
The Harch moved his facial mandibles merrily. Naive idiots.
"And to what do I owe such a decision?" As if in justification of the Jedi's position, the tactical droid reported the destruction of two escort frigates.
Of course, the Separatist officer did not forget that the battle was still going on. Но «Щедрые» обладали достаточной защитой и вооружением, чтобы продержаться против «Венаторов». Not to mention these archaic vessels.
The battle of the "mosquito" forces was also developing not in the CIS's favor. The remnants of the air wing were perishing en masse under the pressure of the Republic starfighters. And in less than half an hour, the ships would be without cover. Small wonder the Jedi are confident of victory.
"As soon as we finish with your escort ships," Kenobi warned, "your flagship will not hold out long under the concentrated fire of our entire fleet."
"Hmm… we shall see about that," the Harch terminated the communication session and turned toward the tactical droid. "How soon until the Venators are in range of our guns?"
"Five seconds," the mechanical officer replied without hesitation.
In the Admiral's head, the pieces of the mosaic came together.
Undoubtedly, the Jedi were right — no defense would hold out under such prolonged shelling. But the situation itself was ambiguous.
Before the flagship, preventing the transition to hyperspeed, moved three destroyers. For his dreadnought and a pair of frigates — a more than tempting target. But at the same time, a threat hung over them in the form of a large squadron that was now striving to knock out his starships' engines in an attempt to board them. And finally, behind all the actors — the remnants of his squadron. With decks full of starfighters. But until their arrival — fortunately, the tactician had the sense to summon them immediately — about five minutes.
The Republican Hammerheads were engaged in a fierce fire exchange with a couple of Munificents. Both sides had already exchanged their first losses — one of the Jedi's heavy cruisers was going out of action, turning away from the frigates' heavy turbolasers. Its hull was pockmarked with charring from hits, and its superstructure was ablaze, obviously from a direct hit to the bridge. The other four cruisers and the enemy flagship also had battle marks, but there was no talk of their imminent withdrawal from action.
The enemy's corvettes and starfighters were already "finishing off" the remnants of Trench's aviation — at most, they would need ten to twenty minutes to tear apart the last five squadrons of Vultures. The Jedi are in a hurry — they also noticed that reinforcements for Trench would arrive before they could realize their majority. And as soon as that happened — the scales would tip to his side.
For the time until the aviation from the Venators' decks could join the slaughter. And after that — only the gods could guarantee the Harch's victory. A trap played like clockwork. The Jedi had taken considerable casualties and, by all appearances, were ready for more — just to deal with him. They would succeed, unless he mixed up all the cards in this game of sabacc.
"Order the remaining ships to close with the Republican Hammerhead fleet," with a flash of his artificial eye, Trench pronounced. "The Invincible must set a course for the enemy Venators. As soon as the fire on us slackens — we drop the kinetic shield and move on them."
"This will lead to the loss of our support frigates," the tactician noted. "With a 70 percent probability…"
"I know," the Harch clicked. "However, the Republic will suffer much more."
***
There is something nostalgic about it — watching yet another clan of younglings sit around Master Drallig and, open-mouthed, listen to his briefing. Olee barely restrained a smile, watching as one of the junior Jedi, a fair-haired boy, had been fighting sleep for half an hour now. Apparently, the youngling, like many others his age, had gone to sleep later than usual. And now, he was making the biggest mistake in the fencing master's lessons.
He was allowing himself not to listen to the mentor.
It seems that the Troll will not notice how you stealthily wink at a neighbor or discuss some nonsense in a whisper. But that is only an illusion intended to lull the restless one. Very soon he will have to understand through his own skin that lessons with this mentor should not be taken as something lighthearted.
Ah, and here is the sweet revenge.
It would seem Drallig performed this trick with every inattentive youngling in one of the first lessons. But every time, there were those who did not heed the warnings of their predecessors.
The boy did, after all, doze off. Relaxed, sitting in a meditation pose, he seemed not to hear the shushing from his comrades, his head hanging on his chest. Olee could swear she could hear his soft snoring even from the doors.
Naturally, the Troll could not fail to be aware of everything happening. Famous for his sophistication in training methods, the instructor only pretended not to notice such behavior. And when the boy finally fell asleep, the Jedi proceeded to what he often called a "practical lesson."
The mockery and taunts that the Troll used in his teaching sometimes went too far. Some younglings were silent for weeks after "lessons" like these. But in Olee's memory, not once did Drallig have conversations with anyone from the Council regarding his teaching methodology.
