• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Tahiri sighed, then looked across the cell at her refresher unit and nodded. “At least you’re telling me the truth,” she said. “That counts for more than you know. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Mool said. “I just wish I had more to offer. I want to help you—I truly do.”

“The truth is enough, Mardek.” Tahiri turned and gave his knee a grateful squeeze. “Give me that, and you give me everything.”

NEAR REDGILL LAKE, DATHOMIR

LUKE’S BACKFLIP WAS PERFECT. AT ITS APEX, HIS HEAD WAS HIGHER THAN it would have been if he were standing. He came down in a slight crouch, already in a defensive posture, and barely stirred the dust as he landed. There were whoops of appreciation from the crowd surrounding the fighting ring.

Firen was close upon him, having charged during his flip, and she struck just as he came down, an open-palmed blow to his chest, what was clearly her favorite move. He got his right wrist against hers before the blow hit and forced it to the side. Her blow missed his chest by six centimeters at least.

And his parry left him in perfect position for a riposte. His own counterblow, also open-palmed, caught Firen on the point of the jaw. There was no clack of teeth meeting teeth; her mouth was clenched shut when he hit. But her head rocked and she staggered backward.

And her left hand came forward, opening, releasing a cloud of dust and sand into Luke’s face, blinding him.

He stumbled back, hearing cheers from the Raining Leaves in the audience. He shook his head, but his vision didn’t immediately clear.

This was bad. He was Firen’s superior as a fighter, having trained in more styles on more worlds than she had fingers and toes, but he’d forgotten that Dathomiri unarmed contests were no-holds-barred, with no rules against using weapons of opportunity. Firen hadn’t cheated. She’d outwitted him. And she’d be coming for him—now.

This time his flip was a forward one. He heard his opponent pass beneath him, unable to stop her forward rush, and heard her offer up a colorful Dathomiri curse.

Luke more than heard her. He found her in the Force.

He landed awkwardly—deliberately awkwardly, as though not being able to see had caused him to over-rotate. He stumbled forward a couple of steps, then steadied himself and furiously scrubbed at his closed eyes.

He could feel Firen charging. Now she was almost silent. She was as fast and predatory as a Dathomiri lizard.

But he knew where she was. As she came within range, he lashed out with a side kick, his left heel connecting with her midsection, stopping her in her tracks. She uttered an “oof” that sounded like it accompanied all the air from her lungs.

Luke pivoted on his other foot, lashing out with a spinning kick that connected just below the first one. The blow took Firen off her feet. He heard her hit the dust. And in the Force, he could dimly envision her, facedown, struggling to rise.

He got beside her and bent down, wrenching the arm she was using for support up behind her back. She fell toward him and thrashed, but he kept one hand on her elbow, one on her wrist, and the leverage he applied held her in place.

He heard the crowd begin to chant, counting down from ten. In that ten-count, Firen was unable to free herself. After “one” came a mass cheer and shouts of dismay, but the fight was done. Luke released his grip, stepped back, and went to work again clearing his eyes.

“Here.” It was Ben’s voice. Luke reached out and was handed a waterskin. Grateful, he poured some of its contents across his eyes. He blinked, his sight restored. “Thanks.”

Firen stood a couple of meters away. She looked unhappy. Seeing his gaze on her, she turned toward him. “There’s nothing worse than being beaten by a man.”

Luke grinned. “You mean a lowly man?”

“Well … Kaminne says we should no longer use that phrase.”

“There’s having a rancor fall atop you.”

She thought about it. “You are right. That is worse.” She stepped forward and extended a hand. “Well fought, lowly man.”

“Well fought, traditionalist