Star Wars_ Darth Bane 03_ Dynasty of Evil - Drew Karpyshyn [137]
Helpless, disarmed, he felt the cold tip of Lussk’s durasteel come to rest against the back of his neck, biting into the skin just below the base of his skull. There was that awful numb sensation that Nickter knew all too well, the second before the nerve ending registered an overload of pain.
At least it was over.
Now, Lussk’s voice throbbed inside his head. It was low and toneless, an irresistible command. Push yourself backward into my blade.
Nickter resisted, straining forward, muscles drawing taut in his neck—but it was useless. He couldn’t hold back. The pain swelled, doubled back on itself, grew infinitely worse, shrieking through him, and some grim, instinctive part of him knew that he was seconds away from severing his own spinal cord, shorting out his brain, and extinguishing all remaining thought in that final instant of consciousness. He sucked air through his teeth and looked out, as if from some great distance, at the faces of the others outside the circle, staring him down. Their eyes were bright and eager, awaiting the inevitable coup de grâce.
Curse you, Nickter thought, curse every stinking one of you, I hope you all have to endure this torture or worse, I hope you each suffer like I am suffering now, I hope—
With a gasp, Nickter lurched forward, suddenly free, away from the blade, reaching up to place one hand over the painful but ultimately superficial wound it had left just above the bony knob of his vertebral prominence. He could barely manage to keep his hand upright. The battle—both physical and mental—had reduced his body to a blurry hologram of its former self, muscles trembling, wrung to rags, skin and hair drenched in fresh sweat. His head felt like it was going to explode. He couldn’t catch his breath. Turning around to face Lussk on legs that seemed as though they might betray him and buckle at any moment, he caught a glimpse of the other acolyte’s impenetrable green eyes.
You only lived because I let you, those eyes said, and Nickter understood that in the end, Lussk’s act of mercy had sentenced him to the greater humiliation of unwarranted survival.
He looked away, turned, and made his way through the crowd. No one spoke or made a sound as he followed the stony steps downward from the top of the temple to the snow-strafed walkway below.
2/Crack
BY NOON, NEWS OF NICKTER’S DEFEAT HAD TRAVELED THROUGH THE ENTIRE ACADEMY. None of the other students had seen what had happened to him afterward, but Jura Ostrogoth assumed that Nickter had gone to the infirmary to be treated for his physical wounds … or back to the dorms to lick his less tangible ones.
“Either way,” Jura told Kindra, the two of them ducking past the crooked slab of stone that marked one of the five entranceways to the academy’s library, “it doesn’t matter now, does it? He was barely scraping by anyway.”
Kindra nodded but didn’t say anything. They were on their way to the dining hall for their midday meal. After a brief reprieve this morning, it was snowing again, harder now—thin, sand-dry pellets seething over the ground in front of them, creeping up over the walkways and drifting up against the academy’s outer walls. Jura, who’d grown up on Chazwa in the Orus sector, was well adjusted to such weather and walked with his robe open at the throat, hardly noticing the wind gusting through its fabric. He’d seen other acolytes from warmer climates trying to affect the same air of brazen indifference through chattering teeth and blue lips, but the cold truly didn’t bother him, never had.
“What about Lussk?” Kindra asked.
Jura cast a sidelong glance at her. “What about him?”
“Did anybody see where he went?”
“Who knows?” He wasn’t quite able to disguise the annoyance in his voice. “Lussk comes and goes