Tsavong Lah’s left ankle throbbed, but Vaecta would no more have deadened that pain than cut off his unwounded foot without appropriate rituals. Tsavong had sacrificed body parts before, imitating his gods’ work in creating the universe. Until higher priests arrived, he would stand on a simple artificial foot.
But he would petition the priest for a crafted enhancement. He’d lost that foot as a result of an honor duel. He didn’t think the priests would refuse.
Step by painful step, he approached the delegation of Duros and humans who’d just landed, then had hurried here—to this temporary administrative center, pending the arrival of more-appropriate construction-craft materials. A cadre of infidels strode closer, wearing red-trimmed brown uniforms.
Through the reality of pain, he saw them clearly—not only infidels, but traitors. He would not waste time winnowing out worthy ones.
As soon as the delegation stood close enough, he held up a hand, signaling them to halt.
One scrawny Duros stepped forward. “Good sirrr,” he said, “we must protest your extended offensive. I am Durgard Brarun, vice-director of—”
“I want information,” Tsavong Lah said.
The Duros spread his knobby hands and spoke rapidly. “Sirrr, we kept the bargain that your Peace Brigade brrrokered. Duro Defense Force stood down. Duro did not defend the planetary settlements or our shipyards. In return, you prrromised to spare all but one of our cities. We fully understood that you would need to make at least one example, but—”
“Tell your grievances to the gods.” Tsavong set his weight on that throbbing ankle and false foot, then drew on the pain to focus his thoughts. “I require the name of the young Jeedai who escaped your custody.” That craven young coward had proved worthy indeed. At the time of highest, best portents, he must be sacrificed to Yun-Yammka.
“I can explain,” the Duros began. “He had outside help—”
“The name.” Tsavong drowned out the sniveling infidel.
The Duros spread his hands again. “Jacen Solo, son of Ambassador Leia Organa Solo and—”
Tsavong signaled the dovin basal that lay buried nearby. A glimmering containment field quenched the unworthy one’s voice.
Then he addressed the executor, who stood nearby. “Your penance here has ended, Nom Anor,” he said. “Are the new slaves ready to transmit? Is the villip choir in place?”
Nom Anor dropped to one knee, visibly gloating—but his hands trembled. Plainly, he expected to receive his next promotion. “I will call the villip mistress.”
Tsavong waited until Seef approached, leading a beast of burden that carried the largest villip they’d bred to date, still moist-skinned and larval white. At the suggestion of his human contact on Coruscant, the master shapers who had bred and nurtured it to this size had also delivered its stalk-partner to a deep-space beacon, protecting it from vacuum with additional dovin basals.
For this message, he would even use the abhorrent visual technology he found here, though only his new slaves would soil themselves by touching it. They were already defiled beyond cleansing.
The CorDuro officials, who would soon be digesting in Biter’s belly, had proved again how easily his enemies could be turned on each other. They would destroy their own finest warriors, a tactic that should make Yun-Harla smile on him, too.
He assembled his victorious forces in a circle near the burning pit, where a savory aroma honored Yun-Yammka. Without activating the villip, he made a short speech to his on-site forces and slaves, declaring Nom Anor’s penance complete—and that now, he would be sent elsewhere.
The executor folded his arms across his chest. One cheek twitched, betraying his confusion.
“Give me the woman’s foul weapon,” Tsavong ordered.
Nom Anor did not dare disobey. He took the light-cleaver from his belt and handed it over.
Tsavong Lah handled it firmly, knowing how thoroughly he would have to cleanse himself afterwards. After several attempts, he managed to make light shoot from one end—false light, a red mockery of natural luminescence.
Now Seef uncovered the giant villip and began stroking, using both arms. She also handed Tsavong Lah a tizowyrm. He slipped it into place. He would not have this speech mocked by infidels. Seef signaled the slaves with their sending apparatus.
He distributed his weight evenly on both feet, sending shooting pain up his left calf. “Citizens of the New Republic,” he said slowly, “we speak from the surface of Duro, a living planet that your forebears murdered, but which we and our new slaves will revive. In weeks to come, we will show you how the might of the Yuuzhan Vong addresses reconstruction—the rekindling of a world.”
He drew another deep breath, imagining the infidels beckoning each other to abhorrent mechanical receivers, all the way from Duro to another technology-poisoned world—Coruscant.
“Until now,” he said, “we have not declared our purpose. Now we do. We will end here, on Duro. We will suspend hostilities, and live alongside you … on one condition.”
He drew a long, slow breath. After the judgment he had executed upon Duro, the cowards would want peace—with or without honor.
“Among you,” he said, “live some who mock all gods by becoming small gods unto themselves, who abase the rest of you and force you to submit to them. We will content ourselves with Duro, if you will help us make one final sacrifice.”
He paused again. He let them tremble, to wonder if their lives, their worlds, would be demanded.
Then he let them know they would live. All but …
“Give us your Jeedai,” he demanded, brandishing the light-cleaver in front of him, pointing its blade at the dirt. “All of them, without exception. Any species, any age, any stage of training. Hold them back, hide them, and you see how your worlds will be treated. But I will reward—with special gifts!—the person who brings me the Jeedai with whom I especially wish to speak.”
He poured hate and pain into his voice. He closed both hands on the light-cleaver and plunged it into the dirt. It sank to its pommel.
“Give me Jacen Solo,” he roared, “alive. So that I may give him to the gods.”
He nodded to Seef, who covered the villip. He wrenched the foul weapon out of the dirt.
The blade still glimmered, unsullied. Trembling with pain and anger, he flung it into the burning pit.