Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Onderon, Japrael System

Japrael Sector

Scout expected it to be colder. Well, she honestly didn’t know what she expected–she had never ridden a dragon before, after all. Steam curled from the warbeast’s armoured hide, every powerful beat of its wings like a climbing and descending an entire mountain in the span of seconds. She snuggled herself into an uncomfortable spot between the spines, white-knuckled grip around the frayed ropes that criss-crossed the body like overgrown vines.

She had no idea how any of the Onderonian riders felt confident enough to walk, much less even stand, across the monster’s back. Some held onto the sorry excuse for a harness for insurance, while others placed their absolute trust into their sure-footed stances and braced lances to counterbalance against the torrential winds.

Not that the fear of plummeting to her death stops Ahsoka from trying to learn anyway, her montrals whipping sideways as she holds onto the ropes for dear life. One slip, Scout thought morbidly, and this’d be the last I’d see of her.

“You’re afraid,” Rain Bonteri observed, “Don’t be. You’d be caught before you hit the ground, most of the time.”

“Most of the time?” Scout felt sick.

Bonteri shrugged, leaning back against a horn’s flank, “We have to learn to fly somehow. There’s a dozen men on this warbeast, and more than half know the feeling of freefall. They’re still alive, aren’t they?”

Curiosity got the better of Scout, despite herself, “And have you fallen before?”

He gave her a wry smile, “I catch, not fall. See those smaller warbeasts? I was a ruping rider, not a drexl. They aren’t large enough for one to stand on. Skreevs and drexls are a different story. They can fly for days, crossing the oxygen bridge, and so their riders must learn to eat and sleep on their backs. You can tell if a man rides a Dxunian warbeast when they don’t walk right on the ground.”

Captain Vander–the ‘captain’ of this particular warbeast–caught her attention when she spotted him in the middle of a precarious balancing act creeping out to the tip of the warbeast’s wing. A single flap, and he’d be thrown right off. After an exchange of hand signals with a neighbouring raptor, he all but skipped back to the harness.

“Hragscythe spotted approaching Darrastead, Bonteri!” Vander shouted as he tugged the ropes, prompting the huge beast beneath them to irritably lumber starboard.

“Tell Oarr to deal with it and bring us lower,” Bonteri looked up at him, “We continue to Jyrenne.”

“I take it hragscythes aren’t a normal sight around here?” Master Plo guessed, sitting cross-legged.

“We had to lighten our patrols to prepare for the summit,” Vander explained as a nearby drexl rose, tucked in its wings– and dove straight down with all the speed of a blaster bolt, whips of lashing out and knocking Ahsoka off her feet.

If it wasn’t for Master Plo’s timely interference, her Togruta friend may have found herself impaled on a spine. Instead, she casually floated back towards them, courtesy of Master Plo’s command of the Force.

“It wasn’t my fault I fell,” Ahsoka said indignantly as she was carefully set down.

“Then can’t imagine what it’s like to fly through a cloud, much less a storm,” Captain Vander laughed in spite of his passenger’s near-death experience.

“Through a storm–” Ahsoka interrupted herself, “–How do you even hold on? You aren’t Jedi.”

“Tightly. This old girl doesn’t care,” Vander patted his warbeast, “So we just hold on tightly and trust her to bring us through it.”

Ahsoka looked at the two Onderonians strangely. As the warbeast descended, the emerald canopy approached rapidly, smeared with the purple-red crowns into a blur. If Scout was brave enough to crawl to the edge and lean over the rumbling mass of muscle and keratin, she’d think she may have been able to reach out and brush against the leaves–and lose a hand in the process.

“If Onderon doesn’t like both the Separatists and Republic, why do you still fight?” Ahsoka was looking directly at Bonteri, and Scout envied her forthrightness.

Bonteri and Vander shared a look only years of camaraderie could create, before turning back to her friend, “Why does anybody fight for the Separatists? Because they believe in Separatism, or because they are simply fighting for their homeworlds. Why do I fight? To prevent something very, very bad from happening to the galaxy.”

Vander looked down, tugging at the loose strand of rope that unravelled endlessly, “We must be approaching Jyrenne. I’ll get us down.”

