Star Wars_ Darth Bane 02_ Rule of Two - Drew Karpyshyn [1]
Rain had died even before their ship touched down on Ruusan. They’d been ambushed by a squadron of Sith Buzzards only seconds after they broke atmosphere, the tail of their vessel shorn off in the attack. Darovit had watched in horror as Rain was swept away by the blast, literally ripped from his arms before plunging to an unseen death hundreds of meters below.
His other cousin, Bug, had died only a few minutes ago, a victim of the thought bomb, his spirit consumed by the terrible power of Lord Kaan’s final, suicidal weapon. Now he was gone. Like all the Jedi and all the Sith. The thought bomb had destroyed every living being strong enough to wield the power of the Force. Everyone except Darovit. And this he couldn’t understand.
In fact, nothing on Ruusan made any sense to him. Nothing! He’d arrived expecting to see the legendary Army of Light he’d heard about in stories and poems: heroic Jedi defending the galaxy against the dark side of the Force. Instead he’d witnessed men, women, and other beings who fought and died like common soldiers, ground into the mud and blood of the battlefield.
He’d felt cheated. Betrayed. Everything he’d heard about the Jedi had been a lie. They weren’t shining heroes: their clothes were soiled with grime; their camp stank of sweat and fear. And they were losing! The Jedi whom Darovit had encountered on Ruusan were defeated and downtrodden, weary from the seemingly endless series of battles against Lord Kaan’s Sith, stubbornly refusing to surrender even when it was clear they couldn’t win. And all the power of the Force couldn’t restore them to the shining icons of his naïve imagination.
There was movement on the far edge of the battlefield. Squinting against the sun, Darovit saw half a dozen figures slowly making their way through the carnage, gathering up the fallen bodies of friend and foe alike. He wasn’t alone—others had survived the thought bomb too!
He ran forward, but his excitement cooled as he drew close enough to make out the features of those tasked with cleaning the battlefield. He recognized them as volunteers from the Army of Light. Not Jedi, but ordinary men and women who’d sworn allegiance to Lord Hoth. The thought bomb had only taken those with sufficient power to touch the Force: Non-Force-using folk like these were immune to its devastating effects. But Darovit wasn’t like them. He had a gift. Some of his earliest memories were of using the Force to levitate toys for the amusement of his younger cousin Rain, when they were both children. These people had survived because they were ordinary, plain. They weren’t special like he was. Darovit’s survival was a mystery—just one more thing about all this he didn’t understand.
As he approached, one of the figures sat down on a rock, weary from the task of gathering the dead. He was an older man, nearly fifty. His face looked drawn and haggard, as if the grim task had sapped his mental reserves along with the physical. Darovit recognized his features from those first few weeks he’d spent in the Jedi camp, though he’d never bothered to learn the old man’s name.
A sudden realization froze Darovit in his tracks. If he recognized the man, then the man might also recognize him. He might remember Darovit. He might know the young man was a traitor.
The truth about the Jedi had disgusted Darovit. Repulsed him. His illusions and daydreams crushed by the weight of harsh reality, he’d acted like a spoiled child and turned against the Jedi. Seduced by easy promises of the dark side’s power, he’d switched sides in the war and thrown himself in with the Brotherhood of Darkness. It was only now that he understood how wrong he’d been.
The realization had come upon him as he’d witnessed Bug’s death—a death for which he was partly responsible. Too late he had learned