Reath attempted to reach out with the Force, to connect with Dez that way, but immediately he stopped. Dez’s mind was almost unrecognizably disordered—frenzied. Even if a connection could be forged through such chaos, it was as likely to disrupt Reath as it was to stabilize Dez. The risk was too great.

He’d have to reach Dez another way.

Carefully, Reath said, “Think about Master Jora. Just imagine her voice. I know you can hear it, inside your head, if you’ll listen. She’d tell you to stop fighting and let me take you home.”

At first it seemed as though Dez hadn’t even heard him. But then he lowered his lightsaber—only a few centimeters, but it was enough to give Reath a chance.

It wasn’t honorable to hit an opponent when he was down. Usually. This was one of the exceptions. Reath swung his blade sharply upward to collide with Dez’s almost at the base. With Dez wobbly and dazed, his grip on his lightsaber gave way. It spun upward, and Reath caught it with his free hand.

He placed himself between Dez and the Drengir, blades crossed. Even through the glare, Reath could see the fury on their twisted faces.

To Dez he said only, “Come on. Let’s go home.”

“And to think,” Orla panted, “some people—say gardening—is a—relaxing hobby!”

Cohmac didn’t laugh at her joke. Not that he ever laughed much. And no doubt he was distracted by trying to keep his head from being chopped off by the Drengir’s thorny whips.

One of those whips had scraped Orla’s calf earlier in the fight. It had been only a glancing blow, but it was enough to make her leg ache from toe to hip. Swelling had already stiffened her ankle and was beginning to do the same to her knee. Poisonous thorns, she figured.

A Drengir lunged at her, but Orla flung herself backward, half jumping, half levitating, until she was clear of the fight. Not that she intended to leave Cohmac alone in it for long, but they could fight better as a unit once she had some perspective on what they were dealing with.

As she came back down, her sore foot made contact, not with the floor, but with something curved and unfixed. Orla landed hard on all fours and glared backward at the 8-T that had had the nerve to be in her way. The droid took no notice, simply kept on pruning back branches.

Pruning.

With shears specially designed to slice through plants.

Orla’s mind whirled with possibilities. The Aytees attack anything they perceive as a threat to the plants. They’re not attacking us at the moment, which means they don’t consider the Drengir to be plants under their care.

Which means there has to be some way to sic the Aytees on the Drengir.