Gardulla's Fortress
The fortress landing pad roared with repulsor thrust as the Black Sun freighter descended. Its engines blasted waves of sand and grit against the stone battlements. The ramp hissed open, releasing clouds of coolant vapor into the warm dusk. Rows of mercenaries disembarked in tight formations—Falleen commandos in matte black tactical harnesses, Rodian sharpshooters carrying precision slugthrowers, and armored Weequay heavy infantry hauling belt-fed plasma cannons over their shoulders. Behind them, four anti-vehicle speeders hovered down auxiliary ramps, engines growling low. Eight aging but refurbished repulsor tanks followed on separate transport sleds, their durasteel hulls etched with faded syndicate markings.
Inside the throne room, the stale air smelled of burned spice resin and rotting meat. Flickering glow-panels lit the vast space in flickering amber. Gardulla Besadii sprawled across silken pillows atop her dais, massive tail coiled beneath her bulk. Her yellow eyes narrowed with impatience as holoscreens displayed streams of data—financial forecasts, unit deployment manifests, orbital shipping queues.
"Protocol droid," she rumbled, mucus bubbling at the corners of her mouth, "bring me the Czerka delegate first."
A thin silver protocol droid bowed and scuttled away. Moments later, a human in Czerka executive robes entered, hair slicked back, datapad clutched in manicured hands. He bowed stiffly.
"Mighty Gardulla Besadii," he began, voice careful and polished. "As requested, I present our updated procurement proposal."
She grunted. "Speak."
He tapped his datapad, projecting a holo-list between them. "Nine hundred A280 blaster rifles, fifty heavy repeating blasters with tripod mounts, ten Class-4 E-Web emplacement kits, and fifteen crates of concussion grenades. Ammunition cells in bulk are included. However, due to increased Hydian Way tariffs on arms shipments, logistics surcharges have increased by 8.5%."
Her massive tail thumped against the pillows. "You dare raise prices now?"
The Czerka man did not flinch. "It is unavoidable, mighty one. Recent Jedi delegation forced us to reroute transports through Nal Shaddaa. Transit costs have tripled."
One of her Nikto captains hissed. "Your rerouting is not our concern. Lower your demands."
Gardulla silenced him with a rumble. Her gaze locked on the executive. "Five percent reduction. And a guarantee of delivery within five days. Fail… and your Nar Kreeta contracts end."
The executive hesitated. "Six percent reduction, in exchange for extending your Nar Kreeta ore shipping contract by two standard years."
She sniffed loudly, considering. Finally, she flicked her fingers dismissively. "Done. Have the shipments here within five days."
"Of course, mighty Gardulla." He bowed deeply, backing away.
She waved him aside. "Now bring me the Black Sun delegate."
Two Falleen commandos entered first, boots thudding heavily. Between them walked their overseer: tall, scaled, his green-black skin gleaming under the torchlight. Tight braids framed his angular face, steel cuffs binding them at the base of his neck. He carried no visible weapons, only a polished data-slab.
He stopped before her dais, bowing with precise elegance. "Mighty Gardulla. Black Sun honours your summons."
She snorted, mucus bubbling louder. "Speak your demands. Your men arrive before our terms are finalised."
The overseer inclined his head, unbothered by her tone. "As requested, we have deployed three hundred commandos with full tactical support teams, four anti-vehicle speeders, and eight repulsor tanks. We also include slicer teams capable of disabling Jabba's orbital and regional security grids within hours."
Her eyes narrowed. "And your price?"
He scrolled calmly on his slab. "Full jurisdiction over the refinery district in Vontor Port on Nal Hutta. Fifty standard years. No clan levies. Full operational autonomy."
Her tail twitched in irritation. "You overreach, Falleen. That district pays direct tribute to my clan. You think me desperate enough to surrender it for this… mercenary force?"
He regarded her calmly. "Without us, your assault will be long, costly, and uncertain. Our slicers ensure Jabba's sensor nets are blind. Our tanks will hold the central avenues while your own men press the flanks. Victory is possible without us—yes. But at triple the blood cost, and with far greater risk of failure."
A Rodian mercenary captain standing near her dais spat on the stone floor. "Their tanks are old scrap, mistress. They will break at the first concentrated barrage."
