Chapter 46 (Patreon)

“Good, no problem there,” I said with a smile, sipping a rather decent brew made from local herbs. I’d have to ask for the recipe and stock a couple of containers with the ingredients. The woman was made of stern stuff, by the way. From the very first time I smiled at her, she’d shown nerves of steel and perfect composure. “The droids will have the payment cargo ready in two hours. In return, I want a guide, two rancor cubs, and a copy of the esteemed Allya’s work on the proper handling of these big fellows.”

“Agreed,” Mother Rashli nodded. “But I’ll say it again: the Jedi destroyed the temple. You’re unlikely to find anything worthwhile there. All the technology the Kwa had left behind was destroyed along with the Nightsister detachment.”

“Fine by me,” I said with a careless wave, looking up for a moment from the list of goods the Raging River Clan had requested in exchange for their hospitality, a guide, and information. “I don’t need those Force-based superweapons even for free. They’d be far more trouble than they’re worth: everyone we’d expect—and plenty we wouldn’t—would come running. What interests me are the principles behind them, and even from the wreckage I should be able to piece together at least some idea of how they worked.” And the corpses, yes. There ought to be corpses there, and corpses could be raised. With a bit of effort, I could even strengthen the Shadow of Life enough to get one conversation out of them. But there was no need to mention that just yet. We were still trying not to advertise necromancy too widely, corpse animation in particular.

“Suit yourself,” the woman said with a shrug. “But if you get into a fight with the Nightsisters, my girls wash their hands of it. They’re guides, not bodyguards.”

Honestly, they’re more tour guides than trail guides, I thought, though I merely nodded to the woman as I left her home. We had an entire cruiser that could simply fly us there, not to mention airspeeders, but Dathomir was known for more than girls flinging Force arrows and the ruins of ancient structures. It also had an incredibly rich variety of flora and fauna, and that interested me just as much.

So we might as well mix business with pleasure: take a walk, get some fresh air, have a look at what was left of the ancient temple the Jedi had smashed to hell, and on the way back collect a few assorted specimens that caught my interest. Some for the greenhouses, and some for the menagerie.

“Boooss,” Mlada drawled from where she stood by the entrance to the local matriarch’s rather neat little wooden house. “That’s not fair!”

“Hmm?” I raised an eyebrow and glanced at the Mandalorian. She wasn’t so much guarding me as keeping Koit company, since it was his watch at the moment. Though, to be perfectly honest, she was really just tagging along with us.

“These are… the wrong kind of boss-women for a matriarchy,” the warrior said, gesturing at the settlement around us.

“Ahhh… You mean because right now our boys are probably eating and drinking their fill, and later they’ll be tumbling into bed with the local beauties?”

“Yes, bantha poodoo, exactly that! I thought they’d look at men like they were that same poodoo! I even put together a whole separate file of jokes! And these… these…”

I gave a short laugh, glancing at the Gungan, who was grinning broadly.

“When some curvy beauty starts making it perfectly clear to our boys that she’d like to have some proper fun on the furs, Mandos aren’t exactly in the habit of playing the blushing virgin. Frankly, I’d be surprised if any of them answered with something like, ‘Nooo, not tonight, I have a heaaadache…’”

“Reality is such a disappointment…” the Mandalorian drawled mournfully. “And they’ve gone and hidden all the good-looking ones from me!”

“What do you mean?” I gave the Gungan walking beside us a meaningful look, sending him into immediate mock alarm.

“I got a fiancée, though!” Koit protested brightly, ears flapping. “Leave me out of your kinky nonsense!”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Mlada said, lifting her chin. Then she gave the spearman a doubtful look. “Though those ears of yours…”

“Easy now, keep your distance!” the Gungan yelped, hopping aside and giving his spear a twirl. “Till you grow yourself some eyestalks, you don’t stand a chance, though!”

“You’re mean, Koit,” Mlada pouted. It lasted all of a few seconds before the three of us started snickering.

“By the way, Boss, why the hell did you tell the droids to throw in that container of women’s underwear as a gift?”

“Well, Quartermaster’s off on a little outing,” I said with a shrug and a smile. “I’m surprised you never suffered from his… mmm… culinary tastes.”

“I don’t wear any,” the woman snorted. “You don’t wear underwear under this jumpsuit, and when I’m out of it, I don’t need underwear in the first place.”

“We’ll skirt the edge of the Red Marshes,” our guide said seriously, though without the pointed displeasure she’d shown before.

For the first few days of the journey, the clan guides had treated us with a certain amount of disdain, but the seriousness and discipline of my companions had reassured the women somewhat and softened their attitude toward us.

