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“Ambush!” one of the points screamed, and then the Sith were upon them. They came from everywhere: warriors wielding lightsabers, soldiers armed with blasters and vibroblades. The clash of durasteel and the hiss of crossing energy blades mingled with the screams of the living and the dying: screams of rage and triumph; of agony and despair.

A volley of blasterfire ripped through his lines, taking down those Padawans too inexperienced to deflect the shots. A second volley tore through the melee. The bolts ricocheted wildly as Sith and Jedi alike batted them aside, doing little real harm but adding to the chaos. Lord Hoth stood in the thickest of the fighting, hewing down foes foolish enough to come in range of his fierce weapon. His nostrils were filled with the greasy-sweet stench of charred flesh, and a wall of bodies was mounting around him. And still they kept coming, swarming over him like carrion beetles on a fresh kill, seeking to drag him down by sheer numbers.

Pernicar vanished beneath the sea of enemies, and Hoth redoubled his efforts to reach his fallen friend. He was unstoppable in his fury, like the devastating storms of the Maw itself. When he reached him, Pernicar was already dead. Just as the rest of them soon would be.

An explosion on the edge of the battle briefly drew his attention skyward. One eager minion of the Sith lunged forward, seeking glory beyond her wildest expectations by trying to kill the mighty general while he was distracted. Hoth never even turned his gaze, but merely cast out with the Force, imprisoning her in a stasis field. She stood helpless, frozen in place until struck down by the careless follow-through from a vibroblade wielded by one of her own side.

Her death barely even registered in Hoth’s conscious thoughts. He was focused on the four swoopbikes barreling down on the battle, their heavy guns pounding into the enemy lines. The Sith ambush scattered, unable or unwilling to stand against heavy air support. It took all of Hoth’s Jedi training not to chase after them and hack them down from behind as they fled into the safety of the trees.

A moment later the swoops landed to cheers from the dozen or so Jedi still standing. Lord Valenthyne Farfalla, looking as fastidiously proper as ever, dismounted and bowed low before his general.

“I heard you were bringing supplies, my lord,” he said, rising with all the affected elegance of a Coruscant Senator. “We thought we’d come give you an escort.”

“There are two other caravans,” Hoth snapped. “Instead of standing here gloating, you should be heading out to help them.”

Farfalla pursed his lips in displeasure, a peevish, pouty expression. “We have other swoops escorting them already.” He hesitated, as if considering whether to say anything more. Hoth shot him an angry look that all but screamed at him to remain silent.

Despite this—or maybe because of it—he added, “I thought you’d be more welcoming to my reinforcements.”

“You’ve been gone for months!” Hoth snarled. “While you’ve been out playing diplomat, we’ve been stuck here in a war.”

“I did as I promised,” Farfalla responded coldly. “I’ve brought three hundred Jedi reinforcements. They’ll be in your camp as soon as we have enough fighters to break our transports through the Sith planetary blockade.”

“Little comfort to those who gave their lives waiting for you to arrive,” Hoth shot back.

Farfalla glanced at the corpses scattered on the ground. Seeing Pernicar among them, his expression fell. He crouched down beside the body and whispered a few short words, then touched the fallen soldier once in the center of his brow before standing up once more.

“Pernicar was my friend, too,” he said, his tone softer now. “His death pains me as much as it does you, General.”

“I doubt that,” Hoth muttered angrily. “You weren’t even here to see it.”

“Do not let your grief consume you,” Farfalla warned, the ice back in his voice. “That path leads to the dark side.”

“Don’t you dare speak to me of the dark side!” Hoth shouted, jabbing an angry finger in Farfalla’s face. “I’m the