The Falleen's yellow eyes flicked toward him with cold amusement. "Their systems are fully overhauled. Each carries twin-linked laser cannons and ventral concussion missile racks. Outdated… yes. Ineffective… no."
Gardulla rumbled low, considering. Finally she said, "Half jurisdiction. You pay fifteen percent tribute on all spice shipments processed through that district."
The Falleen paused, unreadable. "Ten percent. And we install a permanent Black Sun liaison office to coordinate operations and revenue collection."
Her nostrils flared, tail thumping once. "Twelve percent. No permanent office. One liaison only."
He inclined his head. "Acceptable."
Her massive mouth curled into a grim smile. "Integrate your forces into my perimeter by nightfall. If any violate clan edicts…" her yellow eyes locked onto his, "…I will mount their heads along my gates."
"Understood, mighty Gardulla," he said softly. "Our tactical recommendations will be submitted by dawn to ensure your commanders use our support efficiently."
"See that they are," she rumbled. "Now go. Prepare your men."
The Falleen bowed once more, turning to leave as his commandos filtered into the fortress halls, their boots echoing on the polished stone floors. Outside, under blazing floodlights, Black Sun crews moved with practiced efficiency, unloading tank components from cargo sleds while Weequay engineers inspected fuel cells and drive plates. Czerka droids scanned pallets of A280 crates under the watch of Nikto captains.
Gardulla settled deeper into her silken pillows, her tail twitching with cold satisfaction.
'They think me desperate. Let them. When Jabba's bones rot beneath my gates, they will remember who commands this world.'
Within a month, Mos Eisley became a fortress.
Massive shipments from Bestine and Hutt space arrived daily: cargo haulers and freighters dropping out of the blistering sky to land at repulsor-dusted pads near the southern gate. Each descent shook the dust-caked city, rattling window shutters and vibrating the rusted holoboards advertising cheap drinks and overpriced docking fees.
One dawn, a towering Corellian bulk freighter painted in faded Czerka yellow settled onto Pad 14. Its landing struts whined under the weight. As its ventral hatches lowered with hydraulic groans, platoons of Nikto overseers in black harnesses fanned out to secure the area. The smell of superheated hydraulic oil and ozone spread in gusts as container pallets rolled down maglev rails onto the sand.
Inside the containers lay neatly packed crates marked:
— DL-44 heavy blasters (new)
— PLX-1 portable missile launchers (refurbished)
— Merr-Sonn anti-vehicle mines (sealed)
— Tibanna gas cells (full)
— Portable generator units (heavy duty)
— Ration packs (assorted species)
Further down the ramp, massive reinforced crates were unloaded by teams of slave laborers in electro-collar chains. Each crate bore the stencil: "Scorpenek-class Annihilator Droid Components – WARNING: HEAVY."
Two tanks arrived last, their armored hulls dark from re-entry burns. Repainted in neutral desert tan with no clan markings, they were rolled out under guard, their repulsorlift drives humming deep and low. One Nikto overseer barked orders as he checked the registry codes against a flickering datapad.
"Two Bantha-class assault tanks, full charge. Synchronized fire calibration required. Move them to southern gate command pads by dusk!"
The work crews scrambled under shouted curses, securing the tanks' drive clamps for relocation. Sparks flew as magnetic clamps disengaged.
Beyond the city walls, beyond the flickering floodlights and checkpoint towers, lay an ancient gully carved by millennia of dry floods. The rocks were scorched black by the suns, scattered with broken bones of banthas long dead. Here Maul trained the boy in secret.
Anakin stood barefoot on sun-baked stone. Blisters puckered his feet, skin cracking under the abrasive grit. Sweat streamed down his face, matting his hair to his forehead in clumped strands.
He held his saber, blade humming low and unstable, as Maul stalked around him.
"Again," Maul ordered, his voice quiet, devoid of warmth.
Anakin's chest rose and fell in harsh rhythm. He closed his eyes and reached for the Force.
He felt it—faint and flickering, like candlelight under a sandstorm. He grasped at it, felt it rush through his veins like burning ice. His muscles tensed with unnatural strength.
He moved.
