Bright Shadow Chapter 6

Previous Chapter: ***Chapter 5 - Twilight in the Barracks***

***Chapter 6 - Dark Rivalries***

Sharmall had felt the sudden cold wave of darkness flow through his body like a drug had been injected through his green skin and into his bloodstream. His iridescent eyes shone with the unmistakable yellow hue of the dark side. Its corruption had embedded itself into his mind over the many months of training at the academy and had changed him from the child he once was; born into a family of slaves that toiled away for a rich household of Sith merchants, Sharmall was supposedly freed from his servitude when the family was obliterated during the Republic invasion several years prior. But as it often happens in the Empire, one form of enslavement was traded for another, in the form of Sith acolyte training. A part of him wished he had remained a slave to the affluent purebloods as opposed to being conscripted into the Sith war machine. At least then he would have a comfortable bed to sleep in and a full belly at all times.

Of all the nights Sharmall wished to be back with the Sith family, this night in particular was most unbearable. The freezing cold had driven him to near-madness, where he could no longer remain in his threadbare bed. He had shuffled in his bed into all different manners of shapes for hours on end, hoping to get a sliver of sleep before the training of the next day. Upon finding that sleep would allude him for the night, he decided a walk among the tombstones and relics of the Academy, hoping that it would occupy his estranged mind until the night’s end.

There was only one obstacle that stood in his way: The Wanderers. Of all the punishments that the Empire would castigate to its defiant or weak members, being converted into a Wanderer was a fate worse than death.

The chosen victim would be taken before the Dark Council themselves where they would perform a dark ritual before a great, ancient Shrine. Using their immense powers combined with the shadowy potencies of the monument, they absorbed the life force of the poor soul and entrapped it inside the shrine. The disembodied spirit would stay imprisoned in the colossal shrine for all eternity, forever doomed to a torturous existence. However, a small portion of the victim’s soul would remain encased in the catatonic shell that was once his or her’s body. The mind of the victim would be fractured, yet still partially intact. Removed from its identity, yet still able to command the body. It had no will of its own. No desires. No end goals for its existence. The only privilege it possessed was that miniscule trickle of life it had left, and it would defend it with all its remaining power. The creature’s skin would become wrinkled and blackened. Their eyes would lose all colour and would be replaced by a grey tint that bestowed no life whatsoever.

Although the newly formed creature would have no soul to speak of, it would become unnaturally powerful in the Force. The dark side itself would detect the sudden void in the body of the former Sith or acolyte and would fill the space left by the exiled soul. In a sense, the Wanderers were the closest incarnation of the dark side itself; a soulless, senseless thing motivated by pure rage and an insatiable desire to kill everything that lived.

The Wanderers were kept in a secret lair deep below the Academy, even further down than the acolyte’s barracks. There they wallowed in their mindlessness together inside large cages that kept them secure like a band of rabid animals.

Only at night would the creatures be released into the depths of the Academy. Acting like guard-hounds, the Sith Beastmaster, Darth Majdon, would hurry them into the halls of the academy like a herd of Abitian sheep. There they would have free reign to wander the galleries of the Academy as sentinels. If needed, they would attack and devour anyone whom they saw, ripping their bodies apart with their ghastly, elongated bone-nails. The Academy was essentially under a curfew every single night whilst the Sith slept in their quarters and cells.

Upon entering the majestic halls of the Academy, Sharmall strode along the red carpeted floors of the immense gallery with a half-glee to his stride. He took in every instant of brief freedom he had like a breath of fresh air. He was so enamoured in his nocturnal liberty, he was lucky to quickly spot the Wanderer that stood ahead of him.

The creature stood in the middle of the gallery facing the away from Sharmall, much to his luck. The sound of saliva dripping from the creature’s mouth echoed throughout the hall as Sharmall stopped dead in his tracks before he would alert the creature to his presence. He kept his head is still, as if to avoid a piercing neck pain that would ignite should he move. The rest of his body was paralysed by fear as his mind raced to figure out a solution to his predicament.

