Bolla had assumed his opponent would begin the battle in the aggressive, insistent style characteristic of Dark Side adepts, striving to overwhelm the Jedi Master with a hail of strikes. But the Sarkai girl was able to surprise him.
"Believe me," she said quietly. "I do not wish to kill you. Simply give me the crystal and you will be able to live."
"Never." The Rodian ignited his own blue blade, preparing to bring the full might of his Makashi down upon the adversary.
He cursed himself for failing to sense the opponent's approach.
Especially after Count Dooku's monster had attacked the outpost and destroyed everyone there. Ropal recalled that episode with pain.
The fortification had only just been erected; the Rodian himself and his apprentice had gone to negotiate with the local government when droids led by Savage Opress struck their deadly and horrific blow. Only a commando group had later managed to take the bodies of the fallen Jedi back to Coruscant. To retake the outpost occupied by the droids, many lives had had to be laid down. But stability had been brought to the region. Until now.
Today he was to conduct preliminary negotiations with the responsible officials of Devaron regarding the construction of a dam. While the soldiers were not occupied with conducting war—and the latter, thank the Force, had bypassed the planet—they needed to be occupied with something. In the Jedi's opinion, the construction of a dam was a sufficiently labor-intensive task that would not allow the clones to indulge in idleness.
The gunship on which he and his Padawan were to fly was now smoldering somewhere at the foot of a cliff, having exploded just as the Rodian approached it. A pity about little Xebec—his Zabrak Padawan. The shockwave had slammed him into the monolith of the mountain ridge where their temporary housing was located. Neither he nor the gunship's crew had been able to survive. The apprentice's head looked at the unfolding battle with extinguished eyes, twisted at an unnatural angle. Well, and the clones… a pity about those boys as well.
The Sarkai cut off his path of escape, forcing the Jedi to retreat to the landing platform. Ropal did not entertain the illusion that this was some mercenary before him—the adversary held the hilt of her blade far too professionally. A curious fact was that both blades were yellow, not red like those of Dooku's usual servants.
Makashi's elegance encountered the impenetrable defense of two blades. The Rodian had to retreat to avoid falling under a hail of murderously fast lunges from the opponent.
Even a brief clash was enough for him to understand—in this battle he would have to work hard to avoid death. To survive to report to the Council the appearance of a new Dark follower under Count Dooku.
The thought did not even enter the Rodian's head that someone else might be hunting for the kyber crystal.
The Sarkai had excellent training. Far better than that which he himself possessed. And years of experience that had honed her talents to such a degree that it was naive to expect her to make a mistake that would allow him to escape.
He lunged at her, delivering a series of strong penetrating strikes intended to force the girl to retreat, to switch to defense. A desperate attempt to gain time to look for a way to escape. To preserve the treasure entrusted to him by the Council members.
The adversary easily blocked the strikes, not for a second allowing the Rodian to break her unshakeable defense. She evaded a low hacking strike that threatened to leave her a cripple. The Sarkai responded with a quick thrust to the face, which Ropal dodged, rejoicing at such an easy feint. However, literally in the next moment, his lunge was intercepted by one of the yellow blades.
The energy blade of the Jedi's sword was tilted downward, causing the strike to go into empty space. The tip of the blade buried itself in the permacrete, leaving the Rodian open for an inevitable counterattack.
The girl threw him back with a Force Push.
The Rodian, somersaulting backward over his back, was able to land on his feet, which made it easier for him to block the Sarkai's next lunge.
A Force counterattack did not produce the proper effect—the telekinetic discharge rippled over the surface of the energy defense like waves forming on water when a heavy object is thrown into it.
Gritting his teeth, Ropal continued to advance, mechanically noting that the enemy was using combinations and strikes he had never seen anywhere before. Evidently, the opponent had diluted her fencing style with something of her own making.
However, he had survived the first onslaught and knew what to expect.
The next round of the fight took place in a more familiar style. The enemy advanced using exhaustingly complex combinations, but Bolla reflected, parried, or intercepted every strike, timely moving to a counteroffensive. Which produced no effect whatsoever. Her defense, simple and unpretentious, was practically impenetrable when executed correctly. And, most horrific, the Sarkai used her weapon humiliatingly correctly. Terrifyingly correctly.
Realizing this, Ropal retreated and changed tactics. He saw that the dark servant could not be overcome by an ordinary onslaught and switched to feints and quick lunges, probing her defense in search of a weak spot. A battle of attrition began.
Previously, the Jedi's fencing style had been crude and simple, though undoubtedly effective. Now his technique became more sophisticated. He could not go forward unhindered, having realized the deadly danger of that impulse, and therefore tried to use an unpredictable style—from the side it seemed he was simply striking blindly. Every time the opponent thought she had guessed the direction of his next strike, he changed tactics, breaking the rhythm of the battle and forcing her to retreat.
Bolla allowed himself to rejoice. It seemed the killer did not suspect he was one of the best lightsaber combatants in the Order—they wouldn't give such a treasure to just anyone for safekeeping. It was time to demonstrate to her all the deficiency of serving the Dark Side.
Under the Jedi's onslaught, the Sarkai slowly backed away. He moved sideways, intending to bypass her from the left flank. The servant simply changed the direction of her withdrawal and took a few more steps back, maintaining a safe distance and continuing to parry formal strikes and thrusts.
Ropal, with internal triumph, prepared to deliver the final combination, putting all his strength into it. A combination of strikes that was supposed to, simply had to, disarm…
Deflecting his side lunge with one of her blades, the girl, blocking the opponent's weapon with her own, pressed the blue blade with the yellow one to the platform surface, unexpectedly crouched, moving the second blade from a vertical position to a horizontal one.
The Jedi felt incredible pain as the yellow blade bit into the biceps of his right arm, in the blink of an eye severing it from the body. Like a piece of meat, it fell onto the platform, still gripping the lightsaber hilt, which deactivated upon contact with the permacrete.
Barely restraining a groan, Bolla collapsed to his knees, clutching the stump with his remaining hand.
"You left me no other choice," the Sarkai said with sadness in her voice, spinning her weapon in her hands. "I beg you—give me the crystal and you will live."
"Never!" the Rodian spat out.
"So be it." With a sigh, the girl raised her weapon.
The last thing the Jedi had time to think was—without the holocron, the crystal she would take from his dead body was useless.
***
"The Council has agreed to this appointment," Yoda said. "But not with ease, by no means. Troubling is this move by Chancellor Palpatine."
