Star Wars: Slave Of Darkness

The ancient Sith's power flooded the room, pressing down on all of us. He wasn't even consciously doing anything. It existed simply because he was here.

This was bad. This was extremely bad.

Beside me, the troopers had all collapsed to the ground as their lungs struggled to even draw breath. Gaarurra remained upright, but he was shaking at the effort. I myself had to devote everything to simply staying conscious.

Tyrene and Ortan were similarly hindered, but Darth Scriver seemed to be unaffected. With a contemptuous glance at his apprentices, he spoke a word and released a pulse of power. In an instant, the pressure lifted.

As coughs echoed in the chamber from the people that could breathe again, I found myself dumbfounded by how much power that would have taken.

Normally, a Sith spirit was nearly powerless, barely able to even draw enough strength to flip a switch. To even leave their tombs, they required an anchor to attach themselves to.

These anchors could range from talismans constructed specifically for the purpose or they could use their connection to their blood descendents. In either case, they still had little power other than to manifest.

Using their corpses allowed them a little bit of strength to affect their environment.

But inside of their own tombs, where their power had been allowed to fester into a Nexus for untold eons? A Sith ghost older than a few centuries was effectively a minor god inside of their domain, if limited in range.

Darth Scriver had just overridden a Sith ghost's influence inside of his own tomb with raw brute force. And he wasn't even a Dark Council member.

The chamber was dyed red as Ortan and Tyrene ignited their lightsabers, awaiting their Master's command.

The ancient Sith snarled, raising an arm. From his fingertips, a storm of lightning lashed out. It wasn't the normal blue or violet, but a dark, bloody red.

It hit the apprentices first, who tried to catch it on their blades. Though they succeeded, they hadn't had the time to brace themselves properly, so the sheer power behind it blew them both off their feet and into the walls behind them.

Unlike his students, Darth Scriver was not moved as he caught the bloody lightning with his bare hands, his feet instead digging furrows into the floor as he held his ground.

But it wasn't done yet. I barely had time to step in front of the troopers, plant myself, and interpose my sword when the lightning came for us next. As it approached, the bolts curved, drawn towards the metal instead of their original targets.

My cover was going to be blown, but I'd deal with that at a later time in favor of surviving now.

My blade drank it in greedily as the energy disappeared into the depths of the dark metal. The pressure started to push me back like it had the apprentices, threatening to bowl me over.

But strong hands at my back pressed against my armor as Gaarurra and the troopers held me up.

But I soon learned that my sword had limits. When that limit was reached, the weapon started screaming. In my grip, I could feel the alchemically-enhanced metal begin to heat up, kept from burning my palms only by the gauntlets on my hands.

I had enhanced all of the properties of the blade those months ago. Resistance to damage. Cutting power. Heat resistance.

The lightning was still burning through it. It wasn't going to hold…but I didn't have anything else.

And then it began to melt. Beads of molten metal began to dribble down its edge to pool onto my armor's knuckle plates.

Through the lightning, yellow eyes drifted towards me for just a moment. I was suddenly filled with the feeling that I had just made a terrible mistake.

Just as quickly as it had come, the barrage ceased. As silence returned, the sword in my hands continued to rattle and shake. The ghost didn't even have the courtesy to pretend to look winded from the massive display of power.

Ortan and Tyrene pulled themselves out from the small craters their bodies had imprinted into the walls. Though they had deflected the brunt of the assault with their lightsabers, their armor was still scorched from the lightning and dented from the impact.

Darth Scriver stood up to his full towering height, smoke drifting off him. His gauntlets had burned away in the lightning storm, revealing reddened skin beneath.

"So the slaves of the Usurpers have some resilience," the ghost remarked, his eyes sweeping over our singed group.

"Slaves of the Usurpers." Given the Sith penchant for civil war, "Usurper" could be used to describe a lot of people over their history. But he didn't seem surprised to see humans, which meant he was likely from sometime after the Exiles' arrival on Korriban.

But Jen'jidai was a very specific word, literally meaning "Dark Jedi" in the Sith language. And it was a specific title used to describe only one group of people: The Exiles of Corbos.

And exactly one person important enough to have a tomb built in the Valley of the Dark Lords would think of them as usurpers.

I knew who this ghost was.

Scriver did not dignify the ghost's taunt with a reply, instead drawing his lightsaber and issuing orders, "Troopers, get to work on the door. You will be of no other use to me in this fight."

It was obvious that the ghost wasn't intending to talk us to death. The soldiers would just get in the way. They snapped to attention before starting to pull out demolition equipment.

As I turned to help, hoping he had been too distracted to notice my display earlier, the Sith Lord's voice froze me in my tracks, "Not you."

Scriver didn't need to elaborate to get his thoughts across. He'd noticed.

I caught Gaarurra's eye before shaking my head minutely. It wouldn't do me any good if he was caught out too.

Turning on my heel, I walked to join the Sith front line. No point in denying it now. Ortan looked befuddled for a moment before realizing what was going on. Tyrene just looked resigned. Neither of them really had time for anything else.

Releasing the clamp I had on my power, I could now fully appreciate just how screwed we were as the tomb's weight threatened to bury me under its magnitude.