With a final harsh jerk, he snapped the strand and released it, watching the thread disappear behind them as he stood and left. Instead of clarifying exactly what he meant, however, Bonteri rather simply kicked his boots over a protruding ridge or armour and closed his eyes. He must be feeling much less comfortable than he’s actually showing, Scout decided. There was no way lying on a bed of thorns was anywhere pleasant–she definitely didn’t think so. But these riders slept on the backs of their warbeasts, so maybe Onderonians simply had thicker skin than her city-raised self.

Master Plo seemed fine too, but he didn’t count. He was a Kel Dor.

“Ahsoka and Tallisibeth can be trusted, Lord Bonteri,” Master Plo leaned forward, “You know what I came here for.”

“Tallisibeth? What is it like being Anakin Skywalker’s apprentice?”

The irrelevance of the subject was so precipitous Scout found herself flinching at the sudden question, “Apprentice–? Uh… he’s fine?”

Bonteri popped one eye open, regarding her strangely. Scout internally winced at just how lame her answer was.

“I mean–” she took a deep, freezing breath, “He cares a lot more than he lets on. I know that, at least.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, “And during your training sessions?”

“Wha– why are you asking me this?” Scout suddenly felt defensive, “What’s it to you?”

“I fought him on the field twice. Beat him bloody twice,” Bonteri said easily, bragging so casually she doubted if it was even his intention to do so, “I want to know who he is as a person. Is he learning? Will I still beat him the next time?”

“And how will you learn that from me?”

“By getting an answer,” he finally cracked open the second eye, tone in deadpan.

This guy… I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Speak truthfully, Tallisibeth,” Master Plo advised, “There is no shame in a Jedi’s teachings.”

“...Well, Master Skywalker doesn’t really know how to teach me,” she cringed, “Since I’m not all that powerful with the Force like him. Instead, he has me training with the troopers.”

Bonteri scratched his cheek, “And you, Ahsoka?”

“Jedi things,” Ahsoka shrugged, “Every other lesson is about patience, it feels like.”

The vast jungles whittled away into walled clearing surrounded the ruined foundations of an old castle. Far from the mortar-and-brick of the capital, weathered durasteel of dozens of buildings and transports glimmered a dull sheen in the sunlight. Soldiers patrolled the grounds in rank and file, while warbeasts flocked in and out of a pit-like structure that clearly served as some kind of stable. Scout’s stomach lurched as their drexl landed with a heavy thump, comically dwarfing the humble shuttle on the adjacent landing pad.

Rain Bonteri stood up first, slowly, doing little to hide the shaking of his legs, “So Kenobi teaches you to be a Jedi, and Skywalker teaches you to be a soldier… not exactly what I was looking for, but it’ll do.”

“And what were you looking for?” Master Plo spoke the question on all their minds.

Bonteri glanced at them, “Proof that Anakin Skywalker is who I think he is.”

Then, he stepped off the edge and deftly slid down the warbeast’s wing membrane until his boots hit solid ground. Master Plo and Ahsoka skillfully followed him by vaulting off the back and using the Force to survive a fifty-foot fall. Scout, having none of those handy abilities, resorted to the tried and tested method of sliding down the wing–but not without tripping over extended phalanges, because of course she did.

By the time she caught up with the group, Scout found Vander and Bonteri staring into the distance, towards a group of warbeasts near the far wall.

“What is it?” Ahsoka peered, her alien vision catching much more than any of their’s will.

“Beast Riders,” Rain Bonteri mumbled, “What clan?”

“Clazca, looks like,” Vander said, “Entertain our guests, Bonteri. I’ll deal with them.”

“I thought you already did.”

“The Clazca don’t hang around these parts, you know that,” offence leaked into Vander’s tone, “The Ezelk are the closest clan, and they’ve already allowed access through their forests. The Clazca are here for a different reason.”

“How can you tell they’re Beast Riders?” Scout questioned, “All warbeasts look the same.”

“Those don’t have harnesses,” Ahsoka pointed out.

“Wha–” she spluttered, “How am I supposed to know that!?”

Bonteri shook his head, “Nevermind that. Let me bring you to the internment camps.”

As they forged deeper into Jyrenne Base, the only thing Scout could think was; oh, so this is where all the droids went. There weren’t any battle droids marching about, per se, but she easily recognised the Multi-Troop Transports and C-9979 landing ships littering the parade grounds like out-of-place monuments. The soldiers she could see were less ornamental than those in the capital, as well, sporting modern–well, as modern as Onderon seems to get–tactical combat gear and blaster carbines instead of antiquated laser lances.