They were a little irritated by how often we stopped to collect plant specimens that caught my interest, and they liked it even less when we occasionally stopped to catch some of the local wildlife, but all of that had been part of our agreement, so there was nothing to complain about.

“Anything interesting in there?” I asked the woman, studying the reddish haze spreading across the lowland ahead.

“There are,” the guide said after a moment’s thought. “Nightsisters. But we’d really rather not run into them. Some of them are completely unhinged.”

“Some?” I scratched my beard thoughtfully, looking at the woman.

Dathomir had an interesting culture, at least where our hosts were concerned. Raging River was a comparatively reasonable clan with a distinctly matriarchal way of life. It was a little odd to see so many tall, striking women and girls—brash, sharp-tongued, impressively muscled, and dressed rather revealingly—while the men were, almost without exception, quiet and unassuming. For a tribal society, of course.

We hardly saw any men at all, so I only learned the broadest details about how they lived: there were slaves, and there were men of the clan. The former had no rights whatsoever; the latter lived much like the women of the Turtle’s desert continent—quietly, modestly, and with no say in anything.

Why had things ended up this way here? I couldn’t say for certain, but I had a few ideas. Allya, the exile. A Force-sensitive woman who had managed to find common ground with a living planet and point her followers in the right direction. For some reason, those followers were exclusively female, and over time they built what amounted to a magical matriarchal society led by shamans. The strongest among them were gifted both in the Jedi tradition and in shamanism. The most respected of these women eventually became the Mothers of their clans.

And in general, there were plenty of Force users among the women here, though most of them were frankly weak by Jedi Order standards, while almost any woman could learn Dathomiri magic. I suspected that was a gift from their world. I often heard the locals talking about spirits, and Dathomir itself frequently came up in connection with the Great Spirit. That fit rather neatly with some thoughts I’d been having.

Could the spirit of the planet be looking kindly upon its inhabitants, generously granting them gifts in exchange for their refusal to pursue “progress”? The idea of defiling the world—not with technology itself, but with large-scale industry that polluted it and caused it “pain”—was practically one of the central tenets of the clans’ worldview. That didn’t stop them from using imported droids, technological devices, and similar conveniences, or from maintaining small workshops to service them, but that was about as far as their technology went.

Everything the locals made themselves—clothes, footwear, primitive tools, some of their buildings—was made with as little harm to the environment as possible. In short, this was a true world of shamans with a touch of druidism.

Then there were the local gods, though they seemed more like avatars of the world itself: the Fanged One and the Winged One. The first was a gargoyle embodying the darker aspects: fury, anger, vengeance, war. The second represented the lighter ones: life, fertility, healing, peace.

Threepio had, in general, given me an accurate briefing on the planet and its population, but there were plenty of details that never made it onto the HoloNet. For example, besides the major tribes, there were also smaller clans and clan associations. And if the Nightsisters were something of a pillar of Darkness in this world, then most of the smaller groups were little more than ordinary bands of raiders. They were women cast out by their own people, rejected by the Sisters, or simply unwilling to submit to Mother Talzin.

They raided settlements, carried men off into slavery, stole other people’s slaves, schemed, fought among themselves, and often dreamed of one day becoming a major clan or even a tribe in their own right.

Funny thing was, the more or less light-aligned Dathomiri hated the latter even more than the Nightsisters. Why more or less light-aligned? Because the locals didn’t practice anything resembling “Jediism.” Raging River, for example, might favor the Light Side of the Force, but they weren’t above making use of certain aspects of the Dark.

The gangs, meanwhile, were despised for their terrible discipline. With the Nightsisters, it was sometimes possible to come to an agreement, and you could even expect them to keep their word. Any deal with one of the bandit clans, on the other hand, lasted only until their leader changed—or until the current one changed her mood. Both happened fairly often, because the gangs simply had no idea how to handle Darkness properly.

“Depends,” the woman said with a sigh. “If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t be worried about trouble, but with so many unattended men…”

The Dathomiri woman smirked and left the thought unfinished, but it was clear enough anyway.

“Koit, you hear that? You’re in danger again!” Mlada laughed from under her helmet.

“Terrible planet, though,” the spearman agreed, twitching his ears in exaggerated fear. “Crazy women hunting almost-married Gungan. Me, I starting to feel bit-bit sexually harassed!”

Even our guides burst out laughing at that.

“You know, Long-Ears,” the younger one spoke up, “if I were you, I wouldn’t joke about that. Exotic types tend to attract admirers.”