So, the victim had fallen asleep, and none of his comrades dared to interrupt the sleep, not wishing to experience the Master's wrath themselves. He, having taken his lightsaber from his belt, activated the blade and approached the boy so closely that one could have felt the heat emanating from the weapon — if any were emitted.
Two short movements with the blade — and the youngling's thick mop of light-brown hair underwent changes, turning into something like the infantry helmet used by the volunteers from Christophsis. This was done so masterfully that the future Jedi not only didn't wake up — he didn't even twitch an ear. Only after the lesson ends and the Master allows the comrades to wake the sleeper will he continue to startle for a long time, imagining how he could have been left without ears had the Force failed Drallig.
Olee felt goosebumps run down her back. About five years ago, she had been in this boy's place. Oh, how many tears she had shed, looking at her "haircut." Her once long, straight hair had been cut almost to the root — and over the years, as it grew out, it began to curl. At first this was annoying, and the girl diligently sought to straighten it. But once she held a strand too long in a "flat iron" — a device for straightening hair obtained in a completely illegal way through the Temple's staff. And for another year she went about growing out the entire left side, the hair on which had been scorched by the device. Thus, at ten years old, she understood that fighting nature is meaningless — since it happened this way, she should take care of the curls. Experiencing mockery again about the fact that part of her hair had become significantly shorter than the rest, she would not have been able to handle it if the misfortune were repeated.
"And choosing an opponent of the same age as you, what, does religion not allow it?" A familiar voice sounding from behind made her start with surprise. The girl took a step to the side and looked at the speaker.
Probably no one in this galaxy would make the teacher give up wearing exactly this type of armor. Despite the fact that the set had survived rather serious damage and every element had numerous scratches, chips, and scorch marks, Master Dougan continued to wear his ancient gray armor. And the invariable black cloak with silver trim.
Olee remembered with shame that as soon as the teacher reached the Halls of Healing, Master Windu, meeting her near Dougan's room, had uncompromisingly driven her to her room, telling her not to show herself again. And what's more, he forbade wearing armor while she was in the Temple. "Something you don't like? You know where the exit is. You can take your Master along as well." Such were the cruel, in her opinion, and angry words of the second person in the Order.
Without her teacher, the girl found herself left to her own devices. She could not defend the right to wear armor on her own — traditions forced her to unquestioningly obey the orders of Council members. Had the Master been conscious, he might have stood up for her. But he lay in a coma. And following the Master, Vokara Che had also forbidden her to loiter in her domain.
For a time, Ahsoka had brightened the girl's loneliness — her teacher had also been injured during the attack on the Chancellor. But he was recovering quickly. The girls, like ownerless banthas, passed the time together, talking in Olee's room during the day and arranging sparrings in the evenings. Well, soon enough this occupation also ceased — Skywalker was healed and together with his apprentice departed for the front.
Olee was again left alone. Aayla Secura, with whom she could have spent time, had also flown off somewhere. The Twi'lek had supported her greatly, informing her through an acquaintance healer about the teacher's condition. Но около недели назад, как раз в тот день, когда Доуган пришел в себя, Эйла отправилась на задание. And Olee still loitered aimlessly, unable to bypass the prohibitions on visiting the Master.
A bit of her time was occupied with restoring the teacher's armor. In the Order's workshops, Jedi craftsmen were found who, with the help of Force-forging, were able to fix the main defects — cracks and dents. But the armor was very, very far from a ceremonial appearance.
"Strange, I thought I left the armor in my room," the girl thought. Had the Master taken it from there? But how had he managed to get into her cell?
At the thought that the teacher had seen the mess there, and the scattered things — including those that decent girls never allow any outside man to see — she began to blush.
"Bah, if it isn't Master Dougan himself! Three times a survivor of death," the Troll said with mockery in his voice. "And what brings you here, esteemed Moff?"
In the last word, the Jedi put as much venom and sarcasm as he was capable of.
Olee clearly heard a quiet chuckle from under the mask — the only element of armor that had not been damaged.
"People were shooting," the answer seemed meaningless to the girl. But knowing her Master, she guessed that there was some elusive subtext here.
"Haven't you tired of bullying the juniors, Master Drallig?" The new cloak billowed slightly in time with the teacher's steps as he set a course straight for the group of students. "Or is old age taking its toll — and all the mind is enough for is showing off your 'coolness' to immature minds?"
