The Legends of Darth Skhorrn Part 3

The Legends of Darth Skhorrn
Part III: Revenge
Nar Shaddaa
3864 BBY
Darkness had never agreed with Nar Shaddaa. The Smuggler’s Moon, as it was oftentimes called, cast so much light when the sun, Y’Toub, set, that one could be forgiven if they didn’t realize it. For a rock that wasn’t even an actual planet, Nar Shaddaa certainly had a way of making one feel small. One person in seventy-two billion could easily get lost like they had never existed in the first place.
Neon light painted the atmosphere a sickly orange, but only half of that was light pollution. The other half was just the standard kind that was inevitably generated when billions of beings inhabited one moon, building vertical cities out of sheer necessity because all terrestrial land had been swallowed up by durasteel and ferrocrete centuries ago. The ecumenopolis was home to every vice imaginable and invented new ones every standard day. When you needed to kill time, it wasn’t hard to find someone eager to take your money, either by wager or blasterpoint. Either way, it was a good way to kill a few hours.
“Nu doth wahca!” <Bets are closed> Uggiz Prussk declared. The swoop race organizer typed into his datapad, and the screens on the walls of The Tipsy Xuuva displayed swoop racers’ stats and projected time. Gamblers would place their bets on a select racer and how quickly they could complete the track, or if they wanted double stakes, how long before they crashed and burned. The course was rough, and crashes were frequent. But if a bet wasn’t exact, the person who laid it had to pay on the spot, or run the track themselves and beat the time they bet on. Most beings stuck to betting on racers completing the course.
Vislo Nomm sat at the bar, nursing a Correlian ale. He had placed his bet five minutes ago, and Prussk had been all too eager to take it. The hutt believed the bet was suicide, but Nomm knew something he didn’t, and that was what he was betting on.
The first racer was a human woman named Val Danodel. As the youngest and newest racer to this course, no one was betting on her to complete the track in record time. The rookies were always used to warm the crowd up. Nine out of ten could finish the course alive, but it would be at a steady pace. No one ever bet on the rookies. The odds were just too safe.
Which is precisely why Prussk had lain hundred-to-one odds on Danodel finishing her set in forty-four seconds. The current track record was forty-five. It was a suicidal bet. There was no way a rookie could beat the bottom five times, let alone the track record. Everyone was betting against her to fail. Most of the gamblers here were half-decent swoop racers themselves. Betting on Danodel to crash and burn at a minute and thirty seconds was safe enough that even if they couldn’t pay, they could safely beat if they had to run the course.
“Jot bu koo raca doa!” <Let the first race begin>
On screens all around the cantina, the timer began to count down. As soon as it ended, Danodel took off like a mynock out of hell. She wasn’t taking it slow. Gamblers all around the cantina drew closer to their respective monitors. Danodel maneuvered the course expertly, hitting every magnetic booster, accelerating her speed exponentially. She avoided the obstacles and other speeders with nearly prophetic reflexes.
No one could believe their eyes. Surely there was something wrong with the clock. No rookie could possibly be doing this well. But sure enough, Val sped over the finish line, alive and intact. Her final time: forty-two seconds flat. Roars of outrage rose up in every corner of the Tipsy Xuuva. No one had ever heard of this Val Danodel in any of the swoop circuits. This was her first race. She should be roadkill, a smear on the track that better, more experienced racers avoided on their way to record times.
Several patrons refused to pay their debts, claiming Danodel had cheated.
“Uba bla bu masii. Uba bap wamma, mo uba raca. Jee nah hauay kaee coo wohot tee wamma haku la wamma, doth fa du moulee rah mo bonsa. Woy uba pihoha taa Uggiz Prussk haku doth bo?” <You know the rules. You either pay, or you race. I will not tolerate any one who does not pay what they owe, be it in money or blood. Do you dare deny Uggiz Prussk what is his?> That shut up most of the dissenters, all except for one. A Devaronian named Kut Dhag. Incidentally, he was the second-tier champion. He didn’t appear happy that a nobody had stolen the seat at the top from his grasp.
“I want her swoop bike examined! She had to have cheated, and I want her to run the course on a clean bike! Or I get to run it on hers.”
