And the first time he turned in Ben’s direction-to add another handful of sticks to the fire-Ben could see that he wore the Amulet of Kalara on its chain around his neck.
Ben froze. If Faskus knew he was here, the man could vanish from his perceptions, could track him down and kill him with little effort. Ben had to obtain the amulet without alerting Faskus.
And that meant waiting for an opportunity …
No. Ben was hungry now and would only get hungrier. And colder, exercise being counterproductive when an agent was trying to remain undetected. If he waited, he would either become so weak and stiff that he could not complete his mission, or he would freeze to death.
So the situation meant that he would have to attack - and attack soon.
And attack without mercy. Anyone who could steal the amulet and wield its power had to be formidable.
When Faskus turned his back again, still mumbling to himself, Ben crept closer. A depression in the terrain allowed him to approach within ten meters of the tent. He could hear some of Faskus’s words: ” … worry at all … got to be shelter … not bad as it looks …”
Ben rose up to peek over the edge of the depression. Faskus had his back to him again.
Ben sprang forward, shoving himself through the Force, giving his leap extra distance, extra altitude. In the middle of his arc, he brought up his lightsaber. As he began his descent, he ignited it.
The sound alerted Faskus, who began to turn.
And in the final quarter second before impact, Ben saw, beyond Faskus, sitting on blankets at the front of the tent, staring up at him with wondering eyes, a little girl.
He was going to cut off the man’s head in front of this little girl.
Ben landed foot-first, kicking Faskus back across the girl. Landing astride the man, he heard Faskus’s grunt of pain, heard the girl’s muffled shriek. Ben’s lightsaber cut into the tent’s top blanket, setting the edges afire. He shut the weapon off.
Then he got his free hand on the amulet and yanked. The chain didn’t give way, and neither did Faskus’s neck. Ben swore and yanked up, drawing the chain free of its wearer. Only then did he retreat, scrambling backward from the tent mouth, and dropped the amulet into his pouch.
The little girl squeezed herself out from beneath Faskus’s legs and looked around wild-eyed. She had dark hair cut short and blue eyes; she might have been six standard years old, and she wore a garment that was a child’s copy of an orange X-wing jumpsuit. When she caught sight of Ben, she shrieked again. She reached down and her hand came up with a few twigs and leaves, which she hurled at Ben. One stick flew as far as his foot; the rest of the debris fell well short.
“Shut up,” Ben said.
The girl hurled herself on Faskus. “Daddy, wake up. Daddy …”
“Daddy?” Ben rose and moved forward again.
The girl turned and grabbed more debris from the tent interior to hurl at Ben. This time it was a duralumin cooking pan. He batted it to one side, not breaking stride, and entered the tent. “Stop that.”
“Don’t hurt Daddy.” She grabbed for something else-a blaster. Ben, suddenly alarmed again, tugged at it through the Force and it flew to its hand.
It was light, too light. He looked it over. It was a child’s toy, a miniature copy of the classic DL-44 blaster pistol, like the one his uncle Han usually carried. Ben tossed it out through the opening. “Stop throwing things. I mean it.”
The girl froze, her hand up with a fork in it.
Keeping an eye on her when he could, Ben looked at Faskus. The man was unconscious-odd, since Ben didn’t think he’d hit him that hard. But that would help. Ben returned his lightsaber to his belt, then patted Faskus down.
The blaster in Faskus’s belt holster was real. So were the smaller ones in his boot and in the small holster under his right sleeve. So was the vibroblade in the sheath in his left sleeve. Ben appropriated all the weapons, then looked around.
There was a coil of yellow cord in one corner of the tent. Ben snatched it up. Then he rolled Faskus over, discovering, and appropriating, another blaster in a holster at the hase of his spine, and got to work tying his hands.
The fork hit him in the cheek, stuck for a moment, then fell free. “You’re hurting him!”
Ben rubbed his cheek. His fingers came away with a smear of blood on them. “No. I’m not. I’m just tying him up.”
“He’s already hurt, you’re making it worse.”
Ben finished with Faskus’s hands and got to work on the man’s feet. “Where?”
“His stomach.”
Ben rolled Faskus over again and pulled up the man’s gray tunic.
He whistled. An improvised bandage-thick layers of shirt cloth held on by bindings made from torn cloth strips - covered the lower left portion of Faskus’s stomach. It was soaked with blood.