Olee followed the Master as a silent shadow, but he, turning, pointed her to a bench. Well, this is getting interesting. The teacher is clearly up to something and wants her to stay out of the way.
Dougan had already clashed with Drallig once. Right here, in the training halls. And word of that sparring session still circulated among the younglings. They told each other that for the first time they had seen someone capable of contending on equal terms with the fencing master himself.
"And you, then, decided to restore the violated justice?" Cin smirked. "And is the platform worth the Hutt?"
Dougan ignored the barb aimed at him.
Instead, he crouched before the boy who had become the object of the Troll's mockery. The little one was already awake — someone had nudged him in the side under the cover of the bickering, and now he was feeling his head with horror in his eyes, covered with hair so short that in places one could touch the skin. Olee from her place saw tears welling in the boy's eyes — while the remaining younglings were quietly laughing and pointing fingers at him.
"How are you, kid?" Dougan inquired of the boy. He sniffled, continuing to look at his feet. Oh, the first sign that he would soon burst into tears. Which would provide even more fun for his friends.
"Hey," the teacher gently raised the little one's chin so that he looked him straight in the face. "There's nothing to be ashamed of here. This," he stroked the boy's head. "Are your battle scars. Which you received in a battle with a more experienced and cunning opponent."
"Oh, you're the specialist on unequal fights among us," Drallig snorted. Several sycophants in the group immediately started smiling. Well, that's understandable. In every collective there will be bastards who sing the instructor's tune. Only these hadn't understood yet that Drallig didn't care about their fawning. He was equally harsh with everyone.
"Shut your mouth," turning his head slightly to the teacher, Dougan threw out. A deathly silence hung in the room. Such an attitude toward a mentor is not just unacceptable. It is almost an insult.
But Dougan seemed not to notice how the fencing master's face began to flush. He was busy with the boy, for some unknown reason showing him a tenderness never seen before. Taking him by the hand, the teacher escorted the boy to the bench where Olee was sitting.
"I have something for you, Sors," Dougan hid his hand behind his back for a moment, then extended it before the boy's face. In the open palm lay a small transparent container. And inside it…
"How beautiful," the boy exhaled. Olee could not disagree. Indeed — the crystal amazed with its rich dark-blue color and the sharpness of the facets with which it seemed possible to cut durasteel. The new toy so captivated the youngling that he had already forgotten that quite recently he had been an object of mockery.
The rest of the children, however, like a flock of birds attracted by the play of colors, immediately crowded around their comrade, watching the object spellbound.
"This is a Hurrikaine crystal," Dougan explained the silent question hanging in the air. "Otherwise it is called 'Windu's Guile.' In the past, the Master received the same as merit for helping a suffering people. And I tell you, guys, after Youngling Bandeam assembles his first lightsaber and inserts the crystal into it, there will not be a sentient being in the entire galaxy capable of withstanding his onslaught. And it is yours, Youngling Bandeam. My gift to you for courage. Few will dare to fall asleep in the Troll's lessons."
The little ones buzzed enthusiastically, discussing the Master's grand gesture. Drallig himself only gave a pompous snort. Filled with sarcasm, he possessed one remarkable quality — he was completely unbothered by the opinion of those around him about his person.
But for the boy, the gift was truly significant. The youngling, who had the honor of holding such a treasure in his hands, stood before the armored Jedi, blinking silently. He would undoubtedly become the hero of all nightly gatherings for the next few months in the clans near his bedroom.
Since ancient times, younglings had obtained the crystals for their lightsabers on their own, during the traditional journey to Ilum. Olee had already had occasion to accompany such a procession, and from her own childhood she remembered how difficult and responsible that path was. And sometimes dangerous.
The tradition had entered the lives of the Temple's inhabitants so firmly that few could boast of a rare crystal in their saber — only during a long life path could a Jedi obtain a new crystal. Until then, everyone made do with what they found on Ilum.
Studying the Archives, Olee knew that there are almost a thousand types of crystals or objects in the galaxy that can be used in lightsabers. But obtaining them was becoming more difficult every year. And to find a special crystal in the caves of the ice planet… It would be much easier to fight a rancor with bare hands and win.
The teacher had presented the boy with a real gift. This would not only raise his own self-esteem and authority in the eyes of his peers but would also allow him in the future to create a lightsaber much different from those of other Jedi.
