Vastor faced Mace across the hole. Darkness pulsed at Mace through the Force, but on the lor pelek’s face was not anger, but instead inhuman focus: a primal ferocity like a krayt dragon surprised over the corpse of a bantha.

The way he had shrugged Mace off, the slicing of the armor disk: a predator’s dominance display.

He raised his shield-clad hands in salute and rumbled something in a language that Mace didn’t recognize—it didn’t even sound like language at all: more like the growls and snarls of jungle beasts.

But as Vastor spoke, some power of the lor pelek’s unfurled his meaning inside Mace’s mind.

Mace Windu, the lor pelek had said. An honor. Why do you interfere in my kill?

“There is no kill,” Mace said. “Do you understand me? No kill. No more killing.”

Vastor’s smile was disbelieving. No? Then what do you propose? Shall we lay down our arms? He beckoned invitingly with one sizzling shield. You first.

The zings of blaster ricochets and the roar of steamcrawler turret guns came clearly through the gaps in the ’crawler’s armor. “No unnecessary killing,” Mace amended. “No more massacres.”

Vastor’s response had a quality of animal directness, straightforward and uncomplicated. Massacres are necessary, dôshalo.

“You and I are not dôshallai.” Mace angled his lightsabers in a defensive X. “You are no clan brother of mine.”

Vastor shrugged. Where are Besh and Chalk?

“In the bunker,” Mace answered without thinking, his mind still whirling around the concept of a necessary massacre.

Vastor swept the wounded men and women in the steamcrawler’s cabin with a contemptuous glare. These will keep, dôshalo. They cannot escape. Follow me. With a rush of the Force, he sprang straight upward through the hole Mace had cut.


- Shatterpoint, Chapter 8