“Uba cha sepka nei, pahna kloonkee. Whao kuna kee tee wamma haku uba wamma, kuna kee joggdu bu pacmhanaduee dah Mee delepua. Tah doth mee jotke yoyohba. Wamma mi, mo bai bimhee.” <You do not dictate to me, horn head. If you will not pay what you owe, you will run the course on YOUR bike. This is your last chance. Pay me, or saddle up.>
Dhag glared at the hutt. By this point, Danodel had made her way into the cantina to collect her winnings. The Devaronian spotted her at the bar and stormed over to her side.
“I know you cheated, human filth!” He cried, slapping the drink out of her hand. “Modded swoop bikes are illegal in this circuit!”
Danodel calmly turned to face Dhag. “I didn’t cheat. My bike is clean. And you owe me a drink.” She turned to the bartender, “Another Rancor Blood, on him.” Enraged at being dismissed so easily, Dhag grabbed the girl by the shoulder as he reached for the knife in his belt. But as he spun her around, the holdout blaster resting she was holding at hip level fired into his gut three times.
The other patrons in the cantina felt their hands jerk for their own blasters, but Uggiz Prussk’s voice boomed out over the cantina. “Veee, han mee wanga. Fa doth wa dan killee. Kaee coo kouikei bu tam champio hatkocanh pim nallya nei!” <Everyone, hold your guns. It was a good kill. Anyone who harms the new champion will answer to me!>
That settled it. Everyone eased their hands away, but the tension was palpable. One wrong move could set off this proverbial powder keg. And just as Fislo Nomm was wondering if he shouldn’t help spark it along just to watch it burn, a cloaked figure took the seat beside him.
“Have you found the one?” The newcomer asked. Down the bar, Danodel rooted in Dhag’s belt pouches for the credits necessary to pay for her drinks.
“Yes, Master. She does indeed have the reflexes of a Force user. I think she is unaware of her gift, as I was when you found me.”
Alek-Kith Irimore ordered two shots of Renan Irongut for herself. She tossed the first one down her throat, and the other she poured over her artificial leg. Irongut was renowned for, among other things, preventing and/or removing rust from metal. Her metallic leg had not had as much upkeep at it probably required, but Fislo was not in the habit of correcting his master. One such error had cost him a lightning blast to the back some years ago. As the alcohol dripped down her leg, she lifted her foot in the air and curled her large claw, Irongut dripping from the tip.
“Good. Collect your winnings and introduce yourself. Then bring her to the ship. Tell her you know the longing in her heart can not be satiated by swoop races and bar fights. Tell her you can give her power, and she will come freely to us.”
“Yes, Master Skhorrn.”
With that, Alek-Kith stood up from her seat and made her way out of the cantina. She no longer moved with the grace of an assassin. Her steps were slow and heavy, her prosthetic leg more a crutch than a limb. Nomm finished his ale with one gulp and fished some credits onto the bar to pay for both his and his master’s drinks. He knew he needed to talk to Val Danodel, but there was something else that demanded his attention first. Something he’d been putting off for far too long.
Walking towards the door, Nomm patted Danodel on the shoulder as he passed by her and said, “Good race, newbie.” She whipped her head around to look at him, but he was already out the door. Drawing his cloak around himself, Fislo Nomm began to walk in the direction of the spaceport their ship was docked. He knew it wouldn’t take too long to catch up to his master, but he needed the element of surprise. Fortunately, she had elected to leave her mask on the ship. An aging Togruta stood out less than the infamous Darth Skhorrn, whose famed mask would instantly give her away.
There, passing in front of a Jatz club, Alek-Kith was moving at a dilapidated pace. Nomm had resented her in the past, but seeing her like this, he was filled with a new sensation: loathing. When she had discovered him on Cato Neimoidia, she had been aging, but still had a deadly step to her. She moved with precision and determination, killing with lightsaber and claw alike. But the years since had taken their toll. Nomm knew it was few who used the dark side as long and potently and his master had and lived to old age. In truth, he knew he should have killed her the first time she showed any sign of fallibility. But he had known she had more to teach him at the time. However, there was nothing more he needed from her. Nothing except the title of Master. And the mantle of Darth Skhorrn.