The prison compound was tucked away, out of view from the rest of the base, surrounded by a chain link fence that Scout hazarded was electrified. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of prisoners milling in the yard, many of them wearing the same face. Others held themselves straighter, taller, unwilling to discard their pride even in chains.

“You keep officers with the clones?” Ahsoka noticed the same thing.

“They all eat the same thing, don’t they?” Bonteri answered simply, swiping the blast door open to permit them entry, “Aliens are handled case-by-case, because as you might have noticed, we don’t have a lot of experience with non-humans.”

The doors thudded shut behind them, locking them inside.

“Has Count Dooku sanctioned this summit?” Master Plo immediately asked.

“No, but the Parliament has voted in favour of it, so that’s the matter concluded. Dooku’s only role is to sign the flimsi.”

“And if he doesn’t?” the Jedi Master pressed.

“Then he loses all legitimacy, and the Confederacy will finally see him for what he is. That’s why he will never let us get to that point. Before you ask me; I don’t know how. That’s the problem.”

Even as the exchange dragged on, Bonteri didn’t fail to tour the compound. While it was obvious the whole building was pre-fabricated, the matter of fact was that it was also sanitary and spacious enough. The bunks in particular were no less cramped than those on the Harbinger, which was a point of wry amusement for Scout.

“If you are on the reacting end, how do you expect to drag him into the open?”

Scout and Ahsoka pretended not to listen, or rather, failed to pretend. Because Master Plo was clearly treating the bane of the Republic Navy as a Separatist traitor, and how was that not riveting? Was this what Master Tiin meant by potentially deciding the course of the war? What a stupid question–of course it was.

The architect of the Republic’s single largest loss of life in living history, being a traitor? Questions raced through her mind; was this a whole conspiracy in the Separatist ranks? How and when did Master Plo find out? Why doesn’t Bonteri just switch sides? Did Master Tiin and Master Kenobi know as well?

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Reacting?” Bonteri opened the door leading out into the yard, “The one thing preventing us from going on the offensive is not us only capable of reacting, but the Republic’s capability for reacting.”

A thousand pairs of blank eyes widened and brightened the very moment they caught a glimpse of Jedi robes. Scout had a feeling they would have been rushed, if not for the presence of Rain Bonteri’s purple cape dissuading them.

“You want the guarantee that the Republic will not intervene?”

Bonteri spun around, “The only thing we want is confirmation that the Jedi Order’s enemy is Count Dooku, and not the Confederacy. I am certain you already know this, Master Jedi; the only path to reunification left is through force, and we have already made our bed. The Rim will never surrender its newfound independence, and the Rim will gladly bleed to the last man for it.”

Master Plo Koon was silent for a long while, thinking, picking his next words carefully.

“I do not speak for the Council on this matter,” he started, “But if you truly intend on going against Dooku, I will support it. The Sith must be eradicated; that is the Order’s mission. If I must, I will convince the Council to delay any action by the Republic in response to the Confederacy’s… housekeeping.”

“Then remove the Sith in the Republic first, before it is too late,” Bonteri replied grimly.

The Jedi Master went silent again. Scout shivered. It was as if a divine hand had turned down the temperature, and a biting gale burst through the yard grounds. The Sith in the Republic. She shared a look with Ahsoka. Disbelief at first, then horror as Master Plo made no effort to contradict the statement. There’s a Sith in the Republic? Are we allowed to hear this?

“Very well,” Master Plo was calm. Like stone. Or like the mirror-polished surface of a transparisteel skyscraper hiding Force-knows-what within, “Do you have any leads…?”

He trailed off, masked head snapping up towards the crowd of anxious prisoners.

“Something the matter?” Bonteri’s voice was flat, his face bearing all the emotion of a permacrete wall.

“There is a Jedi among the prisoners.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Scout wished she could sense them like he can, but she couldn’t. Ahsoka’s face scrunched up in effort, but she soon slacked and shrugged, making Scout feel that tiny bit better about herself. Or maybe that was just Ahsoka making her feel better.

Master Plo took off with haste in his strides, and the two Padawans struggled to keep up. The throng of prisoners split before the Jedi Master’s billowing robes, hope brimming in their eyes like unshed tears, yet also skittish at his purposeful march. A Jedi Master, distressed? Unthinkable. Somehow, Scout felt like that was exactly what was at hand.

