WotJ 11

Sarco had had enough. He raised his staff, attention fixed on the motionless rebel’s unprotected back, on the perfect spot to drive his weapon home.

  The Scavenger didn’t bother to react when the blinded boy slashed uselessly at the empty air to his left. But then Luke continued the movement, repositioning his feet perfectly as he spun around. The lightsaber moved at incredible speed with all of Luke’s weight behind it, its path a perfect arc that remained smooth and graceful even as the blue-white blade ripped through Sarco’s chest.

  The bristles on Sarco’s arms stood straight out and he screeched. His fingers opened, and the electrostaff fell from them, setting the grass afire.

  The alien’s hand groped at his chest. Luke’s blade had slashed through the control box, leaving a ragged wound in Sarco’s chest. One tube flapped freely, a pale green fluid gushing from it. The smell—thick and nauseatingly sweet—reached Luke’s nose.

  Sarco staggered a step to the right, then tottered two steps to the left. Luke stood facing him, eyes unseeing, braced for another attack.

  Sarco drew Luke’s pistol, aiming it between the rebel’s eyes. The gun wavered in the Scavenger’s hand as he fought to concentrate, distracted by a sudden hammering sound nearby.
...
He didn’t move—the Force told him he was safe, just as it had guided his hand at the moment of gravest peril.

  Sarco fired at the onrushing pikhrons, but the volley of shots merely bounced off the matriarch’s thick hide. He backed up—and his foot found empty air. He hung for a moment on the lip of one of the pits gouged in the courtyard, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to regain his balance. But it was too late. The Scavenger’s last scream lingered behind him as he fell into darkness.