"I understand your concern, Master," I admitted. I should think so! If there was one thing that certainly wasn't in my schedule for today, it was being inducted into the Order's High Council at Sidious's insistence. Moreover, while cautiously nudging the latter toward the idea of creating sector armies, I hadn't been entertaining thoughts of rising in the Jedi hierarchy. And that conversation itself had been started only in the hope that Palpatine would appreciate my labors in the fight against the CIS and place the territory of the 14th Sector Army under my command. And only for the reason that its zone of responsibility included Rothana—the place where Kuat Drive Yards produced a significant portion of the equipment and ships for the Grand Army.
"Believe me, I am no less surprised than you," there's nothing shameful in this revelation. The Council must understand that what happened is the Chancellor's own idea, and I just happened to be passing by. Which is how it actually is. "And such attention from the Chancellor to my person is unsettling to me."
"We are inducting you into the Council," Windu took the floor.
"But we are not giving you the rank of Master," came from somewhere to the side. Turning my head slightly, I realized it was Kit Fisto who had said it. The cephalopod was sitting back in his chair, smiling with white teeth.
As in, did you just try to put me in my place by adding that? Or did you decide to show off? You'd be better off learning to fight with a sword—maybe you'd live longer.
Eh, there was hope, of course, but it seems I'm not meant to be one of the dozen. In fact, I never even wanted to be.
"This violates a centuries-old tradition," Piell spoke up. "One cannot be a member of the Council without holding the rank of Master."
Wait. Why did the big-eared shorty get all worked up? What business is it of his? I don't recall ever even crossing paths with him. Why would he be standing up for my rights? Especially since I'm not against it at all.
"A vote must be held on this question," Yoda reminded. "Unanimous the decision must be for Master Dougan to become a Master. Objecting, as I understand, is Master Fisto."
"Master Dougan is too young for such a high rank," the Nautolan explained his point of view. What an airhead. I'm too young for the rank of Master as well. As far as I remember, it was only granted to those whose apprentice had completed their training and become a Jedi Knight. For my pain-in-the-backside, such a thing isn't on the horizon. Not in the near future—that's for sure. Well, and in the future, the need for such a procedure might fall away entirely. For about twenty years.
"I also object," the Iktotchi joined in with a low bass. "Only recently was the rank of Master received by him. And a year ago he was only a Knight."
No, big guy, where are you going? Horns bent down, did you become too smart? Go practice together with the tadpole. And take your horned and long-haired girlfriend with you. Maybe you won't get wiped out in a couple of seconds against Sidious.
"I join," Ki-Adi-Mundi's hologram nodded. "Incorrectly other Jedi might interpret such a rapid rise for Master Dougan. We must not give cause for gossip."
Oh, just go to hell! I wasn't planning on saving you initially anyway.
"In that case, it is decided," Windu announced. "There is no consensus here, and we cannot award you the rank of Master."
"I understand, Masters," I said, bowing obediently. Stealthily casting a glance at the members of the High Council. In person or in the form of holograms, they were all present here. Only three seats were empty, belonging to Unduli, Gallia… Mother-of-all, who's the third?
Looking around again, I realized that the only one of the horned ones who wore a hippie hairstyle wasn't standing out. Yeah. It seems Mace Windu's suicide squad is expecting a rotation of personnel. Agen Kolar, of course, is a temporary member of the High Council, but in the canonical events he lived until the memorable date with Palpatine's sword. Where has he disappeared to now?
"Take your seat, young Dougan," the afro-Jedi pointed me to a high-backed chair between the so-familiar face of Obi-Wan and the fierce mug of Piell. Literally flopping onto the chair, I scanned those gathered once more. Most of them sat with stony faces, as if they'd swallowed a kilogram of seriousness. Only the Lannik, as soon as I lowered my rear into the Master's chair, didn't hesitate to wink at me with his single eye, as if to say, it's all fine.
Eh, kid. Everything would be wonderful if a little less than a thousand years ago a group of Jedi hadn't blown their chance to finish off the half-dead Bane and his apprentice on Ambria. And now, a hellish nightmare beyond your wildest dreams is gathering its strength. And judging by the fact that I've taken Agen Kolar's place, something has definitely happened to him. If he's dead, let's hope it was less inglorious than in the original events known to me.
Hm, but it must be admitted, the spot is comfortable. Right opposite the entrance to the Council chambers…
Memories rushed in suddenly.
"Master Skywalker! There are too many of them. What are we going to do now?"
Mother of… how… The pain seemed completely real. Children… Younglings. They'll be hiding right behind the chairs of Plo Koon, Yoda, Windu, Kenobi… and, it seems, behind the one I'm occupying now—too.
No, of course it's unpleasant to realize that Olie was influencing my emotions and perception all this time, but… the children must be saved. Maybe I was a decent scoundrel with a bunch of complexes (thanks to the family) in my past life, but the Younglings aren't to blame because someone needs to slaughter all the Jedi from the youngest to the oldest to learn how to use the Dark Side.
Calling upon the Force, I tried to stifle the pain. And the conversations in the room helped to distract me from what had rushed in.
"First of all in your new post, Master Dougan," Kit Fisto spoke. "You should explain to the Council the rumors that have reached us about a duel you staged with Master Drallig in front of the Younglings."
"Discussed this we have, Master Fisto," Yoda frowned. "Not right was Drallig."
"Master Drallig has trained thousands of Jedi," Windu intervened. "And his methods of mentorship, though controversial, are effective. By challenging him, Master Dougan destroyed the mentor's authority before a group of Younglings."
"And now it is being gossiped about in all the clans," Tiin added. "Such behavior is not worthy…"
Are you serious?! You haven't found Darth Sidious, Dooku messed around in the Archives before his departure, the death of Sifo-Dyas hasn't been figured out, the Grand Army is getting its rear handed to it almost every day, and you decided to lecture me?
"Does the Council have no other business but to discuss such things?" I tried to hide my sarcasm, but from the Lannik's pleased smirk, the Korun's raised eyebrow, and Kenobi's disapproving shake of the head, I realized I hadn't succeeded. "If so, then I will explain that I do not consider Cin Drallig's teaching methods acceptable. I saw him use a lightsaber to cut off the hair of a Youngling who had fallen asleep in his class. Such a thing, in my view, is unforgivable for a Jedi. Even for educational purposes."
