Chapter Three

Taylor discovered what a Tusken Raider was as she made her way through the Jawa vessel.

She was nearing the bottom of the ship, the place where she knew there was a ramp that could be lowered to the outside world. It was also, she learned as she approached, the place where the Jawa were making their last stand.

She had tagged as many of the little creatures as she could with the inoffensive little flies that flitted around the place, one on each Jawa’s hood. They were all gathering in one room. No, not all of them. The smallest and those that didn’t move with the same alacrity as the rest, those moved to the back of the vessel, where stacks of metallic limbs and broken equipment lay discarded and where they could hide amongst the trash.

“What’s a Tusken Raider?” she asked her robotic companion.

The robot was quick to reply, but his broken English, as impressive as it was, was not up to the task of enlightening her by much. “Answer: Tusken Raider. Big Strong. Smart. Danger. No explosive. Hurt tools from far.”

“Hurt tools from far?” she asked as she navigated the tight corridors around them. It was a bit of a comfort that all the Jawas were gathering at two places. The only one in her range was the tall one behind her. “You mean bows?” She mimicked firing a bow. “Slings? Javelins? Guns?” Each gesture was answered by a shake of the head, then the robot paused at the last.

“Answer: Tusken Raiders use guns,” the robot said. It made a noise, a recording of an electronic whine in quick stuttacco.

“Guns that fire quickly, then. And not bullets.” She ducked under a low arch, her ribs and stomach protesting at the motion. She was still far, far from her best. “Are they hard to hurt?”

“Answer: No,” was the quick and easy reply. “As hard as a human.”

She snorted. His first full sentence and it was to tell her that her adversaries and her were on even ground. Or would be if she wasn’t probably outnumbered, literally outgunned and fighting defensively against an enemy she knew next to nothing about.

She felt through her bugs as the Jawa around the entrance tensed. The vessel shook, a loud clanging boom resonating through the entire structure followed by a dull thud. “I thought you said they had no explosive?” she asked her robot friend. He just stared at her blankly.

They redoubled their pace. She had the Jawa behind her search himself for any kind of weapon, but only found strange tools stuck to his bandoleers and belts. Maybe one of them was a weapon, for all she knew, but it wasn’t one she was familiar with.

One of the Jawa’s by the door fell, then another. Whining noises like the one her robot friend had made echoed through the steel walled halls, growing in intensity. Her bugs, the scorpions rushing outside and the few flies she had in the hold, finally found the Raiders.

They were human. At least, that was her first impression. Tall, gangly men in loose clothes, all of them wearing masks and moving with the surety of soldiers into the Jawa vessel. One of them fell, but after being dragged back by his companions he was replaced by two more.

“Shit,” she said.

They were outnumbered. She knew it, the Jawas knew it, and their enemy, judging by the raucous noises they were making, knew it too.

All it took was one more Jawa falling and they broke. The little creatures turned and ran, all of them moving deeper into their home with the ease of years of practice. Walls were lowered, grates shut, and the passages deeper into the vessel were locked up. All those in the direction opposite where she was now.

Taylor had a choice. To back off and hide, or stay and fight. Her scorpions outside had finally found the other Tusken Raiders, a group of half a dozen waiting around a huge mammoth like beast.

She had them wait.

A plan was hatched, one that relied on a power she hated, and on a gamble she didn’t want to make.

Taylor walked on.

***

A’Shar’Kr shifted with the sands, his Gaffi stick held high as he roared his defiance to the little ones who ran. He and his clan, his brothers, would chase them in their iron box, and they would slaughter them for trespassing on the land of his clan.

Then he was hit in the back of the head, not a hard blow, but a reminder. “Keep your eyes open. It is like the moonless night in this box,” Grrk’Kri’Ar said.

The clan leader moved deeper into the Jawa vessel, feet as light as grains of sand in the wind and cycler held low. A’Shar’Kr did not like the weapons, not in such tight quarters as these, but the clan leader was a good shot

The proof came when he moved into the dark pit of the Jawa home, away from the brothers who stayed with the Bantha and Ur’Aah’Crnt who had earned himself a burial in the shifting sands for his bravery. The fool should not have stood in the path of the little one’s light guns.

There were six of them moving into the dark pits, all of them waiting for their eyes to lose the day glow vision and relearn to see in the dark. But this was no night watch, and the Jawa were no empty hillside. They were clever little ones. Traps awaited for those that did not pay attention.