And what was most beautiful — this did not contradict the traditions of the Order, according to which Jedi should not have property. A crystal is a gift, and that meant no self-respecting member of the Order would dare to take it from a junior. But playing with it in lessons would also not be allowed. The crystal would await its time in the nightstand next to the youngling's bed. Probably another ten years — the little one was that small.
"So, you didn't have crystals for all the younglings?" The Troll's bitter irony was like a whip cracking in the air. Still standing in the center of the hall, the fencing master passed the time tossing the hilt of his lightsaber in his palm.
Olee understood through some sixth sense that the Jedi's behavior was of a specific, provocative nature. He clearly intended to needle Dougan, and judging by the way the Master's knuckles cracked, he had succeeded.
Dougan did not look back. There was no need. And it wasn't even that the air already held the vibes of an upcoming duel. Not a deadly one, of course. But Olee, as a person who had spent so much time with the teacher side by side, could perfectly understand that now he was inevitable. Like death itself.
The Great Force gathered in her teacher and around him like the suddenly clenched fists of a frightened person. The aura of tranquility that always reigned around him trembled like the surface of a puddle into which a stone has been thrown.
"Do you truly want this, Drallig?" The teacher turned his face to the Jedi, simultaneously making a gesture to Olee so she wouldn't allow the little ones to be in the danger zone. Which, perhaps, would prove more significant than the limits of this hall.
The girl, hurrying the onlookers, unceremoniously pushed every single youngling out the door, prudently standing before them. This way she could simultaneously watch the duel and catch by the scruff of the neck anyone who dared approach.
"And what, are you afraid I'll poke your nose into the floor?" Drallig laughed. "You can then immediately give me your lightsaber and go to the Padawan class. I'll certainly tell you how you should fight so you don't have to lie in the Halls of Healing afterward."
"What advice can someone give me who doesn't even stick his nose outside the Temple?" Dougan countered. He slowly approached the opponent, holding his lightsaber in his right hand. Olee hadn't even noticed when he had managed to activate it. Но золотистый клинок напряженно гудел, словно жаждал боя.
"Oh, there's still much you don't know," a nasty smirk appeared on the long-haired Jedi's face. He stood in a defensive stance, greeting his sparring partner with a typical Makashi gesture.
"Since our last meeting, Troll, my powers have grown," Rick noted. And Olee could confirm it. She didn't doubt Master Drallig's skills, but what she had seen in the Master's training… In general, only the need to maintain the image of a sedate student prevented her from taking part in the younglings' dispute over who would kick whose ass in this fight.
"Amusing," the younglings' mentor snorted. "The higher you stick your nose, the more painful it is to fall."
Olee watched with bated breath as her teacher raised his weapon horizontally to the floor at shoulder level.
Now the Master had no problems left.
***
Like all genuine farces, the upcoming spectacle would develop according to the laws of ruthless logic, and those were based on the absurd assumption that Dougan could defeat the fencing master. What a pity his old friend Mace Windu could not be present; Cin did not doubt that the Master from Haruun Kal would have appreciated the performance. Especially this foolish imitation of Vaapad that his opponent was demonstrating.
Drallig always preferred an understanding audience. And a group of younglings was as good a fit for a lesson to an upstart Jedi as could be.
The Jedi in armor stood facing him, and his blade was ready for battle; the tall, haughty youth froze in anticipation: so motionless that it seemed he was about to tremble from tension. A pathetic sight. It was insulting to call the boy a Jedi.
It was doubly a pity that he wouldn't be able to see the expression on the face of the defeated opponent.
The instructor felt a melancholic satisfaction — a pleasing awareness of his own greatness — at the thought that Dougan would thus never understand how much thought and strength, how much toil he had put in for the sake of this battle. Which would become the sunset of the "Moff's" career as an unsurpassed duelist.
But such is life. A sacrifice is always required on the altar of good.
After all, a war is going on. And the person before him is just one of many soldiers baselessly believing in their superiority. Such people should be taken down a peg. In a battle of experience and accidental victories, the former ALWAYS wins.
Drallig called upon the Force, gathering it, wrapping himself in it as if in a cloak. He breathed it in, passed it through his heart until the Galaxy began to rotate around him.
Until he became the axis of the universe.
Here it was — the real power of the Force, a power whose existence he had suspected since childhood, sought all his long life, until the Jedi showed him the truth. It made him the center.
The Jedi saturated himself with energy until the Great Force existed only to serve his goal. An approach somewhat different from what the Order preached, but in the end, every Jedi uses Force resources in their own way.
