The Battle of Jericho, Part II
Posted on Sun Mar 11th, 2018 @ 12:44pm by Bomoor Thort & Mentis & Sev Rezer & Zrad Rezer† & Klav Thurn & Nala Sao & Trey†
3,288 words; about a 16 minute read
Chapter:
Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: Throne Room, Jericho
Timeline: The Battle of Jericho
OLD
For the first time in decades, Zrad Rezer felt fear.
Already turning on his heel, his suit pumped its remaining supply of stimulants into his bloodstream. With that and his panic, Zrad felt his heart thudding at an inhuman pace in his chest as he abandoned the fight with his cousin and began fleeing to the hall's entrance. Through the implant embedded in his skull, he was already priming his ship to leave - and Jericho for destruction.
He could claim victory of the Battle of Jericho when there was no one else left alive to say otherwise.
NEW
As Bomoor almost caught up with Zrad, he felt his powers wane; that dulling of his perception and abilities that he had felt under the Ysalamiri's influence. It was weaker this time and he could still feel the connection to the Force, but it was enough to send him off balance and bring him skidding along the floor, landing close to where he had kicked the great door previously.
Still maintaining a firm grip on the shard and on his weapon, he twitched his eye stalks upwards and spied the offending creatures. Mesh netting had been suspended above Zrad's throne and, within it sat two Ysalamiri, feeding on the nutrient net, oblivious of the conflict beneath them and their influence upon it. While it was not the fault of the lizards that they had been used in Zrad's nefarious designs, Bomoor knew it was only practical to kill them quickly; that being the only way he knew to terminate their Force-negating influence. It would be a simple matter to reach the netting but, as he prepared to leap upwards, he sensed another individual approaching, weapon trained on the dangerous Ithorian and too close to ignore.
"You are impressive, Jedi," the armoured figure said with genuine respect in his voice, his rifle aimed squarely at the hulking alien's elongated head. Like many of the Exiles, this one was fully armoured, but noticeably in the more advanced and complete set the soldiers of Manda'toma typically wore. However, the armour's distinctive visor and carefully painted blue markings identified the man as Klav Thurn, Zrad Rezer's second and most-capable warrior.
He had been the one to bring the cultists to visit Bomoor and Thane in their cells, languishing as they had been after their barbaric, drug-induced treatment of one another in Jericho's ramshackle pit. Thurn had also been one of the few genuinely angered by the whole affair, not that he had then freed the ailing Jedi.
"That is not yours," the Exile continued almost matter-of-factly, as if providing a minor piece of advice to a colleague, his weapon not even slightly wavering as he inclined towards the kaiburr shard with his masked head.
Looking to his hand, Bomoor fumbled slightly as he attempted to speak, he seemed to have more force than usual in his sizeable lungs. When his voice did come forth, the usual stereo seemed slightly different, as if there was a melody underneath the words, "It is an artefact of the Force," he chimed, bringing the shard forwards and digging his fingers in as though he grasped a beating heart, "I believe my claim to it is stronger than that of a man who runs at his first sight of its true power."
Even dampened by the Ysalamiri's field, the Ithorian assessed that he stood a good chance of out-manoeuvring the armoured man. However, as he reached forwards, mentally peeling away the visor that obscured the Mandalorian's face, he felt hesitant to do so. Perhaps it was a memory of Thurn from before his escape or maybe a suggestion from the Force, but it seemed unwise to engage the man. Not yet.
A few more moments of silence passed between the pair, even with the backdrop of death and chaos about them. The Mandalorian gave nothing away, but he also made no apparent move to fire at the other man. As the faceless visor stared back at Bomoor, the Jedi's black eyes appeared to shimmer with a bright intensity quite unnatural for the Ithorian.
Without warning, Thurn's weapon was jerked upwards and two quick shots were fired into the space above Zrad's throne, bright green beams zipping straight into the netting and through the feasting creatures inside. The shots appeared to slice through the ysalamiri's heads, and no noise came from them bar a slight sizzling, their lives extinguished instantly.