“Hah, Koit! So if they round us all up, looks like you might get a little something sweet out of it too!” Vast joined in. “Just close your eyes and picture some pretty long-eared girls.”

“Mother,” a tall, very pale woman said, bowing respectfully before her matriarch. “Two have come to us. They fled from Raging River.”

“Mmm?” Talzin raised an eyebrow, prodded the slave massaging her feet with her toe, and waited for the rest. Runaways from the tribes were not exactly common, but neither were they the sort of thing that warranted an urgent report. Which meant there was more to it.

“Raging River has guests. The Rung, a Consular-class cruiser, belongs to Siith’khara’Dziha, a sorcerer from Jabiim. He set out for the ruins of the Star Temple two days ago with a Gungan and three Mandalorians. Today, if we’ve guessed their route correctly, they should have been passing along the edge of the Red Marshes. Two hours ago, one of the patrol groups failed to check in.”

“What kind of group?”

“The punishment detail. They’ve been wandering around out there for a month now. I wouldn’t have disturbed you over that, but after hearing what the runaways had to say about Raging River’s guests, I suspect the patrol ran into the sorcerer and the Mandos.”

“Interesting.” Mother Talzin interlaced her fingers, considering. The Sisters themselves were no great loss. Their punishment was meant to carry a risk of death; no one would mourn them. The mysterious sorcerer who had piqued even her interest some time ago, however, was another matter entirely. “Prepare a detachment. You’ll go to the Temple. Scout the area, and do not attack first. As soon as you find the Jabiim party, contact me. I want to speak with this sorcerer.”

“Yes, Mother.” The woman bowed respectfully, then left the matriarch’s chambers.

“A sorcerer, then,” the ruler of the Nightsisters murmured, settling back into her lavish chair. The slave seated on the floor beside her immediately resumed massaging her feet with practiced hands. “So he was the one behind whatever happened in orbit? Curious…”

Something was stirring in the wider galaxy. Something connected to this man—if he was, in fact, a man. The Sisters did not live in isolation. The HoloNet, certain Force practices, and sorcery all brought knowledge of events beyond Dathomir. The emergence of a new branch of the gifted had not exactly shaken Talzin; it had merely piqued her interest. What truly intrigued her was that neither the Force nor magic had been able to tell her anything useful.

The visions were clouded. She had not been able to get so much as a glimpse of Jabiim’s future, while her sorcery had run up against a powerful form of protection unlike anything she knew.

She had even considered sending one of the Sisters to Jabiim to study there—someone level-headed and properly motivated. The possibilities such methods offered for concealment interested her far too much to ignore.

“Tum-tum-tum, tu-tudururu-tum…” I hummed contentedly as I looked over our trophies. Five Dathomiri witches. I had definitely chosen the right world for my first vacation! Less than five years ago, I’d been wondering how to get my hands on some gifted people all to myself, and now… bam! They’d come to me all by themselves! And chances were they knew at least something about the local shamanism, too.

I was also downright delighted by how effective our Mandos were. With amulets like the ones I’d given the Jedi Council, three fighters had dropped those silly girls as if they were children, all with their blasters set to stun. And they really were young, foolish girls. I’d even be careful when working with them. Partly because they were simply pretty and rather cute when they weren’t pulling those contemptuous faces, and partly because I had no desire to seriously antagonize the Dathomiri locals.

It was one thing to say, “They attacked us, so we stunned them. Here, take your girls back.” Quite another when there was no one left to return.

Given the change in circumstances, I called the Rung in to pick us up. We were aboard now, having sent the Raging River guides on their way. I wasn’t about to complicate matters by continuing on foot and collecting specimens with prisoners in tow; we’d simply fly the rest of the way. These five would give me plenty to do.

Talli seethed in silence. While the other four of her “friends” were practically frothing at the mouth, hurling insults and threats at their captors, the young witch preferred to save her breath and think. Unlike those dregs of the clan, she understood that threats were going to get them nowhere.

The problem was, their group had brought this situation on themselves. Their leader’s “brilliant” plan had been simple: they would win, drag the prisoners back, and be forgiven. Simple and elegant. Apparently, after a month of crawling around the swamps, the woman had finally gone completely off the rails—and she’d never been entirely on them to begin with.

The bunch she’d ended up with were scum. First-rate, top-shelf scum. Their leader and her friend were a pair of losers who, together with a third companion—now deceased—had once attacked their former commander. That wasn’t why they were here, of course. They were here because three of them had jumped one woman and still somehow managed to get their faces beaten in, with one of them even ending up dead.