Careful not to attract the attention of the beast, Sharmall sneaked his way into the nearest room to escape the Wanderer. Sharmall never took his eyes off the creature, giving him time to make out who the creature was. It appeared to be a woman, long and scruffy black hair ran from its head to its hips. He could not see the face of the creature, but he imagined it would be wrinkled and deformed as if it was drained of all flesh and blood, leaving just a conglomerate of skin and bones.

As Sharmall entered the room he would hide in, the creature suddenly turned its head around to his direction. Sharmall took a risk and dived into the room to avoid the creature’s sight, creating a dangerously loud thump when he hit the floor. The Wanderer, intrigued by the sound, single-mindedly dragged its feet along the floor towards where Sharmall was hiding. He pressed his back against the wall next to the door and slowly reached for his training saber.

The Wanderer made a tactical error upon entering the room. It chose to look to the right-hand side of the doorway first as opposed to the left, which was where Sharmall leaped out from to slice his training blade into the torso of the monster. The sharpened blade cut from the Wanderer’s left shoulder to its pelvis, making the shoulder and arm split from the rest of the body and spouting viscous, black blood across the floor. To Sharmall’s horror, however, the creature was still alive. The battle of mind over matter was inconsequential to the Wanderers. They were as close to immortality as a creature could get.

As the creature’s left side of its torso dragged across the floor, still attached to the body by its hip, the creature reached out and swiped at Sharmall’s face with its free right hand, cutting shallowly into his left cheek. Sharmall jumped away from the Wanderer, performing a backflip in the air and landing several meters away, a technique taught to him by Darth Oddisor as a method to escape dangerous foes.

Sharmall regained his stance and stood in the offensive position of Juyo, undeterred by his facial injury. He readied his blade and waited for the Wanderer to make the next move. Just as Sharmall had predicted, the creature mindlessly sprinted at him. He readied his blade to dodge and strike the creature, letting his fear fuel his will to survive.

The Wanderer was suddenly levitated up into the air, it’s legs still sprawling as it desperately tried to reach Sharmall to rip him limb from limb. The contorted face of the wanderer flew backwards away from Sharmall and was impaled through the right eye by a sharp blade. Sharmall looked on in confusion and shock as a hooded figure wielding the training saber threw the now completely lifeless corpse of the creature to the floor.

Still standing in the Juyo form, Sharmall pointed his blade at the hooded Sith that stood before him. His eyebrows frowned, and his face narrowed into a bewildered expression as he squinted his eyes in an attempt to see the face hidden under the mask.

“Doran?” he said to the faceless figure.

The unknown warrior parted with his hood and revealed the unmistakable shaven head of the human acolyte. His face was stained with the black blood of the Wanderer he had slaughtered, and he bared no expression in his eyes. Sharmall wisely kept his blade in ready position, knowing that something was abnormal.

“You can put your weapon down Sharmall”, Doran said to the Mirialan. “We’re on the same side.”

Sharmall did not lower his blade. “That remains to be seen,” he said. “What are you doing up? Why did you follow me?”

Doran smiled grimly at the acolyte as he sheathed his own blade, “I saw you head out. I was worried. Thought you’d be done in by the Wanderers,” he said indicating his head in the direction of the grimaced body of the female Wanderer. He wiped his bloodied face in his cloak, cleansing his shaven head of the black gore from the monster he had just slain.

Sharmall lowered his arms slightly and put away his own blade, sheathing it in his side. “I guess you weren’t too far from the truth,” he said. “I suppose I owe you thanks for saving my life?”

“There’s no need,” Doran said. “Just looking out for a fellow acolyte.”

