TITLE: Joint Strength
AUTHOR: Rene (padawan30@hotmail.com)
RATING: PG
Notes: See Part One
SPOILERS: "Jedi Apprentice" novel 1, 2 & 3
Summary of this part: Begins exactly where part nine left off, with
“Morran” pacing, filled with wild exultation, and Qui-Gon ten hours away.
In this part, Obi-Wan faces a great battle.
Disclaimer: All belong to George Lucas
Feedback: Yes, absolutely!
The hypnotic regularity of Morran’s pacing lulled Bruck into a state
of complacency. He didn’t understand the man’s exultant words or his raging
emotions, but he felt, above all else, that he was committed to this course
now, and it was best to simply wait and see where it took him.
Morran crossed the room again and again, his steps driven by a seething excitement. But minutes crept past, each growing more leaden, until Bruck realized with a start that he had been crouching on this barrel for over an hour.
Time limped by. Morran’s soaring exultation disappeared under a rising flood of impatience. Suddenly, with a fierce epithet, he threw back the hood of his cloak and ripped the black mask from his face. Bruck’s eyes registered shoulder-length black hair and a face, coldly handsome, that contrasted sharply with eyes so blazing they dominated the boy's attention at once.
“What is he _doing_?” Morran hissed. “What will it take to force him to report something?”
Bruck shifted, uncomfortable with such naked rage, for all the polished exterior that contained it. The movement caught Morran’s attention, and his face relaxed into a semblance of its former warmth as he studied Bruck’s apprehensive posture.
“Never fear, my young friend,” he said smoothly. “Our plan is still valid. We have only to find the trigger that will send Kenobi to the council chamber. Apparently what we have done is not sufficient.”
“Surely he is reporting to them right now,” Bruck said. “I mean, _I_ would be.”
Morran’s lips tightened. “It seems that our friend Obi-Wan is not so sensible as you.” The dark blue eyes flared again with a strange fire. “I am quite certain that he had not approached the Council Chamber. You may trust me on that.”
“Then what do we do now?” Bruck’s voice was tinged with impatience.
Morran regarded him narrowly, and then smiled in sudden decisiveness. “You will go search him out. And when you find him, you will bring him to me.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Bruck protested. “He won’t come back down here.”
The dark eyes lost their surface warmth. “You are larger than him, more skillful, aren’t you? And you have the advantage of knowing your purpose. He does not. If you don’t have the intelligence to create a story that will bring him down here, then you must resort to force.” He pivoted on one foot, lifting a dismissive hand. “I don’t care how you do it. Just bring him.”
A tiny smile appeared as he studied the mask in his other hand. Slowly, he murmured, “I need to show him my face.”
When Bruck made no response, he turned back. Doubt was written large on the boy’s face. Morran considered him, expressionless, for several long moments. Then, he suddenly stepped forward, placed a hand on Bruck’s shoulder, and said, “Can it be that you do not have the courage to complete this plan? Perhaps your ambition to be apprentice to the great Knight is not so strong as I thought, to be dampened at the prospect of a little unpleasantness?”
As Bruck leaned away, eyes beginning to shade with anger, Morran added, “I guess you are afraid of him.”
Bruck stiffened. “No! Why should I be? I can bring him.
Morran nodded, stepping back.
“Yes, you can,” he said. “And you will.”
Bruck strode out the door, shoulders stiff with resolve. The mocking smile reappeared on Morran’s face as he turned to his makeshift workstation, gathered up a few tiny tools that lay there, and flipped open his enveloping cloak to replace them in his utility belt. It was then, in the silence, that he heard faintest whisper of sound, of cloth against metal, somewhere up above. He froze, all his senses searching outward, and then, slowly, the mocking smile returned to his face.
What had Bruck just said? ‘He won’t come back down here.’?
I guess you were mistaken, my little friend, he thought. He was staring upward at a meter-square vent cover near the ceiling, and his eyes were filled with hate.
