Chapter 45 (Patreon)

Dathomir was a beautiful world. A rhyme worthy of Emperors.

The planet looked strikingly vivid and unusual from space. And it wasn’t because of the blue oceans, green forests, patches of desert, or swamps.

Magic.

Its concentration here was roughly twice the galactic background level. Which meant that, on the surface of this world, the practically inexhaustible reserve created by the peculiarities of this galaxy would simply stop mattering.

Concentrated mana swirled around the planet, forming a kind of aura. Though, technically speaking, that was exactly what it was. I suspected that if a sorcerer could get far enough away from my native Turtle-world and enter meditation, the sight would look much like what I was seeing now. The scale, of course, was incomparable to a human aura, and the structure was very different as well. But even so, the planet was alive. And, in its own way, sentient.

And wounded, too.

Even from here, I could see it: enormous scars the size of continents. Not fresh ones, either. Old. Ancient. By the look of them, they had to be many thousands of years old, perhaps even tens of thousands. And yet the wounds were still healing. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what could injure a being the size of a world.

Who?

That wasn’t even a question. I’d bet my beard the culprits were sentient. Despite what the word might suggest, creatures blessed with intelligence are very often spectacularly stupid. This looked like one of those cases. The scars suggested the damage had been inflicted from within. Terrible wounds, with emanations of pain still strong enough to be felt before I had even entered orbit.

No wonder people said, “The Dark Side is strong on this world.”

When old, horrific wounds ache, when broken bones throb and healing scars itch, it does not exactly encourage positivity or joy.

I emerged from meditation and immediately suppressed the faint annoyance and irritation brought on by the sudden flood of voices behind me and the bustle of the mundane world. A hearty meal was already waiting on the mess-hall table. Meditation always left me absolutely ravenous.

“So, Boss?” Arvik asked from one of the armchairs, casually sipping his caf. The others turned their attention to me as well, pelting me with curious looks. “Are we going down?”

“Not yet,” I grunted, cutting a piece from a juicy steak. “Romri, keep us in orbit for now. I want to check something first. I’ll send you the position in a moment.”

I tossed the piece of meat into my mouth and, while chewing, pulled out my datapad and plotted the orbit I needed.

“Get us as close as possible to what I sent you, please.” And with that, I could finally give the food the attention it deserved.

“On it, Boss,” our pilot’s voice came through the speaker. Connected directly to the ship through the Void Hide, the Togruta was everywhere the sensors were.

“I want to check something,” I explained in response to the Mando’s questioning look. “Sorcery stuff. You know how it is...”

“Will there be dancing around a bonfire?” asked another Mandalorian woman aboard my ship.

Mlada Vast was... hmm... a warrior in her early thirties. Calling her a girl while she was in beskar’gam didn’t quite work, but “woman”... no, for the life of me, I couldn’t bring myself to use that either. Black-haired, emerald-eyed, with slightly sharp, predatory features that did nothing to detract from her looks—if anything, they gave her a dangerous sort of charm—she was an acquaintance of Arvik’s, someone he had personally recommended I bring along.

Like all... like almost all Mandos, she was a well-trained, intelligent, cunning armored killing machine. She liked a good fight, good food, and toys that could get you killed. And outside combat or duty, she made absolutely no effort to rein in what was, frankly, a rather obnoxious personality. Honestly, it was like dealing with two different people: on watch, a focused, terse, attentive warrior; off duty, sprawled in her seat, tossing out irritating little jokes and looking one step away from scratching her crotch.

A very charming person. I’d taken a genuine liking to her within the first few hours.

“An open flame aboard a starship is extremely dangerous! Master Dziha, I strongly recommend refraining from anything of the sort until we have landed on the planet’s surface.”

And that was Threepio. A very valuable electronic blockhead, Dozdrogodul kiss him.

Emthree, my own protocol droid, I had given to Suti, and he had stayed behind at the Academy. The girl already had enough on her plate—all the administrative work was falling to her until I returned—and she and M-3PO had worked well together. She still considered him “cute, funny, and useful.” So I foisted him off on her and couldn’t be happier.

And this silver-plated* bore had been enthusiastically recommended to me by Mrs. Stratus.