By the time she caught up–somehow out of breath–Master Plo was standing over a kneeling girl, one some years her senior at a mere glance. She was a Mirialan, one of those Outer Rim species, and despite her imprisoned state, the should-be Jedi bore only peace on her face, as if she had been expecting them all along.

“What is your name, Padawan,” Master Plo almost–almost–demanded, “Who is– was your master?”

“My name is Barriss Offee,” the captured Jedi’s words were soft, measured, “My Master is Luminara Unduli.”

Master Plo swung around, nearly backhanding Ahsoka in the process. He was glaring directly at Rain Bonteri, who had positioned himself halfway between them and the exit, lips drawn out thinly.

“You were at Teth,” Master Plo said roughly. Again, it was posed as a statement, “You were there with Asajj Ventress. You were the one who shattered Master Unduli’s task group.”

Rain Bonteri, having once more proved himself the bane of the Republic, allowed a small smirk to take over his lips– “Looks like you found your lead, Master Jedi.”

?

Padmé expected it to be colder, on the mountaintop. Among the clouds, a steady breeze poured in from the open air colonnade behind the vacant throne, sending flowing cloths and banners aflutter. Through some wild sorcery, however, it was anything but. The braziers crackled merrily with laughing flames, generating a warm fug that hung over their heads with a distinct charcoal smell. The open air architecture, however, meant the incense was never more present than a passing sensation.

For all the terrific descriptions Padmé had overheard of the savagery and primitiveness of Onderonians, they seemed quite refined to her, in their own archaic way. The courtly culture was something she could respect, as the former queen of another monarchical world. Courtly… with the martial touch that pervaded all things Onderonian.

Talk blossomed as local Onderonian delicacies were passed hand-to-hand from silver platters, punctuated with the clinks of blood-full wine glasses. From the galleries floated the soft sounds of string instruments she could not name, backing a woman’s magnificent alto. The only signs that this hall hosted the Court of Onderon was the throne, and the colourful tapestries depicting the devices of the Council of Lords–and even then, the colours of the Republic and Confederacy hung in the forefront.

There was not a battle droid in sight, to her–and perhaps she was not alone in this–surprise. Bronze armoured Paladins and blue cloaked Senate Guards stalked in the shadows of the galleries, hawkishly watching for the uninvited, and each other. The standoffish attitude was thankfully confined to the upper decks, however, as on the floor Republic and Separatist delegates mingled with each other without barriers, and Padmé found herself transported to a time when war was not yet a foregone conclusion.

Most Separatist senators were once Republic senators, after all, and familiar faces were all too common, as were rekindled… something close to friendships. The Republic Diplomatic Corps had strategically picked out the most congenial senators to represent the Loyalist cause, and there was little doubt in her mind that the Separatists had mirrored that effort. There was no questioning Senator Orn Free Taa’s patriotism, but he–and many other well-meaning senators–tend to be overzealous. Not that Padmé had the heart to blame the Twi’lek, considering the plight of his homeworld before Jedi Master Windu liberated Ryloth.

“Padmé!”

Certainly, she had her own familiar faces.

“Mina!” Padmé couldn’t help but grin, seeing the usual purple dress cut through the crowd.

No matter where or when, Mina Bonteri would never fail to wear her family’s colours; purple and teal, the same colours that hung from the rafters with the Bonteri sigil emblazoned over it. The older Senator rose over her by a whole head, and Padmé was forced to reacquaint herself with the towering stature of her old friend.

Senator Amidala’s career was initially buoyed by her momentous introduction–resulting with the ousting of the Valorum Administration–but would have lagged once that fleeting relevance faded. That was, if it wasn’t for the seasoned Senator Bonteri, who commanded the kind of attention and authority few others could match. Perhaps it was the fact that she was tall enough to look down on even men, or how she spoke in that piercing Onderonian dialect that could cow even the toughest Weequay into subservience.

Regardless, if Senator Bonteri had never decided to take Padmé her wing, the Senator from Naboo wouldn’t be standing in the place she was now.

“How good it is to see you again!” Mina wrapped her in a crushing hug that almost lifted her to the ground, “Let me tell you, Padmé, watch you give that speech, telling the entire Republic Senate what for? I have never felt so proud. Might I daresay I almost regretted resigning, even for the briefest moment?”