Nomm’s hood draped low over the left side of his face, the product of only having one lethorn. As he stalked his master, he could feel his resentment towards her growing into hate. For too long she had used him as her errand boy. Too long had she promised him power and glory, promised him the mantle of Skhorrn but had never told him how to attain it. Well, the time for promises was over. No longer would he wait to inherit what was his by right.
Up ahead, Irimore turned into the alley next to the club. She was trying to take a shortcut to the docking bay. Nomm felt his ire grow hotter. Shortcuts were the mark of weakness. It was what the Jedi accused them of using because they dared to feel the Dark Side. How he hated anything that vindicated the Jedi. Fislo quickened his pace, determination set in every stride. Hate and purpose lit within him, giving energy to his steps, sharpening his breath. Summoning the Force, Fislo Nomm leapt onto the roof next to the Jatz club.
Crouching nearly onto all fours, he crept along the roof, never letting Darth Skhorrn leave his sight. Every muscle in his body tensed, like a nexu ready to pounce. But it wasn’t time yet. He needed her more isolated. Anyone could see down the alley from either side. Better to let her get back to the ship, where surveillance was shoddy. Smugglers and pirates frequented their docking bay of choice, and the officials knew when and whom when to turn a blind eye to.
Sticking to the rooftops, Nomm trailed Skhorrn all the way back to the docking bay. Just as his master entered their berth, he jumped down in front of her, blocking her path to their ship’s loading ramp. But though he had beaten her to the ship, her face showed no sign of surprise.
“Apprentice. I take it my orders were followed?”
“You’re not giving orders anymore, ‘Master.’” Nomm said the final word as if it were a profanity. Skhorrn merely clasped her hands together in her sleeves, joining them.
“Is that so? So the time has now come. You think you are ready to kill me and take my mantle?”
“I KNOW I am! You have trained me well, but for too long now you have been content to waste my talents, instead using me to run your errands. I will not actively partake in finding a rival to be your apprentice. After I kill you, I will train the girl myself as the new Darth Skhorrn!” Whipping his cloak aside, Nomm struck his lightsaber on. The blade snapped on with a sound like lightning. But his master merely smiled, if it could be called that. The corner of her lip curved upward ever so slightly, nearly imperceptible.
“My dear deluded disciple, I’m disappointed. Killing me now would hardly be an accomplishment. You would not earn my mantle. The power of the dark side in my mask would probably drive you mad. Because what you never understood is this: you do not TAKE the mantle of Darth Skhorrn. You EARN it. And my boy, you waited too long.”
Lightning arced towards Nomm from behind. He turned too late, and it struck him in the back, sending him flying forward. A figure shrouded in darkness descended from the ramp of the ship Nomm and Skhorrn called home. Lifting a tattooed hand, they called Nomm’s lightsaber to it. Fislo tried to extend his own hand toward the newcomer, but Darth Skhorrn’s large claw slammed down on his hand, piercing straight through and pinning it to the floor. The Irongut from earlier had not come entirely off during her journey to the spaceport, and the alcohol burned.
“You thought me feeble.” Her middle claw dug into his hand. “You thought me weak.” The last claw slowly sunk in next to the previous one. By this point, the newcomer stood by Skhorrn’s side.
“But I had a mission of my own. I saw your failure years ago, apprentice. I deliberately showed weakness to test your resolve to kill me, and you did nothing. You did not test your mettle against me when I was strong. You waited until I was weak and defenseless. But what you failed to remember was this: I am as strong as two Sith. I cut off my own limb and used it’s bloody and broken remains to craft something from the dark side, something pure. You could never understand that. I thought you understood what sacrifice was when you used your own lethorn to kill, but you just took the only weapon you had at the time.
“When I saw your failure, I knew I would have to find your replacement.” At these words, the third person removed their shroud. He was an Iridonian Zabrak. One of his eyes blazed yellow with the dark side, but the other was a dull blue. “I trained a second apprentice. His name is Kustug. He understands sacrifice. Trapped in a cave-in for three of his planet’s weeks, he carved off pieces of his own body for food, including his right eye and tongue. He is exactly the kind of Sith worthy of inheriting my mantle. I have been training him ever since your failure. And now the time has come.”
Kustug said nothing, but struck on Fislo’s lightsaber. Without a word, he plunged it down into the Chagrian’s neck, twisting the hilt so he decapitated him.
