In that moment, Hetzen came to understand how it felt to be helpless before these living gods. Even while wounded, even while concentrating on using her sorcery to keep the Gore Wasp at bay, the Jedi deflected or dodged every blaster bolt the marauder sent her way... and sent three of them back at her. One melted her pistol into a heap of slag, burning her hand through her leatheris glove. The other two slammed into her chestplate, stealing the momentum of her charge, leaving her gasping for breath. It was easy for the Jedi to disarm the winded marauder.
Hetzen's warblade flew from her hand, pitching over the side of the wall and disappearing into the chaotic battle below. The marauder lieutenant was in no condition to even think of going after it. Instead she sank to her knees. She could feel blood seeping into her shirt, soaking the fabric; one of those reflected blaster bolts had punched through her armor, charring the flesh of her gut and leaving it oozing. Who was she, to think she could kill a Jedi? Even The Mongrel, who had fought a dozen of them, had never killed one. The most legendary marauder could only
survive.
It looked like she couldn't manage even
that.
Vision blurring, she gazed out over the battle. From atop the south wall, she had a perfect vantage point to see it all. Some souped-up light freighter had managed to blow a hole through the southwestern defenses, annihilating the eight-meter-thick wall in a single volley. Rebels and Jedi were pouring through the breach, flooding into a War Camp already infested with infiltrators planting charges and freeing slaves. Enemy air cover streaked overhead while Micians, Skytroopers, and even Wookies descended from above to join the fight. Their reinforcements were unending.
Nothing seemed to so much as slow them down; the Skitterwing swarm, The Wretchedness, the Chrysalide apex predators, the invaders brushed all of the Maw's sinister creations aside in moments. Walls that had kept out Shi'ido rebels for
years had fallen in an hour to this alliance from "civilized" space. Who could possibly stand against them? They had an
army of Jedi, each one of them an unstoppable slaughter machine, leaving piles of butchered Mawites in their wake. That was one way of spreading serenity, Hetzen thought, her bitter chuckle becoming a cough.
Corpses were pretty peaceful, after all.
Or were they? Glancing down at the breach, squinting to clear the pain-filled bleariness of her vision, Hetzen spied a strange and unnerving sight: an
army of dead men, spilling forth to contain the huge rebel intrusion. Behind them stood a tall, handsome sorcerer, directing his undead legion with his shadowy power. He was fearless despite the odds, or at least
projected fearlessness. Even as one of the Jedi, one of those demigods of destruction, bore down on him, he did not flinch. Even as the Jedi subverted his power over his minions, he did not show hesitation to stand his ground.
What Hetzen felt in that moment wasn't hope, not exactly. She still couldn't see how they could win. The armies and fleets and mystic orders arrayed against them were far, far vaster than their own. The governments that called for their destruction controlled territories that could have swallowed the Mawite dominion many times over. It was just as the Heathen Priests had taught her, just as the Taskmaster had drilled into her mind as she hung in the agonizing place between life and death: the forces of tradition, determined to preserve the corrupt status quo, were impossibly strong.
But the Brotherhood was an elemental force, the natural response to millennia of war between Jedi and Sith, Republics and Empires. The galaxy was weary of the burden of history, of the same conflicts playing out over and over again. That was why the Avatars had brought forth the Maw: to burn away all of this crushing stagnation, and to clear the way for something
new. The Brotherhood's victory was far from assured; in fact, it was unlikely, an uphill battle. But they had a glorious purpose, a holy mission to inspire them. They might all die, might be crushed and forgotten...
... but they'd die for the
one worthwhile cause.
A message meant for The Mongrel was automatically redirected into Hetzen's earpiece, and she heard it through the haze of pain.
"The tides will shift. Stand fast." The Brotherhood was not giving up, even with their walls breached and their soldiers butchered. Hetzen could see more Mawite champions emerging to join the fight, like the mighty warlord Maestus, her crimson blade leading the way. Their faith was strong despite the odds. Hers should be, too. With a grunt of pain, Hetzen forced herself to her feet. Today was her day of dying. She was certain of it.
But her death was going to
mean something.
"One day," the marauder warleader panted, breathing hard,
"your order will fall. Your thirty-thousand years of influencing the galaxy, pulling the strings of the people who lack your magic, will come to an end." She grunted as her lungs protested, pressing a hand to her side. It came away sticky and red. That second reflected blaster bolt had gotten her good.
"Maybe I won't be around to see it. Maybe none of us will. But we'll open the door and show people the way to ending your rule." Drawing the long knife she kept in her boot, Hetzen forced herself to her feet.
"Loose the wardogs!" she shouted into her comlink, and cages throughout the interior of Goshen War Camp were thrown open. Out of them came the pride and joy of the Scar Hounds, the beasts they treated as members of their tribe: the
firefang wardogs. Ravenously hungry and eager to hunt beside the tribesmen they considered packmates, the cyber-enhanced charhounds leapt at the onrushing rebels and soldiers, fighting to tear out throats and burn men alive with their fire breath. The Scar Hounds cheered as their companions took the field, their spirits restored. They'd fight to the end.
So would Hetzen, even if the end was soon.
She couldn't charge anymore, couldn't run at the Jedi, could barely even swing her knife... but she tried, even though every movement was agony. She threw herself bodily at Amelia in a move that was half-tackle and half-stab, making one last plunge toward glory as she aimed her serrated dagger at the Jedi's collarbone. If she was going to go out in battle, she resolved to herself, she would die on the offensive, in the midst of attacking the enemies of the Maw. Then surely the Three Avatars would look down on her with favor, and she would be reborn into their new galaxy.
Her knife, and her full weight, fell toward Amelia.
Zoraya Ives-Ayres
Thurion Heavenshield
already herding child slaves away. Their paths just missed each other, the King of Midvinter leaving as Nimdok arrived. The latter’s path did converge upon that of another familiar face, however.
