“Master, I’ll leave the command center to you — I’m taking people to keep pressing Death Watch.” Omen climbed down from his Viking to report to Qui-Gon.
“Restoring communications comes first.
We need to find Kurt.” Qui-Gon gave the order.
The technical crew scrambled to bring the comm network back online, trying to reach Kurt’s group and Satine’s party both.
Five surviving Wraiths stayed on Death Watch’s tail, harrying them the whole way, though troopers trained on jetpacks dodged the strafing runs with ease.
Still, every so often a Viking missile found its mark, knocking someone out of the sky to be captured on the ground.
“There — I see the camp!”
One trooper at the front spotted the compound ahead — and immediately realized something was wrong.
Smoke rose where the camp should have been standing intact.
Messages sent ahead went unanswered.
Clearly, something had already gone very wrong.
“Hold up.
The camp’s been hit,” she shouted.
“Contingency Three,” barked the highest-ranking surviving Death Watch officer among them.
Of course, it wasn’t only the fleeing Death Watch troopers who noticed each other — Kurt’s people, still holding the compound, spotted the incoming survivors just as fast.
Jetpacks flared as they launched to meet them, and the sky above the ruined camp erupted into a fresh dogfight.
The remaining thirty or forty Death Watch troopers, seeing the trap for what it was, scattered in every direction — not that it did them much good.
The Viking snapped into mech mode and opened fire on the fleeing troopers overhead.
“Omen.
Use the Viking’s broadcast system.
Tell them Death Watch has lost.
Tell them to surrender.” Kurt’s voice came through to Omen’s cockpit.
“Told you Boss was fine.” Omen laughed — he’d never once doubted it.
Of course Kurt was fine.
He was the boss.
Omen’s Viking blasted the message out loud enough for everyone in range to hear.
“Stand down, brothers and sisters.
Death Watch has lost this fight.
Lay down your weapons.
We’re all Mandalorians — why are we still killing each other?”
“Switch weapons to stun.” Kurt’s order went out over the internal channel.
New Mandalorian weapons flipped over to stun settings across the board — and clearly, Death Watch noticed, and had heard Omen’s broadcast too.
After a long, visible pause, the Death Watch commander lowered his weapon.
“We surrender.” He touched down on the ground, and seeing their commander give in, the rest of the broken force followed suit, landing and laying their weapons in the dirt. Visit novelping . com for the full chapter.
New Mandalorian squads swept in immediately, collecting weapons, while others took speeder bikes back to command to call in Kom’rk transports to haul the prisoners away.
Kurt approached the surrendering commander, and the instant he saw the man’s armor, he knew exactly who stood in front of him — Murto Vizsla, his long-dead father’s fourth brother.
“Should I call you Uncle Murto, or something else?” Kurt pulled off his helmet, letting the man see his face clearly.
Murto’s eyes went wide.
“Nephew — you’re alive!
This was all Tor Vizsla’s doing, all of it — he’s the one who stirred up the Sundari attack, sending clans loyal to your father to die out here, all so he could turn Clan Vizsla and Death Watch both into his own private empire!”
“Where was any of this concern after my father died?
I was nine when you all threw me out to fend for myself.
Every one of you was exactly the same.” Kurt had seen through this family’s game a long time ago — a pack of opportunists who bent whichever way the wind blew.
“The Sundari offensive was Clan Rok’s operation, mostly.
Most of the ones who bled for it down here were pacifist sympathizers, Nephew.
Clan Vizsla should be yours to lead.
You’re the rightful heir to the Darksaber — you carry the Force, just like our ancestor, Tarre Vizsla.” Murto pressed.
“I’ll take back the Darksaber.
But not for any of you.
For every Mandalorian.
For an actual era of peace.” Kurt turned and walked away without another word.
“You’re just like your father, Nephew!
I’ll pledge myself to you — and I’ll find you other allies!” Murto shouted after his retreating back.
Meanwhile, off Mandalore entirely, Satine and Obi-Wan had already touched down on another world within the Mandalore sector.
The moment they stepped off the ship, cloaked and hooded, they came face to face with a holographic bounty notice — Satine’s own face staring back at them.
“That was fast, wasn’t it.” Obi-Wan couldn’t resist.
“Because it isn’t your face on the poster.” Satine pulled her cloak tighter, glancing around to make sure no one had noticed, and elbowed him sharply for good measure.
“Let’s find somewhere to lay low, then get word to Sundari — see how things are holding up.” Obi-Wan pulled his own hood tighter, following Satine’s lead, and the two found a room at an inn before heading out to a local bar to see what they could learn.
“You hear?
Word is Chieftain Vizsla’s about to send people against Keldabe.” One Mandalorian, well into his drink, was telling the man beside him.
“Isn’t the action all happening in Sundari?
Why the capital now?” the other asked.
“Inside intel, friend.
Hic — says Sundari was a strategic withdrawal.
Hic.” The drunk one waved his mug for emphasis.
“Your uncle-guy talk never checks out.” The other waved him off and changed the subject.
Obi-Wan, seated in a corner nearby, caught every word clearly and relayed it to Satine at once.
“Do you think it’s true?” Obi-Wan asked.
“Probably close enough to the truth.
Sundari’s safe now — but that puts the capital in real danger.”
“We wait and watch for now.
But we still need to get this to Kurt and the others.” Obi-Wan thought it over.
Just then, a Duros walked in — blue-skinned, straight out of a classic Western holo, a small droid hovering and flitting behind him, scanning the room from the bar.
“Bartender.
Mandalorian special, if you’ve got it.”
Obi-Wan studied him — every inch the classic bounty hunter.
“Time to go.
Staying too long here’s asking for trouble — everyone in the sector knows Duchess Satine’s face by now.”
Satine nodded, and the two slipped out of the bar and back to the inn, sending word to Sundari the moment they were clear — communications had already been restored by then — warning everyone to watch for an attack on the capital.
Kurt, still overseeing repairs at the command center, read the incoming message with mounting frustration.
His current forces could hold Sundari and little else — the rest of the countryside wasn’t under his authority, and not everyone out there supported the pacifist cause to begin with.
He needed more support.
Which likely meant going back to his uncle.
He made his way to the holding cells and had Murto Vizsla brought out.
“Already need your uncle’s help, Nephew?
Guessing Tor Vizsla’s making his move on the capital and you’re short-handed.” Murto seemed to have already worked out exactly why Kurt had come.
“Sounds like Tor Vizsla’s already told you his plans himself.
So you can start making up for lost time.”
“Ha!
Every Death Watch trooper in this prison right now answers to me — my own people, every one.
There’s risk in that, of course, so I’d need Death Watch’s internal backing too — plenty of them never forgave Tor for assassinating your father and old Duke Kryze.
Win them over, and it’s done.
But nothing’s free, Nephew.
In exchange, you kill Tor Vizsla yourself.
Take the Darksaber.” Murto had clearly spent his time in the cell thinking this through carefully — whatever he lacked in combat skill, he more than made up for in political calculation.