Now the unfolding picture changed slightly, although to an outsider's eye there was nothing to change there. Perception enhanced by the Light Side gave a different picture.
Drallig was a glowing transparent being, a window opened onto a sun-drenched meadow of the Great Force. The only beacon among those present.
Naturally, there was also Dougan: but — outside the Force. He showed nothing. He seemed like a flat horizon. Absolute, ideal nothingness was hidden under an ordinary, unremarkable appearance. A black hole in the Great Force.
Well, he had heard of this peculiarity of his opponent — hiding himself. But now, when the Jedi's figures were visible to everyone in this room, there was no need to search for the rival. One just had to open one's eyes.
Well, all right. Time to play a little comedy.
"Aren't you afraid to embarrass yourself before your student?"
Dougan held his blade with both hands. And slowly paced around the invisible center of the battlefield, mirroring Drallig's own actions.
"Don't count on leniency."
"Leniency? From you? I beg you," Cin smiled affectionately. Did he think I was playing out this spectacle only to lose? But I have more interesting thoughts on what better to spend a life on. And it is not the intention to babysit a pompous upstart. "You will lose before one of the younglings' stomachs rumbles."
Dougan stepped toward him with a slow, hypnotic grace, as if sliding on an invisible repulsor plate.
"Why is it so hard for me to believe that?"
Drallig, as in a mirror, repeated the opponent's movement.
"Oh, by the way! How is your Padawan feeling? Have you broken the Code yet?"
"Don't…"
The black hole that was Dougan boiled with unexpected power. Impressive, perhaps, for someone among the less experienced fencers.
"Don't you dare speak her name. There is only you and I here."
The Master waved it off. It was so tiresome to deal with this guy's personal affairs; in the Temple only the lazy didn't whisper about how the girl followed him like an animal on a leash. However, as did older ladies. Kit Fisto was a witness to that.
"I bear her no ill intent, foolish boy. But she is always a vulnerable spot for you."
"It's naive to think you know me and my apprentice."
"On the contrary, I know enough. Both about you and about those like you. Believe me," he added a bit more quietly. "In a couple of years, when she blooms like a flower, you will already cease to be just a teacher to her."
"Do you look at the 'naughty' section of the HoloNet often? What kind of perverted thoughts are those?"
Cin felt a great temptation to wink at the girl standing in the doorway, but, of course, did not give in to the impulse.
"We shall see."
"Are you sure you'll live to that moment?" There was confidence in the Jedi's question. For a minute, Cin was ready to swear that his opponent had as if looked into the future. "There is an opinion that the end of your fate will be sooner than you expect. Well, and now I'll work you over so that you'll think ahead whether it's worth continuing to talk such nonsense."
Drallig raised an eyebrow questioningly.
"Unless you happen to have Teacher Yoda sitting in your pocket, I don't think you'll succeed."
The air crackled from the Great Force, as if oversaturated with electricity, and Cin determined that the time had come.
***
Dougan simply did not stay in place. He could wait no longer.
He jumped, rotating around an invisible axis, extending the blade before him.
But when he landed, intending to give battle, the instructor was no longer there.
He raised his head too late — only to notice the sole of a boot sewn from rancor leather. Drallig slammed a heel into his head, and the opponent collapsed to his knees.
Drallig attempted to deliver a downward strike, intending to leave a long "scar" on the chest plate. But almost immediately he encountered a block. Which led to a small firework: the crossed sabers threw out sparks. Drallig could not break through the defense, but Dougan could not effectively counterattack either. A stalemate.
Which resolved instantly.
Like a rising whirlwind, the Jedi in armor spun around himself again, forcing Drallig to retreat a fair distance. And as soon as he did, the opponent was already on his feet.
They exchanged an endless series of feints, lightning-fast lunges and strikes; the saber's tip traced eights at the Jedi's very heart. But Drallig's actions could create no more than simple danger — Dougan blocked every breakthrough in his defense, not allowing a decisive thrust.
Cin parried the hail of strikes falling from Rick's saber without straining himself in the slightest. Standard Niman sequences — simple as two credits, uncomplicated, easily read. Last time he had shown much more worthwhile fencing. However, this might be a consequence of the recent wound — the opponent had not fully recovered. Well, the calculation was exactly on that.
Unexpectedly, the instructor felt that the seeming ease of the battle was no more than a fiction. This was exactly what saved him from an unexpectedly agile Ataru-style counter-strike that the opponent produced.