"You could have reported this to the Council," Plo Koon's hologram said. "We would have taken measures…"
"What kind of spice are you smoking here?" I couldn't restrain myself. "Or do the Council members want to say they were unaware that such a thing happens not for the first time?"
"Steady, Master Dougan," Windu cautioned me. "Do not forget where you are."
"Unknown it was to us," Yoda admitted. "Measures we will take accordingly, but your act also deserves condemnation."
"I agree," Master Rancisis broke his silence. Oh, dig-it-and-bury-it, a bunch more hair is going to say something. I actually thought he was like a totem animal here. "I hope you hear our disapproval, Master Dougan."
"And apologize to Master Drallig," Shaak Ti added.
"In the presence of the Younglings it should be done," the Nautolan added fuel to the fire.
"I agree. This will help restore Master Drallig's authority," Tiin nodded. "As the rumor spread, so will the apology."
Honestly, I wanted right now, at this very moment, to jump from my seat, shout "I am the Senate!" and start mincing this herd of total idiots left and right.
Oh, poor Drallig was offended. Oh, such a delicate soul.
"Are you sure that will help?" Piell smirked. "From the stories I heard, he provoked the duel himself. So he got what he wanted. In my view, Master Dougan is worthy of praise for being able to overcome Drallig in open combat."
The Lannik stole a glance at me and gave a merry wink. With a barely noticeable nod of the head, I expressed my gratitude to him.
"Encourage such things we should not in the Order," Plo Koon noted. "To bad consequences it could lead."
Mother of… I just have no words.
We've been sitting here for about ten minutes, soaking up high-flown speeches about whether I acted well or badly. In wartime. When every minute in the galaxy a soldier, a civilian, or a Jedi might be dying. And the Council is having a talk-fest. Oh, I feel that if I'd dropped a cigarette butt in a non-designated place, they'd definitely put me in the corner. Or give me a thrashing.
"Apologize you should to Master Drallig," Yoda looked at me. "In the presence of the students."
"As you command, Master," I said, bowing obediently, in the hope that such a thing would somehow speed things up.
I definitely won't deceive the Council. I'll apologize to the Troll. In such a way that his face will stretch even further than when he, exhausted and winded, was high-flownly lecturing the Younglings on the intricacies of combat. Hiding behind his words a complete lack of strength to continue the sparring. No wonder that seeing the second sword in my hands and the desire to continue, he returned my weapon to me, cited urgent business, and left the training hall. Forfeit acknowledged, as they say.
"The Senate has adopted amendments to the military doctrine," Windu said without preamble. "The bill is called the 'Sector Governance Decree.' According to it, a new structural unit is introduced—System Armies—from one to ten. Some armies are subordinate to us—Council members, others—to new officials, Grand Moffs."
Aha…
If my memory serves, this rank first appeared already under the Empire. Such officers were tasked with heading particularly important sectors or facilities of the galaxy. For example, Tarkin controlled a large part of the Outer Rim.
"System Armies include a number of independent units. In particular, on the territory of each army from now on its own space armada operates with all attached ground forces assigned to the sector armies that are part of it. Grand Moff Trachta heads System Army 'Aurek' and controls the territory of the 1st Sector Army 'Skyhammer.' I will head System Army 'Besh,' which includes the 2nd Sector Army 'Green Mantle.' The 3rd System Army 'Kresh' passes under Master Kenobi's command. From now on, you will have to cooperate with the troops of the 8th Sector Army 'Sparkling Diamond' and the 9th 'Copper Firecracker.'"
"Banking Clan territory," Kenobi grimaced barely perceptibly. "I will require enormous forces to break their defense—intelligence reports that Mygeeto alone is defended by several hundred warships."
"After the success on Muunilinst, to develop the offensive will not be difficult for you," weak motivation from Yoda.
"Yes, a simple task," Kenobi smirked, but didn't argue.
"The 4th System Army 'Dorn' is henceforth under Master Mundi's command—these are the sector armies 'White Shell' and 'Hand of Shadow,' the 4th and 5th respectively," the big-headed Jedi just nodded silently.
"Master Fisto," the Nautolan looked at the Korun almost with surprise. Yes, honestly, I would have been surprised too—as far as I'm concerned, the cephalopod doesn't represent anything as a general. "You command Army 'Eok,' including the forces of the 6th and 7th sector armies 'Black Sword' and 'Golden Niss.'"
"I will fulfill any will of the Council," Kit bowed, smiling. Well, of course, why not fulfill it, when both your armies are in deep reserve. Occupied with patrolling, security, and handing over their forces to those more in need. I feel that if it continues like this, the Nautolan will turn into a seasoned quartermaster.
"Master Plo Koon," the Kel-Dor's hologram turned its head slightly toward Windu sitting nearby. "You are to head the 6th System Army 'Forn'—the borders of responsibility coincide with the borders of the 10th Sector Army 'Crimson Dagger.'"
"I am departing for Taris as soon as I finish the current assignment," the Jedi who brought Padawan Tano into the Order promised.
"The 7th System Army 'Gren' passes under Master Ti's responsibility, who, until Master Unduli returns to service, faces the difficult task of stopping the Separatists' advance along with the forces of the 11th Sector Army 'Burning Talon' and the 12th 'Azure Spear.'"
"Are we leaving Kamino unmonitored?" the Togruta was surprised.
"At the moment, all ready troops have already entered the army," Windu cut off. "After Luminara's recovery, you will return back and continue to monitor the clones' training."
"And as always, they are not enough," Yoda echoed.
"The Republic cannot afford large purchases of clones," Ti reminded. "In the next half-year, a purchase of another five million clones is expected—if our losses remain at the current level."
"Troubling all this is," the Grand Master sighed. "Cloners need a lot of time to replenish the army."
"That is so," Ti agreed. "Ten years for an adult clone. In essence, the third generation is everything they can give us from ready products."
"Discuss this with the Chancellor it is necessary," the elderly Jedi decided. "Other ways of replenishing the army we need."
"Arkanians and Khommites work with similar technologies," I recalled. "Perhaps we should send emissaries to them?"
"A reasonable proposal, Master Dougan," Yoda agreed. "One cannot depend only on Kamino."
"A mobilization can be held among the Republic population," Piell suggested.
"The question should not be raised again," Windu objected. "The Senate axed this initiative at its root."
"And volunteer units?" I asked. "In the 'Iron Spear,' there are several hundred thousand volunteers from Christophsis. Of course, they are worse warriors than clones, but at least with their help, a part of the regular army can be freed from routine tasks."
