Tales of the Mandalorians

[Dieter Schprokets]

Mandalore Kandosii sat back in the chair, feeling somewhat pleased with himself.

Enrolment was up, and the pilots were starting to rack up kills again. Old clients had paid bills, and relationships with new ones had been established.

The books were back in the black, and in general, things were looking up.

The successful career of Kandosii was due, in large part, to the status of his family. The Mandalorians were a hierarchal society, with competing noble clans continually jousting for power. The Clan Kandosii was an ancient one, and held high status. Only the Clan Piruna had higher rank. Both families traced their lineage back to the original Mandalore himself.

The Mandalore was usually from one of the noble bloodlines. Commoners seldom achieved the title. The reign of John Cabot was an exception to that rule, but the Bretonian Mandalore had been selected for political expediency, to cement ties with Bretonia. The ties now cemented, (the Consuls and Mandalore having received Bretonian Noble titles), the upper echelon of the Mandalorians were quite happy to go back to their traditional hierarchies.

Consuls were usually also nobles. Consul Ranov'la Aran was an exception to that rule. They said he was an orphan, and he rose through the ranks the hard way. In battle. He was a hard, but fair, man, and his popularity lay with the common soldiers. He was, to tell the truth, quite popular with the average Mandalorians, more so than Kandosii, save for the latter's Cay'lith cultists. But when Dha Piruna had stepped down, only one "traditional" choice lay before the Mandalorians. It was Clan Kandosii's turn.

It was not a popular decision with the rank and file. And someone should have told Kandosii the story of Marc Anthony.


A package was brought in by a porter. It was large, and bore the name of the Mandalore, from the Consul Ranov'la Aran.

"Ah, Ranov, you found me the Canaria Ale." Cardimine content, 0.04%. Enough for an effect, but just below the limit (0.05%) for an illegal narcotic.

He brought out his dagger, the Murcyur, "Mandalorian Kiss", and opened the box, and fell backwards in shock, with a yell of surprise.

Inside the box were two severed heads.

Kandosii's guards had silently left their posts, and at the sound of his shocking discovery, four darkly garbed men filed into the room. They were immediately recognised by the Mandalore as Dha'wherds Sh'ehn, Ta'raysh, Cuir, and Solus.

Kandosii stood and regarded the Dha'wherd with a distasteful grimace. They gazed back at him coldly, without expression.

"So it's come to this, then?", asked the Mandalore.

"Yes." said Ranov'la Aran as he walked into the room. At the sight of him, Kandosii gave a sigh of despair, then sat.

"'Mandalore', meet Dha'wherd Rayshe'a, and Dha'wherd E'tad." Ranov'la was gesturing at the box. "They were on your payroll, so I am surprised you do not recognise them, though I suppose...", Ranov'la picked up one of the heads and regarded it quizzically, "maybe they are hard to recognise, like this."

Kandosii said nothing. He was staring with stoic defiance at Ranov'la.

"I needed time to find your moles. And having done so...", Ranov'la gestured again to the box, then leaned forward with eyes narrowed, "The Dha'wherd are now entirely mine."

Kandosii shook his head, sadly. He had hired the two dead men on his desk to confirm rumours that somebody significant was consolidating support amongst the Dha'wherd. Accurate rumours, it seemed.

"You have made a deal with the devil, Ranov.", he said with a tired smile. "You are just a vehicle to them, to gain them power. John was right to exile them." Dha'wherd Solus's eyes narrowed at the last statement, and he reached to his belt. Ranov'la gestured to him to stop, then laughed.

"My friend, I AM one of those devils." He lay a hand on Ta'raysh's shoulder, and smiled.

"I am no orphan. My father is Dha'wherd Kahn'taal."

Kandosii looked positively shaken. There could be nothing that could make this situation worse. Well now, actually..

"Kal'ika Vergebuir is with us. You have only your wealthy friends. And you know THEY cannot fight." With the last phrase, Ranov'la's voice positively dripped with contempt.

Kandosii closed his eyes, knowing this coup had been meticulously planned. Ranov'la never used half measures. There was no way out of this.

"Then do it.", he said. "Kill me."

Ranov'la did not answer for a second. Then he spoke softly.

"This is not personal. And it must be done our way. The Mandalorian way. Those who look to me will have it no differently."

He drew his own Murcyur. "You can keep the position of Mandalore. All you have to do is successfully defend my challenge, and kill me."

Kandosii opened his eyes suddenly, and moved like lightning. He had already drawn his blade to open the box containing the remains of the unfortunate Dha'wherd, and he was now determined to save his life. He intended to wound Ranov'la, and force a surrender. If he killed his challenger, he knew those honourless Dha'wherd monsters would simply kill him, and appoint someone amenable to them in his stead. They had done that before.

Ranov'la was not prepared for the ferocity of the charge and he dodged the thrust of the blade imperfectly. A nasty gash was made on his left cheek. Kandosii was younger, and faster, but did not have Ranov'la's skill with the blade. This contest was not to either's advantage.

Ranov'la recovered from the attack, and spun to deliver a spinning backfist with the hilt of his blade to Kandosii's temple. Kandosii staggered and fell forward, but then rolled, and rose up facing his adversary, warning away the nearby Dha'wherd with his blade. They stepped back to make room, smiling. No matter who won this fight, they were going to gain.

Mandalorians did not tend to dance around in their knife fights. They did not waste energy or time. They knew how to go for the swift kill, and now the two men rushed each other again.

Kandosii took a cut in the forearm, winced, and recoiled. The other man's superior skill with a blade was a problem, now. So Kandosii got creative, feinted with his knife...

... and kicked Ranov'la's blade from his hand. It flew far across the room.

Kandosii, sure of victory, drew himself up to Ranov'la and drove his blade deep into his adversary's thigh. Ranov'la grimaced, in a substantial amount of pain.

"Do you yield?!?", demanded Kandosii, his face close to Ranov'la's.

Ranov'la was still standing, and he just smiled, then thrust with an unseen hand. Kandosii gasped, and began falling to the floor.

Ranov'la spoke, in some shock, but firm. "My father taught me to carry two Murcyur." He threw away his second blade, covered in Kandosii's blood. Then he helped Kandosii to the floor.

Kandosii held his right hand up to his left, and removed the Mandalore's signet ring. He handed it to Ranov'la, hand shaking. Ranov'la took the bloodied ring, nodded in respect to Kandosii, and put it on.
Kandosii then began to remove his Consul's ring. Ranov'la stopped him, and looked down at his own thigh, which still had Kandosii's Murcyur lodged in it.

"That blade is in my leg. It could have as easily been put through my heart. Why?" Kandosii was too weak now to answer, and Ranov'la sat painfully on the floor.

One of the Dha'wherd had begun to draw his own blade. Ranov'la held up his hand, and the Dha'wherd, after some puzzled delay, put his blade away again. Mercy was not a concept they were familiar with.

"He spared my life, so I spare his." Ranov'la leaned closer to Kandosii, looked at the other man's wound, then spoke. "Don't worry, Consul, you still have another kidney."

He barked an order at the Dha'wherd. "Take him to the infirmary, now. Return for me. I'll soon need some attention myself." He was losing quite a bit of blood.

The Dha'wherd left, carrying Kandosii with them. As they left, Ranov'la yelled after them, "No funny business! He is to be spared!"

Ranov'la Aran painfully limped over to the Mandalore's chair, and pulled himself into it. He allowed himself a moment of quiet, if painful, triumph.

It was not the first time blood had been spilt over, and on, that ancient chair.

Nor would it likely be the last.

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