"Oho," he said with a short laugh. The boy does have some strength after all.
Distance had to be broken to assess the situation. He came out of a roll, standing on his feet right before the youth, who immediately rushed headlong into an attack. Drallig nimbly stepped aside and directed the saber toward the youth's legs, but the golden blade parried the strike.
"Truly a pathetic sight," Drallig said. And now, this was not mockery — he had truly expected more.
Oh yes, he is very energetic: jumping and spinning, showering strikes almost at random. And the instructor meanwhile, in his gracefully sequential style, continued to overcome the opponent. He could barely refrain from bursting into laughter.
All that was needed was to respond to his tactics — incredibly, depressingly straightforward. He relies on speed, rushing here and there like a foolish bat, always trying to perform the Jedi version of a "surround the center" attack as if not knowing that this maneuver is only implemented with numerical superiority. And parrying the attacks, he attacks in the measured rhythm of Niman, steadily, like a clumsy droid, step by step, cutting corners, clumsy but adamant in his attempts to force the opponent to move faster than required.
Drallig needed only to glide from side to side and sometimes do a somersault to fight each of the techniques in turn instead of opposing the entire strategy as a whole. Likely, in a fight with his own kind, Dougan's actions would have been effective enough; it was also clear that he was demonstrating a style developed in team battles — him and his Padawan against a large number of opponents. He is not ready to fight alone against a single being using the Force, and with Drallig's capabilities besides. The latter, on the contrary, had always fought alone. It was ridiculously easy to force arrogant Jedi to make mistakes. The very ones he would subsequently analyze with his charges.
Whatever they say — Dougan's victories are an accident. There is no logic in his tactics capable of leading to victory.
He didn't even suspect how finely Drallig was controlling the unfolding battle. He had learned nothing since they last met. Just a couple of tricks to intimidate unprepared opponents. Weak indeed. It wasn't even worth the time spent.
A kick to the stomach threw Drallig several meters back. Oh, something new.
"Your movements are too sluggish, Moff. Too predictable. You'll have to try harder."
In response to these friendly words, a spark of slight amazement flared in Dougan's aura.
"Well then," the Jedi said and jumped over the opponent's head so rapidly that it seemed he had vanished. Well, what a foolish boy!
Cin parried the clumsy lunge with ease, forcing the opponent to break distance. He hurried to take the opportunity to move away…
Such a furious onslaught Cin might have expected from Windu or Yoda, but from yesterday's Padawan!?
Meanwhile, the battle had fundamentally changed its course.
Now Dougan had seized the initiative.
Only by desperately spinning aside did Drallig avoid a smoking hole appearing in his chest; the saber scorched a line where he had just stood.
What?!
Drallig jumped up and away from the Jedi, landing at the opposite end of the training room, stepping out of the fight for an instant. The strike had come too close. But by the time his feet touched the floor surface, the Jedi in armor caught up, leading the saber in a defensive maneuver, spinning it so fast that Cin didn't even risk delivering a strike. He made a feigned lunge at Rick's face, dropped to the floor in a leg sweep... But the opponent jumped over with ease and almost cut off a leg with a virtuoso feint.
This was not in the plan.
Dougan delivered the next strike with such force that the shock of the blades' collision passed through Drallig's arms in a wave. He scrambled to his feet — and a golden blade rushed at his neck. Only by performing a desperate spinning strike and block, kicking the opponent in the thigh from a turn, could Drallig gain enough time to jump back again. And when he landed…
Dougan was already there.
The instructor parried the first strike of his blade from above instinctively. The second strike bent the Jedi's wrist. The third flash of golden flame lowered Drallig's weapon so low that his own lightsaber scorched his shoulder, and the man had to retreat.
The instructor went pale. How could such a thing have happened?
Dougan was advancing, inhumanly adamant, incredibly powerful, a destroyer droid with a lightsaber: every step — a strike, every strike — a step. Drallig backed away as fast as possible; Dougan didn't fall behind. The instructor's breathing became shallow and heavy. He no longer tried to block the Jedi's strikes, only deflected them. It was not for him to measure strength with the young Master: the youth possessed immense physical strength. And undoubtedly his skills in wielding the Great Force were much higher than assumed.
And only then did Drallig understand that he had been played like a sucker. Dougan's stance from the Vaapad arsenal was not a ruse at all, just as the Ataru gymnastic exercises weren't. The youth had truly grown qualitatively since the previous sparring session. And the style chosen as if in mockery — Makashi — simply did not possess enough kinetic power to withstand the school of that set of skills that the opponent had skillfully woven into his Niman.