“You do me too great a service, Mina,” Padmé tittered as she regained her balance, “I was only doing what was expected of me. It was my best, that I admit, but my best is what I owe the people of the Republic.”

“You did something many of us thought a dream!” her old mentor whisper-shouted, “You proved peace was still possible! You were always one for big declarations, even from that fateful day you stepped into the Convocation Chamber as the proud Queen of Naboo.”

“It was the least I could do,” it took all her political experience to not show her blush, “After that disastrous campaign… if nothing else, it proved that war is no way to settle our differences. Let it be here, at the table, that we prove that the dream we share does not have to remain one any longer.”

A shadow crossed Mina’s expression at the mention of the campaign, “Yes… well said, Padmé, well said. This war has already claimed far too many lives.”

“That is an intriguing stance to take,” another voice emerged from the crowd, “Considering your family’s involvement in the war, Senator Bonteri.”

Master Obi-Wan Kenobi stuck out like a sore thumb, his humble Jedi robes a relief for sore eyes among the extravagance of bright hues that the floor seemed all but ablaze in. And just by his side–Anakin. Padmé found herself inadvertently holding her breath when she realised she would be hearing him speak, and that she could finally–finally–hear his voice after so, so long. She was quiet, anticipation like a fist around her throat despite herself, feeling the beat of her heart, and wondering if he could hear it too.

“Senator Bonteri, Senator Amidala,” Obi-Wan bowed lightly, “I hope we are not intruding.”

And then time seemed to still as his eye found her’s, and he straightened; a new light broke over his golden face and he said, “Padmé. You are well.”

Not a question. A statement. And it was truth. She was well. The most well she had felt in a time far too long–and she couldn’t remember the last time, because why should she, when she had the now?

Padmé dipped her head, “Master Jedi. Not at all.”

Just a little longer, Annie. She could see the endearing in his clear eyes, and she wondered if he could read her mind. Let him.

“My family, Master Jedi?” Mina questioned, gracefully plucking a glass of deep red from a passing attendant and offering it forward, “My family is one of many who fought, yes, and lost.”

“Lost…?” Padmé echoed, warmth in her chest slowly replaced by a stalking cold that never seemed too far away in this war, “Your husband was a soldier, wasn’t he?”

Husband. Soldier. The words burned in her mouth as it did in her heart.

“Thank you for remembering, Padmé,” Mina laughed distantly, “He was. He fought well, was what I heard, though that is what they tell all of us. I am inclined to believe it, however, because a Jedi killed him. And a Jedi’s blade does not cut without reason.”

Even Obi-Wan could hardly hide his surprise, though he did not relent, “Forgive me, Senator. I had been insensitive. May I know how your husband was killed?”

“The Cradle of Confederacy was supposed to be safe,” Mina explained with a smile that could not quite hide everything, “Funny how this war continues to overturn all our expectations… it was a Jedi that went by A’Sharad Hett. That is all I know.”

A soft snarl ripped out of Anakin’s mouth before he could stop himself– “A Tusken.”

The Jedi have Tusken Raiders in their ranks? Love him as she might, Padmé was not ignorant of Anakin’s temper, or his past with the Sand People. No, she was the only person who knew the truth…

“Perhaps you should recall Rain Bonteri’s words, Anakin,” Obi-Wan advised, “Before you become unwise.”

…Or not. Was there anything Obi-Wan Kenobi did not know? Sometimes, Padmé would catch him observing her closely, and there was never a moment the thought of her relationship with Anakin being revealed terrified her–for his sake.

Mina Bonteri, meanwhile, opened her mouth with a silent ‘ah,’ a knowing glint in her eye, “So that is why I am of interest to you, Master Jedi. I have weathered more than a few accusations of hypocrisy, and I suppose this will be no different.”

“Mina?” Padmé asked, no less curious than she was grateful for the change in subject.

“The architect of the Battle of Columex, Padmé,” Anakin said slowly, “Was Senator Bonteri’s nephew, Rain Bonteri. He was the officer with the sabre at the starport…”

If Anakin had not trailed off, she imagined he would have followed with something along the lines of; ‘and the murderer of ten million men.’ I would like to meet him later, Padmé thought, if for no more than to see what kind of person he was.