Yeah, thanks a lot—from the bottom of my sarcasm.

I did try to fend Shmi off at first... but the woman looked so genuinely concerned, so eager to help. Alto had told her, apparently, that a translator might prove extremely useful on my journey. The man standing behind his wife wore such an innocent expression that I understood immediately: Threepio had driven him completely insane. And he couldn’t exactly have the droid stripped for parts—it was a gift from her son, a keepsake and all that.

Ah... the things beloved women can do to some men. Twist them around their little fingers.

Not me, though!

There was this one time Ir’rina wanted to put green curtains in my office, and I thought they clashed with the decor. I stood my ground, and that was that.

We put up emerald ones.

Mlada merely rolled her eyes, while I chuckled inwardly. If there was one thing that had blunted more than a few of her jokes, it was the droid. A blockhead was a blockhead.

“We’ll run a couple of rituals,” I told the Mandalorian anyway. “We’ll stay in orbit for a day. No big deal. That’ll give us time to contact those ladies whose details Willie gave us.”

“A whole tribe of women,” the second new Mando drawled dreamily.

Karr Vast was Mlada’s older brother, three years her senior, with the same jet-black hair and predatory features. His eyes were a less vivid shade of green, though, and his personality was a good deal easier to handle. And yes—he was one hell of a womanizer.

“Incorrect, Mr. Vast,” Threepio spoke up again. “This world was once used as a prison colony to which convicts were exiled. With the arrival of the banished Jedi Allya, who took apprentices from among the local Force-sensitives, power passed into the hands of women. The level of technological development is extremely low, with no industrial production and no spaceports.

“Dathomiri society consists of relatively small tribes ruled by shamans and clan Mothers, and both roles are reserved exclusively for women. Men are present as well, but they occupy secondary roles and traditionally maintain the household.

“The only exception is the cult of the Nightsisters, but that sect is closed to outsiders and will certainly not permit us to land within its territory. Furthermore, according to unconfirmed reports, they keep their men in conditions little different from slavery. Males within the sect serve either as bound warriors or as breeding thralls.”

“Mmm... Vast as a witch’s sex slave. Now that I’d like to see,” the warrior snickered wickedly.

“We’re brother and sister! What the hell is wrong with you?” the Mando gasped in mock horror. “I warned you that your HoloNet porn addiction wouldn’t end well! And look where we are now! My own sister... imagining me with some witch... Horrifying!”

“Incest is a family affair,” Mlada replied without the slightest embarrassment, grinning smugly.

Her brother, on the other hand, choked.

“All right, before this turns into an orgy, I’m heading down to the cargo hold,” I snorted, glancing out the viewport. The Togruta had almost brought the ship into the position I needed. “Arvik, don’t disturb me for the next three hours. Romri, once you can, disconnect from the Hide. I know these rituals, but I’m going to test how they behave with our new toy without you plugged into the ship.”

“Got it, Boss. Give me another ten minutes and I can put her on autopilot,” the Togruta’s amused voice came over the speakers.

“Will do, Boss,” Arvik said with a nod, getting to his feet, draining the last of his caf, and pulling on his helmet.

“I’m heading out too,” Koit spoke up, already finished with his meal. “I’ve got a fiancée, though. Can’t go doing anything indecent. Sorry, Mlada.”

That got everyone laughing, including the warrior herself.

“Pum-purum... Pum... Pum-pum...” I hummed thoughtfully, repeating some tune I’d heard somewhere.

The data I’d gathered confirmed my suspicion: the damage to the world’s aura had been inflicted from its surface. By something immensely powerful—and spatial in nature. I couldn’t say exactly what; I was still a novice in this field myself, but someone here had definitely been playing with portals. I’d have to dig into it more thoroughly.

And I really hoped I hadn’t done anything like that to the Turtle... Though if I had, Hecate would definitely have given me a scolding, at the very least.

I suspected that even if my portal had damaged the Turtle, it had probably been nothing more than a tiny puncture—too small for anyone to even notice. What happened here, though, had either involved something immensely powerful or been repeated far too many times. Either way, I made a note to avoid any experiments with spatial magic on living worlds for the time being.