* * * * *
Arms and legs taut with effort, Obi-Wan braced himself against the sloping sides of the ventilation shaft. His pace through the shafts had been painfully slow, and fraught with a difficulty that he hadn’t considered when he began this endeavor: his right knee, not fully recovered from Bruck’s savage blow yesterday, had almost immediately begun to throb in protest. At first, the pain had come only in short bursts, easily bearable as he crawled along the passage. But then, when he had faced the first vertical section, only negotiable by bracing himself against the walls and trusting the Force, the knee had erupted in a hot flow of streaming, igneous pain. As he paused now, sweat dripping steadily along his hairline and down his neck, the concentration necessary to brace himself and keep the agony at bay prevented him from really hearing the conversation in the room below.
He heard Bruck’s voice, and a low, dark voice answering him, but the actual words escaped him. He decided to try a closer approach to the vent-cover.
Slowly, with almost infinitesimal movements, he moved along the shaft, forced to keep a constant pressure on his arms and legs to avoid sliding down into the cover. Smooth, vaguely threatening tones drifted up, settling uncomfortably in a small side-alley of Obi-Wan’s consciousness.
That voice. . .
He was almost on the cover now, his feet only a few inches away from it. Struggling fiercely to ignore his screeching knee, he heard the voice below say, “I guess you are afraid of him.”
Afraid of who? Me? Obi-Wan dismissed that. Couldn’t be.
He heard Bruck deny any fear.
Below him, off to the side, he recognized the sound of the door sliding open and closed. Bruck leaving, he thought, his face twisting into a grimace as his knee sent a fiery warning of immanent collapse. Maybe if he could just shift most of his weight to the other leg. . .
Straining, he listened. Only deep silence in the room below. Had they both left? He slid a few more centimeters down the shaft. No. Now he heard the subtle sounds of movement. The man was still there.
With shocking suddenness, the vent-cover beneath him was ripped aside, and a dark robed arm snaked in and seized his good leg, just above the ankle. Obi-Wan felt himself jerked forward, and then he was falling out of the shaft.
Dimly, he saw the metal floor rushing up to greet him, and he twisted his body, just enough to get his legs under him. He slammed into the floor, and his injured leg collapsed completely beneath him. He had no time to consider it. Looking up, he saw the robed man leaping down at him from a stack of containers near the ventilation outlet, igniting his lightsaber as he jumped. The blade sizzled down, a great slashing blow aimed at Obi-Wan’s good leg. Obi-Wan threw himself to the left, tightening his body into a compact curl that brought him to his feet a scant ten centimeters from where the lightsaber blade crashed into the floor. Activating his own weapon, Obi-Wan thrust forward, and immediately fell. His knee would support no weight. The dark attacker paused, watching Obi-Wan climb awkwardly to his feet, lightsaber in one hand, other arm leaning on a container for stability.
“Not at your best, are you?” the mocking voice said.
Obi-Wan’s head snapped upward in sudden recognition. He stared at the deep hood, its shadow obscuring the man’s features. But Obi-Wan didn’t need to see the face to know the identity of his attacker.
“Xanatos,” he said, his voice flat and even.
The robed figure executed a graceful bow. “At your service. It certainly took you a long time to recognize me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, come now, little Padawan. Surely you can guess; I don’t think you’re completely stupid, are you?”
Obi-Wan forced himself to remain expressionless. “You’re setting some sort of trap for Master Qui-Gon, and you want me to be bait. Again.”
Xanatos laughed. “No, not ‘again’. On Bandomeer, you weren’t really bait. You were just a nuisance.”
“And this time?”
“This time?” The man stroked his chin, his eyes speculative. “No, this time I don’t need you for bait either. I’ve already arranged for Qui-Gon Jinn’s destruction.”
Obi-Wan felt a cold knot of fear settle into his stomach, remembering how, earlier, this man had seemed informed of all their movements, both his and Qui-Gon’s. Slowly, he said, “You connived that whole trip to Triki, somehow. You wanted to get Master Qui-Gon away from Coruscant.”
Why? His mind scurried frantically, searching for an explanation.
