Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [149]
“How did you get away?”
“Just as his tendrils touched me, one of the Gamorreans came in. He … the creature … let me go.”
“But Jerriko is no match for you.” Doallyn’s fingers tightened on her upper arm, testing the solid muscle beneath the outer flesh. “You’re twice his size.”
“When he lays his hands on you, and looks into your eyes … you can’t move,” Yarna whispered, feeling her gorge rise. “When you see those tendrils uncoil, you know what’s happening, because he wants you to know. But you can’t move. It’s … horrible.” She gagged, put her hand over her mouth, and fought for control. Moments later, she looked back up at him.
“If you swear on whatever belief system you follow that you’ll escort me to the motor pool afterward, I’ll take you to find those gas cartridges now,” Yarna promised. How could she trust someone whose features she couldn’t see? But she had little choice …
Doallyn touched the breast of his uniform with two fingers and a thumb in what looked like (and probably was) a ritual gesture. “I swear by the Sky Seraphs that I will take you to the motor pool.”
Yarna nodded. “Let’s go, then.”
The two ventured out into the corridor, and headed purposefully toward the other side of the building, with Yarna in the lead. She walked quickly, surely, only too aware of the occasional screams and crashes that emanated from other portions of the palace. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be out of here, she told herself, her strides coming faster and faster. She was nearly running. Just a few more minutes …
Her luck gave out when she rounded the next corner, with Doallyn a dozen paces behind her. Two of Jabba’s erstwhile guards were waiting to pounce. The dancer recognized them—the human was named Tornik, and the Gamorrean was Warlug. Both were reeling drunk. As she tried to beat a hasty retreat, they greeted her with grunts of inebriated delight and grabbed her.
“Ugly One!” roared Tornik. “Love of my life! Come here and have a drink with me!” As Yarna tried to pull away, he yanked her arm viciously. “Dance for me, then we’ll have some fun!”
The Askajian glanced back over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Doallyn. Had he run off and left her? But what about his breathing cartridges?
“No!” squealed the Gamorrean, trying to drag her away from his compatriot. “I saw her first! I get the Ugly One first!”
“Stop it!” Yarna ordered, trying to stay calm despite the racing of her twin hearts. “Let me go. I’m … I’m on an errand for Master Fortuna.”
“Ha! He can’t have you!” Tornik declared. “Warlug is right! We saw you first! He’ll have to stand in line!”
The Gamorrean reached for the fastening between her topmost breasts. “Mine! I go fi—” He broke off at a sudden flash and sizzle, to stare unbelievingly at the scorched hole that had suddenly blossomed in his side. Letting go of Yarna, he staggered back, panting, then squealing in pain as he hit the wall and slid down it.
“Let her go,” Doallyn said, stepping around the corner, his blaster still leveled.
“But we saw her first—” the guard protested, eyes narrowing. “You can have her when we’re done.”
“I said, let her go.” Doallyn’s voice was still level, but the muzzle of his weapon moved up, steadied until it was aimed at the man’s face. “Or I’ll make you let her go. Your choice.”
Cursing, Tornik dropped Yarna’s arm and stumbled backward. Warlug squealed frantically for help, and the human grabbed his arm, hoisted the injured being to his feet, then the two of them staggered away.
Yarna sagged against the wall as her knees threatened to buckle. “Oh, Sergeant, they … thank you, thank you … they were—”
“No time for that,” Doallyn said briskly. “The breathing cartridges. You promised.”
“Yes …” muttered Yarna, collecting her scattered wits. “This way …”
Within minutes they were in the Hutt’s personal chamber. There had already been looters there—the place was stripped, and someone had flung a shovelful of dried rancor dung into the middle of the sleeping