Anakin lunged forward, his blade slicing in a diagonal arc aimed at Maul's chest. The red saber blurred to block, the impact sparking a crackle of colliding plasma. Maul twisted, pivoting around Anakin's strike, and slammed his elbow into the boy's temple.
Pain exploded across Anakin's vision. He stumbled sideways, catching himself with a force-enhanced jump that carried him several meters away, sand spraying out under his landing.
Maul turned to face him, saber held low and loose.
"You use the Force like a hammer," Maul hissed, stepping forward with fluid grace. "Brute force. Blind aggression. It is childish. Undisciplined."
He swung. Anakin blocked high, his knees nearly buckling under the impact. The vibration rattled his teeth.
"Channel your hatred," Maul whispered, pressing his blade closer. "Shape it. Control it. Let it guide your movements, not consume them."
Anakin clenched his jaw. He drew the Force deeper, funneling his rage at Maul's words into his arms, his shoulders, his legs. The saber felt lighter. His limbs moved faster.
He twisted aside and slashed low at Maul's knees. For a fleeting instant, the strike nearly connected. But Maul leapt up, flipping over Anakin in a single force-amplified arc. He landed behind him and slammed his boot into the boy's back.
Anakin crashed onto the rocks. The saber skittered out of his grasp, clattering across stone. Dust filled his mouth as he gasped for air.
"Again," Maul said coldly.
The boy pushed himself up, fingers curling into the sand, nails scraping stone. Blood dripped from a split eyebrow into his left eye, blurring his vision.
He called the saber to his hand with the Force. The hilt flew into his palm, slapping against his bloodied skin with satisfying force. He rose, knees trembling.
Maul lunged. Anakin parried, the blade humming as it absorbed the blow. He countered with a thrust aimed at Maul's throat. Maul deflected, sending Anakin's saber wide, and rammed his knee into the boy's ribs. Bone crunched under the impact. Pain flooded Anakin's side in a fiery wave.
But he did not fall.
He twisted his saber back, pivoting on his unsteady feet, and lashed out with a horizontal strike. Maul blocked again but this time took a half-step back, his yellow eyes narrowing.
"You are learning… slowly," he sneered. "But still… too soft."
He punched Anakin in the chest, the blow enhanced by the Force. Anakin flew backward, crashing into a jagged rock outcrop with a wet thud. The saber fell from his grip again.
Blackness threatened the edges of his vision. His ribs burned with each shallow breath. Blood dripped from his mouth onto his tunic.
Maul approached, his boots crunching on sun-baked gravel. He crouched before the boy, tilting his head.
"Do you hate me, boy?"
Anakin's eyes flickered open, pale blue and filled with blurred tears of pain. His voice came out as a hoarse whisper.
"…yes."
Maul's lips curled into a faint smile. "Good. Then remember: rage is not enough. It must be refined. Directed. Controlled. Otherwise it is nothing but wasted noise."
He stood, deactivating his saber.
"Get up," he ordered.
Anakin didn't move.
Maul's smile vanished. He turned and walked toward his speeder, voice flat.
"Lie there if you wish. The desert will claim you by dawn."
Maul mounted the speeder, its engine whining to life. Sand whipped across Anakin's face as the bike roared away into the darkening desert, leaving only silence and the sigh of cooling rocks.
For a long moment, Anakin lay motionless on the sun-baked stone. Each shallow breath tasted of blood and dust. His side burned with every exhale; pain pulsed along his ribs like molten wire, each throb in time with his racing heart.
The sky above him deepened into violet and black. Distant stars flickered into being. Wind curled around his prone body, dragging grains of sand across his torn tunic and split skin.
His vision blurred. The darkness at the edges crept inward, tempting him with release. With rest. With the quiet finality of failure.
But his fingers twitched. Once. Then again.
Slowly, his hand crawled through the grit, closing around the hilt of his saber where it lay half-buried in cooling sand. He felt the weight of it against his palm, solid and cold, its metal biting into his blistered skin.
His lips parted, drawing in a ragged breath that tasted of iron and ozone.
He did not think of Maul. He did not think of Sidious. He did not think of anything.
