Vastor stood within, hunched like a gundark, his right arm drawn back to strike. Dangling from hair tangled in Vastor’s left fist, feet kicking above the floor, sobbing uncontrollably about how all you stinkin’ kornos have to die, was Terrel.

“Vastor, stop!” Mace opened himself to the full flood of the Force, and used it to hammer at the lor pelek’s will. “Don’t do it, Kar. Put the boy down.”

He might as well have not bothered; Vastor’s answering snarl translated in Mace’s mind as When I am done with him. The shield strapped to Vastor’s left arm made a mirrored halo over Terrel’s head, but now the other angled toward where Besh and Chalk lay. Look there, and see what sort of creature I hold.

“He’s not some creature,” Mace responded with reflexive certainty. “He’s a boy. His name … his name is …” His voice trailed away as his eyes finally made sense of what Vastor was pointing at. “Terrel …”


- Shatterpoint, Chapter 8