that he had missed its titanic battle with the two banthas.
Malakili beamed with a paternal pride as he extolled his monster’s bravery and viciousness, but Bib Fortuna whispered a different suggestion into Jabba’s ear. The Hutt lurched upright on his dais with a belch of delight. Wouldn’t it make a magnificent duel to pit the rancor against a krayt dragon ?
The legendary desert dragons of Tatooine were huge and rare and instilled more fear than any other creature in this sector of the galaxy. None had ever been captured alive before, but Jabba’s incentive—one hundred thousand credits guaranteed to anyone who could bring in a live, unharmed specimen—was enough to ensure the most ambitious efforts. Even the great bounty hunter Boba Fett vowed to remain at Jabba’s palace as he considered the best way to tackle the challenge.
Malakili was convinced that someone would succeed, and he looked upon the threatened battle with great dread. Though he was proud of his rancor’s abilities, he knew how awesome the krayt dragons were.
Jabba planned to build a special amphitheater out in the bowl of desert sands visible from his tallest towers, where the krayt dragon and the rancor would face off and tear each other apart. Even if the rancor managed to defeat the incredible dragon, Malakili suspected the battle itself would wound the rancor grievously, perhaps mortally.
He couldn’t allow that.
Down in the lower levels of the dungeons, Malakili wheeled a heavily laden cart stacked high with dripping stacks of meat, sawed bones, and leftovers fromthe slaughterhouse connected to Jabba’s kitchens. Porcellus, Jabba’s chef, had set aside choice morsels as treats for the rancor, as well as a sandwich of sliced, marinated meat for Malakili’s own lunch.
Malakili got along well with the skittish cook, passing along whatever gossip he managed to hear in the lower levels, though he had to listen to the chef’s ever-increasing fears that Jabba would soon tire of his culinary abilities and feed him to the rancor.
With a sigh, Malakili pushed the cart to the barred gate of the rancor pit. The wheels squeaked like a terrified bristling rodent in the dungeon levels. He swung open the gate, pulled the cart through, and fastened the door behind him.
The rancor stood up and watched him bring the mound of meat closer, running a stubby purplish tongue across the edges of its packed rows of teeth. Malakili nudged the meat in front of the rancor after removing his own white-wrapped sandwich from the top of the pile. The rancor used a hooked claw to sort through the lunch offerings until it selected a curved dewback rib studded with lumps of gristly meat.
Malakili unwrapped his sandwich and hunkered down on the rancor’s bench-sized toe. Above him, the monster chewed on the long rib bone, gnawing and slurping. Malakili’s black headdress protected him from the splattering gobbets of dripping juices that fell from the rancor’s mouth, showering him and running down his own bare back.
As he ate, munching absently on his delicious sandwich, Malakili thought about his possibilities, the options—and his future.
It had been clear from the start that Jabba’s main goal was to challenge the rancor until some greater opponent killed it. Jabba cared nothing for the monster, and neither did any of the others. Even greasy-haired Gonar was terrified of the monster, wanting tobe around the rancor only for the prestige and the power it offered. The other spectators who hung around the dungeons had no attachment to the beast either—not the hairy Whiphid guard who poked his tusks against the bars of the cage, watching the bestial power of the rancor as if it reminded him of something from his home planet; not Lorindan, the nozzle-nosed spy who had no motives other than to find information he might sell to someone else.
No, Malakili was alone on Tatooine. He alone loved the monster, and it was up to him to see that his pet was protected. He
Alice Clayton, Nina Bocci