Xanatos shifted, an angry scowl momentarily twisting his expression. “Yes. I sent him to Triki. I planned a lovely welcome for him there. Chances are, he's already dead.”
The words slammed into Obi-Wan like an iron fist, their impact rocking him to his core. Master Qui-Gon, dead? But surely, somehow, he would have felt. . .
“And now,” Xanatos continued, voice a low purr, “It’s your turn.”
Like a striking snake, the man swung his lightsaber at the boy’s injured knee, and Obi-Wan managed to parry only by flinging his blade downward, narrowly missing his own foot. He fell onto his uninjured knee, and scrambled away, pushing with the good leg and left arm, trying to keep his lightsaber between himself and his opponent’s next strike. Xanatos chopped at him, hampered by the limited space among the barrels, but swinging his weapon like an ax made of fire. Obi-Wan had just enough strength in his right arm to deflect the blows, while he kept pushing backward. He waited, watching desperately, until his enemy’s arm was at the apex of his next chop, and then he kicked out with the wounded leg, ignoring the searing pain as his booted foot struck solidly into the man’s unprotected thigh. Xanatos stumbled, giving Obi-Wan a millisecond of time to haul himself up onto his good leg, get both his hands on the hilt of his lightsaber, and swing mightily at his opponent’s head. Xanatos easily ducked the blow, bringing his own blade up to parry, and their lightsabers crossed and caught, bathing their faces in an acidic glow. Xanatos’ eyes were glittering with unrecognizable emotion.
“You can’t possible defeat me,” he hissed. “Today is your day to die, Kenobi.”
Obi-Wan glared at him, jaw set grimly against the pain and fear braiding themselves into a solid cord within him. “Always in motion is the future,” he gritted out. “If Master Yoda can’t predict it, then I don’t think you can either!”
He shoved his blade forward with all his strength, pushing his opponent back a step and giving himself a tiny space, just enough to push off with his good leg and backflip twice. Xanatos grunted angrily and charged forward, but Obi-Wan leaped again, catching the edge of an overhead rack, and swinging his body up onto it. He felt his left leg, his uninjured leg, tremble with fatigue. No more leaps left in it.
Looking down, he saw his enemy stalking forward, gazing up at him with dreadful purpose.
“You’re right,” Obi-Wan said, between pained gasps. “I can’t beat you. But neither can you beat me! After all, if I die, who will report your presence to the Council?”
It was a guess, a desperate taunt based only on his earlier surmises, but it was effective. Xanatos stopped, and cocked his head to one side. Expectant silence filled the room.
“What do I care about the Council?’ An obvious bravado coated the man’s tone.
“You yourself know the answer to that. You gain nothing by my death.”
Xanatos shook his head. “No, you’re wrong about that, little Padawan. I gain a great deal. In killing you, I cause great grief and guilt in the heart of Qui-Gon Jinn, just on the bare chance that he’s still alive, and that is all the success I need for today.”
He gathered himself, preparing to copy the maneuver that Obi-Wan had just accomplished. Obi-Wan held himself tight, focusing on the Force as he never had before. As the man leaped upward to grasp the rack, Obi-Wan ignited his saber and whirled around, severing the supports that held the rack to the ceiling. Just as Xanatos appeared before him, the rack fell, dumping both of them six meters onto the hard floor. But the enemy wasn’t ready to fall, and Obi-Wan was. It gave the slight advantage he needed. Extinguishing his saber and protecting his knee as best he could, he rolled forward onto his feet, forced his good leg to propel him upward in one final leap, and grabbed the edge of the coverless ventilation shaft. Awkwardly he hauled himself up and crawled into the shaft, feeling a rough edge catch and tear his tunic. He moved rapidly upward. There was nothing to stop Xanatos from following him, but his chances were better here in the shaft’s close quarters than in the open rooms and corridors of the storage area below.
Behind him, Xanatos jumped to his feet and saw his quarry disappear into the shaft.