He simply pressed his free hand against the stone, feeling it scrape away skin as he pushed. His trembling arms locked. His knees dragged beneath him, grit grinding into open wounds. His vision pulsed black-red-black.
But he rose.
Inch by inch, until he stood swaying under the desert stars, the saber hanging limp in his grip, its weight anchoring him to reality.
The wind howled across the training ground, carrying with it the faint smell of dust and ancient blood.
Anakin stood in silence, sweat and blood cooling against his skin, the broken rhythm of his breathing the only sound in the emptiness.
The desert stretched out around him – vast, silent, and indifferent. A killing ground for the weak.
He tightened his grip on the saber hilt, feeling his pulse pound through bruised fingers.
Then he turned, bare feet crunching over stone, and began the long walk back through the darkening desert.
Maul returned to Mos Eisley under the black velvet sky. Patrols parted for Maul's speeder as it roared down the main avenue toward the central command tower. Slave laborers toiled under floodlights, hauling durasteel plating to reinforce the outer gatehouses. The smell of sweat, oil, and ozone thickened the air.
Inside, the command center buzzed with terse activity. Holomaps flickered, displaying supply routes and projected guard rotations. A Weequay mercenary captain saluted Maul stiffly as he entered, helmet tucked under his arm.
"Lord Maul," he rasped. "Gate patrols report no contact. Perimeter drones are holding position."
Maul said nothing. He moved to the central holotable, eyes narrowing as he scanned the flickering tactical display. For a moment, the room fell silent.
Then his gaze hardened. A cold ripple spread outward through the Force – distant, dark, rising like a storm beyond the dunes.
"Contact Jabba's palace," he ordered softly.
The captain hesitated, brow furrowing. "My lord… what is the message?"
Maul's yellow eyes locked onto him, unblinking.
"Tell him…" Maul said in a low growl, "…the storm is coming. And it will break upon these walls."
The Weequay swallowed hard, nodding quickly as he reached for his commlink.
"Yes, my lord."
Maul turned away, robes whispering across the stone floor as he walked to the observation platform. Outside, the winds howled through the shadowed streets of Mos Eisley, rattling loose metal signs and whipping dust into swirling ghosts under the floodlights.
Far beyond the city walls, unseen in the night, engines rumbled like distant thunder.
And in the blackness, Anakin stood on the training sands, saber in hand, feeling every shattered rib and torn muscle – and the power coiling tighter within him with each ragged breath.
Maul returned to Mos Eisley under the black velvet sky. His speeder roared down the main avenue, its engines whining with controlled fury. Patrols scattered aside, clearing the way as the repulsorlift wash kicked up swirling dust that drifted back to settle on sleeping storefronts.
Slave gangs laboured under towering floodlights, unloading freight containers stacked with durasteel plates. Nikto overseers barked orders in clipped Huttese, their shock prods flashing blue with casual threats. The air smelled of sweat, coolant, and burnt ozone.
Maul cut the engine and dismounted in one smooth motion. He stalked up the ramp into the command tower without breaking stride. The guards posted at the entrance saluted hastily, eyes lowering as he passed.
Inside, the command centre buzzed with low, tense activity. Holomaps projected from recessed emitters, flickering under the dim overheads. Technicians scrolled through data streams on grimy consoles. A faint tang of hot metal and stale caf hung in the recycled air.
At the centre table stood a Weequay mercenary captain, helmet tucked under his arm. He turned as Maul approached, face lined with exhaustion and old scars.
"Lord Maul," he rasped, bowing slightly. "Perimeter reports no hostile contact. Patrol drones sweep every fifteen minutes. Outer checkpoints are holding positions as ordered."
Maul said nothing, stepping up to the holotable. His eyes scanned the display—supply routes, sentry positions, tank deployments along the east wall, automated defence turret readiness. Red glyphs marked damaged sections of the southern barricade from earlier skirmishes.
"Status of the southern gate emplacements?" Maul asked, his voice flat.
"Repairs at seventy percent, my lord," the captain replied quickly. "Shield capacitors are online, but the outer blast doors remain offline. Maintenance teams say eight hours to full operational seal."
Maul's gaze flicked to him. "Six."
The Weequay hesitated. "My lord… with current crew fatigue—"
"Six." Maul's voice carried no anger, only finality.