"Not numerous the volunteers are in the Grand Army," Yoda noted.
"In all system armies combined, they are slightly more than half a million," Koon took the floor. "And most of them are in the 13th Sector Army."
Well, well… the inhabitants of the Republic don't seem to like defending their independence with weapons in their hands. Deja vu is kicking in.
"Let's return to pressing matters," Windu suggested. And under general silence, continued to preach: "The 8th System Army 'Heft,' during the time of Master Gallia's recovery, will be under Master Tiin's jurisdiction, and combines the forces of the 16th Sector Army 'Tusk' and the 17th 'Chrome Shield.'"
The Iktotchi nodded majestically. Yeah, his territory even after the merger is half the size of mine. And I don't remember any particular bloodshed there.
"The penultimate System Army 'Iok' is given to Grand Moff Octavian Grant. He holds control over the forces of the armies 'Night Hammer' and 'Dark Sword,' where Separatist attacks have intensified recently."
"I believe until recently he commanded the 20th Army," Kenobi recalled.
"Precisely," Windu agreed. "His actions in protecting those territories were so successful that Chancellor Palpatine specifically noted him among the recent appointments. Yes, it should be noted that the southern borders of the 12th and 4th armies have been changed—now they run along the boundaries of Hutt Space. That is all; we should move to the analysis of Master Kenobi's report on the incident on Felucia…"
"Pardon me, Master Windu," like in school, I raised my hand above my head, drawing attention. "I believe you said there were ten armies, but you've only listed nine… And you said nothing about sector armies thirteen through fifteen…"
"Did your friend, Chancellor Palpatine, not personally brief you on the matter?" Kit Fisto asked with a smirk.
"He's not my friend," I countered. "And no, Master Fisto, he does not inform me of his plans."
"Then you should meet with him," Yoda advised. "The whole of Hutt Space, and the last three sector armies—now Army 'Jent.' Your army, Grand Moff."
Rolling asphalt into rolls… I've asked for it.
"So what happened on Felucia, Master Kenobi?" Oppo Rancisis, silent until now, inquired.
***
"This is crossing all boundaries," Darth Malgus growled, watching his landing shuttle touch down on a tiny clearing free from mountains of trash.
Lotho Minor, a planet turned into a massive dump over the years of its existence, didn't just cause hatred in the Sith Lord. A single look at this dismal world, foul to the very core, drove the Sith into a frenzy.
It seemed the master had decided the Sith was to drink the cup of humiliation to the dregs, carrying out assignments unworthy of a glorious warrior. First the creation of the station in the Maw, now this… what would be next? What could be even more humiliating than this? Making the bed after his orgies? Carrying out his chamber pot?
And what could the Sith Lord have forgotten in this wretched place that the Master had reported? No self-respecting Force-sensitive sentient would be here of their own will. Even after a defeat by a Jedi.
For it is immeasurably humiliating! What plans could the Emperor have for this nonentity?
Nearly kicking out the ship's ramp, the man jumped to the ground, surrounding himself with a protective sphere. Even through the respirator, the stench of this world, causing gagging reflexes, penetrated his lungs.
Ordering the Skystalkers to guard the landing site—the only one in the entire hemisphere—the Sith once more immersed himself in the Force.
Every warrior of the Empire knew how to use their power to search for sensitive sentients. Sometimes, talented recruits were found this way. More often—Jedi spying in the ranks of the imperialists, or renegades whose very existence shamed the Order.
Now search skills were necessary for him to find the one who had decided to hide here. Amidst the stench, trash, and unintelligent vermin, the multitude of whose life signals drowned out the background, turning it into a semblance of "white noise."
The Force echoed back to him a spark of the Dark Side, located deep underground, at some distance. It was unlikely to be one of the locals—surely the one for whose soul he had come. Imagining that he would have to break through millennia-old refuse, the Sith growled.
The planet lacked any natural climatic structure. The unbearable heat—the fruit of the decay of millions of tons of organics, chemicals, and spent fuel rods—far exceeded that which he had felt on Korriban. Even the sunbeams of the local star could not break through the haze rising from the dump's surface.
The Sith concentrated, trying to scan the trash under his feet with the Force. If the defeated lord was hiding below, then there must be a road there—a passage, a tunnel, a cave, finally, where he lives. He wasn't going to rake through tons of trash to break through to this deficient one.
Sensing a quite spacious cavity a few hundred meters from himself, from which the aftertaste of the Dark Side was precisely emanating, he unhurriedly stepped in that direction, along the way gathering the Force, increasing his own rage due to seething dissatisfaction.
Huttish assignment!
Huttish search!
Huttish Emperor!
Walking a couple of dozen meters away from the shuttle, Malgus, assessing the strength of the trash structure on which his ship was located using the Force, released the accumulated energy under his feet, clearing a path into the depths of the dump.
Plunging into the abyss, he surrounded himself with a protective Bubble, avoiding unnecessary injuries. Deepening further every second under the layer of trash, he finally, after a few seconds of flight, reached a solid surface.
Finding himself in a narrow corridor cleared among mountains of trash, the Sith ignited his lightsaber, dispersing the darkness. Orienting himself, he stepped toward the large cave. The Master said that exactly there would be the nest of this deficient Zabrak.
The path did not take long—at most a couple of minutes. During this time, he several times encountered intersections with other tunnels, but unerringly held his course. Every now and then, alarming sounds rang out in the heaps of trash, but the Sith continued to ignore them.
Reaching the cave, formed spontaneously under the layer of decomposing and rusting waste, he looked around with contempt. A true burrow, better suited for a beast than a worthy continuator of the Sith cause. Decidedly, over the millennia, the heirs of Bane had degenerated, if even in their most terrible hour they could not find a refuge better than this.
The Force forewarned him of an attack.
The Sith spun around in a lightning flash, exactly when the unknown monster—the fruit of the union of morally obsolete manipulators and half a Zabrak—tried to deliver a blow to his back that was supposed to break his spine.
Wielding the blade with incredible speed, Malgus severed the mechanical limbs in a fraction of a second, staring at the creature writhing at his feet.
"Red! Red! Red!" with crazed eyes in which remnants of former power still splashed, it pointed at the lightsaber in superstitious horror. "The master is near, the master will not be pleased…"
"What are you babbling, refuse?" Malgus kicked the mechanical torso of the most revolting cyborg he'd seen with the toe of his armored boot. "Are you Darth Maul or something?"
"Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes," the Zabrak nodded so intensely that saliva began to spray from his lips. "Sith-Sith-Sith, mighty, invincible…"
"Aha," Malgus kicked the cyborg again. "It shows. A winner in life."
Reaching out to this creature with the Force, Veradun broke the contact almost immediately with disgust.
To his enormous disgust, the animal that was now lying at his feet was indeed the one for whom the Master had sent him. Humiliated, beaten, broken… During his time as a commander, Malgus would surely have finished the poor fellow off, understanding that the latter could never be his former self. He had even beheaded his own master, though he had tried to cling to the last seconds of life. This one was without legs at all, but that was half the trouble.
He is insane. Yes, something still remained in his head, but everything was so strongly mixed up that a well-trained brigade of Sith sorcerers would be needed to restore or at least try to fix the psychological traumas received.
Even by Sith standards, it was nobler to end this "Darth's" suffering than to try to deliver him to the surface.
The Hand reflected for only a moment, then, cursing, hung his weapon on his belt. Hutt, he cannot disobey the master.
A crash overhead made him step aside, avoiding a large piece of scrap metal falling on his head. Casting a glance upward, the Sith called upon the Force, with which he caught by the tail and threw to the floor a vile snake-like creature. Well, at least something could be killed.
"What the hell are you?" realizing that the creature possessed higher nervous activity that had responded in the Force, he demanded an answer.
"Morley," hissed the snake, squeezed by the Sith's iron grip. "I serve my master…"
"Him as a 'master,'" the Sith nodded toward the defeated Maul, babbling nonsense. "I strongly doubt that."
"But he is strong," Morley wheezed. "I saved him when trash containers from Naboo were dumped on the planet. Helped him get to his feet…"
"You're a lousy helper," the Sith did not bother himself with continuing the conversation, and therefore with a crunch tore the "snake" in two, tossing the body halves in different directions. Filth.
"Let's go then, 'Darth Maul,'" Malgus smirked, proceeding back the same way, dragging the cyborg's body through the trash tunnels with the Force. "It's time for you to meet your real master."
***
"How did it go, Master?" As soon as the doors to the Council Chamber opened and I stepped across the threshold, finding myself in the spacious hall, Olie was beside me.
The girl, though looking cheerful, was acting… wary, perhaps.
"Under-drunk," I commented.
"What's that?" the girl frowned.
"A bit early for you to know, of course," I thought that a minor shouldn't be told the truth about drinking alcohol. But she'll find out someday anyway, right? Better from her teacher than somewhere "on the street." "That's what they call the state when you've gulped down less whiskey than you could, but more than you wanted."
"I see," the girl said enthusiastically. "I'll keep that in mind. So where are we going?"
"The Chancellor is waiting for me," unhurriedly, as befits a Council member, I, and consequently the apprentice, moved along the Temple corridor toward the stairs.
"But why?"
"Well, how can I put it… Remember how not-easy it was for us when I became a moff?"
"I wouldn't say it was exactly hard," looking at my mask, the girl became sheepish. "Yes, I recall… so much routine," nodding her head, as if agreeing, the apprentice's voice made it clear that her words did not at all match what she was thinking.
"Palpatine decided that I didn't have enough filth to rake through after Kamino, so he did me a 'favor,' tossing in not only responsibility for the entire territory of Hutt Space…"
"But a part of their territory is in the zone of responsibility of the 4th and 12th armies," the girl recalled.
"Exactly. For knowing the operational situation, I forgive the breach of subordination. For the last time," I warned.
"Forgive me, Master," the apprentice grew serious. "I promise I will never interrupt you again…"
"Aha. Never happened before, and here we go again," I commented. "Anyway, but now the 14th and 15th armies have been added to our territory. And the Chancellor has appointed me Grand Moff of this whole mess called the '10th System Army.' And also, at the Chancellor's insistence, I was inducted into the Order's Council. True, without the rank of Master, but that's a secondary matter."
"Wow," Olie said with admiration. "But that's great! Your plan…"
"Not here, Snips," I warned. The girl, realizing she'd said too much, went silent.
"Can I come with you?" she asked. "I mean, to the Chancellor…"
"I doubt he'd be happy about that," I assumed. "Besides, I thought you'd decide to support your friend Ahsoka."
"But she's on Felucia," Olie frowned.
"So you ran away as soon as I entered the Council chambers," I stated. The girl didn't deny it. "Oh, I have a feeling you'll be the cause of my early gray hair."
"Don't say that, Master," Olie pouted. "So what about Ahsoka?"
What a clever one. Deftly trying to change the subject.
"She messed up big time on Felucia. Went on reconnaissance, chased after droids, got carried away and nearly got the remnants of her unit killed. And minor details—disobeyed the orders of her teacher, Kenobi…"
"Quite a lot for one time," Olie admitted.
"Even for her it's a bit much," I agreed. "In the end, the Council sent her to guard the Archives."
"And you didn't stand up for her?" Starstone was surprised.
"I did. Long and thoroughly talked about how young-and-green needs more time spent on training Padawans, including in military operations, and not tossing them into war like into a river, in the hope they'll swim out…"
"I don't quite understand. Who was tossed into a river?"
"It's an expression. A certain people taught their children to swim in water that way—they'd toss them into a river and see if they'd swim out or not."
"What barbarism," the girl grimaced.
"And do you know how to swim yourself?" sensing a certain disgust coming from the girl in the Force, I had a justified suspicion.
"Me? No, of course not," the apprentice snorted. "Who in their right mind would think of getting into rivers these days?"
"Ah, well-well," I smiled under the mask. Someone is going to encounter the treachery of the Dark Side.
"So did you help Ahsoka?"
"Not a bit," I admitted. "The Council nodded their heads, saying, yes, there is a rational grain in this, but orders must be fulfilled under any circumstances. In general, for the next month your friend is in the absolute slavery of Jocasta Nu."
"A month?" the girl repeated. "Your vacation will probably be over by then… Maybe, if you're a Grand Moff now, you could facilitate for Ahsoka and her teacher to serve in our army?"
"Ours?" approaching the stairs, I looked at the apprentice. A pity, of course, she cannot see the skepticism on my face.
"In yours, Master," the girl corrected herself. "Forgive me."
"It was a joke," I tousled Starstone's hair with my hand. "But no. Under my command he will not serve."
"He?"
"Skywalker."
"Ah…"
"Do you want me to show you the visions again?"