Sharmall nodded slowly with a perplexed look on his face as Doran placed his hand on his shoulder in a friendly manner. Sharmall kept a hesitant hand on the hilt of his sheathed blade, keeping a look out for any dirty tricks. Doran was never this nice to anyone. He despised every other acolyte in the Academy. Even his own brothers. It then occurred to Sharmall that he and Doran never had a bad encounter in the fighting pits. They had always been neutral, and their relationship had always been somewhat balanced. No rivalry yet no friendship either. *He must be trying to get on my good side; try to earn my trust so that he can rise to the top of the hierarchy*, Sharmall thought to himself.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I suppose I could use your help.”

“I’m all ears,” said Doran.

Sharmall turned to look at the giant shrine in the centre of the room. “What the hell is that thing?” he asked Doran.

Doran took in the sight of the Sith shrine as if analysing a piece of fine art. The red, triangle-shaped monument stood many meters above them, almost touching the ceiling of the room.

“I don’t know,” Doran said after he and Sharmall had walked closer to the shrine for a better look. “Looks like some kind of holy monument. Must be thousands of years old.”

Sharmall looked at him as thoughts raced through his mind. “Do you think this could be the shrine that Oddisor was warning us about?” he asked his new ally.

“Maybe,” Doran replied, looking down at the dark red floor of the shrine room. “Look at this. Do you smell that?” he continued, crouching down to the ground.

Doran examined the strange texture of the floor, observing the odd adhesive feel to the surface. He placed his palm on the floor and lifted it up, peeling off a layer of the sticky, red floor, leaving a handprint in the ground. Doran evaluated the fine, dry matter that had coated the underside of his hand. He hesitantly tasted the strange substance on the end of his tongue, like a hunter tasting the soil in search of prey. He quickly spat out the taste of the red matter in disgust, wiping his hands down on his grey clothes.

“Uggh,” he coughed. “Dried blood."

“Blood?” said Sharmall, bewildered.

“No doubt,” said Doran as he stood up from the ground. “There’s something not right about this place. The air is so thick. So stale. It’s far too quiet. Do you hear that?”

Sharmall shook his head. “Hear what?”

“The silence,” replied Doran. “No echoes from our voices. No wind from outside the Academy. Nothing." Sharmall began to fidget in his uncomfortableness. The fear of the room was beginning to infest his mind.

“Doran, if this is what I think it is then we should get out of here. We’re not meant to be out of bed anyways and if this is the great Sith Shrine we’ve been told about, we shouldn’t be anywhere near it. I’ve heard enough stories about what happens to people who get too close to it. You said it yourself; that’s dried blood on the floor. Jedi prisoners were sacrificed here hundreds of years ago. I don't wanna end up like them. Come on, let’s get out of here while we can."

Sharmall turned towards the doorway, but Doran grabbed his arm, interrupting his stride. “Woah wait a minute,” Doran said. “Aren’t you the least bit curious to what this thing is? What it could do? The kind of powers it can grant?”

A brief silence between the two acolytes was broken when Doran let go of Sharmall’s arm. The Mirialan glanced at the shrine that towered before them. As the only source of light in the room, it glowed and illuminated Sharmall’s face, juxtaposing with his green complexion.

Doran continued. “Look. You wanna get out of this place, right? This could be our best opportunity to gain the upper hand over the others. Imagine the amount of power from the sacrificed Jedi is stored inside that thing. What if we could harness it for ourselves? Our potential is unlimited."

Sharmall considered his new ally’s offer, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the monument and Doran’s pale face. “It’s a bit far-fetched, Doran," he said. “We have no idea what this thing would do to us. What if we try to take it’s powers and it goes wrong?”

Doran gazed at the inscriptions and engravings that ran up and down the shrine. “There’s no need to worry about that,” he insisted. “Just walk up to the thing and touch it. Like Oddisor said, the power will come to you. You simply have to have the will to obtain it. If I sense something going wrong, I’ll rescue you. The shrine won’t hurt you I promise."

