Shryne’s slashing strike to Vader’s lower left leg, owing as much to luck as to skill, released another shower of sparks.

Vader’s enraged response was Shryne’s only assurance that he was fighting a living being. Whatever had happened to Vader, by accident or volition, he had to be more flesh-and-blood than cyborg, or he wouldn’t have raged or been able to call on the Force with such intensity.

High up in the smoke-filled latticelike room, they stood facing each other on a suspension bridge that linked two fully enclosed walkways, the gloom cut by shafts of explosive light from the continuing attack on Kachirho.

Shryne’s determination to thrust his lightsaber into the control box Vader wore on his chest had forced the Sith to adopt a more defensive style that had left his limbs vulnerable. Throughout the fight that had taken them up the room’s wooden ramps, Vader had kept his crimson blade straight out in front of him, manipulating it deftly with wrists only, elbows pressed tightly to his sides. Only when Shryne left him no choice did he shuffle his feet or leap.

“Artificial limbs and body armor seem a curious choice for a Sith,” Shryne said, poised for Vader’s riposte to his lucky strike. “Belittling to the dark side.”

Vader adjusted his grip on the sword and advanced. “No more than throwing in with smugglers denigrates the Force, Shryne.”

“Ah, but I saw the light. Maybe it’s time you did.”

“You have it backward.”

Shryne was steeling himself for a lunging attack when, abruptly, Vader halted and withdrew the blade into the lightsaber’s hilt.

Before Shryne could begin to make sense of it, he heard a creaking sound from below, and something flew at him from one of the ramps. Only a last-instant turn of his sword kept the object from striking him in the head.

It was a plank—ripped from a ramp they had taken to the bridge.

Shryne gazed in awe at unreadable Vader, then began to race toward him, blade held high over his right shoulder.

He didn’t make half the distance when a storm of similar planks and lengths of handrail came whirling at him. Vader was using his dark side abilities to dismantle the ramps!

Surrendering to the guidance of the Force, Shryne swung his lightsaber in a flurry of deflecting maneuvers—side-to-side, overhead, low down, behind his back—but the floorboards were coming in larger and larger pieces, from all directions, and faster than he could parry them.

The butt end of a board struck him on the outer left thigh.

The face of a wide plank slammed him across the shoulders.

Wooden pegs flew at his face; others speared into his arms.

Then a short support post hit him squarely in the forehead, knocking the wind out of him and dropping him to his knees.

Blood running into his eyes, he fought to remain conscious, extending the lightsaber in one shaking hand while clamping the other on the bridge’s handrail. Five meters away Vader stood, his hands crossed in front of him, lightsaber hanging on his belt.

Shryne tried to keep him in focus.

Another board, whirling end-over-end, came out of nowhere, hitting him in the kidneys.

Reflexively the hand that was grasping the railing went to the small of his back, and he lost balance. Trying but failing to catch himself, he fell through space.

Give in the wooden floor saved his life, but at the expense of all the bones in his left arm and shoulder.

Above him Vader jumped from the bridge, dropping to the floor with a grace he hadn’t displayed before and alighting just meters away.

Ignoring the pain in his shattered limb, Shryne began to propel himself in a backward crawl toward the opening through which he and Vader had entered the wroshyr’s trunk, a hot wind howling at him, whipping his long hair about.

The balcony was gone. Fallen.

There was nothing between Shryne and the ground but gritty air filled with burning leaves. Far below, Wookiees were being herded onto the landing platform. The forests were in flames …

Vader approached, drawing and igniting his Sith blade.

Shryne blinked blood from his eyes; lifted his lightsaber hand only to realize that he had lost the sword during his fall. Slumping back, he loosed a ragged, resigned exhalation.

“I owe you a debt,” he told Vader. “It took you to bring me back to the Force.”

“And you to firm my faith in the power of the dark side, Master Shryne.”

Shryne swallowed hard. “Then tell me. Were you trained by Dooku? By Sidious?”

Vader came to a halt. “Not by Dooku. Not yet by Sidious.”

“Not yet,” Shryne said, as if to himself. “Then you’re his apprentice?” His eyes darted right and left, searching for some means of escape. “Is Sidious also in league with Emperor Palpatine?”

Vader fell silent for a moment, making up his mind about something. “Lord Sidious is the Emperor.”

Shryne gaped at Vader, trying to make sense of what he had said. “The order to kill the Jedi—”

“Order Sixty-Six,” Vader said.

“Sidious issued it.” Pieces to the puzzle Shryne had been grappling with for weeks assembled themselves. “The military buildup, the war itself … It was all part of a plan to eliminate the Jedi order.”

Vader nodded. “All about this.” He gestured to Shryne. “About you and me, you could say.”

Shryne’s stomach convulsed, and he coughed blood. The fall hadn’t only broken his bones, but ruptured a vital organ. He was dying. Backing farther out the opening, he gazed into the night sky, then at Vader.

“Did Sidious turn you into the monstrosity you’ve become?”

“No, Shryne,” Vader said in a flat voice. “I did this to myself—with some help from Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Shryne stared. “You knew Obi-Wan?”

Vader regarded him. “Haven’t you guessed by now? I was a Jedi for a time.”

Shryne let his bafflement show. “You’re one of the Lost Twenty. Like Dooku.”

“I am the twenty-first, Master Shryne. Surely you’ve heard of Anakin Skywalker. The Chosen One.”