he said, “or I’ll report you to Jabba, and he will kill you, and I will still claim the rancor as my reward.Either way, I get what I want. The exact manner is up to you.”
“You don’t leave me much choice,” Malakili said, whimpering.
“No,” Gonar said, drawing himself up, puffed with his own triumph. “No, I don’t leave you much choice.”
Malakili grabbed a heavy femur from the rancor’s lunch pile. Without pause, he swung the blood-wet bone with all the strength behind his bulging muscles. He brought the knobbed club smack against Gonar’s forehead. His skull crushed like a soap bubble. The young red-haired man slumped to the floor. His last sound was merely a squeak of surprise.
Inside its cage the rancor stirred and made a rumbling, hungry noise. This had not been as difficult as killing the Tusken Raider out in the canyon, Malakili thought, but it seemed more satisfying somehow. More of a personal triumph.
He picked up Gonar’s limp body. It seemed to have acquired a dozen more joints from the way his arms and legs and spine flopped in all directions.
Just as Malakili was hauling the body onto the cart, he heard thumping footsteps and a clank of armor as one of Jabba’s plodding, not-too-bright Gamorrean guards came around the corner carrying another dead body on his shoulder. He blinked his porcine eyes and curled his lower lip to push protruding fangs out. The guard shoved his helmet down against the horns on his head and squinted at the scene with Malakili and the fresh body.
“What this?” the guard asked, using one of the few Basic phrases it knew.
Malakili stared at him, holding the body of a man he had just murdered. The bloodied club still lay on top of the pile. He couldn’t possibly make up a goodexplanation. “I’m feeding the rancor. What does it look like I’m doing?”
The Gamorrean stared at the dead body along with the butchered remains from the kitchen. He grunted and nodded again. “Need help?”
“No,” Malakili said. “No, I’m doing just fine.” He looked meaningfully into the dimness of the rancor’s cage and at the Gamorrean’s burden. “You want to unload him, too?”
“No! Evidence of crime!”
The Gamorrean waddled off humming to itself, unchallenged by life and delighted to be doing his tedious job to the best of his ability.
That day the rancor enjoyed its lunch even more than usual.
The pickup from Lady Valarian was scheduled for just after dawn, before Jabba and his minions could rouse themselves from the lethargy brought upon them by wild parties all through the night.
As far as Malakili could tell, no one had mentioned the disappearance of Gonar, but other clingers had taken the young man’s place as standby observers during feeding time and training: each one in awe of the beast, each one wanting to share a bit of its power just by being close to it.
Malakili went inside the rancor cage and made sure the locks on the heavy outside door had been freshly cut so that the escape would be easy once Valarian’s ship arrived.
He looked at his chronometer, double-checking, counting down. Less than an hour to go. His heart pounded.
The rancor was tense and restless in its cage. It knew something was up, and it made questioning, snortingnoises every time Malakili came within view of the outside doors.
“Just a little while longer, my pet,” Malakili said. “Then we can both be free of this place.”
Above, he heard only the dull silence and the drowsy sounds as Jabba and the others slept, even the scantily clad new human wench whom he kept chained to the dais.
Malakili heard footsteps skittering about like spiders above, those few who remained awake to build their own plans against Jabba. He heard the rattling of a grate above. Other footsteps. Malakili cursed the disturbance.
He looked at his chronometer again and was alarmed to hear Jabba stirring, others talking, the minions awakening. A visitor had appeared. Not now!
Malakili hissed
“You don’t leave me much choice,” Malakili said, whimpering.
“No,” Gonar said, drawing himself up, puffed with his own triumph. “No, I don’t leave you much choice.”
Malakili grabbed a heavy femur from the rancor’s lunch pile. Without pause, he swung the blood-wet bone with all the strength behind his bulging muscles. He brought the knobbed club smack against Gonar’s forehead. His skull crushed like a soap bubble. The young red-haired man slumped to the floor. His last sound was merely a squeak of surprise.
Inside its cage the rancor stirred and made a rumbling, hungry noise. This had not been as difficult as killing the Tusken Raider out in the canyon, Malakili thought, but it seemed more satisfying somehow. More of a personal triumph.
He picked up Gonar’s limp body. It seemed to have acquired a dozen more joints from the way his arms and legs and spine flopped in all directions.
Just as Malakili was hauling the body onto the cart, he heard thumping footsteps and a clank of armor as one of Jabba’s plodding, not-too-bright Gamorrean guards came around the corner carrying another dead body on his shoulder. He blinked his porcine eyes and curled his lower lip to push protruding fangs out. The guard shoved his helmet down against the horns on his head and squinted at the scene with Malakili and the fresh body.
“What this?” the guard asked, using one of the few Basic phrases it knew.
Malakili stared at him, holding the body of a man he had just murdered. The bloodied club still lay on top of the pile. He couldn’t possibly make up a goodexplanation. “I’m feeding the rancor. What does it look like I’m doing?”
The Gamorrean stared at the dead body along with the butchered remains from the kitchen. He grunted and nodded again. “Need help?”
“No,” Malakili said. “No, I’m doing just fine.” He looked meaningfully into the dimness of the rancor’s cage and at the Gamorrean’s burden. “You want to unload him, too?”
“No! Evidence of crime!”
The Gamorrean waddled off humming to itself, unchallenged by life and delighted to be doing his tedious job to the best of his ability.
That day the rancor enjoyed its lunch even more than usual.
The pickup from Lady Valarian was scheduled for just after dawn, before Jabba and his minions could rouse themselves from the lethargy brought upon them by wild parties all through the night.
As far as Malakili could tell, no one had mentioned the disappearance of Gonar, but other clingers had taken the young man’s place as standby observers during feeding time and training: each one in awe of the beast, each one wanting to share a bit of its power just by being close to it.
Malakili went inside the rancor cage and made sure the locks on the heavy outside door had been freshly cut so that the escape would be easy once Valarian’s ship arrived.
He looked at his chronometer, double-checking, counting down. Less than an hour to go. His heart pounded.
The rancor was tense and restless in its cage. It knew something was up, and it made questioning, snortingnoises every time Malakili came within view of the outside doors.
“Just a little while longer, my pet,” Malakili said. “Then we can both be free of this place.”
Above, he heard only the dull silence and the drowsy sounds as Jabba and the others slept, even the scantily clad new human wench whom he kept chained to the dais.
Malakili heard footsteps skittering about like spiders above, those few who remained awake to build their own plans against Jabba. He heard the rattling of a grate above. Other footsteps. Malakili cursed the disturbance.
He looked at his chronometer again and was alarmed to hear Jabba stirring, others talking, the minions awakening. A visitor had appeared. Not now!
Malakili hissed
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