"I don't need that," the girl turned pale. "I just thought, maybe you could somehow fix him…"
"You can't tell the deaf, you can't show the blind, you can't prove to the stupid," I said instructively. Seeing the lack of understanding in the girl's eyes, I sighed and added. "I don't think he can be helped. And it's not part of my plans anyway."
"I see," the girl said dryly. Clearly, my answer wasn't to her liking. But what can you do. You can't please everyone.
"So what should I do while you're gone?" after a few minutes of silence, when we had already reached the base of the High Council tower, the apprentice inquired.
"Can't you find something to do?" I was surprised. "I'll mark this day in the calendar in black."
"Why that color?"
"Because it's mourning!"
"Master!" Starstone was reproachfully indignant. "I'd better go to Ahsoka, it's more fun together…"
"Don't even think about it," I said a bit more sharply than I'd planned. Noticing the dark-haired girl's wary look, I took a deep breath, calming down, and gave in a normal tone. "Don't bother the girl. She's already under the Council's disciplinary action—do you want her to get more because she wasn't doing her job but was wagging her tongue with you?"
"As you say, Master," the apprentice pouted. "Then I'll wait in my room until you need me."
"Excellent idea," whew, seems it blew over. "See, you can be smart when you want to. Good girl!"
"Well, yes," at the fork our ways were to diverge in opposite directions. "You pull me like a little animal only when you need me…"
"Wait, hold on," casting a quick glance around and noticing no one was there, I caught the apprentice by the arm and pulled her to me. "What's with these stunts now?"
"Not stunts!" the apprentice grew bull-headed. "I just thought that since everything between us has been cleared up, we'd be like Revan and Malak…"
"Mother of…, and where did you read about them?" I rolled my eyes.
"You have to know where to look," the girl grumbled. "The Order only cleaned up our history in the Archives. But actually there is the Republic Historical Service—and everything is there without retouching. And access is free—I have a clearance from the time of my apprenticeship with Jocasta. I'm studying little by little…"
"Listen, Malak-lite," I tousled the girl's cheek, lowering my voice. "Unlike you, Revan's real apprentice was a fully trained Jedi. And the teacher didn't worry about him that having gone on a mission, he'd get into a mess he couldn't get out of himself."
"And you're actually worrying?" the girl snarked. For a minute she stood bull-headed, like an offended child who wasn't bought an ice cream. However, I started to forget that she really is a child.
"Stop playing the fool," I had to switch to a demanding tone. "This is no joke. Forget about conspiracy—and everything will go downhill…"
"You probably wanted to say 'contraception,'" a well-familiar voice rang out a few meters behind Olie. Looking up, I mentally cursed everything. Blasted cloaking and blocking of Force Bonds. With them, it's as if I've gone blind and deaf—the radius of Force perception has dropped to a minimum.
"Master Drallig," I said as friendlily as possible. "It's not good—you were set to watch, but you're eavesdropping."
"And health to you too, under-Master," the swordmaster smirked. "What are you whispering about?"
As always, a smug smile reigned on his face as if glued on. It's as if it wasn't him, the renowned master, who had lost to a passing Jedi about whom a year ago no one had heard a thing. Honestly, if I'd been beaten the way I beat him, I'd be ashamed to keep a "poker face."
"I'm telling the Padawan that if she thoughtlessly takes examples from me, then one day the Council will force her to apologize to a weakling who forfeited the continuation of a duel he himself forced," oh, a pity you can't see my face now, you long-haired piece of work. В моем мире тебя б давно за такую прическу гопота уму разуму научила.
"Well, if you ever take up her training," Cin laughed, "then maybe she'll win someday, and won't be wiping all the walls with herself."
"Why I…!" the girl flared up, nearly lunging at the Jedi. But I managed to hold her in place.
"Steady, Padawan," I asked. "Don't touch the filth, and it won't stink."
"You're quite a comedian," Drallig, smiling, walked past us, giving me a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Stop by when you're ready for the second round, ignoramus."
"Right after you stop deflating in the first one," I promised.
With his unchanging smirk, the swordmaster strode away, whistling some tune.
"A total idiot," I commented.
"Master, you're not planning to fence with him again, are you?" Olie inquired distractedly.
"And what's stopping me?" my voice was dripping with surprise. "Last time if he hadn't refused to continue, I'd have flattened him."
"To kill a Jedi within the Temple walls," the apprentice snorted. "What could go wrong?"
***
"This tavern stinks of rot," Walon Vau commented, washing down the simple fare with a mug of Corellian brew. "Why the Hutt would anyone set a meeting for us here?"
The Mandalorian's irritation was understandable to each of his kinsmen present in the cantina. However, with the exception of the Toydarian owner, the establishment was empty. Although the lower levels of Coruscant were literally swarming with all sorts of refuse who preferred to spend time here, none wanted to continue their nightly gatherings in the same room with six Mandalorians who, flouting the rules and laws of the Republic capital which had tightened after the terrorist attack in the Administrative Sector, were in full armor and hadn't removed their helmets even indoors.
Each of them, former Cuy'val Dar, "those who no longer exist," honored the ancient traditions of their homeland, in particular—the Six Actions, which had come down to them from the time of the Taungs. And therefore, to appear here, in this dive, having received a summons from one who dared call himself Mand'alor… Although logic dictated that such a message should be ignored and they should continue the work proposed by Kal Skirata on training Republic commandos, blood and years of honed discipline had done their job.
Walon Vau.
Mij Gilamar.
Wad'e Tay'haai.
Vevut Tervo.
B'arin Apma.
Llats Ward.
Six of the seventy-five selected by the last who could call himself Mand'alor, Jango Fett, to train the clone army. Those whom Kal Skirata had signed up for a new venture. Strange that he himself isn't here. He, though attached to his "Nulls"—improved clones of Jango himself—is a Mandalorian just like all of them. And if someone…
The cantina's entrance door burst open, as abruptly as if an airspeeder had crashed into it. Not one of the six even stirred—anyone who'd want to engage with an armored Mandalorian is inevitably a corpse. And with six Mandalorians…
"O, ka'ra (O, stars)!" Mij Gilamar, the field medic, whispered softly. His helmet moved barely, pointing the rest to the threshold. Reluctantly, as if they might see something interesting there, the rest, under Vau's grumbling, turned their heads.
And there really was something to look at here.