With that, the bubble popped and the full power of the Force returned to Bomoor, supercharged through the shard in his right hand. With no effort at all, he flew back to his feet, his height now towering above the curious, armoured man who had chosen to aid him. He saw even deeper through that thick metal shell of his now. While the man was clearly well-practised at resisting Force techniques, the Jedi's heightened senses could burrow through several layers of his mental resistance and he felt a connection. Thurn held a deep pride in protecting his own, which went beyond the call to fight; it was protecting his way of life. He knew immediately that the man no longer felt any affection for Zrad Rezer or his misguided notions of restoring the Mandalorian way.
Wordlessly, he channelled his own understanding back towards the man, although he knew that his decision had already been made. He had gained an ally.
His thoughts were broken as he sensed a rising threat across the room and he perceived the cloudy red form of a Nautolan and her companions in the Force. He prepared once again to fight with the full power bestowed upon him and, this time, he had backup.
With a quick, broad swipe, Nala sliced away the second and final Twi'lek with her magenta blade as she flung an armoured warrior upwards into the ceiling, using his left foot as a focal point for her Force technique. It pleased her to hear him scream as he crunched against both the ceiling and the ground when Jericho's artificial gravity completed her work for her. It was invigorating to have sensed these barbarians' lust and greed when the Force had returned to them, but not as invigorating as feeling it turn to fear before death became them.
Off by the throne, she had spied the Jedi being spared and even helped by the traitorous Mandalorian 'second' as he gunned down the remaining ysalamiri, and his blatant acknowledgement of the Ithorian's possession of the kaiburr shard. Like the others, she had seen the Ithorian marauding his way across the room, his complete lack of understanding of the power he held obvious to one such as herself who had seen a master at work firsthand before. She gritted her teeth in rage, thinking of the leaf-munching beast's audacity to dare steal away her Master's prize - to be squandered on whatever misguided notion of charity dare possess the Jedi on any given day.
She would not bear that shame this day. She would retrieve the shard for the glory of the Master, and end this meddling beast - a beast empowered with the shard, but without his precious lightsaber. Nala still doubted his power could compare to Axion's dark teachings.
"Now!" She pointed with her lightsaber to the Jedi as she screamed to Trey and Mentis, the latter lazily but skilfully toying with an Exile who had elected to wield his own double-bladed sword against the Human cultist. "For the Master; kill the Ithorian!"
Almost in unison, Mentis and Trey flocked back in response to Nala's call to arms and the trio converged on the Jedi's position. Their prey was armed only with a stun baton and its composition did not allow for it to bear up against the impact of a lightsaber. However, they still needed to get a strike in.
Like a pack of Vornskr, the three cultists approached, but Bomoor took a great leap into the air, igniting his baton, and came crashing down on the long dinner table behind them, collapsing the end of the surface, sending chunks of food and dinnerware about the room. Before they could turn to react, the consular stabbed backwards, artfully piercing Trey's saber hand, which he had been holding menacingly behind him as he approached. The shock flew through the human's body, causing him to release his grip unconsciously.
Time had slowed and, as the cultists turned, attempting to bring their weapons up in defence, Bomoor swept the crackling weapon around in an ark of shimmering blue electricity, loosely grazing both Nala and Mentis where he could. With all three of them surprised and now vulnerable, Bomoor send another furious wave of Force energy towards the group, sending them backwards in the direction he had previously been standing.
His baton fizzled, its power core more suited to the occasional charged beating and not such a continuous onslaught. It was the second weapon today that had failed him, making him long for the elegant durability of his lightsaber.
Thurn had trotted towards the fight with the cultists with as much alacrity as could be mustered in his armour, simultaneously sliding a thin metal spike that had been concealed in his armour's gauntlet into the back of one of Grogga's men's heads to use the motion to catapult himself closer to the Ithorian, sliding his body over the deceased foe in the same motion.
As if in answer to Bomoor's concern, the turncoat Exile called, "Jedi!" and pulled a cylindrical device from a hidden compartment in his left leg, which he threw over towards Bomoor, glinting with silver and gold as it caught the grim lighting of Zrad's throne room.
