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The ground shook and Ben saw rancor hands and heads top the hill crest. He raised his voice to be heard over the general clamor. “Shields, brace yourselves!”

Then the rancors heaved themselves up onto the hilltop and charged forward. Wielders of the braced poles aimed their sharpened ends at each of the five rancors in the front rank. The rancors hit; poles bent, one snapped. The rancors reached for men and women; spear fighters impaled their arms and hands as they grabbed. Ben lit his lightsaber and thrust it into a rancor knee all the way to its hilt.

“Turbo, center head, fire!” The women leading the Turbos was well chosen; her voice, shrill but commanding, cut through the tumult and was easy to hear.

Blasterfire and arrows poured into the face of the rancor in the center. In moments that face was unrecognizable. And yet the beast was not dead, not quite; howling, it staggered away, crashed through the line of three rancors in the rear, and toppled over the hill crest. The one Ben had kneecapped also staggered back, but only far enough to have its position in line filled by an uninjured rancor.

That left four in front, three behind. “Turbos, left center, face, fire!”

In moments another rancor staggered away, dying. Those remaining grabbed as viciously and as vigorously at the lines of spear and pole wielders, but the latter kept them from advancing and the former protected their fellow warriors.

And now the Witches entered the combat. A storm of assaults—lightning, hails of rocks, flashes of fire, bone-rattling sonics—hammered into the rancor line.

A rancor managed to get past prodding spears and sharpened poles to grab the woman to Ben’s left around the waist. He swung, put extra effort into the blow. Despite the sheer mass of the rancor’s arm, his lightsaber cut through the wrist, severing the hand entirely. The rancor stood straight up, looking at its cauterized injury, howling in dismay at the pain—and then its head ignited, set afire by a Witch’s spell. Clutching its head, it hurtled over the edge.

All of a sudden, of the eight that had come against them, three rancors remained. For the first time, Ben could feel an emotion from them that was not pain or rage, and that emotion was fear.

The rancors retreated.

“Shields, hold fast!”

“Turbos, advance! Fire at will!”

LUKE SAT ON A FLAT STONE METERS AWAY FROM THE EASILY CLIMBABLE portion of the southwest slope. He was wrapped up head-to-toe in a dark blanket he’d had Dyon bring him. His lightsaber was still on his belt.

In the initial moments of the attack, he watched impassively as eight rancors clambered up, some only a few meters away. One, toward the center, lagged behind the others, looking right and left, clearly seeking Luke. But it never found him, and continued on past.

Already half into a meditative state, Luke allowed himself to sink farther into the Force, away from the present.

Now he could feel, even visualize, the Force energy net above him. But he didn’t want the whole thing. Just a strand …

He followed that strand across the sky, then down, as it separated from the weave and became a single pure channel of Force energy, dark side energy. He followed it to the trees, to the ground.

There stood a woman. He could almost see her in his mind’s eye—tall, strong, even beautiful in the savage fashion of the women of Dathomir. Her hair was red like Mara’s. That caused him a little twinge of sadness but did not thrust him out of his meditation.

Nor did it cause him to abandon his current objective.

Beside him, the pile he had made—a dozen fist-sized rocks—rose into the air. Higher and higher they went, until they reached the Force net, until they met the strand he had selected.

The Nightsisters were preparing tactics against Luke Skywalker. So be it. For the next little while, he would be someone else.

Because the mercenary Carrack had been effective against them, the Nightsisters had eliminated Carrack. So be it; for the next little while, Luke would be Carrack … in his tactics and in his role, at least.

His cloud