From ancient times, one of the traditions of the natives of Mandalore who adhered to the Six Actions was the creation of their own armor. In times when they held a good part of the galaxy in fear, only those of them who had achieved great martial glory could create armor fundamentally different from that worn by ordinary warriors. Of course, over the millennia, traditions had either been forgotten or altered—the same Cuy'val Dar wore uniform armor, differing from each other only in the coloring of the elements, or insignificant clothing elements like a cloak, kama, or other trifles. And from the moment the Jedi brought the fire of their warships down upon Mandalore, no one had dared create a new type of beskar'gam.
Now before them stood a verd, a warrior, in armor completely unfamiliar to modern Mandalorians.
"He must have balls of beskar to flaunt that before our eyes," Walon said, barely restraining his anger.
The appearance of the armored elements left no room for doubt—the person who was now not taking his eyes off them clearly wore Mandalorian-type armor—the design, though outdated, but a part of their culture every native of Mandalore could recognize from a thousand forgeries. And the grayish-blue cast literally screamed that the material used to create this beskar'gam was nothing else but beskar—Mandalorian iron.
Unlike their own helmets, the newcomer did not use a T-shaped visor—instead, at eye level in the helmet there was a yellow-orange strip of material transparent from one side. Like the kind integrated into their own helmets, but without the tinting that improved work on planets with an unbearably bright star.
"Hey you, di'kut," Vevut spoke up, "come over here."
The newcomer didn't stir. It didn't escape Walon that the stranger, at the sounds of Mandalorian speech, clenched his hands into fists. It seemed he wasn't going to voluntarily part with what he wasn't supposed to wear.
"To the Hutt," Tervo jumped to her feet, nearly overturning the table. "I'll do it myself. Watch my ale…"
The Mandalorian woman in armor covered in red paint stepped toward the stranger in rapid strides. A dozen thin braids that fell onto her cloak from under her helmet jumped in time with her steps, betraying the impatience in the former clone instructor's actions.
"Hey, take it off," she threw up her right arm, from whose forearm a vibroblade appeared, aimed at the stranger's neck area.
The rest was too fast for anyone to see. Everything blurred into a gray-blue-red-black patch, the result of which was two things.
First—Vevut was lying face-down on the cantina's dirty floor with her right arm twisted behind her back in a typical combat hold from the arsenal of Mando hand-to-hand combat.
Second—the stranger stood with one foot on the back of the fallen Mandalorian woman, and with the free one—held her head raised above the floor, having wound most of her braids around his fist.
"Mir'osik," came from under the stranger's helmet. However, judging by the voice—a female stranger. Moreover, speaking in correct Mando'a, without any accent. The five instructors looked at each other. During the years of their wanderings through the galaxy, even in their speech shades of foreignness had appeared. Like in anyone who communicates with non-Mandalorians. "For four thousand years, I see, Mandos have not only renounced the Six Actions but have forgotten how to properly meet a Mand'alor!"
At the pronunciation of the ancient title of the military leader of their people, the five instructors jumped from their seats. There could be no doubt—before them was their kinswoman—even many inhabitants of the home planet could not correctly pronounce the ancient title.
"Who are you?" already more quietly, trying to defuse the situation, B'arin Apma inquired. The "quietest" of the entire six, but no less dangerous.
"Better answer, who are you," the stranger parried with contempt. Releasing Vevut, she stepped slightly to the side, narrowing the possible firing sector from her kinsmen. The kinswoman in red armor, grumbling softly in Mando'a, joined the latter. Walon felt with his skin that the woman now wanted blood more than ever before. An inordinate bloodbath, using heavy weapons, after which this establishment would turn into a burned-out box. "Sons of Mandalore you certainly cannot be."
Turning her head toward the stunned Toydarian who was watching the incident from behind his counter, she tossed just one word in his direction:
"Get out."
The tavern owner, as if only waiting for permission, instantly vanished through the back door into the kitchen. Judging by the crash of falling dishes coming from there—he continued to move away at faster-than-light speed.
"You're the one who called us here," Walon stated the obvious. "For what?"
"You still ask?" the stranger tore off her helmet with a jerk, revealing a stern yet feminine face, framed by long, rusty durasteel-colored hair. A gesture requiring the rest to repeat it. Otherwise, one could inflict the gravest insult on the one who had trusted the brethren and opened her face. And one could only answer for such a thing by spilling blood in a deadly duel. "You, Cuy'val Dar, for ten years boasted that you were instilling the traditions of our people in your cadets. And what comes out in the end? Hiding behind the Six Actions, you haven't even tried to stop the pacifists who turned the planet and the entire sector from the home of the best warriors of the galaxy into a den for beggars and paupers?"
"Who are you to make such claims to us?!" Walon spat through clenched teeth, starting to get worked up. No one had ever allowed themselves to unpunishedly accuse him of cowardice or betrayal of his people.
"Vau," Llats Ward, a fierce warrior, the only one of the entire group who remembered by heart all the great battles of Mandalore's glorious past, caught him by the arm, adding softly. "I don't believe what I'm saying myself, but she looks like…"
"I am Shae Vizla, of Clan Vizla," the redhead shouted with pride. "Known as Torch, named Mand'alor the Avenger. I am the one who destroyed hundreds of Jedi and participated in the destruction of their Temple almost four thousand years ago. I am the one who helped crush the Order of Revanites. The one who led the Mandalorians against the Eternal Empire. And the one who will gut you and beat the filth out of anyone who tries to contest my right to rule Mandalore and everyone born in the sector which I made prosperous and respected, while you, shameful pups, dig in the mud, training soldiers who might be directed to the occupation of our world. Serve those who destroyed our culture and exterminated the true Mandalorians, staged a slaughter…"
"This cannot be," Wad'e Tay'haai said softly, but with doubt. "Were you the one you claim to be…"
Wad'e was always known for an excellent reaction. Но сейчас, сорванный с места крепким тросом, выпущенным Визлой, он пропахал своим лицом добрый десяток метров, разделяющий их и уткнулся в бронированные сапоги рыжеволосой.
"One more word, nibral, and I'll skin you alive," she warned, giving the Mandalorian a light kick in the battered face.
"I am Mand'alor the Avenger," she reminded. "Four thousand years spent in carbonite haven't changed me, but they have changed my people. And anyone who stands in my way in the strive to return to our world, the sector, our people their glory and deserved respect in the eyes of the entire galaxy, shall know my wrath."
The answer to her was a dead silence.
Each of those present, torn by cognitive dissonance, tried to decide for himself what was more important in his fate.