Half the clan had laughed at the pathetic idiots, and that was probably what had finally sent their commander over the edge. The mockery had always driven her absolutely insane.

Another one had tried to fuck the senior shaman’s personal slave. Crazy idiot. As if there weren’t enough men in the pens already. Talli still couldn’t understand how the moron hadn’t gotten herself killed over it. She certainly would have killed someone for touching her property. Especially some uppity little brat.

Sharing with a friend was one thing, maybe. Even then, “Dark gifted” and “sharing” didn’t exactly go together unless you’d already grown bored with the toy.

The last one might have irritated her most of all. She was… nothing. Absolutely nothing. Passive, sluggish, lazy. As far as Talli was concerned, there were only two places for someone like that: exile or the altar. Just… trash.

She was the only normal one here, though she accepted that her punishment was deserved. She’d gotten caught. She had broken into the senior shaman’s house and been caught rummaging through her library. But at least Talli had a reasonably respectable reason for it: among the Nightsisters, finding a mentor willing to teach beyond the bare minimum for free was difficult—almost impossible.

Knowledge had a price, and she, a young gifted woman, had nothing that would interest her elders. She could have tried sucking up to someone, put her tongue to good use, or found some other way to make herself useful, but her pride would never allow it.

Talli saw herself becoming, if not a Mother, then at least a high-ranking shaman within the clan. The very thought of having to grovel or satisfy the lust of Sisters who took pleasure in making other Dathomiri women submit sent a storm of rage through her. She yearned for might and the power of knowledge. The secrets known by the elders called to her, and the Mother’s skill and power filled her with awe.

And yes, there was status, respect, and authority too, of course, though… those were hardly the main point. More like a pleasant bonus: comfort, and the ability to kick idiots around instead of having to put up with them.

One mistake, and Talli had ended up in the swamps… “Long Patrol” was where screwups got sent. Supplies were replenished at locations specified during check-ins, there were no comforts to speak of, predatory flora and fauna were everywhere… and no one knew when they’d be allowed to return.

There had been cases where groups like theirs never came home at all. The patrols either got eaten, died in clashes with crazed raider bands, or simply ran away themselves. The Sisters didn’t mourn them. All that “my dear sister” and “my beloved daughters” sounded nice enough. In practice, if you were trash, you were treated accordingly.

Talli exhaled angrily through clenched teeth. Their situation had gone from bad to absolutely fucking awful. They’d been taken prisoner and locked inside a portable animal pen, which the mysterious red-eyed Boss had reinforced with some kind of artifacts. They had no weapons, an energy grid blocked the way out, and trying to jump over it was useless thanks to a field that instantly slammed anyone who tried straight into the ground. The girl had even taken a certain amount of pleasure in watching the idiots from her group plant their faces in the dirt over and over again.

They were camped beside the ruined pyramid-temple, while their captors had a fucking starship, one of its twin laser-cannon turrets aimed squarely at their pen. At any moment they could simply be thrown aboard and flown away, and then… best case, they’d be sold into slavery.

A shitty situation no matter how you looked at it.

And most importantly, unlike those idiots, she absolutely did not want the Sisters to come and “rescue” them. If that happened, the damage to her reputation would be catastrophic. They had been captured by men. And no one in the Clan would give a damn that one of the Mandos was a woman. There were more men. And their leader was a man!

The only way Talli could preserve even a shred of the Sisters’ respect was to escape on her own, but with these stupid banthas…

Her thoughts returned to the captors’ Boss. Creepy bastard—may the Fanged One eat him! And the way he had looked at them?! With the same love and eager anticipation she felt when looking at some new records of ancient knowledge she’d managed to acquire through sheer cunning. And he’d been smiling too, damn him, like some fucking deranged lunatic who had sunk so deep into Darkness that Mother would have slit his throat without a second thought.

Those little smiles sent shivers racing over her skin and left her genuinely afraid. He was obviously one of the Dark gifted. Strange, unusual, but gifted all the same. The floating objects and the ripples in the Force with that odd undertone made that clear enough.

The fact that she couldn’t sense the Dark Side from him did little to reassure her. A man dressed like that all but announced some kinship with the Sith—if he wasn’t one himself.

“Damn it,” the girl hissed when she caught the red-eyed man looking at her with interest. Only now did it occur to her just how much she stood out among those shrieking idiots. And it looked like that was about to cost her…

Because the bastard in the black robe had finished whatever he was doing with that strange Force-tinged thing, and now he was walking toward their pen, looking straight at her.

Looking at her with anticipation…