“No escape that way,” he growled, loudly enough for the boy to hear. Moving much more slowly than he was capable of, he stepped forward, preparing to leap up to the shaft himself, when the door to the room abruptly slid aside.
A small figure stood hesitating in the room’s entrance, head bent slightly forward to gaze into the dim interior.
“Obi-Wan?”
Her soft voice a bit uncertain, Bant entered the storage room.
* * * *
The afternoon hours ground by with the speed of a crippled Corellian freighter. By evening meal, Garen had lost track of how many times he had checked the chronometer. Too many, he thought grimly. He glanced over at Reeft, who was gazing forlornly at the other two chairs at their table.
Empty chairs.
“Maybe, just possibly,” Reeft murmured, “I can imagine them skipping noonmeal. But I _can’t_ imagine Bant missing all of her afternoon classes, and I really can’t imagine them skipping evening meal too.” He stood suddenly, pushing back his chair with a screech and earning a few startled looks from nearby tables. “So, it’s obvious that something’s seriously wrong with our friends. What are we going to do about it?”
“Tell a Master. Any Master,” Garen answered promptly.
“We promised Obi-Wan,” Reeft said, shaking his head.
“We promised Obi-Wan not to tell about the knife and the things that happened before that. We didn’t make any promises about everything that’s happened since.”
“But what’s happened, really?”
Garen opened his mouth, and then closed it helplessly. Finally, he said, “Nothing tangible, I guess. Nothing that sounds bad, unless you know the whole story.”
“Exactly.”
“They _are_ missing. That’s something.”
“We don’t know they’re missing.”
“Right. So, we’ll go look everywhere for them, and if we don’t find them, we’ll tell the Masters.”
“Tell them what?”
“I don’t know!” Garen stood as well, his eyes darkened with frustration. “We’ll think of something. Come on, let’s go.”
For the first time in his residence at the Temple, Reeft left the Dining Room without having eaten one morsel. The two boys moved rapidly through the halls, by common consent aiming toward Obi-Wan’s chamber in the Students’ Quarters. It seemed to both of them the logical place to start.
As they rounded the corner to the hall that led there, they saw at once that a door halfway down was open. Obi-Wan’s room. Exchanging one startled glance, they broke into a quick jog that quickly increased, until they entered their friend’s chamber at a dead run.
It was empty.
But even as the recognition of barren space impressed itself on them, a second impression, of stealthy movement, seized Garen, propelling him to the entry of Obi-Wan’s bath. With a strangled shout, he dived into the tiny room, and struggled out again a moment later, arm firmly fastened around the neck of Bruck Chun.
“Bruck!” Reeft leaped forward, eyes slightly wild. “What are you doing in Obi-Wan’s room? Where is he?”
“Yes,” Garen grunted, tightening his grip. “Speak up.”
“Do,” a quiet voice said. “I’m most interested in this entire conversation.”
All three boys turned startled eyes to the doorway, recognizing at once the cool face and confident stance of A’ali Cek.
“Um. . .” Reeft started to speak, and then gave up. A’ali’s steady eyes fastened on Garen, who reluctantly released his hold on Bruck. No one spoke for a moment. The three students were horrified to be caught in such a situation by A’ali, a Jedi nearly a Knight, Padawan to one of the most senior members of the Council. As for A’ali, she had learned well the virtues of silence impressed upon her by Tel Udrunn. She merely waited.
Bruck suddenly sputtered, “They attacked me! For no reason! I was here just to. . .” He stumbled, suddenly unsure how to complete that sentence, and Garen and Reeft burst into explanation.
“He knows something!”
“Our friend is missing, and. . .”
“We haven’t seen him all day!”
“Yes,” A’ali said, cutting easily through the tangled words. She studied them carefully, eyes curious. “Well, I myself am wondering very much why Obi-Wan Kenobi doesn’t answer his comlink. Would anyone here have an opinion on that topic?”
Silence.
Then Bruck stepped forward, eyes filled with concerned sincerity.
“I saw him,” he said. “He left the Temple. I don’t know where he was going. But he’s definitely not anywhere around here.”
TBC
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