“A’Shar,Kr, you are coming with me,” Grrk’Kri’Ar said. “The rest of you, dig into their cave. Find their water. It is ours now.” There was some cheering at that. More water for the clan was always a welcome gift.

A’Shar’Kr moved after his leader, deeper into the shadows and towards the distant rumble of the Jawa home’s heart. “I see three dead,” A’Shar’Kr said. “What will we do with them?”

“Leave them to the sand barbs,” Grrk’Kri’Ar said. “We are here to kill the trespassers and take their waters, not honour their dead.”

“Ah,” A’Shar’Kr said. “But I wanted a gift for my little Uli-ah.”

The leader laughed, a low rumble like heavy rocks tumbling down a hill. “They we will find a nice gift for your child.”

Their path was blocked first by a large plate of metal, then by a grate, but Grrk’Kri’Ar was clever and wise, and he had A’Shar’Kr open the path with his Gaffi stick as a lever.

They could hear the moan of the Jawa, and the air stank of womp rat piss. They knew that they were coming. “We must be careful,” Grrk’Kri’Ar said. “I smell a trap.”

Someone screamed behind them and the two froze like a dragon that heard prey. The scream cut off, then there was a gurgle of fresh blood flowing.

Grrk’Kri’Ar said something that the clan matriarch would have cuffed him for speaking. “A’Shar’Kr, stay here. Watch for the Jawa. Be sure that they don’t come to stab us in the back.”

A’Shar’Kr grunted his understanding and watched his leader rush back to the entrance they had made in the Jawa home. The others must have met resistance. Maybe they ran afoul of trap or snare.

He waited. He was good at waiting. All the warriors could stand in one place like a stone in the wind while the sands danced and the suns circled above.

Then her heard stepping. Not the soft steps of his brothers but the heavier tread of someone who knows no better in the desert. Girding his wits about him like a robe, A’Shar’Kr moved towards the front room, eyes darting around like a womp rat that had scented a Kyrat dragon.

He found them in the entrance room. His brothers. Two of them standing above the body of a third. And Grrk’Kri’Ar was there, his rifle at his shoulder. All was well.

Then he saw the others. A girl-child of the outworlders, crouched down in the shadows beyond the doorway, her eyes already on him. Why? Why was she not being taken by his clan? Did Grrk’Kri’Ar want her as a trophy? As a toy while the banthas rested?

But no, his clan’s men were not moving, not talking, and they were standing wrong. Too tall, too unmoving. They did not sway like the skittering sand over the dunes.

Grrk’Kri’Ar and one of his brothers turned, their Cyclers rising to their shoulders and A’Shar’Kr knew that he had been betrayed. The fact stung, like water spilled into the sands, but he was a brave warrior, and all brave warriors of the sand knew that to face the dragon in its cave was foolishness.

Even as the first shot was taken and missed, A’Shad’Kr was moving. The second screaming retort of the cycliers came with a bite in his lower arm, but it was not the one holding his Gaffi stick, and though he might have dropped blood on the sands, he still lived.

A’Shar’Kr jumped out of the ramp and into the sands, his legs already carrying him towards the bantha. “Brothers! Brothers! We must flee. The demons have taken Grrk’Kri’Ar and the others. Let us run and return with the moons!” he called out.

Then his moon eyes, burning in the sun’s wrath, saw his companions who had been left to guard the Banthas.

They were on the ground, or slumped against their mounts. Gaffi sticks lay abandoned, cyclers were already sinking into the sand. And around his clansmen were the bodies of sand scorpions, barbs crushed, tails torn, holes smashed into them. But there had been too many.

A’Shar’Kr turned. She was there. The outsider demoness. She had only one arm, and eyes with more wrath than the suns themselves.

A cycler barked and A’Shar’Kr fell into the sands, his life fleeing all around him. He heard the distinct, chilling scratch of a scorpion crawling to him, and knew that the monster would feast on his blood.

Panting, he looked up, he had to see, to know why and what.

Grrk’Kri’Ar pointed his cycler towards one brother and shot. He pointed to the next, and this one did not even move. Another retort. More blood in the sand. Then, as the darkness swallowed A’Shar’Kr, the last thing he saw was Grrk’Kri’Ar tossing his precious cycle to the sands and removing his knife from its sheath.

***