“Well done, my new apprentice.” Again, she smiled the most she could: a small tug at the corner of her mouth. In a flash, Kustug stood, whipping the lightsaber out of Fislo’s neck, deactivating it, and clipping it to his belt in one fluid motion. The aged Togruta had begun walking toward the ship’s ramp when she stopped and turned. There was a good ten meters separating master and apprentice.
“There is one final matter to attend to.” Darth Skhorrn said, pulling her arms apart from inside her sleeves. In each hand, she gripped a lightsaber. Holding her arms out to the side, she activated them. Kustug angled his body sideways, presenting the smallest possible target. Planting his feet firm, his hand hovered over his newly acquired weapon, but he did not draw it yet. For a moment, all was silent. It was as if Nar Shaddaa, the moon that never slept, held its breath for the first time.
Darth Skhorrn twirled her lightsabers and rushed at Kustug, her speed betraying her age. With one saber pointed towards her apprentice and the other held close to her chest horizontally, she closed the distance between them in a fraction of a second. The zabrak merely shifted weight to his forward foot and spun on the ball of it, drawing his own saber up as he activated it. By the time he completed the turn on his foot, Kustug sheathed his lightsaber yet again. From drawing it to sheathing it, his entire strike had been one fluid motion.
Alek-Kith Irimore stood still for just a moment before exhaling, her breath trailing in the night air. Then, her head toppled backwards, falling off her shoulders and rolled to a stop at Kustug’s feet. The Zabrak bent to pick up the severed head by the head tail. Walking to Nomm’s body, he picked up the other head by the one good lethorn. He also retrieved the comlink from Nomm’s belt so he could locate the tracker he had placed on Val Danodel when he left the cantina. Kustug took both heads aboard the ship that now belonged to him. When he returned from his next task, he would clean them of flesh and display the skulls.
Leaving both heads in his new cabin, Kustug opened the cabinet that had previously been Alek-Kith’s. Inside, her mask seemed to glare at him. Kustug took it from its resting place with reverence. He felt the presence of the Dark Side within this mask. It was indeed powerful, as his former master had claimed. He could feel it calling to him. Not in whispers, as Alek-Kith had when she first forged it. Instead, Kustug felt a bloodlust from it that matched his own. Placing it over his face, he felt a sudden surge of rage pour out of his soul.
Kustug had to brace himself against the cabinet to keep from collapsing to his knees. His breath came out hot, and felt heavy. But he held firm. In the midst of the rage, he felt a presence. It felt familiar.
“Darth Skhorrn,” it whispered. Kustug recognized it as Alek-Kith’s voice, but it seemed younger than any time he had ever heard it. He began to look at the Heads-Up Display on the lens of the mask. It seemed to track his eye movement and know when he wanted to focus on any given feature. There, ‘Recordings’. It seemed the mask kept its own record of every time it had been worn. Kustug searched for the very first recording, from when his master had first forged the mask on Malachor, so many years ago.
The mask’s interface proved quite easy to navigate, and he quickly found what he was looking for. He saw through Irimore’s eyes as she hobbled out of the temple and to her starfighter. Watched as she focused on the pillar covered in ancient Sith carvings. She seemed to focus on one carving in particular and said aloud, “That's it. That's what I will be. Darth Skhorrn.”
Kustug breathed heavily through the mask. Her voice, so young and yet full of hatred. It matched the whisper he heard when he donned the mask. This was the mantle. He had earned it. The Dark Side and the mask had tested him, and he been found worthy. Darth Skhorrn.
Looking at the two heads that would soon take pride of place in his future trophy room, Kustug felt the need for an apprentice. He was a Sith now, and needed to pass on his strength so the Order could continue to be strong. Taking out the comlink he had taken from Nomm’s body, the zabrak synced it with his artificial eye, which then was able to display information to the lens of the mask. It was like it was reading him as he was reading it. He now he a bead on where Val Danodel was. She was leaving the cantina, presumably with her winnings.
Striding down the ship’s ramp, Kustug Droma faded away with each step. As his old identity grew weaker, a new one rose in its place. Feeling strength previously undreamt of, Darth Skhorrn marched into the night, seeking the human who would soon become either his apprentice, or the third skull in his collection. Nar Shaddaa had plenty of both.