Star Wars: The Last Qymaili | ✔

43 | Dire News

Song: "Duel of the Fates" from The Phantom Menace OST

He gazed at his reflection in the transparisteel after the droid had drilled out two long gashes in his mask, deepened cuts that resembled the two stripes of blood above the eyes of his old mumuu skull.

Shia would never accept him back now, because he wasn't safe, and aware of it. Even as he stood alone, he was close to snapping and lashing out at any living thing that entered his chambers. He had never lived a life free of such a feeling before, so this was only natural. Only what he was destined for: to kill.

In the com-link installed on his audio-receptor, the voice of San Hill spoke. "He has arrived."

He.

My trainer.

The commander-in-chief of the war.

"Yes, my lord," he said, clasping skeletal hands behind his hunched back as he walked with pride to the main catacomb chamber.

✺✺✺

He entered the main chamber to find a tall, elderly human with a deactivated lightsaber. Memories of being trained in swordsmanship entered his mind, but no memory of his trainer or what he had been like surfaced. He must have lost that memory too.

The proper way for learners to greet their masters on Kalee was by bowing and saying, "To you I submit." But submitting was what had caused the famines on Kalee, and he refused to make that mistake again.

The man spoke first. "You look well, my apprentice." His voice was silky smooth.

Grievous clenched a fist as the man fingered the lightsaber. He's a Jedi? Is this some sort of sick joke?

"Such a limited point of view," the man murmured. "I left the Order many years ago when corruption began to take root in the hearts of the Council. But the memory of my training is still fresh in my mind. I will pass on my prowess to you."

Having seen humans of all ages while on the Banking Clan planets, Grievous guessed he was in his eighties—old for his species. "What is the name of my lord?"

The man let a deep chuckle break free. "Do you not recall me from the stories your third-mother told you about Bitthævria?"

With great effort, Grievous pulled forth the names of the historical figures from the war to the front of his mind. "Count Dooku."

Dooku nodded. "You are very intelligent for one so young." He tossed a lightsaber to him. "The weapon of the same Jedi Master whose blood flows through your pipes."

He caught the cylinder, running his hands over the metal. His heart raced with pleasure as he regarded the beautiful, handcrafted material. This was his now?

A long red glow streamed through Dooku's hilt. "Attack."

The man blocked his parries surprisingly well. As they sparred, his voice shouted orders. "Stop using standard attacks. Use the unorthodox!"

Fine then. Forsaking the carefully-executed Lig combat procedures, he used both arms to launch an offensive. At this, Dooku shrank back slightly, but did not relent in attacking completely.

They spun around the catacombs, their sabers clashing. "You're holding your saber too tightly," the man chided. His blade came flicking toward Grievous' metallic hand, and in fear, he loosened his hold to avoid getting skewered.

With the Force, Dooku caught the falling saber. "Now, too lightly."

He hid his clenched hands beneath his cloak. Dooku continued. "You enjoy the feeling of the lightsaber in your hands."