Yes, no matter what Dougan tried to strike the fencing master with, the basis for his undoubtedly interesting and effective style was still the Sixth Form.
It was time to change tactics.
Drallig crouched again, performing a leg sweep — Niman's weak point had always been insufficient mobility — the strike was strong enough to throw the opponent off balance, giving the Jedi teacher himself the opportunity to jump away…
And again find himself before the glowing golden circle traced by Dougan's saber.
Drallig decided that the comedy was over.
It was time to show real mastery.
Master Drallig mastered all six known forms of lightsaber combat. He had fenced hundreds of times with the strongest fighters of every style and knew perfectly all the strengths and weaknesses of all forms.
He performed a series of lightning-fast lunges at Dougan's legs to force the Jedi Master to do a somersault and gain an opportunity to scorch his mantle on the back from kidneys to shoulder blades — a clear victory... and this image, this plan stood so clearly before Cin's eyes that he almost let the real pattern of the battle slip from his attention: Dougan parried the strikes almost without shifting his feet and without losing perfect balance. His saber never moved even a millimeter more than necessary, parrying the lunges without the slightest effort, delivering lightning-fast strikes and thrusts faster than the tongue of a Garollian ghost viper.
And when Drallig felt that the opponent was increasing his pressure with every second, forcing him more and more into the defensive Soresu style, he finally understood where that blinding defense used by Dougan a minute ago had come from, and only then, belatedly, did he understand that Dougan's new style was something new, never before seen by himself.
The Jedi Master parried attacks, counterattacked, used strength and acrobatics without effort or strain, disrupting the planned concept of the battle exactly when required to be stronger than the rival.
This was no longer Niman. Yes, the basis partially remained the same — it was visible to an experienced eye — but now the style contained the powerful strikes of Djem So, the lightning-fast feints of Ataru, the insurmountable defense of Soresu, the elegance of Makashi. And what was most incredible — the controlled fury of Vaapad.
It seemed Dougan had absorbed into his style all the balanced qualities from other fencing schools. Careful selection — virtues without the flaws. Although no. The flaws, naturally, were present — it was them he had shown at the very beginning, striving to confuse the opponent. Not without success, of course.
Drallig suddenly felt a sudden, unexpected, overwhelming, and absolutely depressingly bad premonition…
The farce he was playing had unexpectedly, inexplicably turned from amusing into deadly serious and was very quickly becoming terrifying. Understanding bloomed in the Jedi's mind like the fiery flowers of dying ships: the fool-Jedi had become absolutely and utterly dangerous.
There is a possibility that this clown, as unimaginable as it was, could defeat him.
The gleaming golden lightsaber spun and hissed, and every slashing strike was like the unstoppable fall of a meteor. The instructor had to wastefully use the Force reserves available to him just to meet these attacks without being cut to pieces, while Dougan…
Dougan only became stronger.
With every new feint, lunge, counterattack, he gained power that many times exceeded everything Drallig had seen before.
Every defense cost him more strength than planned; every block, it seemed, aged him by a decade. And he decided to change strategy again. He stopped even trying to attack. The exhaustion of the Force clouded his senses, like a weight pulling his consciousness to his physical essence, locking his consciousness inside his own skull. Now he could barely feel the outlines of the room: with difficulty he felt the doorway behind him, the younglings standing in the passage. He retreated to them, using the advantage of one who retreats, which led many of the opponent's feints to failure, but the Jedi Master continued to attack, tirelessly, mercilessly.
The golden blade was literally everywhere, gleaming, spinning faster and faster, and soon Drallig saw the room through a blurred electrified radiance. In addition to everything, the fury of Vaapad, which Dougan used only to break through the opponent's strongest defense, returned to the scene.
Drallig decided that in such extreme circumstances he was permitted to cheat.
He had time to think of nothing more, because when his attention returned to the young Jedi, the sole of a boot was looming in his field of vision, approaching his face at high speed.
The collision was like an explosion of white fire, then his back hit the permacrete wall painfully, the room turned upside down, and he fell onto the ceiling. Naturally, it only seemed that way to him — Drallig rolled sideways and moved out of the line of attack with a roll.
Rising to his full height, he felt that his arms and legs had completely ceased to obey. The Great Force, it seemed, had left him, flowed away. All this was so humiliating!