Sharmall sighed and looked back at his compatriot. “Fine," he said at last. The desire to gain more power had permeated through his sense of reason. The corruption of the dark side teachings he had forgone were embedded into his very soul. The two acolytes approached the shrine together, coming up to the very precipice of the monument. Suddenly, the atmosphere had changed within the great hall and Sharmall felt another unsettling surge of cold energy run up his spine. He had ignored the first disturbance but this time, however, it was different. More intense. Heavier. Localised. As if it was specifically directed at him. Was it a warning? Or a call? Something he should have feared? Or something that he should have followed?

Whether it be through pure curiosity or more apathetic arrogance, he pressed on towards the shrine as Doran fell behind, shortening his stride and letting his fellow acolyte walk ever closer towards the shrine. As Sharmall approached the sides of the shrine he began to feel abnormal; he felt colder and found it harder to gasp full breaths. His chest felt tight and his legs grew weaker. He lowered his head and placed his hands on his weak knees. Beginning to pant heavily, Sharmall pressed on. All reason had been sucked out of him by Doran’s tempting words. He had been so consumed by the desire for power, he was controlled by the Force itself. The dark side pulled him towards the shrine like a rope had been tied to his waist.

Placing his hands on the side of the shrine, Sharmall felt a horrific burst of energy flow through his body. The screams of countless sacrificed people begged him to free them. They pleaded for a release from their eternal torment. Sharmall was entranced by the shrine, and a piercing pain inserted itself into his mind. The searing agony grew second by second.

“Doran! Pull me out!” he cried loudly, undoubtedly alerting any nearby Wanderers.

“As you wish,” Doran said unfeelingly. His demeanour had completely changed. His eager-to-learn expression had gone cold and his eyes burned with the full evil of the dark side. He unsheathed his blade and swung it at the Sharmall’s ankles, severing his tendons on both legs.

Collapsing from the shrine, Sharmall’s hands let go of the monument, departing with the many souls that were trapped inside. Sharmall screamed in agony but quickly covered his mouth, muffling his cries: he realised the sound would attract the attention of other Wanderers.

As his blue blood flowed effusively onto the floor, Sharmall looked up to his attacker with rage who was merely standing next to him, staring down at him with the same look on his face as when he killed the Wanderer earlier.

“You deceptive bastard!” Sharmall whispered harshly, his eyes fully yellow with rage and pain. “I’ll kill you for this!”

Doran kneeled down to Sharmall, their eyes locking with mutual hatred for each other. “I’d like to see you try once they are finished with you,” He said as he looked behind his shoulder; five Wanderers had entered the shrine room, all drooling at the mouth and growling at the two acolytes.

Sharmall shouted something at Doran but he was already gone; He had propelled himself up to the ceiling of the room, using a continuous flow of the Force to hold himself in place on the roof of the room like a suction cup. He hung from the ceiling and swayed like a pendulum as he watched the Wanderers surround and encroach upon Sharmall who was desperately flailing his training blade uselessly at the mindless beasts.

As the monsters moved in on him, he impaled one with his blade. But the creature was big. An alpha of the pack. It yanked the blade out of the acolyte’s hands and bit down on the blade with its unnaturally large jaws, snapping it in half like a twig. All Sharmall could do was scream as the Wanderer pack tore him apart limb from limb. His cries became gargled as his throat was ripped out and blood flowed into his lungs, all whilst his arms and legs were pulled from their sockets and devoured by the beasts. He was still alive and choking on his own blood while the creatures feasted on his dismembered arms and legs.

Even Doran was slightly disturbed by the slow death of the acolyte and closed his eyes briefly before climbing along the ceiling of the shrine room and jumping down towards the entrance of the room. Without making a sound to disturb the Wanderer’s meal, he tip-toed his way through the exit and shut the massive doors to the room, blocking off the sound of the fetid Wanderers loudly chewing on the flesh of the very dead Mirialan.

Next Chapter: ***Chapter 7 - Unholy Alliance***

 Copyright Jacob Burbidge 2019