The captain swallowed and bowed his head. "Yes, my lord. I will inform engineering immediately."
Maul turned back to the display, eyes narrowing. A small scrolling feed displayed logistical delays: ration shortage in sector nine, delayed coolant shipment for tank reserves, five mercenaries missing from the last rotation. He tapped a glyph with one clawed finger.
"Explain this," he said.
A young Rodian quartermaster stepped forward nervously, datapad clutched tight in trembling hands. "Sector nine's ration stockpile was miscounted, my lord. Slave labourers took additional packs without overseer clearance. We… we're investigating to recover the missing units."
Maul's gaze pinned him in silence. The Rodian swallowed, his throat bobbing visibly.
"I will recover them, my lord," he stammered. "Within the hour."
Maul didn't reply. He turned back to the Weequay captain.
"Contact Jabba's palace."
The captain frowned slightly, shifting his grip on his helmet. "My lord… what message shall I relay?"
Maul's yellow eyes locked onto him, unblinking.
"Tell him," Maul said, each word precise and quiet, "the storm is coming. And it will break upon these walls."
The Weequay stiffened, bowing quickly. "At once, my lord."
He turned, barking an order to the comms technician seated nearby. "Patch me through to Jabba's throne relay on priority encryption."
"Yes, captain," the technician replied, fingers flying across the console.
Maul stepped away from the table, moving toward the observation window slit overlooking the main avenue below. Outside, the night wind howled between sandstone towers. Patrol speeders moved in silent circuits past flickering street lamps. Slave lines hauled crates into the eastern depots under Nikto guards armed with shock pikes. A distant tank idled, its repulsorlift engines rumbling deep and low, vibrating the command tower's structure with each idle pulse.
Behind him, the Weequay's voice carried over the commlink, half fearful, half mechanical.
"Priority message from Lord Maul to Mighty Jabba. 'The storm is coming. And it will break upon these walls.' Repeat. The storm is coming. And it will break upon these walls."
Static hissed before the guttural tones of a Huttese comms operator replied. "Message received. Transmission terminated."
The captain clicked off the comm and approached Maul cautiously.
"My lord," he asked quietly, "do you wish to increase the outer patrol frequencies tonight?"
Maul didn't turn. "No. Let them rest for now. They will bleed soon enough."
The Weequay dipped his head. "As you command."
Maul remained silent, watching the darkened streets. His eyes flickered with distant focus, seeing beyond the floodlit walls and checkpoint towers. Beyond the blinking warning beacons marking perimeter mines. Beyond the last sentry posts and watchfires burning low against the dunes.
Far out there in the blackness, engines rumbled. Moving. Gathering. Preparing.
And elsewhere, on the windswept training sands under a moonless sky, Anakin stood alone. His small fingers tightened around the saber hilt, knuckles bloodied and raw. Each shallow breath scraped against broken ribs, pain sharp and blinding. But he did not fall.
He inhaled slowly, tasting copper and dust on his tongue. His vision blurred with sweat and blood, but beneath it burned something deeper.
Hatred.
It burned cold through his veins, numbing pain with a deeper ache. His hand trembled as he raised it slightly, feeling the Force ripple outward into the desert night. He reached for life – any life. He felt a flicker: a womp rat hiding under a cracked boulder. Another: a cluster of beetles burrowed deep in the sand. Weak, pitiful sparks. But enough.
He clenched his grip, and the Force rushed back to him. Their life flickered out in an instant, feeding into the void within him. Warmth spread into torn muscle, easing the grinding agony of broken bone. It was not full healing – the creatures were too small, too feeble – but it dulled the worst of it. Enough to stand.
He staggered forward, sand shifting under his bare, blistered feet. His breath came in ragged pulls as he limped toward the distant glow of Mos Eisley's floodlights on the horizon. Each step sent pain lancing up his side, but hatred anchored him. Fueled him.
He would not crawl back. He would walk.
And as he walked through the silent dunes, he fed. Slowly, patiently, he drew the life from every small creature he sensed – lizards beneath rocks, insects scuttling over wind-smoothed stone, a half-dead scurrier dragging itself across the sand. One by one their sparks snuffed out, their essence siphoned into the hunger within him.