He barely managed to gather enough of the Light Side to avoid a fatal collision. The Force picked him up like a caring nanny and helped him move away from another gale of strikes with a lunge. He brushed himself off, looked contemptuously at Dougan, who was looking at him from the direction of the entrance to the hall.
And Drallig could not withstand that gaze; now they had swapped places, and it worried him greatly.
In this was felt some alarming predestination.
He tried not to think about it, called to mind a certain knowledge of his own indestructibility to open himself access to the Force. Energy flowed into him, and the weight of years, the heaviness of the battle vanished.
Tense muscles received a rush of energy, and for an instant, the Master felt ready to continue the battle further.
Raising his saber, he beckoned Dougan with a gesture.
"I hope you aren't tired, boy?" he inquired with a smirk.
"Fresh as the morning dew," the warrior in armor smirked.
The young Jedi rose into the air with a powerful jump. And while the youth was flying down, Drallig felt a new vortex in the Force flows between them and finally understood.
Understood how Dougan managed to become stronger. Why he was no longer talking. How he had become a combat machine. Understood why Mace Windu had been interested in him for so long.
Dougan was born to use the Force.
His heart is like a thermonuclear furnace whose heat breaks through all the barriers of Jedi discipline. He holds the Force in a white-hot fist. He commands it, balancing on the edge of Light and Darkness, drawing energy from both its sides.
That very borderline and infinitely dangerous state that Windu had described, developing his own style from snippets of records in the Archive. But after all, Vaapad had a predecessor. One which the Jedi had not managed to recover from the chronicles of the past.
Exactly because no even slightly complete description of this school of combat existed, Drallig did not know of it. And by all appearances, he was now opposing one who had dared to take Mace's path, to use his internal darkness.
This youth has the gift of fury. Forbidden for any Jedi.
And even now he restrains himself; even now, having landed next to Drallig, directing a frenzied cascade of strikes at him, further forcing the Jedi to retreat step by step, he holds the fury behind walls built by will — walls that cement an uncontrollable horror.
Horror of himself, the instructor understood. Horror of what might happen if he allows this furnace replacing his heart to reach critical temperature. Cin slipped away from a strike coming from above and jumped back.
"I feel great fear in you. It has consumed you. Some 'Fearless Hero' indeed. You are a pretender, Dougan. You are just a suckling child striking a pose."
He pointed the saber at the young Jedi as if accusing.
"Have you not yet grown out of the age when one is afraid of oneself?"
Dougan rushed into the attack again, but this time Drallig parried with ease. They froze almost point-blank to each other, blades flickering so fast that one could not follow, but the opponent had lost his advantage: a single aimed taunt proved enough for his attention to shift from the battle against the Master to the struggle with his own emotions. The more anger flared in him, the more he feared, and fear, in turn, fed the anger. Like the Corellian centipede from the proverb that began to think about what it was doing and could no longer walk.
The fencing master allowed himself to relax; a playful mood descended upon him again as he and Dougan spun in a deadly dance. However the fun might end, one should enjoy it while one can.
For one short decisive moment he and Dougan froze, blades crossed, enemies looking into each other's faces through a hissing energy cross, and in this moment Drallig realized he was asking himself in bewilderment whether his opponent had lost his mind?
The Code teaches: "There is no emotion — there is peace." It took Mace long years to learn to keep his internal darkness under control. And the boy? What can he do compared to the illustrious Master?
At some point, using a feint, Drallig was able to land a kick to the opponent's face mask. Simultaneously, a powerful, furious strike to the hand holding the lightsaber.
A short and furious attack intended to put an end to the prolonged confrontation.
Tossing the hilt of the opponent's lightsaber in his palm, Drallig, carefully hiding his rapid breathing and deathly exhaustion, pulled a victorious smile onto his face.
"A lightsaber is a Jedi's weapon. His defense and support," he pronounced instructively, looking toward the students. An effective move — to pay no attention to the defeated opponent. It humbles and makes one feel crushed. Paying no attention to the opponent, he slowly walked past him toward the younglings. "Having lost your saber in battle, you will inevitably perish."
The sound of an activated lightsaber behind his back forced Drallig to look with bewilderment at the opponent he had considered finally broken.
Meanwhile, Dougan, holding with both hands a lightsaber identical to the one in Drallig's hands, stood in the same stance with which their battle had begun.
"That is exactly why I always carry another one with me," the opponent said with a smirk, his whole appearance inviting a continuation.