Only a fool could fail to understand the obvious—in this galaxy nothing is strange. The Republic creates a dreadnought fleet and loses it without a trace. An expedition is sent beyond the galaxy's limits. The Jedi create an army in secret from the Republic they serve. The last true Mand'alor became a donor for many millions of clones. A single Jedi is unconditionally obeyed by the inhabitants of an entire planet, they build a fleet for him and gladly fight in his name.
In such circumstances, when the galaxy has gone mad, the return of an ancient military leader no longer seems like a wildness. On the contrary, in the context of everything, it seems just as commonplace as the Jedi, the ancient enemies of Mandalore, becoming the commanders of the Mandalorian's clone army.
This galaxy has decidedly gone mad.
And it's quite obvious that Shae Vizla gathered them here for a reason.
Each of the seventy-five members of the Cuy'val Dar, like their late leader—Jango Fett, is an adherent of ancient traditions praising martial feats. Perhaps they are the only ones among those who observe the tenets of the Six Actions, at least in part. No wonder Mand'alor came precisely for them.
As in ancient times, the leader demands obedience. This is the sixth action. Everyone must answer the call. Obey the great design and walk their path of glorious battles from beginning to end. Be faithful to their sacred duty.
Because this is the Way!
It simply cannot be otherwise.
"There is already one at home calling himself Mand'alor," the field medic said. "There cannot be two leaders by definition…"
"The one who calls himself by my title is only a clone—one of those Alpha-class commandos who were raised personally by Jango," Shae stunned them with details that not even everyone among Kal's close friends knew. "As soon as we finish on Coruscant, we will go to Mandalore. And restore the proper power on it!"
Walon felt that now was precisely the moment for which he had lived his entire life. The very one for which every boy or girl in the Mandalorian sector should have grown up. The moment when the leader calls to campaign.
And it doesn't matter what Skirata says. It doesn't matter what the consequences will be due to the departure of the instructors from the Special Operations Brigade, where they were "breaking in" new commandos instead of those who had already fallen in this war.
Everything becomes unimportant when Mand'alor's call sounds.
"The Republic will not allow us to return to former traditions," Llats noted. "They have an enormous fleet and army. Occupation awaits our sector if we speak out against the government of Duchess Satine…"
"By the moment it comes to restore my power over the Mandalorian sector," Shae said. "The Jedi and the Republic will not have time for us. My ally will see to it."
"Have we ever before required allies?" Wad'e, still lying on the floor, asked with a hint of mockery, earning a sensitive kick in the kidney area. Walon automatically noted that such a technique caused his brother truly unbearable pain. However, the latter didn't even squeak.
As befits a valiant warrior of Mand'alor.
"I chose you because you are those who have strayed least from the Way," Vizla said, without looking kicking the Mandalorian lying at her feet again, this time—with the heel on the ear. The latter, feeling the pain, stopped his attempts to cut the cable wrapped around his neck. "And I, Mand'alor the Avenger, call you into a new campaign. All who are not with us are against us. All who are against shall fall. All who refuse to join or submit shall fall silent forever. So?!"
Shae freed the hapless countryman from the trap, and while he was standing on all fours, with a kick accelerated him in the direction of the five other Mandalorians. Finding himself among them, the latter cast a fierce look at her, not boding anything good. But Walon, meeting his gaze, without words put the overstepping brother in his place. The redhead, from whom such looks did not escape, only smirked, returning her helmet to its place.
You don't joke with Mand'alor. You obey him, or die by his hand.
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," Llats Ward was never against a good fight. No wonder that with the appearance of a strong leader, the only one of all to whom one could submit, he was the first to stand under the banners of the new crusade against the Republic.
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," following Ward's example, B'arin Apma put his buy'ce (helmet) on his head, dropping to one knee, looking through the visor at the one who had literally risen from the ashes of time.
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," Mij Gilamar, in his golden armor, joining the first two comrades, seemed funny in such a coloring of his beskar'gam. But Walon, who had known him long enough, would not recommend anyone crossing the path of this Mandalorian with a scalpel.
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," Vevut Tervo's crimson armor took its place in the row of those who were ready to follow Torch.
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," Wad'e Tay'haai looked the redhead straight in the visor, which showed—the Mandalorian in purple armor had not yet fully felt the seriousness of the moment. However, Vau had known him long enough to understand—behind this bravado hid the heart of a real warrior. Yes, let their meeting with the old-new leader have happened haphazardly, and it's worth checking everything she said, but before her only Jango had tried to do anything useful for the planet. Not to drag into senseless wars as the "Mand'alor"-clone had tried. Not to stage terrorist attacks as the refuse from "Death Watch" are doing. He had worked tirelessly and put every last credit into the cause of the planet's rebirth. Perhaps, sacrificing astronomical sums to the pacifist government was not the right step. Perhaps, truly, it's time to strike at the shaken foundations of the demilitarized society and through purification by fire, temper a new generation of Mandalorians?
"I answer the call of my Mand'alor," Walon dropped to his knee last. His black armor seemed to absorb the cantina's dim light, and he himself seemed like a phantom from childhood nightmares. However, when he did his job, he turned into a nightmare for older sentients as well.
"Nothing else was expected from you," a hint of pride was felt in Vizla's voice. "Return to the Special Operations Brigade barracks, gather your things. You no longer serve the Republic. Your one-year contracts for training commandos have come to an end, haven't they?"
"Quite right, Mand'alor," Walon answered for everyone. "They were intended to be extended next week."
"Speak with others from the Cuy'val Dar," she ordered. "All whom you trust must join us."
"Kal Skirata is faithful to the tradition of the Six Actions," Tay'haai muttered. "He can be useful—he has extensive connections."
"Kal Skirata is only concerned with how to preserve the lives of his children—the 'Nulls,'" she stunned them with details that not even everyone among Kal's close friends knew. "He is devoted to them, and they—only to him. Walon," she addressed the sergeant. "Tell Skirata that if his clan joins, I will give him the cure for his sons' aging. Но его верность, как и его сыновей, должна быть абсолютной."
"Your will shall be done, Mand'alor," Walon promised. "Will there be other orders?"
"Certainly," Walon noticed how all the instructors without exception tightened up, preparing to outdo each other in the urge to fulfill the leader's will. "But first you should change the coloring of your armor."
"Undercover operation?" Vau clarified.
"Exactly," Vizla nodded. "We will strike at our enemies. And in the very near future."
As one, the Mandalorians standing on one knee struck their armored fists against their chestplates with a crash.
Six of the Cuy'val Dar were ready for any trials.