Dark Journey by Elaine Cunningham

voice to the priest’s guards. “Secure the infidel ship and bring all those aboard to me.”
    A green-and-yellow-tattooed female came at his call. Like Khalee Lah, she was sheathed in living armor. Hers was a mottled green, a good match for one of the verdantworlds so plentiful in this galaxy. One day Harrar hoped to claim such a world as his own, and the armor for his personal guard was shaped with scouting in mind. Now that he knew his travels were tracked and reported, however, he would have to exercise more discretion.
    Harrar’s attention snapped back to the two creatures who trailed the guard. His lip curled. These were two of the most disreputable excuses for human males Harrar had yet encountered.
    Both were tall and might once have been considered well formed. One had grown too thin for health, and his prominent nose was framed by fever-bright black eyes. A persistent tic of one eye and a nervous twitching of that prodigious snout lent him a remarkable similarity to a hairless rodent. The other man had an abundance of bright reddish hair that rioted in a curly mass down to his shoulders and sprouted in an equally undisciplined fashion from his cheeks and chin. His lack of discipline knew no bounds: his massive arms had gone soft, and a slack roll of belly hung over his weapons belt.
    Khalee Lah made no effort to hide his disdain. “Name yourselves.”
    Both men performed jerky, graceless bows. “Benwick Chell,” the hairy one announced. “My copilot, Vonce.”
    “You are members of the Peace Brigade?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Why?”
    The humans blinked in unison and exchanged wary glances. “Why?” the one called Benwick echoed.
    “The question is simple enough,” Khalee Lah said. “What do you hope to gain from this alliance?”
    “Our lives,” the man said bluntly.
    Khalee Lah sniffed. “A paltry reward.”
    “That may be,” the bearded man retorted, showing the first hint of spine since his arrival, “but it’s hard for a dead man to spend reward credits.”
    “An interesting philosophy,” Harrar broke in, “but a discussion best suited to other circumstances. We require more agents in this sector. Tell us what would prompt Hapans to join forces with the Yuuzhan Vong.”
    “There’s not much to do. Most of it’s already done. You have to know a bit of our history,” the man began, warming to his subject as he spoke. “Hundreds of years ago, Hapes was settled by pirates.”
    Khalee Lah tapped at his ear, urging the tizowyrm embedded there to produce a translation he could understand.
    “I have heard of pirates,” Harrar broke in. “You waylay ships and steal their cargo.”
    “And sometimes their passengers,” the man said meaningfully. “You might say the job you want done is preprogrammed into our computers.”
    “You are a fool,” Khalee Lah said, snarling, “and your ship is a blasphemous bug. Our quarry, pathetic though it is, would splatter you with a single swat.”
    The human jerked his hairy red head toward the docking bay at the priestship’s stern. “The wasp ship is a scouting vessel, no more. Once we find the frigate, we’ll attack in force.”
    “And who would command this attack?”
    Benwick’s chin came up. “I would.”
    Khalee Lah threw up his hands and stalked away. The human pursued him. “Don’t think I can’t. I spent the last fifteen years in the Hapan navy, six of them as a squadron commander.”
    The warrior spun, bringing the man up short. “Why then do you not resist our invasion?”
    “Tried that,” he said shortly. “It didn’t work.”
    Harrar was beginning to see the light. “You were at Fondor.”
    “My squadron was destroyed—thanks to the witchqueen and her meddling Jedi friend. So we returned to our ancestral profession.”
    “You deserted,” Khalee Lah specified.
    Harrar noted the storm brewing on the young warrior’s face and instinctively took a step forward.
    Not fast enough.
    The warrior snapped his left arm up,