Each flicker of stolen life strengthened him a little more. Each death silenced his pain a little further.
He walked on.
Anakin stumbled through the gates just before dawn. His tunic clung to him in blood-soaked folds, dust and sweat crusting it stiff against his bruised ribs. His left eye was nearly swollen shut. Dried blood caked his mouth and chin.
Mercenaries standing guard at the checkpoint stepped aside in silence. Even the Nikto overseer, known for beating slaves for standing out of line, only watched him pass, eyes wary.
Soon he staggered into the command tower.
Inside, the holotable flickered with tactical readouts, red glyphs marking enemy armored divisions gathering beyond the dunes. The stale recycled air smelled of coolant, sweat, and burning power cells. Mercenaries moved through the tower in tense silence, avoiding Maul's gaze as they relayed orders across open comm channels.
Maul turned from the display as the boy entered.
He watched Anakin's hunched form, noting the trembling knees, the uneven breathing, the tremor in his fingers as they brushed the saber hilt hanging from his belt. The boy's Force signature burned faint and flickering, but it was there – coiled under exhaustion, hunger, and pain.
Maul said nothing at first. He let the silence stretch between them like a blade unsheathed.
Finally, he stepped forward, his boots clicking softly on the metal floor.
"You returned," Maul said flatly.
Anakin's gaze lifted. His lips were cracked and bloodied, but his pale blue eyes remained focused.
"You… told me to get up," he rasped, his voice raw from dehydration and exhaustion.
Maul regarded him, silent. A faint vibration ran through the Force, a cold ripple in his chest.
'He did it. He survived. He crawled from death again.'
Part of him felt… satisfied. Another part felt a chill crawling up his spine. Such power at this age… barely trained… and yet he rises again and again.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Tell me, boy," Maul said quietly, his voice almost conversational. "When you lay there, broken and beaten… did you think of me?"
Anakin's fingers twitched against his saber hilt. "Yes."
"And what did you think?"
The boy swallowed thickly. Blood dripped from a cut at his temple, pattering softly onto the floor. His voice was low but steady.
"That… I would kill you one day."
A flicker of satisfaction twisted Maul's mouth. "Good."
He stepped closer, close enough to smell the acrid sweat and blood drying on the boy's skin.
"Do you want to kill me now?" Maul asked, his voice almost curious.
Anakin's chest rose and fell in shuddering breaths. He did not look away.
"No."
Maul's brow furrowed faintly. "No?"
"I want… to learn," Anakin said, each word deliberate through cracked lips. "Then… when I know everything… I'll kill you."
Maul regarded him for a long moment, silent. The Force coiled and twisted around the boy, dark and flickering but focused. Controlled. No longer blind rage. No longer wild hatred.
'He is learning. Good'
For an instant, unease rippled through Maul's chest.
'When he masters his power… when he grows into what Sidious plans…'
He felt the old question gnaw at him again. 'Will there still be a place for me?'
He pushed the thought away with practiced discipline.
'Irrelevant. I am his blade. That is enough.'
But as he looked down at Anakin – bruised, bloodied, broken yet standing – a cold truth whispered inside him:
'One day, this boy will kill anyone who stands before him. Even me.'
He straightened, his expression blank once more.
"This was part of your training," Maul said flatly. "You were never going to die there. I knew you would rise. The desert is your forge. The pain is your tempering."
Anakin said nothing. His eyes remained locked onto Maul's, steady despite the trembling of his battered body.
Maul studied him for another silent moment, feeling the flicker of something like pride deep within his chest.
"Rest tonight," he ordered, turning back toward the holotable. "No bacta tank. Feel your pain. Carry it with you into tomorrow."
He paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"Tomorrow… you will need it."
Anakin nodded once, almost imperceptibly. His knees wavered, but he did not collapse. Without another word, he turned and limped out of the command tower, each ragged breath misting faintly in the cool pre-dawn air.
Maul watched him go, feeling the darkness coil tightly around his heart.
'Such power… at such an age. Korriban proved it. One day…'
He exhaled softly, his expression hardening as he returned to the shifting glyphs of enemy formations approaching beyond the dunes.