“The nature of war is a terrible thing,” Mina sighed, “If he had not been present, then that infamy would simply belong to another man, Separatist or Loyalist. Be honest, Master Jedi; if a Separatist armada had been on the doorstep of Anaxes, would you not have fought just as hard?”

“I am in agreement, Senator,” Obi-Wan agreed easily, “We have only come to seek information on your nephew.”

Mina raised a palm, “I know far too little to be of any help in your investigation, Master Jedi. We all have our secrets, and it is far be it for me to pry into the privacy of a man I barely know… Jedi do have the concept of privacy, yes? All of you living in that big Temple of yours must become tiring after some time. I certainly cannot imagine doing so.”

“I see…” the Jedi Master stroked his beard, “In that case, we shan’t take anymore of your time.”

“I’d think not,” Mina agreed, her accent leaking out, “It is conversations of this nature that lead people to think we can never put war behind us. All of our delicacies are at your fingertips, so enjoy yourselves instead, Master Jedi. There is no safer place in Onderon than here and now.”

“For being so confident in your security, I haven’t seen a single battle droid,” Anakin observed.

“Nor do I see a single clone,” the Onderonian replied coolly, “As I said; let us leave the instruments of war behind us. I do hope you enjoy your time here.”

“We will be sure to do so, Senator,” Obi-Wan said, finally drinking from his glass, “Come now, Anakin. The crowd is getting impatient. Please excuse us, Senator Amidala.”

Master Kenobi heeled around and swept away, his billowing robes like a flag signalling that Senator Bonteri and Senator Amidala were now free to talk. As Padmé watched carefully for the encroaching throng, she decided to seize the initiative and honed in on the first familiar face she saw.

“Celly!” she cried, “You made it! Mina, I’m sure you remember Celly and Bail.”

With that, the waiting audience had no choice to discreetly return to their own debates as the two Organas took the cue to approach them.

“Of course I do,” Mina smiled, “It’s been too long.”

“I’m here for business, I’m afraid,” Celly Organa shook her head, “I was hoping you could include some terms in the negotiations allowing the RRM to intervene on wartorn worlds, especially in the Near-Perlemian.”

Padmé nodded sagely. There was little question to which worlds Celly alluded to–the tragedy of Atraken had been broadcasted throughout the Republic, as was the inhumanity of all forces participating in the battle. Even the Jedi Order did not emerge unscathed, as the People’s Inquest launched a media crusade damning them for the involvement of a Jedi Master. If she recalled correctly, the Order was forced to try Master Pong Krell in military courts, where he had been found guilty of war crimes.

“The Confederacy is extremely grateful already, for the RRM’s efforts at Atraken,” Mina spelled it out clearly, “You are more than welcome to operate in our systems.”

Celly Organa blinked, “Is that the case? I did not think…”

“We are not the Republic, nor do we operate the same way,” Mina explained, “Our new Supreme Commander has already pledged the Armed Forces’ full cooperation. In the meantime, our worlds in the Near-Perlemian do not need government sanction to invite the RRM; all you have to ask. Considering the state of things, I believe you will find all of them more than cooperative as well. Our Parliament only weighs in on matters deemed threatening to the Confederacy as a whole, and you have my guarantee we do not consider your cause a threat.”

There was a joking lilt to Mina’s tone at the end, but the implications still surprised them all. While Padmé did know of the Separatist Alliance’s decentralisation, the sheer extent of autonomy their member worlds possessed still beckoned astonishment.

“There must be some troublesome aspects of autonomy,” Bail Organa mused.

“Certainly, but our Bylaws are well prepared for such scenarios,” Mina took a sip from her glass, “Even now, our Supreme Commander is in the process of reining in some of our more quarrelsome elements… enough about us. Lady Organa, why don’t you enlighten us with some of the RRM’s plans? I’m sure the negotiations will…”

The discussion, and a hundred others, continued well into the day, under the watchful eye of guardsmen and Jedi. Meaningless as they may seem, there was no question the words spoken today would decide the outcome of the following days. As the Demon Moon’s baleful eye rose crossed the starlit sky, shadows of monsters crossed its emerald gaze. The riders of Onderon would find a sleepless night in their constant vigilance for would-be saboteurs and assassins.

The Demon Moon’s gaze passed. There were none.