Seamlessly, the consular dropped the crude baton and caught the glinting saber Thurn directed at him. It was an immediately-familiar weapon but it was not his own. The elegant rings of electrum that coated the sleek but smaller-than average hilt identified it as Thane’s lightsaber. But, whether or not his new ally was aware of this, it was the weapon he desired and he wrapped his long fingers around it firmly. Seeing its familiar design made him briefly think of Thane, he smiled unconsciously, as if the sight of the weapon wiped away the pain he had felt from his friend when last he saw him.
With a thrum of power, the focussed violet beam bore forth as though it were a wellspring of the power his off-hand was absorbing. He swivelled the blade around in his hand, testing the feel. It felt good.
Nala hissed as she saw the Ithorian light the blade, responding with a flourish of her own pointed hilt, the blade pointed behind her as she coiled her body low in a cruel imitation of the ancient pose of Makashi. A thin dribble of blood slipped down the side of her flawless cheek where Bomoor had nicked her.
More durable than her non-Nautolan companions, she was unable to draw on the pain to fuel her ferocity, relying instead on her other base drives - and her hatred for the meddling Consular, as well as the fickle barbarian that now stood alongside him. She noted how Bomoor, imbued as he was by the power of the shard, was so unlike Axion in the same circumstances. Where her master had been a brilliant, burning pyre of ego and glory, this Jedi was like a vortex of sheer power, energy itself cascading about him - the tsunami to Axion's pyre.
A hint of doubt creased a frown into her features, but her resolve remained unshattered. With another hiss, she leapt forward, spinning with her blade pointed directly at her foe's mass.
Nala’s attack was swift, focussed and enough to bring Bomoor’s full attention back to her. He brought the violet blade to his fore and caught the attack. The two purple-hued blades melded briefly before Bomoor flicked another couple of fingers, disengaging the pair and sending the Nautolan flying backwards. It was not an unexpected move and she bore it well, landing gracefully several metres back and ready to charge again.
As she was flung back, Mentis ran forward. Still holding some of the anger before, he attempted to retain the Vaapad style as he surged his blade towards Bomoor in a swift strike. However, there was another emotion that sapped his strength away: fear. Charging towards this foe seemed like facing a great monster like the terentateks of old. As Nala had felt, this power was not held in check; it flowed forth to consume all who challenged it. It was this fear that made him weaker, weak enough to be exposed.
The hulking Ithorian swung through the cultist's attack and batted him away, like an insect. Surprised and wary, Mentis halted his previous tactic and attempted to outwit the outwardly slow beast with his Force Inertia technique. Rounding on him again, the Rattataki approached at a fast pace and he felt as the regal-coloured blade was brought up, anticipating his manoeuvre as best he could. But Mentis drew on the Force, suspending his own momentum for a fraction of a second, enough for the swipe to miss him and have him edge past the Ithorian’s defences.
It had worked and Mentis brought his own blade forward, poised to cut into the ebony flesh and destroy the monster. His victory was abruptly cut short, however, as a hulking leg came towards him with its own great momentum and a tree trunk-like foot rammed against him. Had he not already slowed his momentum, the high-speed impact would have broken his spine. But it was enough to cave several of his ribs inwards as he was hurtled backwards and far away from the Ithorian.
The final cultist had been late to re-join, having to recover the double-edged hilt he had unwillingly released under his electric assault. However, he chose a different target: the Mandalorian who had previously been their guide to the station; now fighting alongside his prisoner. Having suffered insult, Trey was eager to cut someone down and the human looked like a better target than the Ithorian.
“Turned traitor, have we?” he mocked, more to re-assert himself than to make an actual point, “We know what happens to traitors, don’t we? They get put down.”
He garishly swung forwards as he paced towards the man, now close enough that his deep red blade glistened on the surface of Thurn’s armour.
To the side and responding in turn to the Human cultist's advance, Thurn sidestepped and brought a fist up into Trey's rib with one swift movement, imbuing enough physical force for a rib to audibly crack as he did so, but then found himself rewarded with a Force blast for his efforts, sending the Exile crashing backwards onto a dead Gammorrean.