Faced with only three Sith and an acolyte, I doubted that the ghost was too impressed. He raised his hand again, fingers open. Instead of lightning, a fuck-off huge sword flew out from behind the throne and slapped into his palm, its edge stained crimson.

I blinked.

The ghost was solid. This was gonna suck.

"Admirable," The ghost admitted, having taken no move to take advantage of the pause, "After witnessing my power, you still choose to fight. Foes or not, I will honor that courage with a swift death."

The sword continued to rattle ominously in my hands as electricity continued to dance along its scorched edge, making it difficult to maintain a secure grip. But I had to make do as he hurtled towards us, his massive war sword swinging in a wide sweep.

Ortan and Tyrene tried to meet it with their own blades, crossing their sabers in an X before them to catch it, only to be knocked aside like toys. Their bodies sailed through the air before landing roughly.

Seeing what happened to his apprentices, Darth Striver leaped backwards, avoiding the blade rather than meeting it headon. Ancient Sith words fell from his lips at a rapid pace, though I didn't get to see what he was doing.

As the last in line, I ducked underneath of it and swiped at the ghost's legs. Jumping over it, the massive blade disappeared from my sight momentarily as he whipped it around and crashed the blunt face into my side with more speed and grace than a weapon that size should have.

I had just enough time to make a bubble of telekinetic force around myself before I plowed through a pillar. It was roughly made, so it burst as soon as I was through, leaving me to hit the ground hard and tumble to a stop against the next pillar.

Ow.

He was a lot stronger than he appeared…and he was already pretty ripped. Not only was he a Force juggernaut, he was also a monster swordsman. Good to know.

I levered myself back to my feet in time to see Darth Scriver finish his spell. A blast of sickly green energy shot out from his hand, striking the ancient Sith full on in the chest. The red-skinned man grunted as it scorched his "flesh," but otherwise gave no indication he was in any kind of pain.

"Your spells are weak, Jen'jidai," The ghost taunted with a sneer, "Allow me to demonstrate what a master can do."

The dark speech of his people filled the air as he chanted. Tendrils of power lashed out at Scriver, forcing the tall man to break off his spell-casting to dodge them. Wherever they touched, the world aged and stone was ground to dust with a simple tap.

I didn't particularly want to see what it would do to a person.

The apprentices rejoined the fight a moment later, using the Force to cross the distance in a single leap. They had learned their lesson and now ducked and weaved rather than meet the blade head on. Working in tandem, they alternated attack and defense.

One drew the warrior's attack to them while the other hit an opening on the other side.

It was a testament to the skill of all three that no one had suffered an injury yet. The ancient Sith for holding off the two with his large, cumbersome weapon, and the apprentices for keeping up with an opponent that was obviously out of their league.

It wasn't until I was about to join them that I realized my blade had fallen from my hand during my unwilling flight. The half-melted weapon had landed twenty feet from the pillar I had crashed through, still sparking and sputtering with electricity. I called it back to my hand and paused to assess the battle.

The continuous barrage of attacks from Tyrene and Ortan forced the ancient Sith to break off his chanting to concentrate on his bladework, giving Scriver a reprieve to resume his own. More blasts of dark side energy lashed out at the ghost from the Dark Lord's hands.

Did Scriver not know any other combat spells? Or was this just the only one he knew would harm a Sith ghost?

Either way, it was only doing light damage at best.

Eventually, the ghost got bored or frustrated, "Enough."

With little more than a thought and a few words, the apprentices were sent flying back again. Their heads collided hard against the stonework before they went disturbingly still. They were either dead or unconscious. Either way, they were out of the fight for now.

I keyed my helmet comm to Maklan's, "Get those two up if you can."

I didn't wait to hear his reply. The ghost was starting his casting again now that the apprentices were out of the way. At this point, it was obvious that Scriver was outclassed as a Sorcerer and he knew it. He tried to get close, but he was kept at bay by Sorcery.

If this kept up, we would all die.

I couldn't match him in raw power. I couldn't match him in sorcery. I couldn't match him in bladework.

But I could distract him enough for Scriver to get closer.

Normally, the mental arts were meant to be a subtle thing, worming your power into someone's minds to quietly influence them. But that wasn't the only way to wield them.

Instead, I used them like a sledge hammer, smashing it again and again against the ghost's mental barriers. I didn't seriously expect to break through. His will was too strong for that.

But again, I wasn't trying to do damage. Just distract him. To break his concentration.

He flinched as the first strike came, causing him to bite down on a word and end his spell prematurely. Scriver took advantage, closing and delivering a deep wound to his chest with his lightsaber. It quickly "healed" over, but it was the thought that counted.

The ghost swung his sword. I smashed my mind against his with all the grace of a rhino. He flinched, causing his blade to falter. Scriver disarmed him, sending the sword and the spectral arm flying before unleashing a blast of pure dark side energy point blank into the ancient Sith's chest.

This time, he howled in rage and pain as his not-flesh sizzled and cracked apart.

With a snarl, the ghost grabbed the front of Scriver's robes and bodily threw him through the throne. After that, he turned to me.

"You are an annoyance. Begone."

Another spell left his lips before I could strike again and I was sent flying back. But rather than hit the stone like I was expecting, I went straight through. Before I was dropped into complete darkness, the last thing I saw was flashing light from the renewed spell battle.

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