As for the world itself: it really was alive. There was even something resembling intelligence, but... mmm... it was as unlike anything I had encountered in my previous life as it possibly could be. Then again, even that wasn’t certain.

At a glance: a different perception of time, a different kind of logic—if it had logic at all. And there was a trace of divinity mixed in as well. First, it wasn’t hidden in any way. Second, it was almost completely inactive. Third, it was spread throughout the entire world and rather weak.

Hecate could sneeze a god like that into dust.

I, of course, was nowhere near that level, but we did have a library-shrine aboard the ship. So there was some protection in place, and I figured the Moon Goddess would either come to an understanding with it or let me know if something went wrong.

Or simply ignore it.

Still, there was a way to make things a little safer by appeasing... hmm... the world, I suppose?

A labor-intensive ritual—one that cost me two dozen souls from the soul vault—would ease the pain of old wounds within a ten-kilometer radius and accelerate their healing. Judging by the complete lack of any reaction, either I hadn’t been noticed at all or what I’d done simply wasn’t considered significant, given the tiny area affected. The effect should last a couple of years and speed the recovery up a little. I deliberately chose the ugliest scar I could find, just to demonstrate my good intentions.

Anything more significant was out of the question. It would be far too costly. I’d either have to sacrifice hundreds of thousands—if not millions—or spend decades creating a ritual capable of healing an aura the size of an entire planet. I had no desire whatsoever to get my hands dirty with the first option, and I simply didn’t have the time for the second.

Maybe in a hundred years.

I’d never worked with the aura of an... uh... organism this large before. But for now, I was far too busy.

I stepped onto the bridge, nodded to the crew, and settled into the captain’s chair. No one snapped to attention, no one shouted that the captain was on the bridge, none of that. I had strangled any attempt at introducing “glorious naval traditions” in its cradle. Too distracting. It pulled me away from my thoughts and the others away from their work.

“Ron, what’s the situation on the surface? Did you get in touch with Mother Raging River?”

“I’m Ras, Boss. Mother Rashli didn’t look particularly pleased, but she confirmed permission to land and sent the coordinates.”

“Romri, you can take us down,” I said with a nod to the girl, who immediately perked up and turned back to the controls. Climbing into the Void Hide just for the landing didn’t seem like the best idea, and I still wanted to check everything over myself. The ritual had been fairly large-scale; I needed to make sure nothing had gone wrong.

Rashli regarded the landed starship with mixed feelings. On the one hand, outsiders meant stress, worry, and trouble. On the other, they meant profit for her clan.

Not credits—who needed those here?

Droid spare parts, power cells, weapons, tools, newer datapad models, HoloNet transmitters and relay units—those were valuable. There was no industry on Dathomir because the clans had no desire to pollute their home, but refusing the benefits of civilization altogether was a rather questionable choice.

Even the Nightsisters, for all their hard-line traditionalism, traded with the outside world from time to time. Though the merchandise they offered in return...

Rashli grimaced.

The “Sith of Dathomir,” as the clans sometimes called the Nightsisters, were a constant pain in the ass for the planet’s small population. Dark Side practices drew rebellious gifted girls like a magnet. Almost every little “I’m not like the others” type—who, of course, naturally, unquestionably (!!!) knew far better than her elders—sooner or later entertained the idea of joining Dathomir’s dark Force-users.

It would have been one thing if the Nightsisters really were nothing more than a haven for misfits and teenage rebels. But Mother Talzin was a first-rate bitch with ambitions of power, strength, and domination over everyone around her. So those foolish girls were quickly worked over, their heads filled with exactly the thoughts and ideas the dark Force-user wanted them to have... and every so often, the result was a raid by former clanmates who came back to rob and kill, intent on “taking what was rightfully theirs.”

The woman spat.

Just two days ago, they had managed to intercept three fools trying to run away and join the Nightsisters, and now Rashli had to spend hours talking to them. Patience, understanding, respect—as Allya had taught.

But Force, there were times when Mother Rashli wanted nothing more than to forget all the subtleties and whip the stubborn little idiots across the backside with a soaked switch. Except at their age, that would no longer help. It would only drive them further away.