Seeing the Human now arcing towards him with his double-bladed saber held high, Thurn rolled away and cut across the thigh of his attacker with that same metal spike, causing his prey to scream in pain and anger, his blade flailing more manically with each cut, stab and swipe its wielder endured.
“Bastard!” Trey growled, dropping close to the floor and shielding himself with his raised blade as he placed a hand on his wound. Rich blood seeped out and he padded his robes against it, mopping it up and willing it to clot quickly with what little restorative abilities he had. He wiped his bloodied palm across his face, smearing the dying blood cells onto his features and tasting the iron on his lips.
He rose again and pointed his long blade out accusingly towards the one who wounded him, a wild look in his brown eyes, “No more games. You will die now and your stupid little helmet will be my trophy. I may even keep your head inside.”
Thurn stood tall, cocking his head only ever-so-slightly at the Dark Jedi's churlish comments. "Unlikely," he said simply, and he raised his wrist-mounted rocket launcher at the other Human, firing the one missile held by the weapon.
It zoomed towards Trey, closing the small gap between the Exile and the Force user as it spun through the air, a streak of smoke trailing behind. However, it never reached it mark, instead hanging in the air just a few short yards in front of Trey. After only just a few seconds, it began to sputter as its meagre fuel reserves began to dwindle.
To Trey's side, Nala's offhand was outstretched towards the missile, her eyes narrowed and skin tightened across her skull by the sheer focus of the endeavour. In front of her, Mentis continued to fling himself at the Ithorian, who was swatting the pale-skinned cultist away with unnatural ease, streams of violet energy brushing his attacker's red blade away with each vigorous attempt by Mentis.
Rather than show any signs of reaction, Thurn gave a small shrug - an expression that in fact seemed exaggerated, considering the man doing it - and brought his sidearm up to point at the mystically-floating rocket. Realisation dawned on the two cultists a second too late, as Thurn's bolt collided with the missile, causing it to erupt in brilliant orange-white ball of explosive gas.
For a brief moment, Nala's concentration held the explosion within a ball of Force energy, but the speed and power of the combustion was too much, too quickly, and the Nautolan lost her 'grip' on the rocket's fiery remains. The blast billowed outwards, flinging both cultists and even Thurn backwards, carrying their bodies in either direction with force and speed.
While not caught in the blast, both Mentis and his Ithorian opponent felt the heat of it wash over them. Bomoor slowed for a moment, as the intense stimulus seemed to overwhelm him as he watched Nala and Trey get thrown onto what was left of the table. Trey, who caught the brunt of the blast, was only saved from an instant death by Nala's initial control over the explosion but the consular could feel the deep burns and shrapnel wounds that littered his front.
Mentis, feeling his wounded chest ache with every breath, looked between his brethren and his opponent and, feeling his anger drain into concern, realised he could not hold on in the fight. Using the confusion of the moment, he shot towards the two downed cultists and offered a pale hand to the Nautolan.
Nala accepted Mentis' hand, and rose from the ground with a menacing frown directed at both the downed Thurn on the far side of the chamber, and Bomoor who stood just metres away, watching the cultists with those eerily glowing jewels that were perched on either side of his elongated head.
"Get up," she hissed at Trey who was still crumpled at her side. The angular hilt of her lightsaber flew back into her scorched hand, its green flesh blistered as much as her outfit was now tattered by Thurn's weapon. The cape-like extensions that had flown from her arms were now little more than wisps of crispy fabric, and black murk marred her svelte appearance.
Looking at the Jedi Knight, he appeared like so many of those ancient warriors on the murals the various Orders had been so keen on constructing. Standing tall as he was, triumphant with his shimmering blade, he looked almost as though a halo of energy were circling about him, a living testament to the brightest and most powerful of the venerated Jedi of ages past.
And Nala was not yet ready to face a god. "We're leaving," she said to her compatriots. She would just settle for the vengeance of one when she returned to their Master.
TBC
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