She sighed. Sometimes she regretted that the clans were far gentler with their young than the Jedi Temple ever was. On very rare occasions, she even caught herself thinking that Sith training methods had something going for them. That last thought was a joke, of course. But she did sometimes find herself thinking about the Jedi ideal of “serenity.”

Then again, Allya herself had been exiled to Dathomir because of her beliefs. The Founding Mother had seen the Jedi’s downfall precisely in their excessive restrictions. Of course it was easier to forbid than to explain and guide, frightening everyone with the Dark Side. “Attachment leads to the Dark Side,” for example. What kind of nonsense was that? A sentient being with no attachments at all was emotionally crippled. A biological droid programmed to “protect the Republic.”

The clans, of course, had never spread their influence across most of the galaxy, and they had their runaways and their traitors too. But that was normal. That was simply the natural way of things.

“I can barely imagine what it must be like to live without loving a man, without holding your own children, without ever having a real friendship. And all those emotions those polished Force-users from the Temple keep shoving down as deep as they can... what a nightmare,” thought the head of the Raging River Clan as she watched the sentients descending the cruiser’s boarding ramp.

“He really does look like a Sith straight out of the old stories. Mother Talzin would be delighted,” flashed through her mind as she got a better look at the leader of her guests.

She knew of Siith’khara’Dziha. Even their backwater had access to the HoloNet, and seeing a sentient who was fairly well known in certain circles with her own eyes was rather interesting.

Straight-backed. Unhurried stride. Black robes. A face carved from stone. And curious, slightly insolent red eyes set against black sclera.

Five others followed a little behind him: three Mandalorians, a Togruta, and some floppy-eared creature with eyes on stalks carrying a long infantry spear. The unknown sentient might have looked ridiculous, but an experienced Force-user could see the readiness for a fight beneath that seemingly awkward gait, along with the easy balance of a trained warrior. Then again, none of the others looked like harmless nuna either.

“Cocky son of a bitch,” the woman muttered as she met the Jabiim sorcerer’s gaze and gave him a welcoming smile.

She didn’t like visitors. Understood their usefulness, yes, but didn’t like them. Especially when, before landing, they put on some kind of light show up in the stratosphere that seemed to make all of Dathomir sigh in pleasure.

And on top of that, these... these people had come recommended by “her friend Willie.”

That slippery womanizer.

Horned, charismatic, Devaronian, perpetually horny, red-assed bastard whom at least a dozen pretty girls in the clan dreamed of either killing or fucking to death.

Which made the planet’s satisfied moans about three times more suspicious!

“Greetings, Lord Siith,” she said, taking the welcome right up to the dangerous edge of outright mockery.

He gave a strange little grunt, then looked her over in surprise and said something in an unfamiliar, guttural language before fixing Rashli with an intent stare.

“What’s with him?” the clan Mother wondered.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I thought you were speaking my native language...” The red-eyed man paused for a moment, then broke into a bright, deeply threatening smile.

Mother Rashli felt the Force stir. The Sisters had clearly drawn their energy bows, ready to repel an attack on the matriarch. A flick of her hand, and the bows dissolved. Rashli knew about this particular quirk of the sorcerer’s—Wilmar had warned her several times, and quite insistently, about that trait of his.

“What made you think that?” the woman asked, arching an eyebrow.

“The translation was remarkably accurate, but it turns out it was just a play on words.” His smile never faded, giving the Mother one more reason to feel irritated. “Siith’khara’Dziha translates as Siith, Lord of Dziha. The latter is my family’s domain, and I was named after it.”

The man thought for a moment, glanced cheerfully at the Sisters around them, and decided to clarify:

“Honestly, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the Sith Order. I swear by Hecate’s pant—by my beard, but even I’m starting to get annoyed by these coincidences!”

The sorcerer looked so genuinely indignant at that moment that the woman smiled despite herself. He clearly wasn’t one of those Jedi-addled types, so perhaps the red-eyed man wouldn’t completely devour her nerves while staying on Raging River Clan territory.

Author’s Note:

At the time, C-3PO had not yet acquired his golden Imperial Power Armor. (Heh-heh-heh.)